#but just beneath the surface is a little boy who wants so badly to cling to his loved ones so tight and be squeezed right back

[biblicalhorror]

Aroace Riz real but also Fabian is SO clearly in love with him and Riz has no idea

[min-jpg]

pretty boy

Characters: Sub!Childe, Sub!Xiao x Dom GN!reader (separately)

Genre: smut/NSFW, costume play, cussing, begging, spanking, thigh riding, choking, mirror play, degradation (TW: mean asf to Childe and blood included)

Note: writing smut is so different from reading HAHSHFKFE;; since I'm still inexperienced, I decided to experiment with 2 of my favorite boys first. Enjoy!

Now playing: TENDER - Erode

---

Childe dressed in a bunny girl suit.

The upper half of his body bent over, his chest heaving on the bed. Childe's arms were bound behind him, shackled together with a handcuff.

Sitting beside him, you sneered at the sight. "Sticking your ass up like a whore. Waiting for someone to fuck you senseless?" Without warning, you swung your arm in wide motion and connected with his ass to spank him. Childe's body jolted from the impact, erupting a heavy moan as well. His bottom half shivering, as if he was wagging his cute little bunny tail that was attached to the costume.

"You liked that? Looking like a bitch in a heat." Smacking him numerous times earned more lewd noises from him.

Childe's breathing labored as he glanced at you. He beseeched with his gaze, waiting in anticipation. He rubbed his thighs together in a hasty manner to augment friction between his pantyhose and erected manhood. "M-more."

You smirked at the bewitched state he got himself into just by your spanks. Feigning a dull expression, "More? Why don't you do something about it yourself?"

Childe gradually stood up, his desperation burgeoning every second. With an ungainly movement, he mounted himself on your thigh. As his length came in contact with your lap, Childe let out another cry.

"I didn't even touch you, slut." You chuckled as you observed him straddling on your thigh. Though, his advance was far from being graceful since he had his hands restrained. You still considered it adorable of him to take the initiative.

Like a rabbit in their heat cycle, Childe rubbed his dick against your skin. His hips bounced back and forth, each stroke bestowing surges of pleasure throughout his body. Mouth agape, Childe does not shy away when it comes to expressing his moans.

You felt chills traversing down your spine as you watch him fuck your lap, his thighs clamping onto yours as if clinging onto dear life. There was something so exhilarating about seeing Childe so fixated on one of your mere body parts. He was eagerly using your thigh as an object to appease his sexual urges.

As his limbs grew restless, Childe lost his balance with nothing to grab. To secure him in place, you rested your hands on the sides of his waist.

You pressed down, causing his cock to burrow further into your skin. Startled by the development in pleasure, his head flew back as he groaned, back arching. Childe maintained his pace as he vigorously grinds against your lap. You assaulted his bared neck with a relentless bite, welcoming every vibration palpitating through his throat coming from his lascivious moans.

Blood trickled down from where you nibbled him, tasting iron in your mouth. Your chest reverberated a dark chuckle when you pulled away to relish the mark you left on the body that tacitly belonged to you.

Tracing the mark with your thumb, Childe eventually lowered his head. Those lustful eyes met yours. You shot back a glare, "Did I ask you to look at me?" Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you forcefully tugged his head back, drawing an alarming yelp from him. "Keep that little head of yours concentrated on grinding, hmm?"

"Y-yes... I'm sorry. Please forgive me." Childe gasped out. You ignored his pleas and resumed to persistently gnawing his neck at various spots.

As you covered his pale neck with bruises, Childe's pitch grew higher. The urgency in his vehement thrusts motioned he was approaching orgasm, "Gonna come!"

Your fingers laced around his neck, "Who said you could?" Tightening your grip, Childe began to choke as his air passage was slowly shrinking.

As his eyes rolled back, Childe continuously beg in between his weeps, "Please let me come! I want to come, so badly! Please, I've been a good boy."

"You're such a dirty whore for me." You grasped a steady grip on his ass and fondled with it, "Hurry up, before I change my mind."

Childe humped harshly against your skin, "Thank you, thank you so much." Even you could feel the severe abrasion forming on your thigh from his efforts.

Achieving orgasm, a puddle formed in between his legs which finally caused him to slow down. His essence oozed under the costume. Childe collapsed forward, forehead resting on your shoulder as he panted, sweat dripping down. He carried on with perpetual murmuring words of gratitude, as if in a trance.

"You dirty, pretty thing."

Xiao dressed in a maid outfit.

His attractive slim neck was embellished with a jade green ribbon that coordinated with the highlight on his hair. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, Xiao shyly concealed his gaze by peering down. He kept his hands occupied by fiddling with the frills from the dress.

You stood beside Xiao as you admired how fitting he looked in that costume, "Lift the dress up." Your voice firm. It was an order, not a request.

Xiao quietly complied with your words, picking up the one side of the hem.

"Do it properly." Your tone grew stern, making Xiao whimper silently to himself and pulled up the dress completely to expose what lies under.

You hummed pleasantly, "So you even wore lace underwear? What a slut." Shuddering him to the core with your mild degradation, it manifested a tent beneath the white underwear.

A frigid breeze made its way through the aperture in his thighs that were exposed, causing Xiao to squeeze them shut. The weights on his legs that wore knee-high stockings shifted from one to another. You leisurely walked behind him, resting your chest on his back.

Your arms snaked around him, enough to make Xiao aroused as he felt sparks from your sensual touch. Burying your head in his shoulder, you immersed yourself in his scent. Your breath tickled his skin, inflicting lust in Xiao even further.

"You're so pretty, such a good boy for me." Muttering praises to make up for your mean bearings earlier, your hands explored his heated body in the process. Viewing the mirror, a damp spot surfaced on his underwear. It was a living exhibit of how turned on he was. Reaching the bottom where his member lies, you slipped your hand into the underwear, earning a yelp from Xiao.

Your fingers danced on his already wet tip, an attempt to provoke him further. Your touch was intentionally brief, never staying too long. His tip never failed to twitch cutely to seize your attention. Xiao desperately thrusts his hips forward, seeking to engage with your hand.

"Impatient? Then beg for it." You whispered into his ear, watching him succumb to your handlings. Raising his head by tilting his chin with your other hand, Xiao's shriveled pupils met your eyes through the reflection of the mirror. His flushed face was accompanied by eyes brimming with tears threatening to spill out.

"P-please... please make me feel good. Please, please, please!" Chant of pleas cascaded from Xiao's lips, his voice quivering. It was almost impossible to resist consuming him whole right on the spot.

"So cute..." You kissed his hair. Seeing how hard he tried, you ought to show some leniency. "Keep holding the dress up for me." Pulling down his underwear, you instantly switched the gear. You worked on stroking his length in a calculated rhythm. Xiao gasped as his knees buckled and his entire body convulsed. You felt his cock pulsating around your palm, signifying how much he craved and depended on your touch alone to send him to his climax.

Xiao mewled and leaned forward. His trembling legs could no longer support him. You took note of this and hoisted him up with a tight embrace around his waist, meanwhile hastening your pace around his stimulated cock. You made sure to also rub the head with your thumb once in awhile.

Succeeding sweet moans coming from Xiao saturated the room as he fits in your name in between, "I'm going, to.. c-come." He formed incoherent sentences in the nigh of his sexual gratification. Xiao instinctively grabbed your arm and let go of the hem. Distressed to hold onto something as pleasure throbbed throughout his body, his nails dug into your skin.

"Going to come for me like a good boy?" You kissed the nape of his neck. He nodded fervently, hips once again jerking forward as he shot strings of cum, permitting one final deep moan in the process. The white substance splattered against the mirror. His moan transitioned to series of pants as he drooled, body slumping, and eventually went numb.

"Look at how beautiful you are."

[chunhua-s]

hi baby! CONGRATS 🎉 on 200!! HEHE and ur wish is my command— tho, this time, i’ll put off friends to lovers for mafia!au whew 😆 and my favourite boy, mr bokuto koutarou <33 (i think i’m rlly in lovvv w him 🥲) i love u!! hope u enjoy writing this hehehe 💙

atiq, sweetie!! thanks so much for requesting from me!! and thanks for always swapping ideas for haikyuu with me 🥺 i love our interactions and everything you add to our discussions is always so golden!! your mind? amazing, astronomical, built different. and i know how much you love kou so i’ll work extra hard on this request for you!! ilyyy 🥰 and i hope you enjoy it!! i cannot tell you how badly i wanted to write a mafia au for a while and i was actually hoping that someone would request one for me for this event! originally i had three different ideas for this oneshot, but across all three i wanted our reader to be in a oosition of power — a ruler rather than a bystander in the grand theme of things of that makes sense? i just... i really like writing female characters with a strong presence that you can feel pressuring you whenever you’re around her. when i chose this route for the plot, i added a little twist to it since i thought forbidden lovers would be another good fit for this — i hope this is okay with you? it still falls under your original request but with just a touch of another really fun trope! uhhh for the song i did struggle a little with choosing it, but i think the vibe of this song fits better than what i had in mind? it the lyrics capture the whole “i’m helpless when it comes to you” theme that i wanted to put into this oneshot, like it’s a sensation that the other person has so much power over them that they can’t resist. anyways enough with my rambling — please enjoy the story! and as always, don’t be afraid to tell me what you all thought of it 💕 and a big thank you to runa for giving me a hand with writing this when i got stuck! ily wifey 🥰

WHERE YOUR LIGHT SHINES BRIGHTEST ➽ KOUTARO BOKUTO x READER

genre: drama— tiny bit of angst if you squint

au: mafia au with some hints of forbidden lovers

warnings: none other than the au type if that makes anyone uncomfortable!

your relationship with him is like something written straight out of fiction — the tale of two lovers whose paths should never meet.

as the rules dictate, a queen should never kiss the hand of her servant. it’s unheard of — the mere thought of it could be called ridiculous had it ever left from your lips. and even you had frowned upon it once upon a time. back then, you would never have even entertained the notion of love within your business. the word love has no place inside a frozen heart, it’s petals without a home on cold northern land. as a woman in your world, you couldn’t afford love, not with your money, nor with your time. to you, all it had ever been was something too expensive and not worth the pain that would trail after its name. and so, the empress closes her heart and builds her throne on the skulls of men who dared to challenge her power, sews her dresses from their flesh and blood and decorates her neck with silver bones, her fingers with rings of thorn. you become a force in the underworld, one that demands respect with your name alone and causes the blood of those who should doubt you to run cold with fear. in the cruel and unforgiving world of pain and bloodshed, you blossom beautifully, and you run your empire on the same harsh principles that you once fought against to get to the top.

but the queen, she has a weakness — one lonely spear that rests right over her heart, piercing the skin there and drawing rivers of blood from her opening wounds. the queen who once spat on that four-letter word and scorned it with every part of her being, she fell in love with her right hand man. you couldn’t stop yourself from melting into golden eyes that shine like the sun itself, you’re rendered defenseless in the face of his light that shines like a beacon in your dark world. you’re a moth to his flame, and you so carelessly let yourself burn on embers of adoration and worship. for him, you abandon your personal code and allow your heart to dance in the palm of his hand. for koutaro bokuto, you allow yourself to bury your crown on a sandy beach, you let him pull you into golden waters and teach you how to swim in his ocean.

music blares outside of the private room, where neon red lights hide the trails that his lips leave across your skin. he fills you lungs with a subtle aroma of sweet oranges and a sort of earthy scent that’s almost lost under the overwhelming smell of gunmetal and blood that clings almost desperately to his clothes— as if to suffocate his fire and leave the both of you cold. when you pull away from his arms, you find his golden eyes already searching for you through black and white strands of hair that you gently brush from his forehead; he leans into your touch with his eyes closed, and his lips come apart to exhale the weight that sits on the both of your chest. the gun in his belt suddenly becomes heavier, as if it would pull him under if it weren’t for your hands around his waist, supporting his body when he tiredly collapsed into you. guilt turns your stomach over with a sickness so powerful that your resolve wavers, flickering like the surface of a calm lake disturbed by a single stone — that stone, you think bitterly, is your throne. the empire you’d created that you can no longer run from.

“you did well for me, kou,” you whisper against his skin, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek and sinking further into his arms as if to permanently mold your bodies together. “you always do so well.”

he pulls back once again to lock gazes with you, golden hues drinking red wine to shine on a sunset blaze. you see his lips pull upwards in the beginning of a smile as your thumb traces the shape of his jawline, his hand coming up to cradle your own when he leans into your touch. “i live to serve you, my queen,” he mutters into your palm, and you swear you feel the devotion behind his words as they rumble across your skin like thunder. “i’ll do anything for you — just give me the order and i’ll get it done.”

you bring his face closer to yours and press your lips against his, feeling his entire body relax above you as his hands lock around your waist, draws you closer into him so that your figure curves into him. what space once existed between the two of you vanishes as you steal his breath from his lungs and lose yourself on sweet ocean waves. your voice of reason goes muted under every hushed gasp that falls from your caving chests chests, codes and conduct vanish beneath the heavy base of the music that blasts from outside the private room. when you pull away, the both of you are breathless, left to drag in slow, heaving gasps as if the air surrounding you both had vanished.“good,” your lips brush against his lips, your eyes flutter closed as your forehead leans against his. and you don’t dare doubt the validity of his words — in your world, an oath bears the same weight as a pound of flesh. false promises are punished in blood and sacrifice, and one would do well to quickly learn to never lie under any circumstance.

your smile softens on its edges as you press your head against his chest, falling into the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. a queen can’t afford to fall in love in such a dark world, but you think that, for koutaro, it’s alright to let your guard down and offer him your heart.

he would never betray you, after all.

davi hits 200 followers — haikyuu!! au writing event! 💕 

taglist: @aiiishiiiteru @tsumue @bootylikepeachy

send an ask to be added!

[brideofcthulhu10]

How would the boys react to their s/o teasing them to the point of them snapping? X)

Oh you thirsty, thirsty fang babies. Do y'all realize my most liked and shared post is the Soundtrack Sex post? Alright you little hungry bats, only cuz I love y'all. Keep in mind since I've done a few like this before, I'm going to be diving more into each guy's individual kink. I think all of them are into some form of bdsm but to varying degrees. They're sadistic killers after all, so they'll crave that same control over their s/o. Again with each vamp having his own preferences. Get ready because this gets pretty graphic. Y'all better appreciate this, it took me two and a half frickin' days!

The Lost Boys Get Pushed to the Brink by Fem!S/O 

18+ CONTENT WARNING: Sexual Themes, BDSM, Potential Triggers, Offensive Language! READER'S DISCRETION IS ADVISED!

David 

David knows all too well what you're doing. You must think you're quite clever. The way you sway your hips when you walk across the boardwalk, dropping your purse "accidentally" and bend over to get it, pressing your breasts tightly against him for even the most casual hug. Don't think just because  you're in public he won't fuck you here. David has no patience whatsoever. What he wants he'll have. You're not nearly as sneaky as you think you are when you press your butt against his crotch, leaning back so your lips are just brushing against his neck sending tender little breaths across his chilled flesh. He'll run his hands over any exposed skin you have, and just below your ear he'll coolly growl little threats. 

"If you continue to tease me, little doll, I am going to fuck you until you shatter."

The words will send chills down your spine and light a fire inside you. That's not a warning, that's a challenge. When it's finally too much he'll tear you away to the nearest dark corner and rip your panties off. Just look what you did to him, the way he throbs until his erection is aching to break free. You will remember who is in charge when he hoists you right on top of throbbing his cock, balancing you with ease on his hips. He doesn't even have to hold you up, and instead uses his other hand to choke the pretty little words from that naughty mouth. Cautious not to strangle, he’ll tightly press his thumb right over the prominent vein in your neck savoring the rush of blood just beneath the skin.The gruff moans he huff out make your eyes roll back with delight. David loves the way your flesh clings to him, but you better not make a sound. If you even so much as whimper he halts his motions, leaving your body starved. No one is allowed to hear your moans but him. David doesn’t share in any way. Afterwards don't even bother asking for your panties back when you two sneak out of that secretive corner. He'll stuff then in his pocket with the most villainous grin you have ever seen. 

"Consider it punishment for being such a wicked little minx, love."

Now if you're in the hotel you're not gonna get very far teasing him. He'll raise a brow, just barely looking up from his book to see you in that skin tight dress, it doesn't take him long to realize you are without a bra. If you don't come to him when called, he'll go to you. You haven't even seen speed until you deny your lover his precious doll. In a flash you're swept into his arms, thrown atop a bed laying flat on your stomach. With a slow touch, David will lift your chin from behind and lean himself against you. You shouldn't have run, shouldn’t have hid your perfect body from him. When you're alone he drags it out so much more. 

Leather clad fingers will tease your lips, pushing ever so slightly but denying you the sweet release you so desperately yearn. He's such a cruel one taunting you, massaging your tender breasts just whispering into your ear. Naughty girl, are you wet already? He's just barely started. With a flick of the wrist he snaps his belt from his pants, dragging the cool leather piece over your exposed cheeks. The sting across flesh makes you moan, and again he sends a strike. David’s low chuckle is addicting. He takes a moment to admire your quivering form, tempted to leave you begging for more. That's what he wants more than anything. David desperately craves your wanton voice crying for him to defile you. He’ll just sit back, watching you lay in place. Don’t move, he’ll tell you. Instead he’ll order you to play with yourself. Show him how badly you yearn for his touch. The power fuels him, looking at your glossy eyes while your finger yourself, whimpering his name softly. When you close your eyes it breaks contact, and again he crashes the leather into skin. Never hide from him. The sensation is enough to entice a moan from you, the muscles squeezing your fingers spasming in delight. So, you wanted more. He’d chuckle again. You’re such a silly thing. All you had to do was say so. Slow strips of red surface over your ass with every erotic whip. He’s cautious to etch the border between pain and pleasure, never crossing the threshold. It’s give and take. He sees the way it sends you into a tizzy, which in turn only excites him more. Cum drips down your thighs, but he’s not ready to let you finish. Slowly David will peel away his gloves, taunting you with his precious touch. Clothes are shed to the floor in a mass of black. Lifting himself on his knees he runs a hand down your back. He taunts your soaked pussy with the belt still tightly grasped in his hands. Just look at the mess you’re making. When he pauses, hinting at his next strike you beg again. 

“Please, what? Tell me what you want!"

“I wa.. want you.. to hi...hit me again..”

“Hit you..? Where? I don’t even think you said please, you greedy girl.”

“P-Please! M-master please! Hit my pussy! I-I can’t take it, please"

The hit stings, but it sends a bizarre pleasure through you. They mix in a sickly concoction. A heat of fire that causes your lips to pulse, and when he hits it again your eyes spin backward into black. He takes your wrists slowly and pins them behind, leaning over your body with his erection just barely grazing you. 

“You did this to yourself, baby doll. I warned you what would happen, didn’t I?”

The wrought leather strap constricts your arms, binding them to each other while you lay face down on your knees. He’s left you completely exposed to him, ass eagerly in the air. Soaked sheets caught beneath your knees, any orgasm he had led you too was quickly denied, leaving you crashing back at the bottom just to be built up again. You're so wrapped up in the pleasure of it all, you don't realize when he commands you to scream his name; he's actually begging. Say his name. He has to hear it, he needs to hear your voice cradle his name perfectly on those luscious lips.

When you give him what he commands he finally takes you. With a hand pinning you down by the back of your neck he'll ram himself so deep you fear you may break. The twisted slaps of flesh crashing against each other is nothing compared to the crying whines that echo these endless halls. Everything is spinning, your walls are torn away leaving you to spiral into madness. Every thrust presses you further beneath. You are at his mercy, and there will be none tonight. Each orgasm you had been denied came flooding back in wild waves, spilling out onto the mattress below. His name practically burns your tongue, there is no other word you worship so endlessly. This creature of the night had you under his thumb. Tonight he had more than your love, more than your body. He was taking your soul into his hands and locking it away. Time is lost to the world. There is no before or after. Now just went on forever. Surroundings blur into wild smears of color. There is nothing beside the bed you two laid upon. His moans are a godsend, they caress your ears. Velvet, silky, David is all you know.  It's a tirade of sweat and leather, stained in his cum. You can't even breathe as he fills you in floods, it's just this trembling simper. Not a drop is wasted inside your precious womb. When all is said and done, and you are a cum drenched mess David is, for once, genuinely tired after such heavy petting. Do not fear, lovely. He would never leave you to wallow in filth after he had battered you so. Its almost fluid the way he wraps you beneath fresh blankets, pressed to his panting chest. There would be no rhythm to soothe your body, rather his hypnotic touch bringing you back to Earth. With a cigarette already lit clutched between his teeth he'll coax you into taking a slow drag. You savor the bitter, ashen taste that burns your mouth. The plume of smoke leaves a veil of fog around you two, laying together while he softly praises you. His frustration was long gone giving way to his tender kisses trailing across your rosey cheeks utterly flushed  

"You were such a good girl, baby doll. You did wonderfully my little kitten, I couldn’t ask for a more precious gem. Rest, you deserve it. I’ll be here when you awake."

Dwayne

Dwayne is a closet pervert. He's a lot more modest than the other guys, which is ironic considering his attire, or rather the lack of it. But it's true, he's not the type to fuck in the back of a McDonald's by the dumpster just because you went a day without undies. When you show up to the boardwalk in a low cut top he'll aggressively clear his throat with the reddest face you've ever seen. Flustered is an understatement. He'll suddenly comment how cold it is tonight and immediately sling his jacket over your shoulders. So what if he's shirtless? He doesn't get cold. 

It's extremely hard for him to resist you when you're running your hands over his chest,sliding your  wrapping your arms around him just playfully running your fingers through his hair. It aches, he can feel his zipper about to burst. That leopard print strapless dress doesn’t leave much to the imagination, including your bare breasts left braless just beneath the fabric, it's just perfect under his leather jacket. He’ll swallow dryly. When no one looks he feels your mischievous touch trails down over his caged erection eager to taunt his libido. One wouldn’t assume Dwayne could get so pent up, but when he’s pushed to the brink all bets are off. 

You never expected to awaken a panther inside him once you two were alone. Those chocolate eyes were predatorial, wild, and that's when he takes you in his arms. A single kiss is enough to knock you off your feet. It’s melted heaven dripped onto your tongue. He draws breath from you, slowly peeling off his jacket. Your skin is so soft beneath torn, calloused fingertips caressing those trembling bumps spreading through your body. Chills, utter chills. You can’t help but rock your hips against him. Wandering lower he cups your butt until you’re tightly pressed again him, pausing those kisses. His words are soft, a sweet wine that gives you eternal life. 

“Tonight, your soul is mine”

The way his voice rumbled deep in your core pushes you forward, hungry for more. But his cruelty surfaces. There will be no wild, tearing sex. He wants to drag it out. Making love can’t compare to those moments when he lays you on your back just to worship your sprawled figure. The deep, dark cave is barely illuminated by the wild flicker of candles wedged inside discarded wine bottles, the warm slips of light dipping over every curve in your body. You look like a goddess to him, and tonight you’d meet your god. Kisses trail up your silky legs, the way he shifts over you is like a tiger ready to pounce. Eyes eat you alive. His teeth drag, leaving tender little love bites. It’s an agony of anticipation swelling you. With a firm grip Dwayne tears your dress from your very body. Those same calloused fingers that taunted your skin now trailed over the dips and folds of your thighs tracing over your pelvic bone. A cascade of black hair veiled his face when he leaned in. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel hungry, labored breaths taunting your exposed womanhood. You draw in a sharp breath when his tongue slowly drags from the base all the way up and over your clit. The sensation envelopes you in waves. Slowly, aching, toe-curling licks prod at you, one after another. You wish he’d speed up, but he has you exactly where he wants you. Begging for more, utterly helpless to his will- just like you did to him. Fire wells in your lungs as you’re only able to writhe beneath him. Resistance was pointless, that iron grip kept your hips perfectly in place. He teases at your clit with wicked flicks, tracing around your most tender place. Grasps of his hair are clutched between your fingers, but it only excites him more. Dwayne will grant you mercy, slipping his tongue inside to lap up your sweet juices. 

It’s impossible to truly describe the ecstasy he sends you into, Your legs hook over his shoulders just grinding your hips into his masterful grasp. Shuddering moans reverberate in empty halls, waves serenading just beyond. That edge is so nearby, dragging you by your ankles until your back arches upward. Karma is a cruel mistress indeed. Dwayne’s tongue slithers out leaving a trail of slippery fluids behind. If you try to move he’ll climb over your body, his hands pinning your arms above your head looking in your eyes. Again that monstrous tongue taunts you. Twirling over your perked breasts. With his other hand he prods at your entrance, never breaking eye contact with you. The sheer intimacy of it all is utterly ethereal. When you hear his hungry grunt just under your breath just feel another pull at your abdomen. It’s just too much, you need him. More than ever before. “Dwayne,” you whimper, thighs trembling under him. “P-Please… I..”

“Say it, princess…”

“I need you… D-Dwayne I… I need you”

You’re dwarfed beneath his body, lifted beneath your butt with his hips pressed into your lower half. Something burning pushed itself tightly in. You were barely able to accommodate his size even with how much he had spread you before. Each thrust pushed your body back further into the mattress, firm hands keeping you crushed against his heaving chest. You wrapped a leg over his wait using the base of your heel to push him further inside. Dwayne pushed against your womb desperately trying to pace himself. When he pulled back a slick suction coaxed him back inside, contracting muscles clinging to his veined member. You feel a dull ache in your back all the way up to your shoulders that tightens when he digs himself deeper. His lips caress yours, tongues eagerly tasting one another until you lock lips. He begins to moan louder. It’s a deep, almost bear-like growl. There’s a rapid pace to his thrusts now. They become erratic bucks, moans lost in each other’s mouths until you feel that familiar throb inside. It’s a burn that practically melts you. You feel more fluids squishing out, your nails dragging up his back tearing into skin until his hips stall. It’s a perfect moment, Dwayne lifting his head letting you gaze into his dark eyes carrying a flickering flame. You’re veiled beneath his hair, unable to hold back your glowing smile. When he pulls out to lay on his back you nestle in his arm up against his chest, listening to his shuddering breaths. There’s not much that can be said after that, you’re so worn out that you can barely keep your eyes open and simply savor his company until exhaustion lulls you into a heavy sleep in the arms of your lover. You definitely had to start teasing him more often if this is what you got. 

Paul

That boy will chase your butt even if you weren’t teasing him. But catch him off guard, and he’ll make you regret ever getting him that pent up. You knew exactly what was up when you showed up in that  busty shirt giving him a mouth watering view of your glorious tits, a teenie little miniskirt clinging to your figure, those hot fishnets under a pair of biker boots, immediately he already tries to swoop you into his arms- except you beat him to the punch. Your breasts press tightly against him, hands wrapping around his waist while you go in for the kill. Oh when you kiss his neck it makes him melt. Fine if you wanted to play, he’d play. And he’ll win. When you think it’s safe he’ll sneak up behind you to get a good handful of your ass, burying his mouth up against your neck growling into you. That’s when you start grinding it up against his pants and you’re really not surprised that he’s already hard. In a quick slip he catches his hands under your skirt. 

Oh this just keeps getting better. You filthy kitty cat. He’s had enough, he pulls you to the alleyway in a mess of hot kisses. There’s barely time to react, his tongue slithering in to taste every inch of your mouth. There’s hardly a struggle when he tears a big enough hole in your fishnets for him to get access to your glorious pussy. There's the echo of vulgar clapping barely kept under by the hustle and bustle just only feet away. Paul isn't about to cover your mouth. You don't get the luxury, he wants to fuck you until the whole state of California knows you live for his cock. You shouldn't have pushed him, because now he's determined to make your head spin. The rough concrete walls scratch up against your shoulders, your front completely crushed against his heaving chest growling out snarls and heavy moans. Don't even try to beg for mercy, he'll just laugh. The whole time he's hissing into your ear.

"No more? That's not what your little pussy is tellin' me. God you're so fuckin' cute when you're screamin' my name kitten. Louder, fuckin' louder! I want everyone to know who you belong to!"

If it's not an alleyway he'll happily go into one of the larger ferris wheel kiosks. Yeah he knows you can be seen, barely kept hidden beneath a sheet of metal and a few choice windows. You don't have much choice, pulled into a straddle over his lap as soon as you get on. You're not even ten feet in the air when his fingers start to tease you. 

"God you really do get a kick outta makin' me crazy don't you? You're already soaked."

Surprise, Paul had a bit of experience shredding a few tasty licks on a guitar not too long ago. Why did that matter? Because once those appendages slithered in, you almost immediately let out one of the loudest moans of your life. The way they pushed past his knuckles, swirling around, curving up hitting the sweetest spots even you hadn't touched before. It's impossible not to tightly cling to him. While you're utterly incapacitated he'll tear down your shirt and twist your pink nipple between his thumb and point finger. He'll tease you, suggesting maybe you oughta get them pierced. If you try to pull away he'll glance up towards the other kiosks just barely out of sight and smirk pulling you back into place. After all, we wouldn't want everyone else seeing how dirty you were. Everytime your body adjusted to the size he'd slip in another finger. Those muscles just sucked him in so perfectly, your sweet juices drenching his hand as he dug further inward. The moment you whine you're going to come is when the fun really begins. Paul's not just going to give it to you. Oh no, not yet. After all, you teased him, made his poor dick ache until it almost broke his zipper. It was his turn to tease you. You could hear his belt clink against itself and his fly slowly drag down. His cock practically whipped against your pulsating entrance once released, but rather than ram it right up inside where it belonged, he'd grab you by your chin and boast the most cruel, wild smile you'd seen. Stuffing himself inside, he halts watching your head immediately knock back at the sheer rush of pleasure that sent your back muscles into a spasm. With little effort he bounced you atop his lap. But you've still got a lot to make up for. Even while he penetrates you he's shoving his fingers inside as well until you're completely full, wiggling his tongue across your tits. The sensation makes your mouth hang open. There's no moans left. Just guttural whimpers barely able to make it through until you are left panting for air. You can't even keep your eyes open, it's too much to take. When you're on the brink of climax he'll halt again, burrowing his throbbing cock so deep you swear it's about to break your womb. The torture is unimaginable, he's just firmly wedged in place sending spasming pulsations that spread from the inside out. He fought the urge to ravage you. His revenge was just too cruel to give up now. WHen your hips tried to shift he planted them firmly against his naked pelvis. “Don’t fuckin’ move, or I’ll pull out.” The tight ache of your stomach just grew and grew but there was no relief! You beg wildly for him not to stop, tears edging the corners of your eyes. Do it more. Scream his name! 

Everything inside burns white hot, gushes of sticky wet juices squirting onto his lap and the seat beneath you. For a moment you could feel your soul trying to fly away. After all you just experienced nirvana, fucking Valhalla on steroids. It's easily a good five minutes before you can even speak instead of just moaning out slurred vowels. When you do come to, you immediately slug him in the shoulder. Jeeze! You were teasing him, he was just flat out torturing you! "Well next time don't fucking tease me, my dick was just dying for you, kitten!" After you've got feeling back in your legs he'll release the ferris wheel attendant and take you out for a sweet treat, probably ice cream. Oh yeah! He almost forgot. You watch as he fishes out a pair of your panties, a souvenir from your many sex exploits. Don't get him wrong, he'd rather you be commando, but you were still oozing out cum. Besides, he wasn't patient but he could wait an hour to tear into you again. W-wait? An hour? Again??

Marko

The moment you stepped foot on the boardwalk he knew something was up. Since when did you own a skirt that short? You practically jumped into his arms when you spotted him, a chill running over his flesh. Your bra was missing, perked nipples rubbing into his chest just beneath the tight fabric of your shirt hugging your breasts perfectly. Now he’s not nearly as ballsy as Paul or David, he can’t just fuck you in the alley. Well, he could, but the situation called for drastic measures. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of riling him up. Rather, he has to plan this out just right. Revenge is a dish best served cold- WHICH ISN'T EASY WHEN YOU'RE OVERHEATING HIM!

God, it aches! Half the time he doesn’t leave any sort of counter or object he can lean on to hide away his pressing member begging to be unleashed. Plans would have to be dragged out, apparently this naughty girl wanted a whole date to torture him with. At the arcade he nearly lost his damn mind when you bent over to fish out your quarters from the machine. Yooooouuu vicious kitten, this was torture! When he stuffs his hands in his pockets he finally finds your panties, snuck in there while you had been hugging him. While you tore it up at the pinball machine he’d lean on you from behind. From any outside point of view it was just a boyfriend hugging his girl from behind. What couldn’t see was Marko’s hips grinding into your tender body barely kept safe under that tiny cut of fabric. When he whispered, he’d warn you what’s going to happen if you keep all this behavior up. Do you want him to go crazy, you wicked kitten?

“Careful what you’re doing, baby girl,” he’ll hiss in your ears, his fingers just barely brushing across the edge of your skirt. “When I get you alone… you’re mine.” At first it seems like a bluff. However you didn’t often send him into a fuss quite like this. Any teasing was at the hotel, little kisses and bites. Never was he denied for so long leaving him clinging to you. Every grasp craves you, but no matter how he snarls wicked begging into your ear you torture him further, even slipping from his arms when he least expects it. Tender kisses could never reach the passion you taunted him with. The loss of touch leaves him cold and yearning for more. At his brink, Marko practically tears you by your waist into his arms, jagged blue eyes cutting past your mischief. He’s taking you home. Now.

The entire ride across wind blown dunes and crashing shores he never releases you. Even as you rapidly step over debris scattered around the hotel’s entrance he cuffs his fingers around your slender wrist. Tonight you’ve made a very grave error denying him. For hours. Hours! Hours of watching you saunter about with nothing beneath, egging him on until he was ready to break. Now, it was his turn to punish you for your wicked ways. Marko had always been a tender lover, his dominant behavior kept cautiously under wraps. After all, he was afraid to frighten you off. No longer. With a firm flick of his wrist he practically throws you on the bed, pinning you in place by your neck. The force from the fall alone nearly knocked the air from you. There was an eerie silence for a moment, a dark tension emanating off of your boyfriend. His breathing would be sharp and trembling just barely keeping himself composed.

Honestly the urge to smirk is just too hard to pass up. Marko loved to tease you, rubbing up against your butt, nibbling on your neck when no ones looking, yet throw you in some tight clothes where he can't have you and suddenly it's unfair. His kisses ravage your mouth. There's little room to breathe. Wet appendages spiral in desperate taste for more. It physically hurt you to feel him pull away, leaning forward trying to keep the kiss going. 

"Uh uh," he taunted, fangs poking through his smile, pushing you onto your back again. "You were too cruel, baby girl. Now I get to have my way."

Using the panties you had previously crammed into his pocket he tightly tied your wrists together until the fabric began to dig into your flesh. Slowly he trails his claws over your clothing, tearing through it in one painstaking cut leaving your body utterly exposed to him. The cold night air dances around you, any movement halted as if invisible strings held you in place. Hungry gazes froze your blood. Flicking his thumb nail just over your pelvis, Marko savored the tiny hiss you unleash. Little beads of ruby decorate you with an enticing aroma. Pulling himself between your bare legs he took a slow, deep inhale of that hypnotic ambrosia. His tongue dragged over your wound sending a thin sting up your thigh. While his tongue tore at bloodied flesh his gloved fingers traced just over the flesh above your clit. The anticipation alone made your toes curl. Time slipped through your fingertips tips like sand through the hourglass. Every painful minute he edged closer to you, and when that cold touch reached your aching mound it swept away your thoughts in one foul swoop. How he managed to leave you so weak from a simple touch was beyond comprehension. You tried to squirm when he pet at your entrance with a single finger, but he immediately hooked his arm around one leg while using his knee to pin down the other. "You're not getting out of this," Marko hisses, pressing his nail into the wound until a trickle of crimson fluid spilled over into the crevice between your thigh and pelvis. He tempted it further, smearing layers of color across your womanhood watching it stain. 

Already drips of clear, slippery fluids drenched his fingers, just barely pushing in to feel your muscles tighten. Any contact swallowed them. If you were a good girl and held still he'd push further, tempting a third finger. Now come on, he knew you could do better than that. In went a fourth, spreading you open watching with amusement as all your juices spill down onto the mattress beneath you. He laps up the sweet taste, sucking it off his fingers and leaving you still aching from more. Just look at you, so eager for him to be inside you. Marko throws his shirt and pants to the floor. You can see his pulsing shaft pressing up against the fabric of his underwear. Firmly he pulled you up by your bound hands, teasing your bottom lip with his thumb. He’d rub his fingers against your tongue, the soft appendage wrapping excitedly over his knuckles. With his freshy wet hand he'd pinch your nipples, waiting for the inevitable whimper that gave him an opening to ram his own tongue back inside your mouth. A vulgar string of saliva barely kept your mouths connected when he pulled away, holding up your chin with his pointer finger. "I think you need more than just a little tease, don't you?"

When you nod he weaves his fingers beneath your hair and grasp it towards the scalp, bending your head back. Fangs brush on your neck, tugging at tight skin easily broken. Laying with his back against the headboard he yanked you over to him, pulling you down so you were balancing on your knees and forearms. 

"Suck it." The command was so firm, you almost thought you misheard him. No, you wanted it so bad? Fine. Now you got it. Open up, or he'd leave you drenched, trembling, on the edge of orgasm.  With wrists still restricted you pulled away his boxer unleashing his wild erection that eagerly pressed against your mouth. Marko will sit like a king in his throne with fingers woven through your hair. He makes sure it's all out of the way and in his grasp, watching your mouth bobbing up and down his shaft leaving slippery trails of saliva in its wake. His hips will begin to buck on their own with his tip grinding into your tongue. There’s a small push at the base of your skull, coaxing you further down. “There you go baby, get as much as you can fit in there, suck it nice and good.” You can feel his muscles tense under your grasp but you don't stop, continuing your relentless barrage until he snaps. All that pent up ache will flood your mouth in one foul swoop. It's hot, sticky, sweet and before you dared to open your mouth he pinched your nose. You better not waste a fucking drop. When he’s felt you’ve learned your lesson he gently pulled you on top of him, teasing your aching lips, swelled, pulsing, begging for release with the burning tip of his cock. You were such a good girl, taking all of him in like that, think you can do it again? 

Leaning back with you on top where he can watch you, he rocks his hips back and forth with such force it bounces your breasts, his conniving whispers commanding you to never look away. His icey blue orbs lock with your own. Utterly hypnotic. Sloshing squelches of liquids were churned around inside you. It pushed further with muscles tightly contracting around him. Your body is coated in a tender mist of perspiration, whimpers and whines creating a symphony of erotica that leaves you feeling a well of humiliation. There’s nowhere to hide from Marko’s prying eyes, he’s watching every curve, ever fold, every perverted expression contort your beautiful face and he lives for every moment. Your hips move on their own, grinding your clit against his pelvis while his veined shaft spirals around inside you. Vision fades in and out, all you can do is feel fire running through your veins. He felt so cold inside yet it burned. As you edge towards climax Marko lifts himself up and hooks your bound arms over his neck. Your raw nipples rub up on his bare chest, burying your face into his neck where a mass of messy curls cradle you. The intoxicating scent of your body sends him into a frenzy, grasping your ass assisting you in slamming down harder and harder until that deep, overwhelming tension bursts like a flooded dam. A rush of liquids squirt out, feeling him stretch out your insides. It fills you, and rather than pull out he holds you in place. The sensation of you pulsating causes his hips to buck until he slams into your womb with a final spray of cum painting your lower abdomen. Barely able to pull himself out he releases your raw wrists, stealing a hot kiss from your quivering lips. You just look so cute painted in his cum. Maybe next time you’d think twice about taunting him. Now that your punishment has finished, he crashes onto his back with you on top. Even he had to catch his breath. There is no guilt, but that doesn’t mean he won’t praise the hell out of you for being such an angel. He’ll practically hum when you play with his hair while he rubs your back, peppering kisses all over your head and cheeks.

“I’m… sorry for teasing you,” You whimper out, nestled in the crook of his neck. His chuckle makes his chest spasm, lithe fingers tracing shapes over your shoulders.

“Don’t be sorry baby girl, you did amazing. Maybe next time I’ll try to be gentle, hm?” 

[wallwriterstuff]

They Want Us To Burn || Alec Volturi ||

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, mild horror, mentions of blood and death. 

Words: 6263 

Summary: So this turned out to be a little longer than expected but I found once I started writing I couldn’t stop so...

From Alec’s point of view, this is what happened the day the Witch Twins burned. 

He took a deep breath, pressed a palm into the soft dirt beneath his knees, closed his eyes, and thrust his head under the surface of the water. The springtime meant warmer weather, but the rivers were still filled with water left over from the winter snow melt. The perfect place to bathe after a frankly awful day. He’d tended to the allotment in the early morning, his back to the sun as it rose since he had no time to admire the beauty of spring if he wanted to plant enough crop to harvest over the summer and autumn months. The late morning to early afternoon gave him time to hunt and check the snares he’d set in the woodland surrounding their home, and after a quick lunch that Mother had prepared, he was off to the fields to earn a pittance for his labour that would help pay the taxes due to the maddeningly fat bastard of a Lord who owned the land their small village was settled on.

The fields were not a nice place to be for Alec, but he’d been turned away from every other job he’d tried to get to earn some coin. He wanted to provide for his family the way he saw other men doing, and as the only man in his household it was his duty to do so, but he could only earn so much if he acquired no skill. His father was not someone Mother spoke about often but he knew he was a foreign born soldier. Whether he was dead or alive, Alec couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t want to be anything like a man who had abandoned his family without a second thought, but he could admit that perhaps their lives would be far easier if the man had stayed and taught him some sort of craft. The butcher’s son was already working at their store as was the cobbler’s boy, and the blacksmith’s son? Well, he was being apprenticed to a man in London of all places, sure to make quite a fortune.

His free hand ruffled and ran through his hair, once, twice, three times over, and then he resurfaced with a quiet gasp. Alec liked to swim when he could. There was a lake deep in the forest, perhaps more of a pond, but it was crystal clear and large enough for him to get a few laps in. He’d learnt by accident. One of the few friends he’d had before they had been driven away had pushed him into the river while they playful fought one day, and jumped in to save him when he realised he couldn’t swim. Underneath the water everything was silent. There was nothing and everything all at once, and obscured kingdom of quiet he liked to visit when the real world got to loud. Most of the time now he was too busy working to provide for his Mother and sister to visit his pond anymore. 

Wiping his wet hand over his face and across the back of his neck, Alec blinked the water from his eyes and refocused his eyes on the surrounding greenery, letting sound drift back to him as birds twittered and sung their sweet songs in his ear. Fledglings would be preparing to fly the nest soon enough and Jane would want him to come with her through the forest to help any who had fallen back into their nests again he was sure.

Alec shivered, feeling the water dribble down his spine as he ran his hand over his torso, under his pits. He was awfully sticky after working in the sun all day to till the land, ready to plant the potato crop that would sell at market and go to the Lord’s household. He had never seen the nobles house up close, but he’d heard the rumours from servants who came to market to restock the kitchens. The place was supposed to have high ceilings, long tables feasts that could feed the entire village could be held at and multiple rooms.

 Once he deemed himself clean enough, he sat back in the grass, resting his forearms on his knees and letting the sun dry the water droplets still clinging to his hair and skin, the damp strands now sticking down around his face. His hair had grown considerably and was just starting to creep past his shoulders now. He’d have to cut it again soon to keep it out of his eyes when he was working. The pay wasn’t great and nor was the company, but it provided enough for him to pay taxes mixed in with the income from the milk and cheese they sold from the goats.

The men he worked with varied in age, but Alec was by far one of the youngest. He was in his fourteenth summer now and notably smaller than those he worked with, yet still they gave him a wide berth as though he were the biggest and roughest of the lot. Jane was treated the same when she went to market to sell the cheese she worked so hard to make. Nobody dared come near the witch twins. The very name repulsed him, made bile rise in the back of his throat and his face scrunch in disgust, but there was no way they could rid themselves of the moniker now. Alec grabbed a fistful of grass, tearing it from the dirt and scrunching it in his hand with a huff. 

There’d been more name calling today, more taunts and jabs from the villagers trying to get a rise out of him. He wasn’t Jane. His sister rose to the bait almost every time, years of torment turning her bitter and hot-headed when they were forced to go into the village square now. Jane enjoyed snapping back, her words equally as barbed and making some of the toughest men recoil in shock at how wicked her words could be.

Alec didn’t like to give them the time of day, but that didn’t mean their words simply bounced off of him. Sometimes, like today, when he was already hot and bothered and just wanted to feed his family, their words lingered longer they should.

Not using your devil powers little witch boy?

Maybe he can’t without that freak of a sister near him. Ha! Imagine! All that power and he’s impotent unless there’s a little girl telling him what to do!

Better not rile the witch up, he’ll make your crop fail you know.

How do we know you aren’t tampering with this harvest devil spawn?

He tossed the scrunched up grass into the river, watching the babbling stream carry it away from him. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could just drift downstream and find someplace new, someplace nobody knew him or his reputation so he could start a fresh. Alec couldn’t honestly say he fully blamed the villagers for being suspicious of him or Jane (things did have a tendency to happen around them after all) but they never meant any harm. In fact, if anything bad happened it was because bad things had been done to them first and foremost. Still, it did scare him just how bold the villagers were becoming, and how out of control it all seemed to be. Just the other day the farmers youngest, no older than six, had hurled insult after insult at him, and Alec really had no idea how it had happened but he was certain it was an accident when the boy had turned and trod on that hoe. He hadn’t physically put it there, but…well it definitely hadn’t been there before either.

It had always been chalked up to coincidence by Mother – it was her favourite word nowadays. When the boys who had cornered Jane at market had complained they couldn’t breathe Mother had reminded them the day was hot, and the air thick. When the girl who had given Alec hope that perhaps he might have won her favour humiliated him in front of her friends, Mother had said it was a coincidence that she awoke the next day with horrendous boils on her face, sore and bursting and leaving ugly scars behind. Alec could safely say he never decided to do any of those things, but he had felt…different, when they happened. He could remember being angry, being scared, and feeling his fingertips tingle, his mind strangely warm, and then it was all over and something good had happened to those who had been good to him, while misfortune followed all those who had done him or his family wrong.

“Alec! Alec!” Jane’s voice was frantic, breaking him from his thoughts so suddenly it was jarring. He blinked owlishly, head swivelling to the right as he tried to gather his bearings. Jane was running towards him, the beautiful braid Mother had spent so long doing for her this morning now flying everywhere and her dress was tattered, stained with mud. The closer she got, the more he realised her head was soaking wet, her lip split and chin stained pink, like she’d had to wash blood off of her face. He shot to his feet, grabbing at his shirt and throwing it on haphazardly.

“Jane what happened to you!” he demanded, shock and anger fighting a violent war inside of him. His wide eyes took in every battered inch of his sister, his fingers curling into her upper arms as he hauled her into him. Jane never cried, so why were her eyes so wet? She shook, holding tightly to him as he tenderly stroked her hair. It was soaking, sopping wet compared to the rest of her. Her dress was hanging off of one shoulder now. Clearly whatever had happened had been violent, and the thought anyone might have harmed his sister drove him to near madness.

“Th-th village b-boys, they tried to – they were – they tried to-“ she stuttered, gulping for air and unable to get the words out. Alec tried to be patient, cupping her face in his hands and pressing fleeting kisses to her cheeks and forehead.

“Shhh sister, hush now, you’re safe.” He promised, brushing some wet strands of hair from her face. Jane sniffled, closing her eyes as she took some deep breaths, her slender fingers wrapped around his wrists. Given the way she’d run to him he didn’t think she was too badly hurt. There were no bruises on her skin he could see, just her split lip that looked to be quite sore.

“They tried to make me confess to witchcraft.” Jane whispered, sky blue eyes peering up at him and swimming with anxiety. She smelt something awful, like urine and barn animals.

“Make you confess?” Alec repeated, his tone growing darker as his eyes narrowed. Jane nodded, sniffling again and swiping her hands nervously down her dress. Jane was unflappable. She had a comeback for every occasion, a tongue sharper than any sword and a temper that was all consuming and violent as fire. It didn’t suit her to seem so afraid and meek before him now.

“The son of Godwin cornered me at market with his friends, and they dragged me to that boy Edgar’s house, you know the place that owns all the sheep? They kept – kept dunking my head under water in the sheep’s trough.” She told him, her voice starting to shake as her eyes went big, “I swear to you Alec I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know how the Smith’s boy began to choke.” Jane began to cry again, looking alarmed and pale as she fell into his chest. Alec wrapped her tightly in his arms, somewhat frozen in shock himself. It wasn’t the first time those around Jane had suddenly found it difficult to breathe, but someone choking was far more sinister. He doubted it would be forgiven or explained away as easily as their other coincidences had been.

“Jane we must go.” Alec said firmly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and marching with her back through the grass towards the dirt path that led to home. His mind raced, his concern growing as Jane didn’t bother to argue with him as she usually would. He took a sharp inhale as his sister stumbled beside him, falling to her knees and trembling head to foot.

“I killed him Alec. I think I killed Harold the Smith.” She whimpered, eyes shining with tears. He stilled, a shiver running down his spine. Dead? She had killed the blacksmith’s boy? He was due to go to London! He was his family’s pride and joy! This would not be taken lightly.

“Sister…how did you escape?” Alec asked quietly. Had the other boys just let her go once they had seen what she’d done to her friend? How many had witnessed the Smith boy’s demise? Was it gruesome? Alec found a morbid fascination with that last question, part of him hoping it was for all the torment they’d endured at his hands but knowing that the very desire to so much as hit him was a sin in itself. To wish a gruesome death upon someone…maybe he was the devil’s boy after all?

“They all just fell.” Jane whispered back, staring up at him from the floor.

“Fell?” he questioned. She nodded slowly, wiping furiously at her eyes before shooting to her feet. Suddenly, Jane was tugging him by the hand, the skirt of her dress kicking up clouds of dirt as he hurried to fall into step beside her. “Jane what do you mean they fell?” he repeated his question, voice slightly more panicked now.

“I don’t know brother! They began to bleed and then they fell! I don’t know what happened, but I didn’t mean to do it, you have to believe me!” she insisted. Alec nodded placatingly.

“Of course I believe you sister, but what you’ve done is…the village will not forget this.” He fretted, mind quickly turning to Mother. She would be waiting for them to return home, perhaps cooking supper as they hurried along. They had to get home fast, pack what meagre belongings they owned and flee. If Jane had truly killed the boy…the penalty for murder was death by hanging. Depending on the state that she had left the other boys in after her “trial” they might just torture her all over again before giving her the rope.

“Brother do you…hear that?” she asked, stopping suddenly. Alec paused, straining his ears until he caught it. It was a cacophony of loud, clambering voices, muffled by distance but slowly growing clearer. It was like listening to the raucous shouts of the villagers when they gathered to celebrate the Shrove Tuesday feast, but as the words of their chant became discernible Alec felt his blood run cold.

“Burn the witches!”

“Alec…”

“Run.” He whispered, staring with wide eyes at his sister. Jane’s jaw clenched shut, her eyes shining with tears. “Run Jane! Run now!” he bellowed, tugging on her hand to force her to keep pace with him.

Find Mother and get into the forest.

Find Mother and get into the forest.

He repeated the instruction to himself like a mantra. Protecting his family was all that mattered now. Their fate was certain, their place in the village now painfully clear. They were nothing more than scapegoats for all the rotten luck that befell others. Jane panted beside him as he focused his eyes on their house, forcing his legs to move faster. He didn’t dare look back, barreling in through the door and shocking Mother so badly she screamed, dropping the ladle into the pot she was busy cooking supper in.

“Alec what on earth-“

“Mother we must leave, the villagers have come for us!” he snapped, pivoting on his heel to reach for his bow. He wasn’t the best shot, but he would have to make do. His family needed him to rise to the occasion, to be the man of the house, to protect them.  

“But Alec why would they-“

“Mother there is not time! We must flee to the forest now! We can survive out there, I know we can, please!” he implored. Mother was too shocked to move for a long moment until she heard the shouting, Jane’s shrill cry to warn them of their impending visitors startling her into grabbing the skirt of her dress and hurrying towards the door.

“Hurry, hurry! Jane, come quickly!” she held out an arm and Jane immediately took her hand, Mother ushering her on ahead of them as Alec darted out of the door, nocking an arrow as he went and drawing back the bowstring. He let the arrow fly towards the crowd, a few angry shouts and screams as it landed near their feet ripping through the air. Alec could see the shining ends of pitchforks, the sharp curves of axes, the butcher holding his butchers knife up so the metal glinted dangerously in the sunlight. How could such a cloudless, bright day herald such a terrible fate for them?

Turning swiftly, he pelted towards the treeline, seeing his mother and Jane close to reaching the first few trees up ahead. His hand gripped his bow tight, heart racing as the blood in his body began to roar in his ears. Was this really it? What if they couldn’t get away? No, no he couldn’t think like that. He brushed quickly past his family, holding back the branches in their way and letting them fall back into place beside them. He moved much faster over the familiar hunting terrain, dismayed by just how slow his sister and Mother seemed to move. Tree roots tried to trip them, the patchy canopy sending beams of light to guide their way and leaving the forest unbearably humid. It hadn’t always been this warm had it? He could feel himself sweating again.

“Dammit!” Jane cried in frustration, yanking the skirt of her dress off of the sharp twig it had been snagged on, ripping the material. Mother crashed to the ground, hissing at the sting the impact left on her skin. Jane helped her back up as Alec reached back for another arrow. The villagers sounded close again, closer than he wanted them to be.

“We have to move faster, there’s a blind not far from here where we can hide till they pass.” He said, voice quiet but strained. Jane nodded determinedly, but Mother merely pushed her forward.

“Go there then.” She said, her eyes watering. Alec felt his own eyes widen. His chest refusing to take in air for a moment.

“No.” he whispered as Jane hurried to his side, gripping his arm tightly.

“I am only slowing you down.” Mother insisted, her hands bunching her dress into fists. She approached quickly, jerking like a puppet whose strings had been pulled tight. He couldn’t respond to her hug, her body warm against his and heart beating all too hard against his chest, body frozen. She cupped his cheeks and kissed the top of his head, a shaky smile crossing her lips before she repeated the motion to Jane.

“Mother no.” Jane begged, “Please come with us please!”

“We can make it Mother.” Alec said determinedly. He wouldn’t leave her behind. A real man would save all of his family, wouldn’t they? How could he leave the woman who had given him life? The woman who Jane looked so much like, with her golden hair and soft features. He shared her blue eyes. He still whispered her stories to Jane on nights nightmares kept her awake. He needed her still. He needed her always. Mother twisted her head sharply, the villagers sounding far too close as branches snapped under foot and animals scattered into the depths of the woods to avoid their wrath.

“No, we cannot, but you can. Go now my loves, look after one another. I love you always.” Her words broke on a soft sob and before either of them could react she darted back and to the right, moving diagonally away from them and beginning to bundle rocks in her arm. Jane tugged at his hand, but Alec could only watch as Mother, her blue eyes frantic when she realised they still hadn’t moved and she screamed for them to go once more. Her arm reared back, and a stone pelted the first villager through the break in the trees square in the chest. Coughing and spluttering, the cobbler clutched his chest and doubled over, heaving for air. Alec nocked his arrow and drew back the string, letting it loose without a second thought as his lips twisted into a snarl.

He didn’t recognise the man who went down, the arrow embedded into his shoulder. A swarm of people were advancing now as Jane shrieked at him to move, but Alec barely heard her. He could feel it again, that warmth in his mind, the way his fingertips tingled. His arm wheeled back and forth, nocking arrows and letting them fly. He wasn’t even aware of the obscenities he was screaming now at the villagers who were lunging for them, his ears buzzing as the adrenaline pounded through him at an alarming rate. His eyes were laser focused; tunnel vision pinpointed on Mother as she was shoved to the ground, landing hard on her elbows before she was pushed onto her back. The world seemed to move in slow motion after that, his throat feeling raw as he screamed and screamed, feeling the wind pick up around him as the stones Mother had once held as her only defence now rained down on her prone body.

Jane went down next having propelled herself forward to try and save Mother. She was tackled and pinned by the arms by two burly men that in the back of his mind, Alec recognised as some of the farm hands he worked with. He reached his arm back, furious now as they struck his twin across the face so hard the wound on her lip reopened, spilling bright red blood and making her eyes flutter. He grasped thin air, his blood running cold as he realised he was out of arrows. They were sticking out of various limbs, but it wasn’t enough to stop the mob coming for him, and he swung his bow up and around in a wide arc to catch the first attacker in the face. He was barely seeing faces anymore, each villager a blur as they rushed him. He was forced to the ground on his front, face smashed into the dirt once, twice. There was a sharp sting that ran through his nose, followed by a deep, fiery throb, something hot and wet running down into his mouth and making him choke and splutter.

“Jane!” he croaked her name desperately, vision blurring at the edges and staring to fade rapidly as an explosion of pain ricocheted through his ribs, his legs. He had failed. He hadn’t saved anyone. Mother was dead, Jane was…alive? Slung across the shoulder of the man before him, her hands bound and body limp, his sister’s chest rose and fell as she was carried like a sack of potatoes away from him. Alec couldn’t find his feet, feeling them drag over the sticks and stones littering the forest floor, his shoes sliding through something slick and wet. His blurry eyes could barely make out the discoloured, red splotch that was all that was left of Mother as he was dragged past her, two hands gripping his biceps too tightly and cutting off the blood flow in his arms as he was hauled along. Knowing he had failed made it a lot easier to accept the darkness creeping in on him.

He could almost pretend everything was normal when his eyes opened again. Jane was shouting profanities and curses at the top of her lungs, iron rattling as she shook her shackles and slammed the chain into the bars holding her in a cell. Every part of his body hurt. From head to toe Alec felt a deep-rooted ache, his very bones throbbing in protest of his every breath. The skin around his mouth felt tight, dried, congealed blood covering his skin. He closed his eyes with a wince as the image of his bloodied and beaten mother came to mind. She wasn’t Mother, not like that. She’d looked like one of those slabs of meat strung up outside of the butchers, battered and red with blood. He’d failed. Mother would never again sing as she cooked, which he had always claimed annoyed him but never confessed that they were songs he hummed to himself to pass time in the fields. She’d never patch up his clothes again, citing her favourite sewing rules to an unimpressed Jane, who simply didn’t have the patience for activities such as sewing. Never again would she sit with him when he couldn’t sleep, stroking his hair and reminding him of just how wrong they were, that her twins were her most precious gift and could never be a curse.

Alec felt the grief so acutely it stung in his chest like an open wound, a sharp, red hot knife plunged into his chest again and again and again. Jane’s shrill screaming was ringing in his ears, rattling around his brain, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than lie there, in too much pain to move. Internally though, he egged her on.

Curse them all, sister. Summon whatever power the devil has bestowed us with and bring nothing but chaos to this wretched place.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed sprawled on the floor, but the stone was uncomfortable and began to turn his limbs numb. Alec found himself grateful for it, the pins and needles making his pain worse only briefly before his sprawled figure was simply numb to every physical sensation, and it was marvellous. A quiet sigh of relief escaped him and he closed his eyes, willing his mind to do the same as his body, to shut down and let everything go. He could hear the hustle and bustle outside, an animated kind of buzzing. A strange kind of anticipation filled the air and he knew what it was for, though he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. Everyone knew what happened to witches, and he had maimed many villagers with his arrows to only add fuel to the fire. Their ending would not be pleasant, their parting from this world all too soon and all too painful. He prayed the numbness in his body would last.

“Alec?” Jane’s voice was hoarse, her screaming having worn down her throat. He stared at the stone ahead of him, heart aching in his chest as his eyes burned with tears. She sounded so afraid, so uncertain and saddened. The cells stank of human waste, of old blood, the straw on the floor long since mangled and discoloured by various stains he didn’t want to think about. He managed to take block out the foul smell so it no longer made him nauseous at least. It wasn’t until Jane called his name again that he found the will to respond.

“Forgive me sister.” He murmured.

“Alec.”

“I have failed you. I failed Mother. I cannot save you.” His voice was oddly thick, the air unable to escape his crooked nose and making some syllables come out a little garbled, but Jane understood him nonetheless. She always had. Without a word, she curled herself onto her side and reached her hand through the bars of her cell, stretching her hand as far as it would go across the floor towards him. Alec swallowed, shakily reaching for her. There was no pain, his body far too numb to it now, he couldn’t even feel her skin against his, but he held fast and tight to her hand like it was a lifeline, his only anchor in a world that suddenly didn’t make sense anymore. Why them? Why did they have to suffer? Why couldn’t people have just been nice to them? They remained silent, the dark aura that emanated from Jane only growing worse as time wore on and the sun began to dip in the sky. It was like watching a storm cloud grow more violent, lightning crackling around and waiting to strike.

Alec on the other hand finally got his wish. Everything stopped. The grief that was held heavy in his heart disappeared, but so did everything else. They were building his pyre, time was marching towards his death but…it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He had been a good son, a good brother, given time he might have even been a good man, but fate had decided for him and who was he to argue with such powerful forces? When the door slammed open Jane’s grip on his hand tightened, but Alec could only stare blankly at the alderman pointing a gnarled finger at the pair of them. The farm hands he worked among came striding for his cell.

“Get up witch boy, meet your reckoning.” He knew Alfred well, had thought they were perhaps friends. Huh, what an odd situation, to be put to death by a boy you had worked with. He didn’t move, merely stared unblinkingly back at them until they forcibly dragged him to his feet. No pain, nothing. His brain had shut it off by now, and everything else had shut off to as he stumbled out between them, Jane thrashing and snapping at her own escorts behind him. He squinted against the bright light of the torches held aloft by so many of those who had shunned them. He did not feel fear or dread, when he saw the stake driven into the ground, a platform of wood surrounded by logs and branches from the very forest they’d tried to escape into. Perhaps the rope was rough, perhaps it wasn’t. He tested its strength, tugging lightly so the rope was forced to strain a bit against the wooden pole forcing him to stand straight. It didn’t give an inch.

Jane was forced to submit, Alec watching as they drove a fist into his sister’s gut to incapacitate her long enough to tie her down. She struggled viciously, her eyes murderous and flashing over each and every villager before them with her teeth bared. Alec traced the bruised and bloodied visage of his sister one last time, committing the image to memory before turning to face the crowd. Whole families had gathered, some looking excited while others looked morbidly fascinated, like they wanted to be somewhere else but couldn’t bring themselves to ignore the spectacle.

“Alec, Alec look at me.” Jane snapped. He turned his head, dead eyes finding hers for the last time. He had failed her.

“I love you, Jane.” He said, and even though his voice was devoid of emotion he knew she understood just how much weight the words carried.

“There is nothing to forgive Alec, I love you to.” She promised.

“The witch twins have plagued us for long enough! Sickness has befallen our children, our crops have failed, diseases have riddled our livestock, and now they have taken the lives of five young men!” the alderman cried. So Jane had taken down five of those boys had she? Good. The crowd was screaming, the families of the boys shouting curses and thrusting their torches high. Alec knew he should be afraid, but what he could now to stop this? Perhaps the afterlife would be kinder to them? Surely God would know they had never intentionally caused harm to another living being?

“Burn the witches!”

“Purge this village of the devil children once and for all!”

The alderman nodded placatingly, his hand rising and falling in a calming motion to settle the eager crowd. Beady green eyes met Alec’s very briefly, and Alec stared back, unblinking, unflinching.  

“For their crimes against our village, the crime of witchcraft, we sentence these two devils to burn at the stake! May God free their souls from the wretched evil that consumes them!” he spat, tossing his torch down onto the branches at Jane’s feet. She let out a blood curdling scream and Alec felt the first flicker of something ignite in him as more torches followed. It rained fire for a few short seconds, and then the acrid smell of smoke was filling his nose, choking his lungs. There it was, fear, anger, despair, disgust. It roiled in his gut like an angry serpent.

“You’ll all burn in hell! Each and every one of you will burn in hell for this!” Jane screeched, struggling viciously as the flames began to lick upwards. The dry kindling caught quickly, bringing his death closer and closer as Alec began to squirm, gritting his teeth. It was growing uncomfortably warm, his eyes burning and lungs spasming as he tried to breathe around the thick, foul smelling smoke invading his airways. He coughed, eyes narrowing on the flames nearing his feet. Jane’s screaming changed in pitch and tone, the anger and malice her voice had once conveyed replaced instead by agony and terror. His head snapped to the right, seeing the leather of her shoes melting into the wood as the flames reddened and charred her ankles, bright orange fire steadily crawling up her dress. His eyes watered, his own feet now hot, burning hotter and hotter as the flames grew higher. They licked at his skin like a thousand angry bee stings. Alec could feel his flesh bubbling and melting slowly as the fire penetrated layer after layer of skin until his very bones felt like they were starting to curdle in the heat.

He couldn’t contain his voice anymore, a strangled scream escaping his lips as he tossed his head back against the wood, trying to move his feet away from the flames encroaching on his skin. He had never felt pain like it and he silently begged for it to end, for something to douse the flames and cool him down. He felt sick, his mind growing fuzzy from lack of air, though he was painfully and shamefully aware of the way his bladder voided once the fire reached his thighs. The torment seemed eternal, stretching on and on as his flesh peeled away, his fuddled mind conjuring images of Mother peeling potatoes to go into their dinner, teaching him to do the same. He would do anything for her to wake him now from this nightmare. The flames leapt suddenly with a gust of wind, pushing through his shirt and onto his chest, but he couldn’t even scream anymore, not enough air in his lungs. His body sagged against the wooden pole, his brain struggling to process the sensations anymore as he finally, mercifully, went numb to it all once more. Vaguely he understood that this was the end, that he was close to passing from this world to the next.

Black shapes flitted in and out of his vision, dancing across his eyes. His ears were ringing with the screams of the villagers, and a deranged, choked laugh escaped his battered lips. Demons, it had to be demons. Maybe they were the devil’s children after all and he had sent a welcome committee to escort them all to hell? He prayed for it in that moment, as muddled as his thoughts were he thought of the demons and how their claws might rip into those who had done this to them, thanked his father for the blissful numbness that had overcome him now and stopped him feeling pain. The demons hovered over him now, pale as the moon and shrouded in darkness, vividly red eyes beaming down at him. His eyes fluttered shut, waiting for the inevitable. He had expected it to perhaps be quick, a slash of the creature’s claws through his throat maybe. It certainly started in his throat, liquid fire pouring into him and forcing his blurry eyes back open in shock. He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, but his eyes wheeled desperately to find someone, anyone who could stop this.

The fire built and built, and then it overflowed, pouring through his veins and spilling down into his chest, encasing his heart and flooding down to the tips of his toes until his whole body was encased in a burning more vicious than anything he’d endured up until that point. His voice was too broken to make a sound, but his mind suddenly seemed to fire up, working faster and more efficiently than ever before to try and process the agony he was in. As his vision faded again, he felt his body tremble. He was trapped inside of his mind, unable to open his eyes anymore and encased in a shell of burning flesh, being torn apart and remade from the inside. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Was this hell? Was this what the rest of eternity would be like? Where was Jane? Had death been kinder to her? He hoped it had. Whoever had done this to him, whatever awaited him at the end of this ordeal, he used his last coherent thought to make a solemn vow.

The world is going to pay for what it did to us sister, and our enemies will know no mercy from my wrath.

[lynelovespopculture]

THE CHILLING ADVENTURES OF ZELDA-CHAPTER 15 THE DREAM/PART 4 I HAVE BEEN WORKING MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT FOR 3 DAYS TO GET THIS ‘EMERGENY’CHAPTER OUT TO YOU. IF YOU’VE NEVER COMMENT ON MY WORK BEFORE, NOW’S THE PERFECT TIME TO START BECAUSE AS A WRITER AND A SPELLWOOD FAN, I’M FEELING FRAGILE RIGHT NOW. -THANKS, LYNEZELDA

“No! Oh dark mother, please, no!” Faustus Spellman jolted up in bed, pushing the bedspread off his naked chest which now heaved up and down with heavy breaths.  Faustus was unaware of just how sweaty he was until he buried his face in his hands.

“Honey? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Faustus looked up to see his Zelda, in her eyes he saw concern for him. “Zelda, come no closer! Don’t make me hurt you more! Please, I beg of you, stay away!” Faustus moved from middle of the bed to the end. 1 moment he felt the mattress beneath his hand, another moment there was only air. Faustus prepared himself for the fall, only it never came, for Zelda had rushed to his side, pulled him up and in an effort to comfort him, tried to put his head on her chest, which made him very confused. He fought her. “Zelda!  Get away from me while you can!”

Still, Zelda was worried. “Darling? Hush now, can’t you see that you just had another nightmare?!”

Faustus shook his head. “It wasn’t,” He insisted. “It was too real this time.”

Zelda tried again. “What did you dream about? Walk me through it, all that you can remember.”

Faustus sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. “It was like no time had passed. I was struck inside Blackwood, who of course, trying to hurt you and the coven. I just can’t escape it, can I? I truly am evil!”

“Try to focus, Faustus. Please tell me what happened.”

“I founded another church. The Church of the Night Pilgrims.”

Zelda shook her head. “There is no such church. I would know, as an ordained high priestess, I have a current list of all the world’s covens. I can show it to you if like.”

“I won Mary Wardwell to my cause!” He said firmly.

“Impossible for 2 reasons!” Zelda’s reply was just as firm. “Mary Wardwell would never abandon her faith that easily and secondly, you never properly meet that mortal, only once when you with stuck in Blackwood.”

“I freed the Eldritch Terrors.  I did!” He insisted when Zelda only sighed.  “All 8 of them, the darkness, the uninvited, the weird, the perverse, the cosmic, the return, the endless and the void. I also almost ruined Hilda’s wedding with the uninvited.”

Zelda pleaded gently by putting her hands on his chest. “You have warned us about the Terrors ever since you spilt from the curse. We have taken all the precautions but not 1 terror has shown up yet. It’s been 13 years and waiting.  You didn’t ruin Hilda’s wedding. You escorted her down the aisle after saving her groom from armed robbers. The 2 of you have been best friends ever since remember? Darling, please, you have to stop!”

But Faustus couldn’t stop; He was afraid if he stopped talking, he would give into the tears that were just below the surface and then he would never be dried eyed again. “Oh, and Lilith gave birth to a boy and called him Adam.”

“Easy fix. Lilith’s son is named Alexander and shortly after his birth, she met a man called Adam who was working for Emperor Blackwood. You just got your wires crossed on that 1.”

Rather than calm down, Faustus stiffened. “Oh goddess! Emperor Blackwood! Even if I had the power, why would I go around arresting witches? It makes no sense! For goddess’s sake, I’m a witch myself! And why would I spent so much time and energy to get rid of Sabrina? She’s such a sweet girl and we have made our peace.”

Zelda listened patiently. “Yes, I agree with you about Sabrina, but I have no idea what else you’re talking about. Blackwood took the title of Emperor when he stole Elizabeth’s throne, not you. As for arresting witches, well, my love, that simply never happened.”

“What of the weird sisters?” Faustus demanded.

“They’re fine,” Zelda assured him.  “Prudence, Dorcus and Agatha are all fine.”

“No. Agatha was insane and was murdered by Prudence and Dorcus.”

“You cured Agatha of her insanity years ago and then all was forgiven, for her and for you.”

“And the other sisters?”

“What other sisters?” Asked a confused Zelda.

“Well, for 1, Rosalind Walker.”

“What?! Rosalind is a seer, not a witch. Never was, never will be.”

“And Mambo Marie? Or Baron S-something, as he turned out to be. He was a lord of the underworld, who was still in love with you.”

“What? Poppycock! Mambo Marie is still living in New Orleans. We know that because she got married last month. Prudence went to the wedding and we sent her off with a gift. Hecate, Faustus, you signed the card. We all did! I just got a lovely thank you card from Marie and her new wife the other day. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because I love you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t!” Faustus jumped away from the bed and from Zelda’s gentle touch. The tears finally started to fall. “I killed Sabrina! Or I helped her to her death when I tried to sacrifice her to the void so I could have it power for myself. You tricked me which made me blind and later, Prudence took a chainsaw, cut off my limbs and buried them at the 4 corners of the world and you were both right to do it!”

Zelda calmly got off the bed and went to her husband. “I don’t know what the void is, but I do know that Sabrina is fine. Yes, she is!” Zelda stressed when Faustus shook his head violently. “In fact, right before I came back in here to check on you, I just off the phone with her. Sabrina just got final approval for her new office and she wanted me to thank you.”

“Sabrina thank me? Whatever for?!”

“Perhaps because you helped her find the place? Or because you co-signed for the loan. Or because you gave the idea to be a therapist in the 1st place?”

“I did?”

“You did.” Zelda confirmed. “What about the other things you said? Are you blind now?”

“Only by my tears.” Faustus mumbled.

Zelda gently wiped his eyes for him. There. Now, what do you see?”

“What I always see when I look at you. The most beautiful woman, witch or mortal, in all the realms.” Zelda smiled at him and it would have been so damn easy to give in. Faustus wanted so badly to believe he could be this great guy who would live with this goddess who had owned his heart forever.  He leaned in to kiss her but turned away at the last second. “No! I can’t! If I can dream all this, then I must still be dangerous.”

“Faustus- “

“Zelda, I’m going to leave now and you must promise me that if you ever even hear the name of Faustus Blackwood, you will run the other way!”

“Alright, I will.”

It broke his heart completely to hear her agree but it was for best. However, he only half turned before he felt Zelda’s hand on his arm.

“You know; Faustus Blackwood no longer exists. You are Faustus Spellman and this” Zelda leaned over and took a framed picture from the nightstand. “is Faustus Spellman’s family, taken not even 2 weeks ago.”

Faustus looked at the photo. They were all there. Him, Zelda, Hilda, Dr. C, Sabrina, Ambrose, Prudence, the twins, Judith and Ju-no, their names were LJ and Jake now. They were all smiling and happy. Then Faustus saw a face that was not in his dream at all. “Cordelia?”

“Of course, Cordelia.” Zelda smiled. “Our 12-year-old is probably downstairs right now, eating cereal and watching TV, like she does every Sunday. I love you, and I won’t let you throw away 13 years of your hard work to be mentally well. It was all a dream, Faustus. It means nothing. Everything’s fine. I really hate that it’s been over a decade and Edward’s curse still has the ability to haunt you like this.”

Faustus couldn’t quite hide a little smile. He was touched beyond words how Zelda thought of it as Edward’s curse, not his own. Still, he wasn’t sure. “How can I know that this isn’t the dream?” Faustus wondered. “What if I’m still stuck inside Blackwood?” That thought terrified him.

“Blackwood has been gone and buried for the last 12 years. Still, if you have to be convince that this isn’t a dream.”

“Ow,” Yet he smiled when Zelda pinched him.

His wife raised her eyebrow. “Not enough? Okay.” Zelda leaned forward and kissed him deeply.

During the kiss, Faustus felt Zelda unbuttoning his shirt. “What are you doing?”

“Checking,” Zelda said matter of fact. “Earlier you mentioned Prudence cut your limbs off. If that actually happened, you would have scars.” She lowered his shirt and kissed around his shoulders. “No scars here. Wait, I need to check on something.”

“Where are you going?”

“On the night we buried Blackwood, I had to save your life with a binding spell. Which means that if you have a mark on your body, I have it on mine as well.”  Zelda explained as she went to look in the mirror.

Faustus came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle. “I was beheaded too, but your neck seems fine.”  He gently brushed her hair aside and began kissing her neck.

“What about my shoulders?”

Faustus was still kissing her neck when he tugged off Zelda’s silk robe and let it fall to the floor. Then 1 at a time, he pulled down the straps of her nightgown. “Nothing here,” he reported. He claimed her lips with his own and then kissed her brow. “You know; I did say all 4 limbs.” Zelda felt a delightful shiver as Faustus let her nightgown fall to the floor. His long arms felt the front of her until he got to the limbs of her thighs. His fingers made quick work of her underwear, letting them fall as well. “You are perfection.” He whispered as he touched the most secret part of her.

As soon as she was able, Zelda turned around. “Now that I’m all checked out, let’s finish with you.” The pretense was dropped entirely after that, just like Faustus’s pants. They tumbled backwards onto the bed, clinging tightly to each other as they made love.

“I love you, Zelda.”

“I love you, Faustus.”

Faustus fell asleep quickly after their lovemaking. It was no surprise to Zelda. After all that dreaming in the night, he must have gotten very little rest. She kissed his forehead and whispered, “Sleep long, sleep sound. Let no more dreams come around.” Happy with her spell, Zelda got up, got dressed and started the phone calls.

 Faustus awoke to the sounds of a busy kitchen. 1 look at the clock told him he had slept the day away. Just taking a shower and getting dressed made him feel better. He went downstairs and the 1st thing he saw was the weird sisters, who were setting the table.

Prudence looked up first. Although Faustus felt weary, her eyes and her smile were welcoming. “Hello, Father.”

“Hello, Mr. Spellman.” Agatha and Dorcus said together, in that unique weird sister way.

It was oddly comforting. “Hello, girls.” Faustus was still smiling when he felt a pat on his back.

He looked beside him to see Dr.  C. “Hey buddy! Zelda called and said you had a rough night. We thought a nice family dinner would make you feel better.”

Faustus remained speechless but he walked into the kitchen with Dr. C. Then he saw the steel wrist band on Dr. C’s arm. “You still have the incubus?”

“Of  course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Uh…never mind.”

They reached the kitchen where he saw more Spellmans readying dinner. Well, most of them. Ambrose was leaning against the island, casually reading a book and dipping his free hand into a food bowl, until LJ slapped his hand away.

“Father! You’re finally up, sleepyhead!” Jake tossed him a teasing smile as he carried the chopped carrots to the stove and dropped them into the pot that Hilda was stirring.

“Hey Dad,” the child’s comment was casual as she walked by him, carrying a side dish, bound for the dinning table. However, Faustus had to reach out and touch her, afraid she would disappear right before his eyes.

“Cordelia!  You’re real!”

Her face, exactly like Zelda’s, clouded over in confusion. “Thanks? So are you?”

He watched her walk away and for the 1st time, Faustus thought that perhaps Zelda was right, perhaps it all had been just a dream! Then Faustus saw something that made his heart drop into his stomach. A very   much alive Vinegar Tom got off his dog bed and went to his food bowl. Of course, he had no problem with the dog being alive. Heaven, when he first heard of the familiar’s death, his gut instinct was to run and comfort Zelda, yet he couldn’t because he was still married to Constance at the time. No, the problem was that Tom’s life was Marie’s final gift before returning to the underworld. If that part of the dream was real surely everything else was real too.

Faustus was still trying to sort fact from fiction when an arm came around his waist and Zelda kissed him. “Feeling better, darling?”

“Vinegar Tom is alive?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Humor me, dearest, please?” Faustus begged.

“Well,” Zelda’s voice lowered to a whisper. “As you know, I cried hardest for Tom on his birthday and you always do your best to comfort me. But 3 years ago, when she was 9, Cordy must have heard us for later, when we went downstairs, we found her petting Tom’s stuffed form.”

“Yes!” The memory struck Faustus’s brain like lighting. “I managed to get Cordelia out of the room, but you called me back a moment later, Vinnie was alive. We didn’t know how to explain it to Cordy, so you kept Tom at the academy for a few weeks. When Vinnie came back, we told Cordelia that he was a new dog, named Vinegar Tom as tribute.”

“Yes! That’s exactly what happened.”

Faustus was smiling at his wife when his feet felt warm. He looked down to see Vinnie sitting on his shoes. He picked up   the dog and, together with Zelda, petted him. “I’m glad you have your soul mate back.”

“I’m glad I have both my soul mates back.”

“You said that to me before. The night VT came back.”

 5 minutes later,  with everyone around the table, Faustus finally realized who was  missing. G  He was about ask when the front door opened.

“Hi all. Sorry I’m late.”

Before he realized he was doing it, Faustus ran to her and hugged her. “Sabrina!”

“Hi Uncle Faustus. Nice to see you too.”

“Your tongue! For the love of Hecate, please show me your tongue!”

“O-okay.” Sabrina spit out her tongue.

“Pink and normal. Yes!”

“What’s with him?” Asked Sabrina.

Zelda came up behind her husband. “Your uncle had an awful dream last night. I’m afraid he’s still recovering.”

“Oh, well, don’t worry, it’s just a dream.” Sabrina kissed his cheek.

Faustus was still feeling his cheek when Zelda took his hand and led him back to the table. “1 more question, have any of you ever felt like you ever on a tv show?”

[myrskytuuli]

An Ode to Youth (the horny remix)

A smutty Scroldie ficlet taking place in an AU where Webby did not accompany Scrooge and Goldie when they ran into the woods together and finding the fountain took just a little bit longer. 

New, flexible, energetic, nimble, teenaged bodies. The sex is going to be great?? Right?? Right??

A tragi-comedy of being being a teenager. This ficlet might be smutty, but it is not sexy. It might be a bit sentimental though. 

Why was she so goddamn horny??!!

It’s true, that the last time Goldie had been 16 was well over a century ago, but she could have sworn that she hadn’t been this horny back then.

Well.

Not at least all the time.

Goldie was a confident, smooth, intelligent, cunning and unflappable woman, and had always been. When she remembered her teenage years, she remembered the energy, the way her knees had never hurt, the way she could bounce back from anything.

She did not remember these stupidly long limbs, the way her face itched, the hormonal storm that seemed to have washed over her like a flood and being so stupidly horny.

Her horniness for some reason also made her angry, and for some reason there also seemed to be no barrier between I’m angry and I’m going to do something stupid about it.

So, she tackled Scrooge.

Maybe finding the fountain before him, and rubbing it in his stupid, handsome, face would make her feel better.

Scrooge fell to the ground with a satisfying grunt and oof, his fringe of stupidly fluffable looking hair falling into his eyes.

Goldie can feel the familiar contraction in her lower regions, as her vaginal walls unscrew themselves in a biological dance of let’s go already.

She’s never this aroused this fast. Not just looking at a cute boy’s hair fall into his eyes!

The tingling in her loins begs to differ.

She’s starting to doubt if having unaching joints is truly worth it after all.

  Whoever had the audacity to say that women are their most beautiful at sixteen years old, had clearly never met actual sixteen-years-olds. Looking into the clear surface of a puddle, Goldie was not impressed with what she saw. Her body was not proportionate, her oil glands hidden beneath her feathers seemed to function at double the effort, and here and there she could spot itchy patches of baby feathers still clinging stubbornly to her skin.

She knew that picking at the yellowish down feathers, peeking from between her pristine white ones, was not recommended. She did it anyway.

Ouch!

A drop of blood peeked from where she had ripped the yellow feather out, irritating her fluctuating mood even more.

Maybe finding the fountain wouldn’t be worth it. Maybe she should just be content with the fountain in Ronguay, which did keep her from aging beyond certain limit, but would not keep her this young. With the water from this fountain, she would never have to dye her hair again.

She looked at her reflection in the puddle again. She looked innocent like this. Like someone who was not wanted her enemies, who would never be recognised anywhere. Someone who could be whoever she wanted, without people looking at her and pointing “wait isn’t that Goldie O’Gilt, you can’t trust her. Everybody knows what she’s like.”

Expect Scrooge. He would know.

But he had never pointed at her and spat the name Goldie O’Gilt like it was a curse.

Suddenly she felt lonely and small and miserable, and the damn hormones made her want to cry like…like an angsty teenager.

She got up and started heading where the faint flickering of Scrooge’s campfire could be seen.

And goddamn now she was horny again!!

 Goldie was a master of seduction, had been for over a century now. But the fact that her new body was itchy and weird was putting a bit of damper on her usual masterclass of seduction.

Also, the fact that she felt stupidly hyperaware of every single one of her insecurities.

Hey!

Aah!

Scrooge shot up from the nest of leaves he had made for himself and looked guilty and awkward and slightly terrified. His hair was mussed (absolutely adorably!) and his feathers were slightly fluffed up.

She was pretty sure that by now her vagina had unscrewed itself to be ram-rod straight tunnel, if the burning arousal between her legs was to be believed. It would have been more embarrassing, if she couldn’t see the way Scrooge’s genital feathers were mussed in a way like a hand had just been digging into them.

“Wanna have sex?” Asked Goldie, the master of slow and burning seduction.

“So badly.” Answered Scrooge, barely having time to have the words out of his beak before Goldie collapsed on top of him, pushing her tongue inside that beak.

 15 minutes later, they are laying down, side by side, too embarrassed to even look at each other.

That was…not a shining moment for either of them.

There is a tiny spot of blood drying on her genital feathers, that she is too embarrassed to wipe away. She had forgotten that this new body would have a hymen.

Besides her, Scrooge is laying down in the stoic silence of a man who had forgotten how quickly things are over at this age.

“Remember the first time we had sex in 1890s?” Goldie asked her partner.

“Yeah.”

“How in the hell were we better at sex in the nineteenth century then we are now?!”

This prompts a snort from Scrooge, and Goldie can’t help but to follow. It doesn’t take them long to succumb to hysterical laughter at the whole absurdity of the entire situation.

The tension thankfully breaks, and Goldie gets the guts to roll around to actually face her partner in worst-sex-of-her-life. Her flutters faced with the way the campfire makes Scrooge’s eyes sparkle in the darkness.

“It wasn’t exactly perfect then either. Remember when you had to explain the concept of the clitoris to me?”

“Hmm. But you were a fast learner.” Her loins are burning again. “maybe we should try again. I’m a sexy minx and I refuse to be defeated by this awkward body.” She’s already crawling back all over him.

He meets her easily midway, a testament to the fact that while they might need to work some kinks out with their new bodies, their rhythm is still there. They’re not those nearly-strangers fumbling in the dark, that they were more than a century ago.

“I’m going to be entirely honest with you, I have a feeling that the little guy isn’t going to last any longer than it did just now.”

“I don’t think that this body really cares for long and lingering love-making in any case.” She answered entirely honestly.

“And it’s a good thing that you did teach me how to use my tongue back in the 19th century.”

“That too.” She purrs into his beak.

 They manage to make it last almost thirty minutes this time, and it has to be counted as a victory considering the circumstances. Definitely not their proudest work, but who the hell cares.

 The next morning, she wakes incredibly hungry, and horny again!!?? How is it possible to be this horny all the time??!!

[pollylynn]

All in the Family—Chalk Talk, Chapter 2: A Two-Shot Caskett Future Fic

Title: All in the Family—Chalk Talk, Chapter 2 WC: 1700

A/N: Can’t sleep. Sad about John Prine. And so an aimless ending.

He has been banished—absolutely banished—from the big bedroom and the surrounding areas. In fact, he is not even allowed on the second floor.  The Mad One insists on Mama, no substitutes, no intruders, if anything resembling normal bed time rituals are to be observed. And he’s fine with that. 

He’s mostly fine with that, except Alexis isn’t going to make it tonight, and she probably will only be able stay the afternoon tomorrow. Even his mother has, of course, gotten held up in the city, so the Official Summer in the Hamptons Kickoff Weekend is slow to get started. 

He’s mostly just feeling sorry for himself for the look of it, though. He’s pleasantly tired with sun and fruity rum drinks—with having a four year old—and he’s glad of the quiet time. And, of course, he loves how entirely Madeleine worships Kate. He revels in every mannerism she picks up from her mother, and he thinks a thousand times a day how lucky he got this time around. 

The only thing—the only thing—he would change about raising Alexis would be to spare her the pain of Meredith’s vagaries. And here, now, feeling sorry for himself just for the look of it, he thinks for the thousand-and-first time today how lucky he got this time.  

It carries him to the French doors standing half open. He looks up at a sky that’s darkening fast. There looks to be a good summer storm rolling in over the water. He can hear Madeleine’s shrieks—happy shrieks, he’s pretty sure—echoing around the master bath, overhead, and Kate’s response to his Do you need an exit? text was a video close-up of the two of them in close-up reminding him NO BOYS ALLOWED. 

It’s been a good day—a lovely day lolling on the giant, sun-baked chalkboard, then slipping into the cool water, only to hoist themselves back up a while later to press their shivering skin into the pleasant warmth of that black, black expanse. 

And they have high hopes for some sleep tonight. Madeleine has to have run the equivalent of a marathon around the edge of the pool to demonstrate her cannon ball, her jackknife, her recently-invented Pony Dog, which mostly involves a kind of gallop, then a spin, then the biggest splash possible. She has done her level best to talk herself out entirely with  mile-a-minute stories, each one illustrated, about her friends at school, most of whom seem to be named Mabel, except for the occasional Braden, Jaden, Caiden, or some other random consonant stapled to a long A sound and a final N. 

She has his gift for character and shameless embellishment, but it’s interesting—it’s interesting—the way she’s into people lately. Heliotrope and Jacquard haven’t gone anywhere—they’re often minor players in her tales from the schoolyard—but they’re definitely more on the back burner than they were even a month ago. 

She’s curious about real people, from her teachers to their neighbors to her friend’s families. She’s nosy and insightful and loves knowing things no one else knows. He hopes she’s destined to be either a writer or a cop, because otherwise she might grow up to be a super villain. 

The first flash of lighting comes as he stands there thinking it would actually be pretty cool to have a super villain in the family. The swipe of its blue-white tongue over the world stirs him. He waits for the thunder and tries to recall if there’s anything out by the pool or on any of the porches that absolutely needs battening down. He’s just stepping through the doors to check when another light—another two lights—sweep across the the glass of  the doors. 

There’s whispering behind him, stage and otherwise. There are giggles and a general air of furtiveness infiltrates the room. He pivots toward the interior of the study and catches them—two very stealthy figures in trench coats. Madeleine apparently has a tiny, devastatingly cute little belted trench coat, and the hem of her Princess Leia nightie is peeking out beneath. To complete the look, they’re each carrying a flashlight. 

“What’s all this then?” he says gruffly, dropping into character with an alacrity that would do his mother proud. “Bedtime violations? I thought we had . . . an understanding.” “It’s a mission,” Madeleine says sternly. “Me and Mama are on it.” 

“A mission,” he nods gravely. “And here I thought this was nothing more than a very tired little girl up past her bed time.” 

“Special circumstances,” Kate’s whisper is conspiratorial. It’s for Madeleine’s benefit, but the look she gives him over the girl’s head suggests there’s something afoot. “The storm—“ 

“Thunderstorm,” Madeleine interjects. 

“Right, baby.” Kate gets a heavy look from her daughter, who is not a baby. He gets a look in turn when he can’t quite stifle a laugh. “We’re going to say goodnight to our friends so they’re not scared about the the thunderstorm.” 

“Our chalk friends,” he says, thinking he begins to see the trouble. It’s one thing for the Mad One herself to happily slop pails of pool water on to one chalk scenario and begin anew; it’s quite another for any of the Mabels, any of the long A, final N crowd to disappear in the rain. “Yes.That’s a good plan,” he finishes, hoping Kate actually has a plan. 

She has a plan, of course, because he’s struck it lucky. He’s allowed to join the mission—after he finds a coat to put on, of course. It’s an old, army green rain poncho he finds in a closet he can’t actually remember ever opening before. Madeleine is disdainful until he produces a heavy Maglite she badly wants to carry. She’s on the verge of another nervous breakdown, but Kate pulls the situation out of the fire. 

“He’s our minion, Mad One.” She drops to one knee and pulls Madeleine into a side bar. “That means he has to carry all our stuff.” 

“Mission minion,” she crows, delighted by the internal alliteration. 

The two of them creep through the doors first. Madeleine tiptoes with about as much stealth as Inspector Clouseau. Kate follows her lead, biting down hard on her lip to keep from laughing. He brings up the rear, lighting a wide arc at their bare feet. 

They flatten their backs to the high wooden gate, then dart from column to column. Madeleine keeps an exaggerated lookout for sneak thieves and curious bunnies and a host of other old friends and foes of Heliotrope and Jacquard. Kate takes her hand as they reach the edge of the chalkboard paint. 

“Are we ready to say goodnight?” she asks gamely, though they hardly need the flashlights to see the girl’s lip quivering and the tears shimmering in her eyes. 

“I don’t want my friends to go,” Madeleine wails. She presses her face into the silvery grey skirts of Kate’s trench coats. “I don’t want my story to go.” 

He steps tentatively into the fray, poncho flapping noisily as the wind gets serious about kicking up. He weighs his options and sets the Maglite on its heavy end, pointing up at the three of them. 

“Hey.” He reaches gently for her shoulder, persisting when she clings tighter to her mother. “Can I tell you a story about stories?” 

“NO!” The word rings out. Mere fabric is no match for the Mad One’s lung capacity. 

“Okay, then. I’ll tell Mama a story about stories.” 

Kate gives him a wry look that conveys a wealth of feelings about this prospect. But lightning jolts the sky, and this is where they are. Kate gives him a Go on shrug, so he does. 

“Mama, do you know how when we go to work—” 

“Daddy doesn’t go to work,” Madeleine can’t resist the tearful interjection. “Daddy stays in jammy pants.” 

Kate’s shoulders shake with laughter. He sticks out his tongue at her and begins again. 

“Mama, you know how when I sometimes go to your work—”

“Not in jammy pants,” she interjects.

“Not in jammy pants, because Mama is a mean Captain,” he adds, even though it’s guaranteed to set Madeleine off again. It does. She howls that Mama is not mean. Her chest heaves, and he relents. “Not because Mama is mean. Because Mama’s work has uniforms. And we tell stories on a big board just like this one.” 

“We do,” Kate picks up the thread. She gives him a look that’s a little sad, because the Board is an infrequent indulgence for both of them these days. “We write and we write and we have pictures.” 

“What kinda pictures?” She tugs at Kate’s coat. “Mama, what kinda?” 

“Oh . . . people and places and . . . pretty jewelry sometimes,” she improvises, looking a little desperate. He sympathizes. All he can think of is bloody implements and scar-faced criminals at the moment.

“But when Mama solves the case—and Mama always solves it—” he reaches down and retrieves the Maglite, “Whoosh!” He sweeps the beam across the black surface, lighting up the purples and pinks and vivid greens for just an instant. Lighting up the curly hair and the triangle dresses, and the lopsided globe on the six-legged desk. “Whoosh! We say goodbye so we can start a new story.” 

“I wanna new story,” she says uncertainly. “For tomorrow. New story.” 

“That’s what we’ll do then.” Kate reaches a hand down to stroke the tear-stained cheek. “Tomorrow—all day—we’ll do all new stories.” 

“But we have to say goodnight to this one.” He steps closer to the two of them. “We can get your pail and Whoosh! Or the thunderstorm can go Whoosh!” He slides an arm around Kate’s waist and makes Madeleine wriggle by tickling under her chin. “Which one, Mad One?” 

She thinks about it long enough that the rain starts to fall in big fat drops. Kate leans against him, her fingers clutching his where they rest on her hip. 

“Flashlight Whoosh!” Madeleine says at last, as she tilts the beam of her own flashlight crazily across her canvas. “Flashlight and thunderstorm. Whoosh!” 

A/N: Aimless. 

[silasmadams]

My Problem with a “Darker Shade of Magic” by V.E. Schwab

So I’ve been meaning to talk about V. E. Schwab’s A Darker Shade of Magic. I know it’s got plenty of love behind it and its got its fair share of fans but I can’t for the life of me love this book and yes I mean only the first book because that’s as far as I read in the series. I have a similar relationship to this as I do Children of Blood by Tomi Adeyemi in that I completely understand why people like it, I just don’t. 

I’m also going to give a trigger warning that I will be talking about sexual assault, violence, and general gore so if that makes you uncomfortable give this a skip. I’ll give a trigger warning again when I’m about to speak in-depth on the previously mentioned subjects. I will also warn you when I’m about to head into spoiler territory, though I won’t be going into particularly big spoilers.

Summary

For those of you that don’t know, A darker shade of Magic is the first book in the Darker Shade of Magic trilogy by V. E. Schwab. It’s about three separate Londons, Red, White, and Grey. Red is the London with lots of magic, it’s the pretty and bougie London. White is a cesspit of violence with very little magic forcing its inhabitants to cling onto any magic they can for dear life. Their leaders are cruel and it's not uncommon for them to be usurped. Generally to get ahead in White London you need to be vile. And Grey London is our world's London roughly around the 1800s, since King George III is alive but very old and dying. So the conflict is about Black London, the fourth London that was cut off from the others because their magic consumed the people and the land. Kell an antari, a super magical person, is able to travel through the three londons and he ends up getting caught up in some big conspiracies and power grabs. Interesting premise right? I agree but the execution ehhh. Ok, let’s start first with the pros of the book.

Style

Her style isn’t anything too extravagant. But that doesn’t mean that it’s bad. It’s nowhere near bad. She’s got quite a few descriptions that really draw you in. Her opening lines are damn near perfect. “Kell wore a very peculiar coat, It had neither one side, which would be conventional, nor two which would be unexpected, but several, which was, of course, impossible” [pg 11]. It doesn’t reveal much but it sort of tosses this thread out there for you to follow into the larger narrative. It’s got almost a rhyming quality to it, a rhythm that you can feel yourself saying as you recite the lines aloud. It gives you just enough to keep you invested but not enough to reveal anything of importance. All of the writing in this book has a similar draw to it, it’s simple and intricate all at once and it’s very precise in what it’s trying to say. When Schwab describes something in the narrative, you can imagine it very clearly. Just listen to how she describes the marketplace. "The subtle scent of flowers was lot beneath the aroma of cooking meat and freshly cut fruit, heavy spices and mulled wine. A man in dark robes offered candied plums beside a woman selling scrying stones. A vendor poured steaming tea into short glass goblets across from another vibrant stall displaying masks and a third offering tiny vials of water drawn from the Isle, the contents still glowing faintly with its light..." [pg 45 and 46]. Overall Schwab knows her craft and it’s clear that she’s confident in her writing because she should be, she’s got the technical and stylistic aspect down to a tee.

Setting

The setting is amazing, but and there is a big but which includes minor spoilers so run away now if you want to read this book. I will say that it’s a good book, it’s just not a good book to me. If you’re into other world fantasies and cross-dimensional travel you’ll probably like this. I’m into that too but the problem is that this book has a lot of missed potential for me. So if the previously mentioned description sounds interesting or if the summary I gave sounds interesting to you, leave, go read the book and come back. If it doesn’t sound interesting or you don’t care about spoilers then I guess stick around if you want.

So the premise is amazing. These three different Londons that all exist in different dimensions that only a select few, two people to be exact, can travel to are vastly different from one another. Their landscapes, their people, their overall geography, it’s all completely different, the only overlapping aspects that they all have are their names and the two travelers that can move about their kingdoms, those two being Kell, one of our main characters and Holland, one of our main antagonists.

I think Red London is overall well done, Schwab captures it perfectly. A land of flowers and joy with obvious problems and tensions but out of the three London’s is clearly portrayed as the best. So I’ve got no qualms with that.

What I found upsetting though was White London and Grey London. For White London, it was this hellscape of a city that had so much room to be this horrible torturous place and Schwab touches on it, she grazes the surface of it ever so slightly but she never manages to hit the mark completely. When you tell me White London is a grimy and gross place filled with power-hungry bastards and bitches what’s to stop me from going “well isn’t that just normal London aka Grey London but with magic?” I needed more of White London, I needed more of that seedy underbelly to better contrast with Grey London. With Grey London, we see the horrors of the land through the character of Lila Bard who has a difficult life, who needs to survive on her own in this terrible place, no offense London. I think the best way to have fixed this was to have more focus on Holland, the character that was from White London. If we were to have three POVs from Holland, Kell, and Lila, instead of just Lila and Kell, this problem could be solved. It would convolute the story because of the twist about Holland and his involvement in trying to help the twin rulers of White London take over Red London but I feel like that’s an ok thing to lose in order to gain a better understanding of White London and have a more fleshed out narrative of all three kingdoms.

Characters

I hate these characters. Ok, that’s kind of a strong word, I don’t hate them. I don’t hate all of them at least. And I know plenty of people love and adore these characters, I’ve seen the artwork and the time and effort people put into these characters and it’s all amazing but I just do not get the hype. I didn’t like them.

See, my thing is that I hate characters that don’t reach, what I see as their true potential. Which is just a roundabout way of saying that I hate characters that are boring. I mean I can enjoy a badly written character as much as the next person but the thing is that a boring character is not enjoyable for anyone, especially when you see threads of a character and know that they can be something more. Now I haven’t read either of the other two books so maybe the characters are different there, I don’t know. All I know is that I either found the characters to be boring, cliche, or just annoying.

The first character to make this most egregious mistake on the part of being boring, would be none other than Kell. So Kell is the adopted Prince, the older brother of Rhy. He was taken away from his family at a young age and brought up in the palace because he was an Antari, which again is a super magical person that can travel through the different Londons and is an expert in various other types of magic, natural or otherwise. So Kell loves his brother and he has issues with his adoptive parents because he feels that they see him only as a tool. Now, this is good, this has potential. The problem here is that we never see moments of the King and Queen treating Kell badly and they don’t even need to necessarily treat him badly they just need to drop hints of how they clearly favor Rhy. And I didn’t see those hints. As far as I could tell, both boys were treated relatively equal, Kell had a lot more work on his plate but that was because he’s an Antari, he’s the only Antari. To really drive home that feeling of isolation and of Rhy being his only real family among the royals there needs to be more memories of their childhood where the King and Queen picked Rhy over Kell and it was because of them seeing Rhy as their real son and Kell as more of a soldier. There is also the issue of Lila just dismissing these feelings that Kell has about his family not loving him but we’ll get to that in a bit. All that aside, Kell just isn’t interesting. You could replace him with a cardboard cutout and I wouldn’t know the difference. He’s just not an engaging character, he’s got the threads of an engaging character but he himself is not one. Whenever I was back to his POV I didn’t know whether to groan out of boredom or to just be glad we weren’t in Lila’s head. I decided to go with the former because Lila is fun to hate, Kell is bread, he’s not even toast, he’s bread, soggy bread. Ok, that’s enough.

Now Lila, Oh Lila. How I despise thee. I get what Schwab was going for with this character. She was the badass cross-dressing thief lady that could cut you down. Lila is an orphan that had to fend for herself after her father basically tried to sell her off. She’s got a good introduction and it bleeds into some good first few chapters. Now warning I’m about to talk about sexual assault and just general violence so skip to the next paragraph if you don't want to read that. In one of the earlier chapters, Lila comes home, her home being a docked ship that she stays at. The ship is owned by an older man who she basically pays rent to. When she gets back, the guy, Powell, asks for his cut. He’s drunk out of his mind which is also not unusual for this character. When she says she doesn’t have anything to give him today, he responds by saying he can take something else from her, clearly implying sexual favors. So she straight up fucking murders Powell "Dead. Dead... and making a mess... She crouched, wiped her blade on Powell's shirt, and recovered the silver from his pocket. And then she stepped over his body, retrieved the revolver from its drawer, and got dressed" [pg 69]. And then to cover her tracks, she sets his boat on fire and dips. "Lila stood on the dock and watched the Sea King burn. She stared up at it, face warmed by the fire that danced on her chin and cheeks the way the lamp light had before the constable.'It's a shame,’ she thought. She'd rather liked the rotting ship. But it wasn't hers. No, hers would be much better" [pg 70]. Come on, tell me that’s not a great anti-hero introduction? Because it is.

That being said, the more time I, as a reader spent with Lila, the more I realized I hate her. I mean at least I felt something towards her, unlike Kell. So the first problem with Lila is that she is the epitome of “I’m not like other girls” Every chance she gets to put down anything girly or to put down other women she takes. Or, she just jumps at the chance of being called not like other girls. Which Kell often obliges in. And, this would be ok if it was criticized within the story, if it was properly examined why she feels this way, because there could be a lot of reasons, one of which could be that she realized behaving in a more aggressive or traditionally masculine way allowed her to have autonomy and allowed people to not talk down to her but to be afraid of her. There are a lot of ways in which this could go but it didn’t. And there’s nothing wrong with liking more traditionally masculine things, the problem is the way in which Lila clearly needs to put other women down in order to feel special about herself. I also mentioned earlier about my issue with how Lila undermines Kell’s feelings of his adoptive parents never really loving him and seeing him only as a tool. Again, this could have been played up a little more and Kell could have properly called her out instead of just being the meek bread he is and letting her essentially tell him that his emotional struggle doesn’t matter cause he’s rich. I get where Lila is coming from in this scenario and I do like that she treats him like that in terms of his emotions because it’s very telling of her own upbringing. The problem is that she very clearly makes it about herself and her problems. This could have worked better if she simply dismissed his feelings, got angry at him for basically swimming in cash, and then stopped there. We should have gotten an insight into her thoughts of why she feels this way or have it implied why she feels this way, rather than have her outright say it, because in this case, when she voices that and shifts everything back to herself it feels very purposeful and mean on her end rather than it just being her natural reaction. Instead of going “oh my life was terrible and way worse than yours” it would work better if she just called him a brat, told him to shut up, and then moved about her own business. That could also add a more interesting dynamic to these characters by having Kell be the emotional one and Lila be the one who Kell has to urge out of her shell by being the emotional support. It would be a role reversal of the traditional way most romances go, and again, I think Schwab was trying to do that, but the execution of it fell flat. My final gripe with this character is that she isn’t feral enough, and if Schwab had just made her more feral, this character would fit in perfectly. What I mean by feral is, exactly that honestly. She was too put together, too suave and cool and always knew what to say. If you’re gonna tell me this street urchin type orphan in 1800s London is cool and suave I’m gonna call bullshit cause no way this girl isn’t straight up feral and ready to bite someone’s nose off at the drop of a hat because that’s what she’s gotta do to survive. I just wish Schwab had gone down this route instead of the Lila we got, but oh well. It is what it is.

I’m only briefly going to talk about Rhy, Kell’s younger brother, because there isn’t too much I have to say about him and I feel like this is already long enough as is. Rhy is basically a cut and dry trope of the rich prince boy with a heart of gold. I love that archetype so I like Rhy, but to an extent. He seems to be only that trope and that’s it. There isn’t much more to him. Though he’s not as boring as Kell or as annoying as Lila so that’s a plus. I haven’t even talked about the twins that rule White London or Holland but again this is already too long, don’t need to make it longer and they also involve a lot of major spoilers that I don't want to get into.

Pacing

I know earlier that I said Schwab’s style of writing was very well done, that she clearly had a kind of rhythm for the writing itself, and I stand by that statement but the pacing is not good. It’s all over the place, it’s either too slow or too fast or just nonexistent. I’m going to use romance as an example of how the pacing is bad and I think you can tell that with a lot of books. If they have romance in them, which if we’re being real, they probably do, then the way in which the romance plays out can often be a good indicator of pace. The relationship is wonky so the pacing is wonky. To be honest, the relationship was something I didn’t buy. It went by too fast and when Lila kissed him it felt very robotic like they were just getting together because they were the breeding pair. They had no chemistry whatsoever even as friends. As friends, they were at least somewhat more tolerable, but like romantic partners, I just didn’t see it. The stilted romance was awkward and dumb and again, there was no chemistry, they were just shoved together because they were the only guy and girl and both had a POV.  I don’t know the overall pacing was slow, and I don’t mind slow build-up books. One of my favorites, Strange the Dreamer by Laini Taylor is a very slow build-up book but it’s well done, it doesn’t drag. This book drags and the romance in it drags. When the pace picks up it’s like going a thousand miles an hour. When shit hit the fan in the book, I get that it was supposed to be fast-paced and tense but I was never tense while reading it I just kind of wanted the whole book to end so I didn’t have to keep slogging through it. I guess I just hoped that the ending would tie it all together and fix the pacing which is stupid on my part because that’s not at all what happened.

Conclusion

Well, that’s all I gotta say about it, I gave it three stars on GoodReads.

Buy the book here:

https://www.amazon.com/Darker-Shade-Magic-Novel-Shades-ebook/dp/B00ME0TBFE

Buy it Used here:

https://www.abebooks.com/Darker-Shade-Magic-Schwab-Victoria-Titan/30413099967/bd?cm_mmc=ggl-_-US_Shopp_Trade-_-used-_-naa&gclid=Cj0KCQiA4NTxBRDxARIsAHyp6gDRNRjl8x-ktniE3IUmecyE1lDYlPxglxoLpBAYEt7C3ivyt9PPabkaAmTGEALw_wcB

or here 

https://www.thriftbooks.com/w/a-darker-shade-of-magic_victoria-schwab/9043358/item/16041243/?mkwid=MUQmUYQc%7cdc&pcrid=70112856192&product=16041243&plc=&pgrid=18035380632&ptaid=aud-305373123344%3apla-459905910383&utm_source=google_shopping&utm_content=MUQmUYQc%7cdc%7cpcrid%7c70112856192%7cpkw%7c%7cpmt%7c%7cproduct%7c16041243%7cslid%7c%7cpgrid%7c18035380632%7cptaid%7caud-305373123344%3apla-459905910383%7c&gclid=Cj0KCQiA4NTxBRDxARIsAHyp6gDXbz2350Y8Tse02z5fKP_TgnPIH1DXhILOWkgk260VeZzQwUCgXbEaAsH5EALw_wcB#isbn=0765376466&idiq=16041243

Or just get it at your local library.

[jessahmewren]

Dear smut wife! Here we go again! I'd love some poly!Queen smut with some somnophilia and laundry! You know what to do! Please and thank you

Hello love!  It would be my honor to fulfill your request!  The title of this one is “I’m Only Sleeping.” and it’s also on Ao3!  I hope you enjoy!

With love, wifey 

-0-0-0-

“How does this work again, darling?” 

Freddie had a basket of laundry under his arm, one hip popped out to balance it.

“I think you twist this knob…like this,” John interjected, thrusting an arm forward to fiddle with the machine. 

Roger hefted his own basket onto the work table, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips, where Brian sat swinging his legs off the edge.  “You put the powder in first,” Roger spoke around it.  He grabbed the cigarette just before it slipped from his mouth, taking a long drag from it. 

Hazel eyes caught his.  “I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in here,” Brian said softly. 

Roger just smiled and stepped between those long legs, holding his breath until he pressed his lips to Brian’s, shotgunning the smoke.  Brian coughed, his eyes watering.  “Fuck it, Bri,” Roger said lazily.  “It’s Saturday night and there’s not a soul in this place.”  He offered the cigarette to Brian, but he waved it off.

“Is someone going to help me with this bloody machine?” Freddie whined. 

John slipped an arm around his waist.  “We need quarters, babe.  Who’s got the change?”

Roger withdrew a soup can from his basket, giving it a dramatic little shake.  “John, you do the honors.” 

John fed the machine the right amount of money, and pushed in the lever.  Magically, the water started flowing.  “It’s about bloody time,” Brian groused. 

John whipped his head around as Freddie fed clothes into the washer. “I don’t see you doing anything.” 

Brian’s mouth fell open, and he clutched the stack of books he had brought with him protectively.  “I can’t.  You know I’ve got an exam tomorrow.  I’ve got to bone up.” 

 John took in the bags under his eyes and his bedraggled appearance.  “Take a break love.  At least help me sort the clothes.” 

Brian stuttered, looking torn.  “I really need to study,” he said.

John threw a dirty shirt at him, smacking him upside the head.  “Suit yourself.” 

Roger giggled, grabbing the shirt where it fell on the table and crossing to the washer.  He handed John the washing powders from the basket he had brought, and the three boys closed the lid on their first successful load. 

–

The dryer hadn’t been any easier to figure out, but once they had, piles of warm, soft, freshly laundered clothes were landing all around Brian on the work table.  The smell and the heat wafting up from them was almost intoxicating, not to mention the steady whir of the machines filling the air…it was enough to lull him into a sort of peaceful relaxation, an almost dreamlike state. 

The boys had been so wrapped up in their laundry duties, they hadn’t noticed how quiet Brian had become.  Then, one of his heavy books slid off his lap, hitting the floor with a loud crash. 

They simultaneously turned around to find the curly-haired brunet fast asleep in the piles of warm, fresh laundry. 

“Would you look at that,” Freddie said, a tinge of awe painting his voice. 

They approached the table to look down on him.  John smiled.  “Told him he was working too hard.” 

Roger smirked, light fingers tracing Brian’s partial erection.  “Those warm clothes must feel good,” he said, fingers stopping at the button on Brian’s trousers.  A flick of the wrist and it was popped.  Brian didn’t even stir. 

Roger looked up at Freddie and John, his tan face carrying a high flush.  “What if I have a little fun with Bri?  Looks like he’s a step or two ahead of me.” 

John linked hands with Freddie.  “We’ll play, too.  I’ve been dying to try that spin cycle.” 

Freddie groaned, his cock immediately showing interest.  “That’s gonna cost extra quarters,” he said, squeezing John’s hand.

John smiled. “You’re worth it, you tart.” 

Roger had Brian’s trousers worked off by now, and he was starting on his pants when Brian stirred a little in his sleep…just a little…head pressed into his arm, nuzzling softly.  Roger wanted him so badly he was bursting with it, but he had to be careful not to wake him.  He slid his pants down, Brian’s half-hard cock springing free.  Roger’s mouth began to water just looking at him, spread out and vulnerable, so beautiful for him.  He licked his lips before sinking down on his length, feeling Brian squirm and twitch in his sleep. 

Brian’s cock began to fill out and harden for him, and Roger preened at the answering moan he got when he licked the sensitive head.  That’s right, thought Roger, you’re having the best wet dream of your life, Bri.  Just don’t wake up. 

John pressed Freddie up against the smooth surface of the washer, the gentle undulations of the machine gyrating against his body, rocking his hips back against John’s cock.  They were both still fully clothed, but he could feel the urgent press of the other man against him. 

“You make me so crazy,” John uttered against Freddie’s neck.  “Gonna fill you up nice and tight like you deserve.” 

“Yesss,” Freddie hissed as he bared his throat to John, letting his whole body go over the washer and just riding its natural movements. 

Roger called to John.  “Will you pass me the lube?”

John blinked.  “Wait, we have lube?” 

“Yeah,” Roger replied.  “I always have lube.  Lube and cigarettes.  It’s in the basket.” 

John looked and sure enough, there it was next to Roger’s Marlboros.  Bless.  He passed it to him, then kept it for himself, but not before giving Roger a long, lingering kiss.  “I have no doubt I’m with the right men.” 

Roger smiled. “I love you to John.”

Roger lubed his fingers, warming them carefully so as to not startle Brian awake.  Brian’s hips just happened to be canted on a warm pile of clothes, giving Roger excellent access to his bum.  He spread his cheeks experimentally, keeping his eyes on the sleeping beauty. 

John was two fingers deep in Freddie, the rhythm of the washing machine keeping time with movement of his wrists.  Freddie was gasping, clinging to the sides of the washer for dear life and thrusting back onto John’s fingers, already wanting more.  But John was distracted.  He kept stealing little glances over his shoulder at Roger and Brian, at the sleeping man and Roger’s steady fingers.  He was entranced. 

“Please,” Freddie whined, and it snapped him back to the present.  John was red-faced, but not from his own desire.  He watched Roger slip a finger into Brian…watched the curls around his face stir a little in his sleep as he moaned softly, and he gave Freddie that third finger he’d been gagging for…gave it to him roughly, right over his prostate.

Freddie keened, his cries echoing loudly in the open space, and John clamped a hand over his mouth.  “Shhh, you’re going to wake Brian,” he said as he opened him up.  Three fingers and he was clamping around him, rutting into the front of the machine.  “You like that huh? Like me stretching you out?”  He was draped roughly over Freddie, one hand steadying himself on the machine.  “You want a little more?   Can you take a little more baby, or you do you want my cock?” 

Freddie was breathless, letting the vibrations rumble though him.  “Give me more,” he stammered out.  “Wanna come like this.  Just like this.”

John smiled as he poured more lube onto his hand and let his pinky finger slip inside. 

Behind them, Roger was teasing Brian’s rim with delicate, quiet motions, watching the man with a soft expression of wonder.  He let his middle finger slip inside, then he quickly withdrew it, afraid he would wake him.  He repeated this action many times until he felt Brian was open and ready enough for a second finger.  When he slipped it in, Brian’s legs twitched a little, cock still hard from Roger’s ministrations.  Roger bent and gave it a little kiss. 

Brian moaned, moving his head from side to side.  The rush Roger felt was unlike any he had ever experienced…not in sex or fast cars or performing…this slow edging of Brian while he was just on the verge of wakefulness was like nothing he had ever done before, and he was slowly becoming addicted to it.  The next thing he did could wake him up or bring him more sleepy pleasure.  The risk was the reward. 

Roger took the risk, slowly moving the fingers inside of him, carefully opening him up.  Brian didn’t stir at first, simply moved his mouth a little.  He was so beautiful when he was sleeping…those graceful fingers curled near his face, that kissable mouth slightly agape.  Roger wanted to suck marks up and down that long neck and thoroughly wreck him, but that would have to wait.  Right now Brian was a sleeping angel, and he was just a devil stealing feathers from his wings. 

“You want the rest baby?” 

Freddie had a white-knuckle grip on the side of the machine as it spun out, his whole body shaking under John’s hand.  “Push it in,” he whispered.  Tears were streaming down his face, and he felt blissfully out of control. 

Freddie had taken his fist before, but he still eased his hand inside of him before thrusting gently.  Freddie felt so good around him…so hot and incredibly tight, that he almost wished it was his cock Freddie was locked around instead of half of his arm, but the way Freddie was wrecked beneath him, tears and sweat mixing on his pretty face, made it all worth it. 

John looked back at Roger and Brian.  Roger was cleaning him up with a freshly laundered towel and replacing his pants.  Brian was still fast asleep, curled on his side now in the laundry pile, a sweet blush to his cheeks.  John’s eyes watered, something hollow aching in his chest. 

–

They made it back from the Fluff ‘n Fold around 11pm, baskets of freshly laundered clothes just needing to be put away.  They each set a basket down on the couch and vowed they would do it in the morning. 

They got cleaned up for bed, finally having fresh pajamas to wear now that the wash was done, and climbed into bed. 

John lay awake for a long time before finally rolling over to nudge Rodger. 

“Rog.” 

Roger rolled over to stroke the hair away from his face.  “What is it babe?” 

“I can’t sleep.  I keep thinking about you and Brian tonight.” 

Roger smiled.  “Oh. That.” 

John nodded, his face growing hot.  “Yeah.”  He swallowed.  “Do you think you could do something like that to me?” 

Roger sat up a little in bed.  “Why yeah Deaky.  If that’s what you want.  “I’ll talk to the boys, see if they’re up for it.” 

“What are you two whispering about,” Freddie grumbled.  “It’s awfully late.” 

“It’s not that late, you old fart,” Roger teased.  “Plus, it’s Saturday night.  We should be out clubbing.”

“Too tired,” Freddie said, yawning. 

“Mmm, wonder why?” John said wryly.

He got hit with a pillow, finally waking Brian up. 

“What’s this?” 

“John wants to get fucked in his sleep,” Roger announced.

John buried his face in his hands. 

Freddie soothed a hand down his back.  “Darling, I think it’s lovely.  Like Sleeping Beauty.”

“She was never fucked though, just kissed,” Brian interjected. 

“Same difference,” Roger said. 

“Anyway, we’re gonna help our boy out as soon as he goes to sleep, so let’s get him nice and comfortable, yeah?”

“I’ll get you some warm milk!” Freddie said excitedly. 

“Do you need some extra blankets?” Brian inquired.

John frowned.  “No, I don’t need all of this fuss.  Just come here.” 

The boys crowded around him, lying down in their usual positions.  They lay next to him and turned out the light.  “Just be with me,” John said. 

Roger smiled.  “We can do that.” 

John drifted off around midnight.  Roger lightly stroked his hair while Freddie placed little kisses along his brow, making sure he was in a deep sleep.  The boys smiled down at him. 

He looked so relaxed, lying there against the pillow.  His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted, making him look even younger.  Roger thumbed over his cheek, feeling the smooth, warm skin beneath his fingers. 

“He’s beautiful,” Brian whispered, something thick in the words. 

Roger nodded, smiling.  “Let’s get started, shall we?  Let’s make our boy happy.” 

Freddie slowly unbuttoned his pajama top, opening the fabric to either side.  He lay his cheek next to the soft downy hair he found there, and the young man’s eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.  Roger took in a breath.  “God, he’s really something like this, isn’t he?” 

Freddie placed a kiss over his heart.  “I can barely stand it,” he whispered.  “Slip his bottoms off.” 

Brian and Roger made quick work of the bottoms, easing them down his legs without so much of a stir from John.  They slipped a pillow under his hips, elevating his bum. 

Brian eyed John’s cock, already filling out as Freddie placed little kisses down his abdomen.  He exhaled a breath.  “May I?”

Roger nodded. “Of course.  He does look delicious, doesn’t he?” 

Brian was so hesitant to touch him, he even held his breath as he placed a small kiss to the head of his cock.  John didn’t move.  Emboldened, Brian licked the underside, right along a vein, and the young man stretched and moaned in his sleep, his head going back into the pillow.  The sound he made, so pure and unabashed, went straight to Brian’s cock. 

He swallowed him down then, softly sucking on John’s cock, pulling off when John tensed or fussed too much, until Roger moved him away.  “You’re going to wake him up, tiger,” Roger said, chuckling.  “Let’s open him up now.  Freddie, stroke his hair, keep him relaxed.” 

Freddie settled near the pillow and gently stroked John’s hair, the young man easing into the sensation of Freddie’s hands on him.  Roger warmed the lube in his fingers and circled John’s rim.  John whimpered a little, the sweetest little sound, before being calmed and shushed quiet by Freddie’s soothing hands.  When he felt he was ready, Roger slipped in a finger into John’s lush warmth.  His walls contracted immediately, fighting the intrusion, and Roger eased it back out and tried again, this time with much more success. 

Brian hovered over him, his eyes large and full of wonder.  He was breathing heavily and aching to touch, to feel, to do.  He leaned over Roger, his fingers flexing.  “May I try?”

Roger’s mouth quirked.  “Sure baby.  Just go easy.”

Brian lubed his fingers, warming them before easing one in.  The slender digit went in smoothly, settling itself against John’s walls. He looked up to see a half smile on John’s face, a look of utter contentment. 

He worked the finger inside of John for a while, slipping against his tight heat and along the edge of his rim before sliding in another.  The young man moaned, tensing against his hands, but Freddie was there to soothe him so he didn’t wake up. 

Sliding those two fingers into John while he was so limp and pliant was like dipping into pure heaven.  Brian had never felt anything so satisfying.  John didn’t rut against him or thrash around, he just took it, and there was something about it that just set fire to Brian’s blood. 

Brian looked up shyly at Roger.  “Can we fuck him like this?”

Roger laughed.  “Maybe.  He’ll wake up though.  But what a way to wake up.”  Roger lit a cigarette and took a long drag off of it.  “Give him another finger and we’ll fuck him awake.” 

Freddie smiled, reaching down to kiss the half open lips.  John never stirred.  Brian slipped another finger in, and John grunted, hands going up to his face. 

“Oh, you’ve gone and done it now, Mr. May.  You’ve gotten too ambitious,” Roger said, a half smile on his face as he smoked his cigarette on the edge of the bed.

Freddie tried to ease John back to sleep, but he was well on his way to wakefulness now…not fully aware but getting there by the second. 

“If you’re going to fuck him, you better do it now,” Roger said over his shoulder.

Brian had his pants off in seconds.  He lubed himself and pressed home, hoping John was stretched enough.  It was worth it all, though, when John’s lovely eyes flew open and he realized where he was…at home in bed suddenly stuffed full of cock. 

“Hi darling,” Freddie cooed as he looked down on John.  “Good morning.  I mean, it’s morning by now.”

Freddie’s charming smile only grew as he ran a hand over John’s chest, teasing his nipples. “You look so pretty like this.  Are you having a good time?” 

John moaned, his legs hitching up against Brian’s waist.  “Yes, very much,” he managed to get out as Brian pounded into him.

Roger had finished his cigarette by now, and he crawled over the bed to wrap a hand around John’s cock.  “Need a hand with that sweetheart?” 

John whined loudly as Roger’s calloused hands worked his cock in time with Brian’s thrusts.  “How—how long was I asleep?” 

Roger laughed.  “Long enough for us to get this far, love.”

Brian grunted as he thrust into him, hips slapping against the back of his thighs.  “I’m not going to last,” he ground out.  “You close baby?” 

“Yeah,” John breathed as Roger sped up his hand on his cock.  John could feel the charged heat low in his belly, the electricity sizzling just beneath his skin threatening to escape at any moment. 

Brian tensed, screaming out his release as he collapsed over him.  Moments later John was coming, sending hot ropes of spend over his belly and Roger’s hand.  Roger smiled, licking his fingers as Brian cuddled up beside John.  Freddie pulled Roger into a deep kiss, tasting John on his lips. 

“What are we going to do with these boys,” Freddie purred into Roger’s mouth, a hand going down to wrap around his cock.    

Roger kissed him back, humming contentedly. 

“That was bloody terrific,” John said, a stupid grin on his face.  “Thank you boys.” 

Roger grinned.  “Don’t thank us love.  You were wonderful.” 

Brian caressed John’s face.  “It was so amazing.  You know, I might like to try that sleeping thing myself.  I’m rather fascinated by it.” 

Roger just looked at John and smiled.

-0-0-0-

[scintillating-galaxias]

i’ll be the wind beneath your wings (ch. 2)

chapter two of my swap gift for @peppervl​! if you don’t want me tagging you every day when a new chapter gets posted here, let me know :D all chapters will be available to read beneath the tag ‘ibtwbyw’ and it is also available on ao3.

(read it on ao3!)

-

Rain lashed against the panes of the windows, demanding entrance through the cracks in the glass. It was not used to being wholly barred access from any building in London. There were always tiny holes in roofs, ever a misfitted window to trickle through. But not this building. 

Aziraphale huffed as he pushed a massive cherry bookshelf across the floor. It did not occur to him that this would scuff the flooring, so it didn’t. He would have liked to use a miracle or two to arrange everything correctly, but given he had to be rescued from the Bastille because he wasn’t able to perform more ‘frivolous miracles’ (just the thought made him roll his eyes), he probably shouldn’t. 

He dusted his hands off and stepped back to examine his work. His heel collided with a chest, and he only just managed to catch himself on a large wooden crate. When he nudged it out of the way, it caught on a loosened rotting bit of flooring. Perhaps he should have made the proprietor stay just a little while longer so they could at least get some base remodeling done. 

Moving into his new shop was thrilling, but he was sure his mouth was going to fall right off after all of the smiling and talking and agreeing he’d had to do to move things along. And he still had to deal with the vast amount of books, scrolls, tablets, art pieces, and other assorted trinkets he’d acquired over the centuries. Presently, they were all carefully wrapped and stored away. Inventory was going to be a nightmare, especially after learning the ship coming from France to England carrying the last of his items had gotten caught in this storm. It would be fine, hopefully ( probably Aziraphale insisted), but for now, all he could do was wait.

As he surveyed the scene, he could not help but feel that the shop was paradoxically cluttered and empty. The floor space was open enough right now, but there were pillars of books sprouting from partially unloaded crates all over the place, and even more shoved against the walls. Corners glinted with cobwebs hanging over planks of unassembled shelves. Furniture, some purchased new, some not, was shoved into one such corner for the time being, covered in brown paper to protect them from the wax drippings from the dull candle holders just barely clinging to the barren walls. Aziraphale watched as a draft of wind finally succeeded in sneaking through the space to blow out one of the candles with an acrid puff of smoke.

At that moment, a dull thud sounded from his door.

“Goodness,” said Aziraphale. Someone must be seeking refuge from the storm. Of course, as a host of humble Heavenly virtues, he would oblige—so long as they did not touch the books. He bustled over to the door, fussing with the rusting lock for a brief moment before wind tore it from his hands and slammed the heavy doors open with a startling bang, revealing a huge, hunchbacked figure.

“Come in!” he exclaimed. “It’s positively dreadful out there.” A flash of lightning illuminated a familiar sharp face. “Crowley? What are you doing out here?”

“Hey, angel.” Crowley looked, to put it in the gentlest terms possible, terrible. 

His hair, usually so meticulously styled, hung in lank, dripping strands around his shoulders. His sunglasses were missing, and his eyes were entirely yellow—a sharp contrast to the black and blue bruises sprawling all across his jaw and his cheeks. The hunchbacked shape could be sourced to his wings, which were out and held awkwardly.

Aziraphale gasped. “What happened to you? How—?” He reached out, but Crowley harshly smacked his hand away even as he leaned towards him. Unbalanced, he careened into the doorway and swore loudly.

“‘M sorry,” he hissed, clutching his shoulder. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

Crowley’s eyes rolled up and he pitched forward. Aziraphale rushed to catch him, stumbling as Crowley collapsed into him. He grunted and lowered them both as gently as he could to the floor, a task hindered immensely by Crowley’s massive wings.

“Oh, my goodness, alright—down we go, that’s it, dear boy…”

God in Heaven, what had happened to him? Aziraphale’s hand went to his mouth as he knelt beside Crowley’s crumpled form. For the longest time, he could only stare in mute horror at the still-bleeding cuts littering Crowley’s body, the blooming black bruises, and his wings, oh, his wings. He had to look away. 

“What happened,” he mouthed again uselessly. His hands hovered fearfully over Crowley’s body, desperately wanting to do something, but equally resenting the possibility of causing harm instead. Even as he sat, Crowley moaned dismally into the floorboards and curled in on himself a little more.

“S’rry,” he slurred, more breath than a distinct syllable. “Gimme—gimme a sec—hah, fuck… ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said. “You’re in hardly any shape to talk, let alone do something foolish.” A low rumble of thunder shook the floor. “You’re in my care now. Let me help you.”

“S’not… you don’t have to help, I know you don’t want to.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean? Of course I do.”

A tremor went through Crowley’s body, and Aziraphale realized he was laughing. “‘Cause yer ‘n angel. Tha’s it.” He paused. “Maybe if I was something else. Wasn’t a demon, you’d want to. I get it.”

“That just isn’t true!” Aziraphale snapped, hurt, though he did not know why. It was not as though Crowley was wrong; he did want to help, and yes, it was likely a result of his angelic nature. But was that truly all? It mustn't be if it stung this much. “I’m moving you to the back of the shop. Someone could see you. Hold still.” As if anyone else would be out in this storm when the rain was as hard and cold as blades, and the wind struck as hard as a whip against the creaking walls of his shop.

He spent a moment figuring out how to best move Crowley without aggravating him. Or rather, aggravating him the least, because it seemed not one square inch of flesh had been spared from some grievance. Aziraphale very badly wanted to snap his fingers and transport Crowley’s body the twenty or so feet he needed, but again, Heaven was closely watching him. Forget moving a shelf. If they caught him using miracles on a demon to heal him instead of outright killing him while he was at his most vulnerable, the consequences would be far worse than a letter of condemnation. 

He said he knew you wouldn’t want to help him, and he came anyway. He said he had nowhere else to go, and he came to you. Answer him; will you let him die? Will you let him die because you are afraid to do what you know is the right thing?

Aziraphale uttered an unsavory phrase under his breath and deemed Crowley’s right shoulder to be in the best condition to be handled. “I’m picking you up now,” he told Crowley, who did not react to his voice or the hand he placed on her shoulder. He pulled Crowley up, draped one arm over his shoulders, and stood slowly, waiting for a whimper of pain, a gasp, or a curse. All he got was a faint, “M’ugh.”

Aziraphale slowly dragged him towards the back of the shop, skin crawling as the limp ends of Crowley’s listless wings left streaks of blood on the floorboards so dark they almost looked black. All of the clutter moved aside under his glare, creating a path to what would eventually become his nook. In it sat a new sofa, a desk whose surface was hidden beneath haphazardly stacked piles of books, and a few more unassembled shelves. He snapped his fingers as he approached. The sofa stretched to become much broader and longer, probably more so than necessary, but there was no time to be picky. Another snap and an array of squashy pillows appeared at one end. 

“I’m going to try to patch you up,” Aziraphale said as he carefully sat Crowley down into a slouched seating position. Crowley’s eyelids blearily twitched open. Aziraphale sucked a breath in through his teeth. “They roughed you up, my dear, but that won’t be a problem. You’ll be raring to go quicker than you can say ‘crêpes!’”

Crowley groaned again at that. “You and your bloody crêpes. S’why I got caught up in the first place.”

A horrible chill shocked his body. “What?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s—Shit, ow — Don’t worry your pretty head about it, angel.”

“Pardon me, but why the hell should I not worry?”

“Later.” Crowley slumped sideways against the pillows, carefully keeping his wings out of the way. “Just—if you’re serious about helping, talking’s only going to make me die quicker.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “We’re talking about this later,” he warned. “But for now…” A fluffy white rag appeared in his hand. “You’re probably going to want to bite this.”

Aziraphale collapsed into his armchair, shoulders, neck, and hands aching something fierce. Exhaustion pricked his eyes, a sensation he had been more than happy to leave behind in the chaos that was the European Renaissance. His discomfort was likely nothing compared to that of Crowley, who was fast asleep on the sofa and bandaged and cleaned up to the best of Aziraphale’s ability. The bruising and swelling faded with minimal trouble at least, but the same could not be said for the rest of Crowley’s more grievous injuries. 

When it came to cleaning and closing of the lacerations, Aziraphale had almost wept at the sheer amount of cuts and gashes littering poor Crowley’s body. It’d taken hours to close all of them; Crowley’s flesh heavily disagreed with his holy touch, flaring up angrily if he sustained it for more than a minute. It had taken them well into the night, possibly into the early morning, to heal all of the cuts he could find. Most of them would leave scars. Aziraphale prayed—no, that would probably worsen the process— hoped they would fade with time. 

Setting the broken bones of his fingers and wings was easily the most taxing portion. He’d healed the fingers alright but had only gone so far as to splinting Crowley’s wings. Coaxing the wayward shards of bone scattered in the lean muscle of Crowley’s wing to return to their places had taken everything he had. By the time he finished, he was too exhausted to deal with detailed, meticulous work like rearranging Crowley’s feathers back into their usual sleek uniformness, so they were still bent and broken in huge patches, stiff with blood.

Despite that, he felt he’d done what he could. He wished, gaze lingering on the colorful strips of bruises peeking between the bandages, he could do more. But his reserves of medical supplies were already woefully low before Crowley had stumbled inside, plus he had started running on fumes of miracle energy about four hours ago. He felt scraped empty and raw. But Crowley was not in danger of dying in his sleep and that was going to have to be good enough for the time being.

Crowley’s face pinched as he mumbled into his pillow in his sleep. Aziraphale bit his lip.

Maybe one more miracle.

He wearily held up his hand and murmured, “May you dream of whatever you like best,” and snapped his fingers. An unpleasant zing went down his arm, but he could forgive it as Crowley sighed contentedly and seemed to fall into a deeper sleep. “I’ll be here. Rest well, my dear,” he sighed. 

Satisfied, Aziraphale slumped back down in the chair and settled his chin on his chest, absently rubbing his thumbs. His gaze lazily roamed about Crowley’s body for any cuts he may have missed or had been reopened. Crowley had set his progress back a couple of times when he’d awoken with Aziraphale’s hands on him. Evidently distressed, he reacted the way anyone would expect a scared and injured person to react: thrashing, yelling, hitting, hard, wild unrecognition blazing in his bruise yellow eyes. It made Aziraphale ache in a peculiar way. You’re with me, he wanted to tell him as he shushed and consoled him, you’re with me, you’re safe here, what’s the matter with you?

Eventually, Crowley passed out a final time. He had not awoken since, but the feeling still had not settled. It prickled Aziraphale even now, prodding and persistent like the loose threads of missed stitches in his clothes. But as insistent it was, it could not push through the rubbery numbness of exhaustion. Introspection could happen later. He needed some rest.

A cracking yawn forced its way out of his chest. Crowley had lauded the glories of sleep on a few occasions. Perhaps now would be the time to see what the fuss was all about. Just a few minutes, and he’d be ready to go.

He took one final glance at his unfinished packing job, at the scattered books, the trail of blood, and then, at last, at Crowley. 

“Be right here,” Aziraphale said quietly as he finally let his leadened eyelids slip shut. “Right… here…”

[crazed-rambling]

What The Water Takes It Returns

Morgan didn’t go down to The Beach. Not the sandy beach four miles down, with its soft breeze and softer tides lapping at your feet. Their days were filled with running through the shallows shoes in hand whenever they could convince their mother to take a detour home from school. Even now; without mother, they’d still spend summer days sitting on the sands. But still Morgan never went down to The Beach.

 Though only a few minutes’ walk from their house it had never been a place for summer days. Pounded by the winds on the best of days and lost to the North Sea on the worst, mother had never trusted the tides enough to let Morgan and Thomas loose. Despite all the treasures the other kids had brought back; the most beautiful shells, iridescent in the sunlight that when you put to your ear, no matter where you were you could always hear the call of the sea. Thomas had brought back one of these shells once, and a broken leg. A bet with the other boys gone wrong he said, but he like all the others seems almost covetous of his prize and he’d never answer any of their questions.

 Of course, Morgan had seen The Beach, they’d peered down from the cliff many times, braced against the winds, watching as the waves broke and crashed upon the shore. But they never went down, never gone further than the trees where the grass gave way and the track clung to the rock faces as it plunged down towards the shore. They’d always been a good child, too afraid of disappointing mother again and too distracted by the warmer drier adventures to be found within the fields between Village and the old lighthouse. It had always seemed to be a lonely figure standing alone on the cliffs, salt winds stripping it of its paint and any company it could have had. Still Morgan liked the lighthouse, it could be seen from their bedroom window, a single light in the darkness, calling out to ships unseen. When they couldn’t sleep and mother was no longer there to comfort them; they’d stare out into the darkness and talk to the lighthouse, it never responded but they appreciated its company all the same.

 The Beach had never held such interest to them and by the time they became aware that breaking the rules would not in fact end the world they had far better things to be worrying about. Such as whether they could get away with wearing the boys uniform or scrounging together enough spare change from the bus to buy a liquid eyeliner; which they then proceeded to apply in thick wobbly lines for months. Both had got them detention at first but they’d got better and soon even Ms Clarke their form tutor was forced to give up on them, and from that point they’d proceeded to wear both with pride just to make their victory clear. 

 But here they were standing at the edge of that path, salt whipping at the gap between their crop top and jeans. The sounds of drunken shouting and The Chainsmokers muffled by the sound of waves. Thomas had called it a last hurrah, the last chance to go wild before they were all out of there, off to university, to drinking, to sex, to lifelong debt. Half the school had decided to cram itself into their living room, borrowed speakers wedged on either side of the fireplace, cider bottles among school photos and sports trophies. This wasn’t the first time, dad had taken it as a sign that we were recovering normally and was all too willing to leave the house to us on weekends, so long as the police were never called. So, Morgan’s teenage years had been spent working out how much they could drink before it was too much and playing Ring of Fire wedged between Thomas’s friends, trying to make a place for themselves. They were nice enough, especially after a few ciders when everything they said was funny and people stopped forgetting why Morgan was a little odd, but still they were no Farah. Not that they’d put Farah through this, the music was too loud and the space far too small for anyone who didn’t drink. But still there was something to be said about drinking with people who knew far too many of your embarrassing stories before you’d even been introduced, like gaining six older brothers and a sister in the form of Anna, their brother’s girlfriend and the most embarrassing crush of 2016. Although Morgan could have done without the rest of their year, it seems they agreed since they’d left the house to the party goers and decided to go see the ‘cool-ass beach where I broke my leg’ at Thomas’s endorsement. They’d lost Julian to a rock that he swore looked like a squirrel and Jack and Ben to the chippy along the way but here they were. Thomas leading the way, illuminating the path with his phone and yelling warnings about not dying back at the rest: elder brothers gave the most helpful advice. 

 Maybe it was the cider making them think of things which would have normally been inane but Morgan hadn’t realised that they’d never seen The Beach properly before this moment. A realisation which, to their drunk mind, made taking the first step seem all the more ominous. As though once their foot touched The Beach, they could never go back to a person who had never been to The Beach. 

 “Hey Morgan, you coming?” even drunk, Anna’s voice seemed to float up them, light and lyrical in a way no one else seemed to notice.

“You being a pussy, Morgan?”

Drunk laughter.

Decision made. 

Sending a quick apology to mother Morgan made their way down the path, between the rocks, feet striking the ground with slightly more force than necessary, their yell of “Fuck off Thomas” lost to the night. they picked their way around damp rocks, careful to test every step and clinging close to the rock face, following the sound of voices until it gave way to the sound of boots on shingle. 

The wind was so much stronger on the beach, the smell of salt on the air so thick you could taste it on your tongue. The music had faded; drowned by the rhythmic crashing of the waves and Thomas’s dramatic re-enactment of how he once saved a dog on a beach, an epic that seemed to get more thrilling with each retelling; maybe by the time he told his kids there’d be a sea monster to fight. Morgan hoped so, it’s not a very interesting story otherwise. But apparently interesting enough for the drunk teenagers hanging off his every word, faces illuminated by harsh LED light.

 You can see the lighthouse from here, makes sense if you think about it ships could see it for miles. It still looked lonely to Morgan, standing there alone on the cliff tops, it’s black figure only visible from the lack of stars. They couldn’t really judge though, they were also standing alone by the sea, they weren’t even saving ships. Some direction was better than none and the lighthouse was as good as any so they made that their North Star walking away from the others until all they could hear was the pebbles beneath their feet and the waves.

 Now that they were actually on The Beach, they weren’t quite sure what there was to do, the whole thing was pretty anticlimactic and they mused that they should probably stop thinking of it as The Beach now that they’d actually visited. The shine of glass washed up on the shore caught their eye and brought their brothers prized shell to mind, the way it glinted in the sun greens, blues and purples fading into one another in a way that reminded them of pictures of the northern lights. They’d never seen shells like it from any other beach and no one ever seemed willing to part with them no matter how many they collected. Disappointment forgotten they kept their eyes trained on the pebbles beneath their feet, eyes squinted in search of a reflection among the grey. The wind seemed to be sobering everyone up, making The Beach a lot less interesting and a lot more damp if the sounds of Thomas and his friends making their way up the path yelling promises to see them at the house were anything to go by. Between finally having one of those shells or another round of cheap vodka shots Morgan’s decision was easy, they had years to give themselves alcohol poisoning. Although the beach seemed all that much darker for the lack of others, the waves ceased catching the moonlight and stones seeming all the duller now alone. Shell hunting was probably designed for the day time when not exposing your stomach to arctic winds and with Farah by your side. The chills down their back and salt on their tongue had just about driven them from the beach when they finally saw it. A glint of brightness between the pebbles. A shell. Finally. They could place it on their windowsill and watch its colours dance in the sunlight, they didn’t know why they wanted it so badly now, maybe it was just a dislike of failure, but they wanted it. In that moment more than anything else. Their pace picked up as they approached the shore, hairs raised on their exposed arms, the sound of pebbles slipping beneath their feet, eyes on the sliver of white as though they’d lose it if they blinked.

 With a decided crunch they landed on their knees, grateful for the denim to protect them the sharp edges of broken shells and rocks. As they moved the nearby stones out of the way it became clearer that this would be larger than any shell they’d seen so far, although paler than the rest as well. Once they’d suitable located their prize they struggled to find a grip on its surface, worn smooth by the salt and sea. The dull pain of knuckles scraping against rocks did nothing to deter them as they wiggled their prize free. And soon the sound of sliding rocks to be heard as the ground gave way.  The warm sense of satisfaction in their chest Morgan turned it around to examine their prize. The sound of it colliding with the shingle deafening, drowning out the waves and wind as they stared at their discovery, fingers numb and breathe shallow.

  Not a shell but a cracked skull, washed up upon the shore.

[flightfoot]

Last Days of a Meat Puppet Chapter 3

Darkness.

Movement.

Heaviness.

Color blurs past

 getting closer

 before passing by.

Images resolving.

Walls. Floors. Doors.

All gleaming.

A stop.

Movement forward

but more slowly.

Lines of gold.

On the other side

a blob of color.

A figure. 

A person.

A boy.

Young.

Not moving.

Laying on the ground.

Wrong. This is wrong.

Sound reverberates.

The sound - not just any sound - resolves.

Gains meaning.

IT’S TIME

YOU WILL BE SENT DOWN IN THIS MORTAL BODY

YOU MUST DEFEAT PYTHON

RECLAIM THE ORACLES YOU NEGLECTED

WITH NO HELP FROM THE GODS.

ONLY IF YOU SUCCEED

ONLY THEN WILL I CONSIDER RESTORING YOUR DIVINITY

YOU THINK THAT YOU DESERVE TO BE WORSHIPPED ABOVE ME?

REMEMBER THIS.

I AM YOUR FATHER.

I AM YOUR KING.

YOU EXIST BECAUSE OF ME.

YOUR CONTINUED EXISTENCE IS DUE TO MY MERCY.

CROSS ME AGAIN

AND THERE WILL NOT BE ANOTHER CHANCE.

Some slight twitching. 

Barely a response.

Barely a reaction.

But the boy’s alive.

ANSWER ME.

A slight groan.

More twitching.

But no words.

A low GROWL.

The boy turns into sparks of light.

So, so few sparks.

Dim.

Fading. 

Nearly extinguished.

They surge forwards.

Then-

contact.

Soul shard touches whole soul, a godly soul.

Pushed, forced into this mortal form.

The essence is SHOVED into the space where a whole soul used to reside.

Filling the spaces left by Zeus’s malice

by his violence against the innermost parts of this being.

Yearning for completeness, for the missing pieces of himself

the shard makes do.

This other soul is similar enough.

It connects with the newcomer, using the soul to fill in the aching gaps-

And Lester is aware.

But not just him.

Apollo’s there too.

He’s barely conscious. Apollo’s had his my? essence slowly, painfully, painfully slowly - drawn out of him, his consciousness shrinking, contracting, until he and his memories could fit in the remaining essence, then repeated for months. No ambrosia. No nectar. Only one visitor.

Zeus. His my father. Only a few times. Only to draw out more essence, and to taunt. 

No one else came. No one else could. 

All that existed was Apollo, the net, and his slowly fading memories.

Maybe Zeus was right.

Maybe he did deserve this.

Faces flickered past.

Daphne. Hyacinthus.

Both dead because of him.

Scenes he could not fully remember. 

People he should know, but who he could not recall.

A man with his knife at another man’s throat, pleading for help.

Hands around a drowning man’s throat, keeping him underwater as he struggled.

Only a handful of the guilt he felt, only the ones who bubbled up to consciousness.

So, so much more below the surface, hidden beneath layer upon layer of distraction

of willful ignorance.

A facade so thorough, it fooled even the owner.

But not anymore.

No one remained to hold back the tide.

He wasn’t needed.

No one had come for him.

Would anyone even care if he were gone?

Images flickered briefly.

A woman with a kindly expression, cradling her to his chest.

His beloved mother.

She would care.

A young girl with cold silver eyes, looking annoyed and exhausted, but also relieved.

She is the very first person he ever sees.

His (sometimes annoying, but precious) twin Artemis.

They would care.

The images sputtered, then died.

Desperately he tried to cling to them, to the two people in his life who somehow, for some reason, STILL wanted to be with him.

They slipped away.

He’d justified his need for his continued existence to himself by telling himself over and over that he was gorgeous, that he could not deprive the world of his beauty.

That everyone loved him, that they’d be worse off if he was gone.

That he was a GOOD PERSON, who deserved to be alive even when so many others had ceased to exist.

Zeus’s punishment had laid it all bare to him.

The world did not need him.

The world did not love him.

He was not a good person.

He would have given up long before, if not for Artemis and Leto.

But even his desire to exist for them, so they would not have to mourn his passing, was dying out.

It kept him alive for all those months in that prison.

But that was all it could do.

And even that was fading with his memories of them.

NO

I pulled back from Apollo’s consciousness, just a little. I couldn’t separate too much, or I’d lose my sense of self again. But enough to escape the spiral Apollo was trapped in.

I couldn’t remember much. Couldn’t quite feel what I should. From connecting with Apollo, I had realized that *I* - what *I* was left - was just a fragment of a person. Just a remnant of once was.

But I knew that Apollo didn’t deserve to fade. 

He’d screwed up, no denying that. He’d done some terrible things, and ALLOWED even more horrible things to happen, things that even now he didn’t realize the horror of.

But beneath all of that, beneath his indifference, his arrogance, his selfishness, his guilt, his sadness... we weren’t so different.

I had easily connected with his soul. Even with my barely functioning memory, I could tell that while Apollo’s soul wasn’t my own, beneath it all, we were similar where it mattered most. 

If we had switched places, would I be like him, and him like me?

I didn’t know.

But it gave me hope.

I saw no way to save myself, but perhaps I could save Apollo.

Perhaps he could right the terrible wrongs I had seen in the background of his memories.

Children fighting to the death against monsters.

People cursed and killed because they had the misfortune to be in the crossfire of a spat between gods.

Apollo was not innocent in this.

But he was not a monster either.

I could feel it in the depths of my soul.

He could help the children.

He could help the innocents.

He could be a better person than he thought he was.

And, maybe... maybe that was good enough.

For now, though, I had to focus on keeping Apollo alive.

I’d seen the monsters he’d be facing, the dangers that awaited him in the mortal world.

Without his powers, with barely any will to live left, he’d be easy pickings.

Zeus had nearly broken his spirit. As he was now, Apollo would not survive. 

Lester...?

Ah. Apollo had realized I was still here.

I felt him instinctively reach out to my soul, to the dregs of memories I had left.

I opened up the connection, let him see what I saw, let him feel what I feel. Let him perceive his memories through my eyes.

And he found my memories too. Ones I didn’t even realize were still there.

Mum, bringing me soup when I was sick.

Dad, helping teach me how to drive.

Tyrone and Tyler hiding very poorly during a game of hide-and-seek (I didn’t let them know that I could see them behind the curtain. I just walked on by, letting them believe they had chosen the best hiding place in the world.

Getting down on my hands and knees and giving Katie Pegasus-back rides (they were 20% cooler than ponies she said.)

Helping Cameron with his homework, vowing to be the best older brother possible to him, and the best friend.

I felt him realize, in the depths of his soul, that I was a person too.

That I wasn’t just fodder.

That the mortals he had so callously ignored, had dismissed as being less important than him, than the gods - that we weren’t as different as he liked to believe.

The guilt that he had tried so hard to keep at bay, to keep hidden in the depths of his soul, crashed down on him.

He’d failed SO BADLY.

They’d all failed.

How could they not have realized...?

No. They realized. They just pretended otherwise.

It was easier that way.

His despair nearly engulfed me.

I’m a terrible person.

I deserve this.

I deserve much worse than this.

SO FIX IT, I screamed at him. You know better now. You can change things. But not if you die here. Survive. Learn. Grow. If you think you’re a terrible person, then BECOME a better one. But you can’t fix your mistakes if you’re gone.

I could feel him begin to rally, feel him begin to change course. But it wasn’t enough. With his own existing guilt and insecurity combined with Zeus’s abuse over the past several months, he still didn’t have enough left in him to fight back. With time and support, I believed that he would recover enough to stand up for himself and for others. So long as he had some means to combat his depression, his guilt. Someone to shout back the voices when they got too loud, to help him fight off the voices, until he was strong enough to fight them off himself. Someone like me.

I didn’t have that time.

Through my Apollo’s? eyes, I saw Zeus reach down his hand and pick me, Apollo,  us up. Everything was foggy, Apollo and I still adjusting to each other’s presence.

Then Zeus engulfed us in a fiery light.

The pain was worse than you could ever imagine. I burned from the inside out, Zeus’s flame targeting the last remaining scrap of my soul. Apollo attempted to shield me, to hide me from the flame by concealing my soul with the light from his own.

It wasn’t going to work. I could feel the flame licking at Apollo’s soul, causing him to scream as well. Perhaps Zeus didn’t want Apollo destroyed. But he didn’t believe that Apollo would truly sacrifice himself, put himself on the line to help save a mortal he’d just met.

I’d felt Apollo’s soul.

I knew better.

Apollo would burn to protect those he cared about.

I wasn’t going to give him the chance.

I was going to be destroyed. No avoiding that.

But I would undo as much of Zeus’s damage as I could first.

If I was going to be destroyed, some good would come of it. 

I dove into Apollo’s memories, racing against time. I wanted to help reinforce his positive memories, suppress the ones of the abuse and suffering he had endured. I couldn’t. Anything I touched, anything I interfered with, was at risk of being erased by Zeus’s flame. 

Instead I searched for his most recent memories, the ones that had finally broken him. These last few months did not need to be remembered. Zeus’ taunting would be for nothing. A twinge of satisfaction ran through me at that thought.

I found them quickly. Then I PULLED-

Pain. Boredom. Despair. And most of all

Loneliness.

Such utter loneliness.

My soul shuddered, and curled inwards. It hurt nearly as much as the flames had. No wonder Apollo had nearly given up, if this was the emotional pain he had been in all that time. I held on. Zeus wanted to erase me from existence? Fine. He would erase some of the pain he caused as well.

Apollo sensed what I was doing. We were connected. He knew my plan.

I felt my - no, his, I wouldn’t exist much longer, they were his now - mouth open as tears streamed down his face. 

“Please,” he rasped, voice rasp from disuse. “Please just... just leave him alone. Kill me if you want. But leave Lester alone. This isn’t his fault. He doesn’t deserve this punishment. Please.”

Zeus simply glowered at him coldly, the flames intensifying. “REMEMBER. THIS IS YOUR FAULT. YOUR PUNISHMENT.”

He was blaming Apollo for my fate, for the cruelty HE was inflicting on ME.

You are not responsible for this, I thought at Apollo. Zeus is, and Zeus alone. Don’t let others foist off responsibility for their own cruelty.

Just tell my family what happened. Please.

I had a feeling that if he could, Apollo would be sobbing. I will. I promise.

I was done with my work. I couldn’t let Apollo face the flames any longer. Already I could feel them burning through me, burning through the memories I had left behind. Burning through the epiphanies Apollo had experienced while connected to my soul. Everything the flame thought was me, everywhere it thought I might hide, it would incinerate. 

Apollo would not remember this. I didn’t see how he could keep his promise. He wouldn’t even remember that I existed. But I had to believe in him. I had to believe that he would come to the same realizations again, realize mortals’ worth. That he could fight through the facade he put up, through his own guilt, pain, and arrogance. 

I had done all I could.

I moved out from Apollo’s protection, into the path of the flames. Apollo tried to wrap around me again in a futile, last-ditch attempt to save me. I would not allow him to do so. He’d been hurt enough trying to save me. It was my turn to save him.

Distantly I felt Zeus hurl Apollo off of Olympus, flames still streaming from his body as they burned up the last ashes of my consciousness.

I had helped save someone.

I had helped...

I...

...

[dragonfics]

Weakness

Summary:  He knows the truth. He knows that I could never hurt him. He knows that he’s my weakness.

In Ebott City, trust is hard to come by. And perhaps even more so, is love. One has to trust to love, because to love is to show weakness. And in Edge's position, there's no room for weakness.

Well, perhaps just one.

Tags: Surface AU, crime AU, crime boss Edge, smut, lemons, oral sex, rough sex, mildly dubious consent, violence, strangling (non-fatal and non-sexual), brief violence within a relationship, hurt/comfort, angst (with a happy ending), implied emotional abuse (not between the Spicyhoney boys), non-permanent break up, semi-bittersweet ending, top + dom Edge, bottom + sub Rus

Ships: Spicyhoney, small hint of unhealthy Fell Muffet/Swap Pap (depending on how you interpret it)

Word count: ~5.7k

Notes: A (late) birthday fic for @paintys-actual-art ! Happy birthday, Painty!!! 😍 I hope you enjoy. Also, if you’re worried about any of the tags, I’d recommend reading the notes on AO3 for more detailed warnings.

Read on AO3

OR

Below the cut

Listening to Rus moan was a pleasure in itself. Every sound out of his mouth was soft and delicate, much like his bones beneath Edge’s hands, and his cunt beneath Edge’s tongue. It was endlessly satisfying to be able to draw each noise out of him with just a swipe of his tongue and a little concentrated magic in the right areas.

When Rus came, Edge pressed his tongue deep inside him to prolong his orgasm. He shut his eyes and listened to him whine his name. It sounded so foreign on his tongue. He was the only one who called Edge by his name, and only while they were here, in the privacy (safety) of Edge’s bedroom. Outside of here, he was Boss or Sir.

And this was the only time Edge got to enjoy Rus like this. Certainly, he’d steal a few glances at his ilia when he stretched enough for his shirt to ride up; or at his coccyx through his jeans when he walked away. But beyond these walls, they were professional acquaintances only. Rus was only as important to him as the intel he provided, and as far as he was loyal.

He sat up, wiping Rus’s magic from his mouth. Rus’s breathing was still heavy, fingers wrapped around the bedsheets. He opened his eyes and gave Edge a longing look. “kiss me,” he said breathlessly.

Edge didn’t take orders from anyone outside of this room. But here, with Rus asking, he always obliged. He slipped his tongue into Rus’s mouth and kissed him, long and deep, sharing breath and saliva. His slacks were painfully tight, and his crotch was already damp with a patch of precum. He wanted Rus. “Take off my pants,” he ordered. Rus unbuckled his belt with tremulous excitement. After freeing his cock he gave it a long stroke, brushing the head with his thumb. “Let me watch you put it in,” Edge said, his voice gravelly with arousal.

Rus’s eye-lights gleamed. He guided Edge’s cock between his folds, bucking his hips against it and dragging it over his clit. Edge breathed deeply as he watched, magic filling his mouth. “No more teasing.” His voice was a soft growl, dangerous, but gentle. “I want to be inside you.”

He felt the shudder that went through Rus. Lying back, he lifted his legs over Edge’s shoulders and Edge sank into him, all the way in one deep thrust. Rus’s pleasured cry was loud—always so loud. If this room wasn’t specially soundproofed, Edge might have scolded him for it. But on the contrary, he enjoyed it immensely.

Holding Rus’s legs in place, he settled in his position, buried deep. He smiled when Rus squirmed. “edge,” he breathed. “please move.” Edge gave a slow roll of his hips and Rus groaned.

“Oh, love…” He leaned in, hovering a mere centimetre from Rus’s mouth. “Beg me for it.”

“please,” Rus whined.

“You can do better than that.” Edge pressed his face against Rus’s neck. “Beg.”

Rus gasped. “please!”

“Louder,” Edge growled.

“please, edge!” Rus cried. “please fuck me! i need it so badly. please, i need to feel your cock buried inside me, i need—”

Edge silenced him with a kiss and pulled his hips back, then sank all the way back in. “That’s it. Mm…” He kissed Rus deeply as he thrust into him. “I love hearing you beg. Love hearing how much you want me.”

Rus gasped, clinging to Edge’s back. “i want you! i want you so much. ah!” Edge braced himself with a hand on the headboard, and fucked Rus almost feverishly, chasing his climax. Rus shut his eyes and his mouth fell open. He reached between them, rubbing his clit, and Edge felt his walls tightening around his cock. He choked out a groan and came inside him. Rus wailed, and seconds later, his cunt was convulsing around Edge’s cock while his release still filled him.

Edge held himself up, breathing heavily, then rolled off Rus and onto his back. He shut his eyes, catching his breath. Beside him, Rus was gasping softly. The moment was all too brief, and reality quickly struck. Edge got up and dressed, finding a fresh pair of slacks in his dresser. “You’re seeing the chief tonight?” he asked, eyeing Rus over his shoulder. He was still lying back, but sat up when he saw Edge watching him.

“yeah.”

“Then you’ll be back in the usual meeting spot tomorrow to report?” Rus nodded. “Good,” Edge said, buttoning his blouse.

“can i see you again tomorrow?” The question was cautious—Rus knew he wasn’t supposed to ask.

Edge decided to feign misunderstanding. “You know how this works. It’s too dangerous for me to meet you personally. I’ll send an envoy.”

“you know that’s not what i mean.”

Edge studied his reflection in the mirror. There were still traces of gold around his jaw. Residual magic from Rus’s mouth and cunt. “What do you mean, then?”

Rus sighed. “i mean like this. not for business.”

Edge didn’t answer for some time, mulling the question over before deciding that wasn’t a safe train of thought to follow. “I’ll call on you when I desire you,” he said flatly. Rus looked dejected, and Edge’s soul sank with relief… and guilt.

Sighing, Rus stood up. “why do you fuck me, edge?”

“It’s Boss. And get dressed, the cleaner will be in soon.”

Rus didn’t move. “you didn’t answer my question.”

Edge exhaled sharply. “I fuck you because I enjoy fucking you.”

“why do you enjoy it?”

Turning to look Rus in the eye, he said, “Because you have a nice cunt and you’re good with your mouth.” He waited to see the hurt in Rus’s expression before he looked away, satisfied his words had had the intended effect. “I gave you a direct order. Get dressed and go.” Rus stared at him hard, before picking his clothes up off the floor and storming out of the room, completely naked. Edge sighed heavily, but didn’t follow him. Trust him to pick the brattiest of his informants to fuck.

****

Rus was valuable, but Edge only trusted him as far as he could control him. And he couldn’t control him. Most of those who served him weren’t loyal as much as they were afraid. That was just fine. Fear was a powerful tool, and Edge utilised it well.

But Rus wasn’t afraid of him. Threatening him earned laughter and cheek, and there was no attempting to intimidate him. So no, Edge didn’t trust him. He knew how to keep him on the hook—his position meant he could afford to pay him better than most other crime families in the city, certainly more than the police could. And… sex. Though in truth, it was as much a hook for him as it was for Rus. He usually didn’t get involved intimately with the people in his network, especially not those as fickle as informants. But being with Rus sexually was just…

If felt like he was living someone else’s life. He stopped being one of Ebott’s most wanted and became someone’s lover. Someone gentle and caring. Someone compassionate. It was… unnerving, in a way, like he’d been stripped of his armour and left bare and vulnerable to attack. But in the same way, he needed it. He needed to take off his armour sometimes, and let himself breathe.

He stole moments with Rus. Usually in the weeks when the world had been crueller than normal. He’d let himself linger in the afterglow of their lovemaking, let Rus touch him, hold him, kiss him—to no effect other than his own selfish need to feel wanted. Wanted for more than just his influence or his power or his wealth.

Rus ran his fingers down Edge’s chest, the gentle touch a reflection of everything else about him. “you have a lot of scars,” he said, almost as if mesmerised by them.

Edge was of a mind to push his hand away, but he let it stay. For the same selfish reasons he kept Rus close to him in the first place. “You’re observant,” he replied sarcastically.

Rus tilted his head. “you always hide them. why?” Edge didn’t know how to answer that. Scars were a mark of strength. The remaining memories of fights won. Of power exerted over lesser monsters. Of LOVE…

And perhaps that was just why. Scars had their value, but in truth, they were as much shame as they were strength.

Edge closed his hand around Rus’s and moved it, looking at him steadily. “I want you on your knees.” Rus held his eye for a lingering second, as if he might push his line of questioning. But he smiled and slipped off the bed.

There was nothing quite like watching Rus suck him off. The care he took in his work… well, arousing only just began to cover it. Edge loved the way he shut his eyes, as if blocking out the rest of the world so he could lavish Edge in every ounce of his attention. The warm slide of his tongue over the head of Edge’s cock, so talented and precise, made him shudder.

He smoothed his palm over the back of Rus’s skull, guiding the gentle bobbing of his head. He never came up for air. Once he got started, it was like he couldn’t stop until Edge had filled his mouth with his release. He could feel Rus’s soft breaths against his pelvis and the gentle vibrations of his quiet moans.

Sometimes he’d pleasure himself with his fingers while he sucked Edge. Edge liked to watch, though it usually led to a rather premature orgasm on his part. When he got close, Rus always seemed to know. With a playful glint in his eyes, he would swallow Edge all the way and just… hold him there, in the tight warmth of his throat, until he came in hot bursts. He always swallowed. Sometimes it would dribble down his chin, and Edge would wonder if it was deliberate.

It had always struck Edge as ironic that the best way to distract himself from Rus was by having sex with Rus. It was a self-destructive cycle that he couldn’t get himself out of.

Once he had filled Rus’s mouth with his seed, Rus rested his head in his lap, closing his eyes. And against his better judgement, Edge let him stay there.

****

Even in his deepest fits of LV-induced rage, Edge knew he could never really hurt Rus. Though that didn’t stop him from trying. He squeezed Rus’s neck, pressing him into the bed, and let his anger flare like an inferno. “You gave us bad intel,” he growled while Rus choked. “I lost thirty monsters last night. Good monsters. They’re all dead or going to prison. Because of your information.”

Rus clawed at his hand, gasping. “i—wo—uldn’t—“

“Are you working for the police?” Edge snapped, throttling him. “Did you know that information was bad?”

Rus squirmed and kicked, shaking his head. “n—o,” he rasped out, his voice weaker than a breath of air. Edge wanted to be angry. He wanted to hate Rus. To be able to hurt him. But—

He released him with a frustrated growl and buried his face in his hands. Rus rolled over, gasping and coughing, holding onto his throat. Edge watched him, and hated that all he wanted to do was comfort him. “Your information cost us,” he said quietly.

“i didn’t know it was bad, edge, i swear.” His voice was weak, and rough like sandpaper. “i would never betray you, edge. never. i—“

“How do I know you’re not lying to me? How do I know you haven’t been lying to me this entire time?” Edge ground his teeth together, his fists shaking at his sides. “You’ve served my enemies in the past. Grillby. Undyne. You’re fickle.”

Rus sobbed. “no! no, i’m loyal. to you, only you. edge, please—“

“Don’t call me that!” Edge snarled, grabbing Rus by the shoulders and pinning him to the bed. Rus stared up at him, wide-eyed. “You don’t get to call me that. Ever. It’s Boss.”

Rus swallowed. “i’m loyal. i always have been…”

“No one is loyal,” Edge spat. “There’s no loyalty. Only fear.” He looked Rus in the eye. “And you’re not afraid.” Because he knows, Edge thought. He knows the truth. He knows that I could never hurt him. He knows that he’s my weakness.

And there was nothing Edge could do. He couldn’t even give his lost allies the ounce of retribution that would come from the suffering of the person responsible for theirs. He could give it to them, he thought, looking at Rus. He stepped closer, forcing Rus back onto the bed, then wrapped both hands around Rus’s throat, rubbing his thumbs over his vertebrae. It would be so easy. Just a squeeze and he could sever the delicate cord of magic holding Rus’s head to his body. Rus’s HP was so pitiful, and Edge’s LV gave him a hundred times the strength he’d need to turn Rus to dust. It wouldn’t even take an ounce of effort.

Rus stared up at him, and still, there was no fear in his eyes. But there was something else. There was hurt, dejection, pain. Edge let go and shut his eyes. He knew what he had to do, and the weight of the decision was like a stone sinking in his soul. He allowed himself just a moment…

Rus trembled beneath his hands. Edge bowed his head and pressed a light kiss to the crown of his skull before turning away. “You no longer work for me,” he said quietly. He couldn’t look at Rus’s face. “We can no longer see each other.”

A soft breath left Rus. “what.”

“Leave. Now.”

“over one piece of bad intel? are you fucking kidding me, edge?” He sounded angry, and that was better than hurt. Edge could deal with anger.

“Don’t call me that,” he said calmly.

Rus stood up. “i’ll call you whatever i fucking like!” He grasped Edge’s shoulder and turned him around. “look me in the eye before you just—toss me away like trash! you—you asshole!”

Edge couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t look at him. He lowered his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t.”

“look at me!” Rus cried, slamming his hands against Edge’s chest. The blow was weak, barely enough to move him, but it made him look up. Rus’s sockets were brimming with tears. “don’t do this to me,” he sobbed. “i love y—“

“Don’t,” Edge growled, gripping his wrists and pushing him back onto the bed. It knocked the breath out of Rus but he didn’t fight or move. Edge stood between his legs. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop…

He yanked Rus’s jeans down. “Your cunt,” he ordered, then unzipped his slacks and pulled out his cock, stroking himself to hardness.

He pushed into Rus without preparation and Rus screamed, clinging to his back. Edge pounded into him, unleashing his anguish, his hatred, his betrayal. Rus didn’t let go, holding to him until Edge growled and spilled his seed into him. He stayed inside Rus as he went soft and rubbed his clit, pulling his orgasm out of him. Rus’s body jerked with discomfort and overstimulation. He clawed at Edge’s back, trying to hold onto him, but Edge pulled away, zipping himself back up.

“You know your way out,” he said monotonously. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He didn’t wait to hear Rus’s response, didn’t look back to see his face, because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave.

****

Months passed and Edge didn’t see Rus. He certainly thought about him enough. He recovered from the loss of his allies, and retaliated against the family responsible. Grillby himself may not have been formidable, but money spoke louder than actions in many cases, and his supporters outnumbered Edge’s three to one.

For the moment.

Numbers didn’t make him stronger. Still, strong enough to present a threat that needed dealing with. Edge worked to dismantle his network, starting with his lowest ranked supporters. They built the bulk of his numbers. Rumours of mistreatment and underpayments travelled quickly, and soon, Grillby’s foot soldiers were flocking to Edge. He welcomed them with open arms and promises of pay—and protection. Those who harmed even the lowliest of his supporters were dealt with swiftly and brutally. Perhaps more brutally than necessary but Edge thought little of it. Not anymore.

Once he’d dwindled Grillby’s numbers, he focused on stifling his income. He had the means to sabotage his trade routes and deliveries. The rewards of such sabotages were to be distributed among Edge’s own supporters.

Grillby retaliated, of course, but Edge’s mind was keener for battle, and he remained a step ahead. With Grillby’s supporters losing faith in him, Edge had little difficulty placing spies within his network. Slowly, he was able to pick apart his outer circles, until he was left with few he could trust. He was still a threat, and Edge knew it was best to remain wary. But for now, he had won. Won what? A crumbling, heartless empire?

It was undeniable he’d been thriving since getting rid of Rus. His job, his operations, his network of loyalists. He was dominating the city’s underbelly, and gaining himself more support than he’d had in years. He was the city’s most powerful monster. Then why did he feel so empty?

But more power meant more enemies, and there was a new player in the field. Muffet was clever. Cleverer than Grillby, at any rate. She played her cards well, and for a time, Edge wasn’t certain whether to treat her as friend or foe. She would be a powerful ally to have, but he knew it was too early to trust her.

One afternoon, he received an invitation. For tea. It was at her own home, according to the note, which was situated just outside the city. He considered bringing security, but decided against it. It was unlikely she intended to harm him. She was smart, and the bait would be too obvious. Bringing security would only show her he was afraid.

Nonetheless, he took precautions, alerting all his seconds and thirds where he would be going, and what to do had he not returned within a reasonable timeframe. Once all the arrangements had been made, he climbed into his car and drove.

It was strange leaving the city. Once you reached the outskirts, it was all cliffs and rolling hills and moss and sea. Muffet’s home was isolated; a cottage on the bluffs that overlooked the sea. Edge parked in the driveway and climbed out. At once, he was greeted by the bracing smell of the ocean, the air crisp and fresh. Flowers grew beneath the windowsills of the cottage, pruned and cared for, and vines crept up the walls. Edge had to wonder how Muffet managed operations within the city when she was situated so far without.

He found the door open and walked inside. It was warm and lived-in, and everything was covered in lace or silk. As he walked deeper into the house, the smell of sweets and cakes drifted through the passage, and he inhaled instinctively, before reminding himself to keep his guard up.

“We’re in the kitchen, dearie!” trilled a voice from down the hall. Edge narrowed his sockets, but kept walking. We? The whistling of a teapot grew louder as he walked, as did the sound of soft voices. The first was Muffet’s, he was certain. Unsettling in its sweetness, yet exactly what he’d pictured. The second was softer, and… too familiar. The moment he set foot in the kitchen, his soul turned to ice.

Rus was sitting at the table with Muffet. He looked up when Edge entered, and a wave of emotion passed across his face for just a glimmer of a second, before he smiled. “hello, edge.”

A million possibilities sprang to mind all at once. Each more awful than the last. Rus was working for Muffet. Rus was feeding Muffet information about him. Rus was sleeping with Muffet. Rus was sleeping with Muffet to get revenge. Rus was sleeping with Muffet because he’d moved on.

Edge tore his gaze away from Rus and looked at Muffet. She was watching him—too observantly. She was trying to gauge his reaction to Rus, Edge realised. He immediately let his features relax. He’d need to play this carefully. If he overreacted, she’d know. But if he played it too casual, she’d realise he was hiding something. He lifted a brow, glancing between the two of them. “You two know each other?” he asked indifferently.

Muffet studied him, then smiled. “Yes. We’ve grown very close of late.” She reached across the table and squeezed Rus’s hand. His smile hardly faltered, but he squirmed in his seat. Edge knew Rus’s smile. Soft and easy, with a hint of smugness—he knew it well enough to be able to tell when he was faking it. And he was. Something was off.

Taking a seat, he folded his hands on the table. “I assume you called me here for a purpose.”

Muffet waved her free hand (Edge wasn’t going to look at the one around Rus’s, he wasn’t). “Oh, we’ve been dancing around each other for so long, I figured it was time we finally met. And what an honour it is.”

“Please. The honour is all mine.” Edge’s flat tone made Muffet’s saccharine smile falter, but she quickly rearranged it.

Pushing a plate of sweet buns towards him, she said, “Help yourself, dearie.”

“I already ate. Thank you.” Edge allowed himself a brief glance at Rus. His cheekbones were hollower, and he had dark circles under his sockets, and a colourless complexion. As if he’d faded during their time apart. And, long as it had been, Edge knew his feelings hadn’t diminished, not even a little. His first instinct upon seeing Rus worn down like this was guilt—while he’d been prospering, Rus had been withering. “What manner of business do you wish to discuss?” he asked, turning back to Muffet.

Her hand was still on Rus’s, stroking gently. Edge wouldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t. His mana burned. “Well, I suppose there’s no point tap dancing around each other like a couple of politicians—you and I have great potential as allies.”

“Allies? Against whom? Grillby? I had little difficulty dealing with him on my own.”

“Oh, dearie.” Muffet’s laughter was light and sweet. “An impressive feat, were Grillby not a complete imbecile. Though, I congratulate you on your victory.” She lifted her teacup, smiling over the rim. “But we needn’t worry about him. His strength was in money, and without it, he lacks the wit to rebuild himself.” She sipped her tea slowly, squeezing Rus’s fingers. She wanted Edge to notice. He couldn’t give her that. “But when one empire falls, another one rises in its place. There are always new threats presenting themselves in Ebott.”

Edge nodded grimly. “Indeed. Though, this is the first time I’ve been invited to tea by one of them.”

Muffet laughed softly. “I don’t have to be your enemy. Nor you mine. Working together, you and I could dominate the city.”

“What makes you so certain of that?”

“We both know how to take what we want.” He had to be imagining it, but he was sure she squeezed Rus’s hand just a little tighter when she spoke. “We’re both smart. A lot smarter than most of those would-be emperors running around the city. And we have the respect of our people.”

Edge snorted and she narrowed her eyes. “Forgive me,” he said. “But our people scarcely know you. You’re still a mere princess, playing at queen in her garden of dolls.” She studied him carefully, but betrayed no emotion. “Yes, you may have the potential for power. But as it stands, you need me more than I need you. A lot more. And frankly, I don’t think I have a lot of reason to trust you. What’s to stop you from supplanting me once you have what you want?”

She regarded him coolly, taking a measured sip of her tea. “Mutually assured destruction. You go down, I go down with you. I go down, your life turns to misery.” Her eyes didn’t flicker to Rus. They DIDN’T.

“A fragile foundation of trust,” Edge said calmly.

“It will hold. As long as neither of us does anything reckless.” She sighed, placing her empty cup on the table. “You still hold influence over the monster community. They don’t know me, and they won’t trust me until they see that you do. Until I’ve proven myself.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

“You’ll need my help if you want to rule this city. You can’t do it alone.”

Edge shrugged bemusedly. “I’ve managed so far.”

Muffet shook her head. “Things are changing—the players are changing. The humans—the police—they’re increasing their patrols, the lengths they’re willing to go to. They don’t want to civilise us, they want to eradicate us. I’ve worked with them. I know their strengths, the way they think. You need someone like me.”

Her words may have inspired confidence in Edge, were he not so distracted by her hands. They… wandered. Over Rus’s fingers, up his arm, onto his knee. She was toying with Edge. He knew she was. His main goal had to be not to give her a reaction. She wanted him to crack. He observed her calmly, standing up. “Perhaps, one day, I will regret turning you down. But today, I’ll go home with a clear mind and conscience.” He started walking towards the door.

“How can your conscience truly be clear, when you walk away knowingly forsaking your lover?”

Edge stopped, shutting his eyes. It was a bold move. She’d revealed all her cards now, and was calling his bluff. He turned slowly. He just. Needed to remain collected. “Past lover,” he corrected blandly, giving Rus little more than a cursory glance. “I find it rather amusing, and a little pathetic, that this is the ace up your sleeve. A past fling? Someone I bedded months ago and forgot about?” He kept his features carefully trained, deliberately avoiding Rus’s eye when he spoke.

Muffet’s lips curled. “Oh, but I beg to differ. He’s more than a mere fling, isn’t he?” She leaned close to Rus, stroking his face and wiping away a tear with her fingertip. “Isn’t that right, dearie? You’re not so easily forgotten. Well.” She looked at Edge, smiling. “He hasn’t forgotten you. As I told you, he and I have been taking the time to get to know each other. And my my, did he have a lot to say about you.”

It all clicked in Edge’s head at once. Muffet had had him from the start. She knew. She knew about Rus, and it all made sense now. The gaunt look about him—she’d had her claws in him longer than Edge had thought. She’d been chipping away at him, learning all about Edge. She’d found his weak spot before he’d even had the chance to learn her strengths.

And he couldn’t hide it now. The horror. The fear. It was written across his face. He looked at Rus now—truly looked at him—and saw the fragile shell of the monster he knew and loved all those months ago. And it broke him.

“Oh…” Muffet covered her mouth, tittering. “How sweet. Fear looks good on you, dearie. I could get used to it.” Her smile was so complacent, so smug, Edge wanted to throttle her. She was so impressed with herself. So pleased she’d found the crack in his armour. Edge looked at Rus. At his tear-streaked face, at his fragile bones, the tremble in his hands, and all at once, he stopped caring.

“You can have whatever you want,” he said robotically. “The city. Your empire. Take it. I don’t care.” Rus’s chest heaved with a stifled sob, but Edge didn’t look at him. His gaze was trained on Muffet, who was giving him a calculating stare. Clearly, she’d been expecting more of a fight. “Give me Rus,” Edge said, “and you can have anything. You can have your empire. You can sit on your throne and rule over a city of dust. I don’t want any part of it.”

“You’d give up everything…” she said slowly. “Your whole life—everything you’ve worked so hard for. And—and for what? A back-alley Tale-verse slut with a pretty face?” She sounded almost offended at the prospect. “You’re not fooling me.”

“I pity you,” Edge said, looking at her impassively. “Almost as much as I pity myself. It’s taken me months to realise how empty this life is. How hopeless. Our kind are dying, and we can’t stop it. Those that are left of us are the powerful. The cruel. The lost. I have all the riches I could want. All the influence. The power. I sit on a throne of dead—dead monsters—whose deaths I ordered as if it were nothing. As if I’ve earned my place as their leader. As if it makes me happy.” He looked at Rus and took a deep breath. “But in all those months, my soul hasn’t shone brighter than when I walked into this kitchen ten minutes ago and… and saw his face again.” Tears prickled at his sockets and he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

He looked at Muffet, turning cold. “You’ve hurt him. I should end your life for that…” For the first time, she looked fearful. As well as she controlled it, Edge could see through her mask. “In exchange for your promise to leave us be, I will let you live. If you allow me to leave with Rus—if you let us go and forget about us—you can have your life. Take the empire too if you wish, though I imagine that part will be difficult.”

“And what of the city?” The sweet touch had left Muffet’s voice. Now, she sounded angry. “What of our people—your people? You’d abandon them so freely. For—for him?”

“I would,” Edge said without hesitation. “And I trust I’m leaving them in capable hands. But you’ll have to earn their trust yourself. And for their sake, I almost hope you fail. You may be the answer to our war against humans, but having seen today what’s inside your soul, you are not the solution to this violence and hatred. Your soul is cold.” He laughed emptily. “But I don’t think you will be unsuccessful. The people love a tyrant. I would know. Perhaps you can give them more than I have.”

He approached the table and touched Rus’s arm. Rus flinched, and Edge crouched, offering him his arms. Rus glanced at Muffet, eyes wide. But she was frozen, still contemplating Edge’s words. Edge lifted Rus into his arms and Rus clung on, wrapping his arms around his neck. Muffet watched with uncertainty as Edge left, as if trying to decide whether she ought to stop them. “Tell me,” she said when they reached the door. “How is it, that someone so weak came to rule such a formidable city?” Edge turned, looking at her without answering. She sneered. “You’re a coward. You could have anything you want. Anything in the world, and you choose a broken toy.”

Edge smiled vaguely. “Love isn’t a weakness, Muffet. Enjoy your throne.”

He put Rus in the backseat of his car so he could lie down, then drove in the opposite direction of the city. He’d turn back eventually. He knew he would. He knew he’d never truly be able to abandon his people. Even when hope was scarce. But… for now. He glanced at the backseat in his rear-view mirror, where Rus was curled in on himself. He met Edge’s gaze, and briefly his eye-lights softened. Just briefly.

The sun was golden above the sea, and Edge wound down his window to feel the spray on his face. They stopped a few miles down the road and climbed out. Rus leaned on Edge as he walked them to the precipice. They sat down, and Edge corralled Rus against him.

The wind rustled in the grass and birds called from over the water. “i’m not worth it,” Rus whispered against Edge’s shoulder. “i’m not worth everything. everything you had—everything you still have. i’m just… a weakness. i’m a burden. n-nothing to you…”

Edge hushed him, blinking back tears. They were Muffet’s words, not Rus’s. He knew that, and he almost reconsidered turning around and breaking his promise to her. Instead, he held Rus. “You’re worth more,” he said gently. “So much more than a crumbling city. You’re worth the world.” He crushed Rus against his chest, inhaling him. “I should never have asked you to leave. Life without you was… empty. I became… I became the cruel iron fist I vowed to protect monsterkind from. But you… you made me good. Vulnerable. Kind. I thought those were traits of the weak, but I was wrong.”

Rus let out a long, shaking breath and wrapped his arms around Edge, burying himself against him. Edge kissed the crown of his skull. “I’m not letting go of you again, okay? I promise.”

Rus clung to him, his tears making Edge’s shirt damp. “do you love me?” he asked in a small voice.

Edge almost wanted to laugh. “Do you still not believe it?”

“please.” Rus’s voice was a fragile whimper. “please. i need to hear you say it.”

Edge lifted Rus’s face and kissed him deeply, tasting the salt of his tears and the soft, sweet magic he’d missed so much. “I love you, Rus. I always have.”

[bisexualdaemon]

Gin and Juice: Part IV

a/n: In which a meeting takes place, Reader lies (again), and Shawn plays a big game.

The response to this series has been truly, truly incredible. I’ve gotten so much unexpected feedback and I love all of it. Keep liking, reblogging, and commenting! I always want to hear from you!

Previous parts are on my MASTERLIST

warnings: American football content, sorry for the jargon 😬

Shawn was pacing with nervous energy, jangling his keys in his pocket. Checking the time on his phone, he huffed and unlocked it, making sure that he’d sent her the right room number.

Study Room B038. Friday 5 PM.

It was 5:04. She was late. He had chosen this time specifically because he had an easy out if he needed to leave. Every Friday before a game, he had team dinner at Coach’s house at 7 PM, then the whole team left on buses to stay off-campus at a hotel to rest up and stay on curfew before the game. But, this girl, whoever she was, probably didn’t know the schedule, so he was free to make up any time that he had to leave with just a little white lie.

He heard the door knob turn and froze. Her head was bowed, shoulders forward, a posture it looked like she defaulted to, when she walked in. He couldn’t see her face behind the thick waves of soft brown hair hanging in the way. Not two steps into the room, she tripped over the nearest chair, heading straight for the floor.

Shawn took two big strides and caught her by the shoulders mid-fall. Her head popped up, locking wide ocean blue eyes with him. Recognition stirred, flashing images swimming in his vision. A spilled beer. A wet shirt. Looking back at those blue eyes and feeling the blush bloom on his face.

It was her.

He walked out of the living room, swimming with humanity, as fast as possible. Too many people. He could practically see his worth reflected in their eyes. They only saw what he could give them, what he could bring them. None of them knew or cared about him beyond the material or social value he held.

Lost in his thoughts, he rounded a close corner on his way to the kitchen for something harder to drink. It wasn’t until his cup fell out of his hand that he realized someone was there.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” he yelled over the noise of the party. At first, she just stood there, looking him up and down like she wasn’t quite sure if he was real. She swivelled her head up to look at him, and he inwardly gasped at her eyes. They looked like cerulean cut glass, so blue and yet so clear that he felt like he could see straight down to their core. It was as unsettling as it was exhilarating.

She still hadn’t made a move since he spilled his drink all over her. He took a survey of the damage, which allowed him to stare at her petite body for just a second longer  than he probably needed to. She was fucking cute as hell. Where did this girl come from? He realized he was looking at her instead of helping.

His head shot up toward the kitchen, seeing his idiot left tackle walking toward him, “HEY GEOFF!?! CAN YOU BRING ME A RAG OR SOMETHING??”

Shawn turned back to her, noticing her shivering. Why won’t she say something? He pleaded with her to talk to him with his eyes, softening his gaze like he would with a baby deer. She felt so cold, but he could see the sweat starting to collect on her brow.

Geoff finally returned with a rag and he started to help her by dabbing it on her chest. Her eyes widened in momentary panic, and she jumped half a foot away from him, out of his reach.

His face bloomed pink in mortification. He handed the cloth to her, stuttering apologies, clearly dropping the ball and wanting to escape as fast as possible. When he had gotten far enough away for her to not notice, he looked back. She was still standing there with those wide blue eyes staring. He really wished he could have heard her voice.

* * * * * * * * * *  

He held your shoulders for a beat too long. The look on his face reminded you of that night in the bathroom just before he had thrown up, but this time there was confusion mixed with a strange wonderment.

“Uh, Shawn?” you snapped, waving your fingers in his face, really needing him to stop touching you. His imposing figure and rough fingers on your skin made it difficult to breathe, let alone think. He blinked several times and shook his head, “sorry, sorry. Uhh, you’re late.”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” you said with a little edge in your voice, “I’ve been outside the door debating whether or not I should come in.”

The confusion in his face deepened, “you were going to stand me up?” He shook his head again, as if no one on the planet had ever suggested such insanity in his entire life. It would have been annoying if it weren’t so earnest. You rolled your eyes at him.

“It’s not about you...well not 100% about you,” you really weren’t here to divulge the nature of your social anxiety, “just never mind, why are we here?” You looked at him expectantly. The earnest expression had slowly morphed into something timid and slightly...embarrassed?

You were confused. He had wanted you to come here to talk but now he seemed like he was rethinking it. He was nervous about whatever he came to say. His eyes wandered to his feet, bound in leather Chelsea boots, as he kicked the carpet. His athletic legs were wrapped in the skinniest black jeans you’d ever seen. He ran his hands down the fabric clinging to his thighs and finally spoke.

“Uhm, yeah. So,” he looked off past your head, avoiding your eyes at all cost, “how badly would you be offended if I asked you your name?”

His cheeks flushed bright red as he wrung his hands in front of you. He looked like a small boy who knew he’d done something wrong. A very tall, very muscular, very gorgeous small boy. What had happened to that charm? You held your hand up to your face to hide the smile that threatened.

He didn’t remember your name. Did he remember anything about that night? Did you want him to? It had been six days since that night, so if he was going to remember something, it probably would have happened by now. Maybe you could play this off, just tell him your name and make something up about what happened after he blacked out. You could put this whole thing to bed once and for all. It seemed like that might put him at ease.

You let the laughter bubble up to the surface. It sounded strange to your ears, a little too high-pitched and a little too effervescent, but you hoped he wouldn’t notice. You had to make this casual, had to make it believable. He couldn’t know you were lying. You reached out and touched his bicep.

“Oh, it’s fine, Shawn,” you giggled, telling him your name, voice dripping with nonchalance, “you’re a busy guy, and we were both drunk at that party.”

He looked puzzled for a minute, but then smoothed his brow, nodding, “Yeah, yeah we were.”

“You really don’t remember?” you asked, trying for incredulous, “we hung out in the kitchen for a bit. I grabbed your hand and wrote my number. It was innocent.” By the end, the pitch in your voice had climbed three octaves. Maybe he would think you were crazy and that would solve all of your problems.

“But, why didn’t you want to meet with me? In public?” he asked, sounding hurt. Shit. You grasped for idea strings in the giant ball of twine in your mind. This was starting to get complicated and you weren’t sure how long you could keep it up.

“Uhm, I was embarrassed,” you mumbled, sounding more convincing, “I basically threw myself at you and you didn’t want me that night. I really didn’t want to face that in the light of day. I didn’t want anyone who might see me with you to ask questions later.”

“Oh,” he said, scrubbing the nape of his neck and looking almost remorseful. Maybe this was working. He glanced at you out of the side of his eye and you thought he might attempt to poke holes in your story. But instead, he just shrugged violently, “well, I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

He sounded like he might have meant that in some way other than in reference to your lies. Both of you stood there awkwardly, shifting weight in opposite directions. You were getting dizzy from the boat-rocking sensation. He looked placid, blank.

“Well,” he said, exhaling breath he must have been holding, “I have to go to team dinner.” He turned to open the door wide, but before he stepped through, the composed look in his eyes faded and let a pleading traitor in. It reminded you of the look he gave you that night when he spilled his drink on you—like he just needed you to say something to let him in.

It only lasted for a second, replaced by cool detachment, an essential ingredient in his chainmail of charm. He took a stride through the door and called out behind his shoulder, “it was nice meeting you!”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the basement study room with a sneaking suspicion that you had just made a huge mistake.

* * * * * * * * * *  

He buckled up his pads over his shoulders and tightened the laces on his cleats. The locker room was noisy, loud rap music playing over the A/V system to pump everyone up. Shawn knew he wasn’t in the right headspace. He knew that he shouldn’t have a pair of blue eyes stuck in his head. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about her shoulders, so delicate beneath his hands. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about how she lied to him.

What was she trying to hide?

He couldn’t figure out her angle. She had no idea that he remembered seeing her earlier at the party. The fact that she hadn’t mentioned it was his first red flag. But, she didn’t know that he had a clear memory of her that night. She didn’t know that her behavior in the library betrayed the girl he’d spilled beer on and silently begged to speak to him.

He still felt like he hadn’t heard her real voice.

“OKAY BOYS,” Coach Bradford yelled as the team made its way through the tunnel, getting ready to run out onto the field, “EVERY GAME IS FULL OF INFINITE CHOICES. MAKE SURE YOU CHOOSE THE RIGHT ONES.” Always a last minute cheesy pre-game line to make us think about the philosophical reasons to play the game, “LET’S GO PLAY SOME FOOTBALL.”

Every time Shawn burst out of that tunnel and onto the field, the deafening roar of the crowd took his breath away. It was one of the rushes that kept his running out here every fall, every week, every minute. This week was rivalry week and the crowd was even more live than usual.

He looked out into the crowd, something he wasn’t accustomed to doing. He hated seeing the hungry eyes of all the people there expecting him to win the game for them. But, this week, he scanned for a familiar pair of blue eyes. A crazy endeavor because there was no way he would see her in the ocean of people surrounding the field, but he flipped through a thousand pairs of eyes nonetheless.

“MENDES,” Geoff screamed over the crowd, “GET OVER HERE.” He ran over and butted foreheads with his left tackle, their pre-game ritual. He positioned his mouthguard, made the sign of the cross, and dug his cleats into the turf. The whistle blew, flying high above the cheers.

Shawn should have known it wasn’t going to go his way when he thought he saw her during the first quarter. He lined up at the five-yard-line looked out above the line, called the play, and snapped the ball. Behind his receiver, he caught a flash of blue that made him pause. He took an extra breath, changing his tempo, and let the ball fly directly into the hands of his opponent.

It got worse from there. After three fumbles, two more interceptions, and five missed tackles, Shawn felt like he was taking an ass-kicking. He couldn’t get her out of his head. Somehow they were tied, thanks to a couple of great defensive plays and a lucky run after a handoff, and heading into the two-minute warning, he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. A loss could jeopardize everything—the conference championship, a national championship bid, his Heisman chances. The weight of the potential disappointment pressed against his chest.

They moved the ball down the field, killing clock until it was the last twenty seconds from the ten. He had one play left to get the ball in the endzone. He dug the ball of his foot into the turf at the line of scrimmage. Crouching behind his lineman, Shawn called the play, “BLUE-42! BLUE-42! HURRY!” He took one last breath in, “HIKE!”

Everything moved in slow motion. He faked the handoff to his running back, leaning back. He pumped once, twice, closed his eyes against the deep blue threatening his vision, and let the ball fly.

to be continued...

So did he win the game? Tell me your theories! 

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[thecutestlittleslime]

Who's Laughing Now?

Heavy breathing was heard amongst the turning of the gears and plopping of ink. It cut off with a sudden gasp, as if their owner was wracked with a sudden spasm of pain. It transformed into a pitiful, tortured whine with the telltale clinking of metal.

Those cold chain links dug harshly into his knuckles, rubbing against the already irritated wounds they were threaded through. He wanted to cry, but this monstrous form he'd taken on prevented that. Instead, he settled for howling pitifully, intermixed with the occasional sob at his predicament.

The floor beneath him had long grown littered with his dripping ink, his life blood. His oversized arms were chained to the floor with those stigmatas that had been forcefully torn into his hands. He had precious little room to move, let alone lay down and sleep.

His mind was awhirl with confusion, grief and fear. Why? Why wasn't he good enough? Why?

He knew the answer already, however. Anyone who he had approached before his imprisonment had been apprehensive or terrified. He was confused before he found a mirror. The reflection that greeted him scared him just as badly as it had them.

Not a cartoon, just a monster. Who would laugh at him? They would just scream and run away.

He couldn't make anyone laugh. Never again.

He gazed up at his old cartoons, melancholy and nostalgia sputtering up inside of his scarred heart. His real form was so much cuter, so much more capable of getting a laugh out of somebody. What went so wrong when they brought him here?

Even he didn't know. He didn't want to know. He just wanted to entertain, to get a smile off of somebody's face, even at his own expense, like in his old reels.

Ink dripped down his face in a facsimile of tears as the urge to cry grew stronger.

-------

Was he starting to go crazy, or was the whole machine shaking?

Oh, wait, that was just the cold. He shivered against the icy metal of the floor. He couldn't even rub himself for warmth.

Wait. No. The floor was actually shaking.

Was-was somebody raising the machine up?

Hope and cynicism warred within his heart, but a tiny sliver of hope emerged intact. Maybe someone was here? Maybe they could help him?

He jerked at his chains, ignoring the flares of pain in his knuckles. They rattled across the floor and then got caught in a stray gear, yanking him to the floor with a cry. The gear whined as it strained against the links, but the power of the ink machine won out, shattering the metal to pieces.

A surge of elation flew through him. He was finally free! Quick as a whistle, he dashed out of the machine entrance to the top of the gigantic behemoth, chains rattling behind him as his enormous hands propelled him upwards.

The smaller machine began moving upwards slowly, and he leapt atop and grabbed hold of its own strings of chains for support. It swung somewhat, but soon stabilized and continued its journey upwards to the highest floor.

It was agonizingly slow, however. He took the opportunity to inspect his stigmatas. Maybe he could pry the links off?

He began with his right hand, carefully maneuvering his giant teeth and fingers around both sides. With a grunt, he yanked. They came apart with a slight screech of bending metal, and then it was off. He repeated this with his other hand.

With a gasp of relief, those inkstained chains clanked on impact with the surface of the machine. He clenched and unclenched his throbbing hands, still in disbelief. He was really free, he realized with a burbling giggle.

He was finally able to shrink back down into his half-as-terrifying state, the holes in the palms shrinking into nearly unnoticeable slits on his right hand and being covered with a white glove on his left. A sudden wave of exhaustion nearly threatened to send him into unconsciousness, but he persevered, desperately clinging to those rumbling links of the machine.

The soft glow of noonday met his obscured eyes as the machine quietly clunked into place, the rays filtering through a wooden ceiling that was starting to fall apart. An uneasy feeling formed. How long had he been stuck down there, bound and tethered like an animal?

A soft gasp of shock echoed around the chamber, and he jerked his head around for the source. He spotted a greying man on the landing before the machine, staring at the ink being with something akin to awe and terror. The man's face, though old, looked startlingly familiar.

Oh. Oh! It was his Creator! His Creator had come back! His Creator had freed him, however unintentionally!

He leapt from the dangling machine with a shout of glee, pouncing on top of Henry Stein in a hug.

---------

The old animator hit the woodwork as the strange thing dove at him like a fighter plane. It had that wide grin, though now it was trembling on the sides in...fear? It buried its face in Henry's front, a pair of lopsided horns dripping something like ink on his shirt.

“Please...don't be scared of me?” it pleaded faintly, voice akin to a child's. A little boy, to be precise.

“Um...okay?” Was the only thing Henry could get out before it- he, Henry vehemently decided- started shaking and sobbing in what could only be relief.

His mind finally caught up, and the horns, the grin- by heavens, the VOICE - finally tipped him off as to who this was.

“...Bendy?” He tried.

“...yeah, Creator?” came the muffled, sniffling reply.

Oh gosh, it was real. Bendy , through whatever bullcrap Joey had somehow pulled, was real .

A confused, but joyous laugh left the animator. It was like he was a little kid, and Christmas had come early! The distorted toon looked up at him in surprise, giving his trademark grin when he realized…

Someone was finally laughing for him. It didn't matter what Bendy looked like; to his Creator, that wasn't important- he was still Henry's little devil darling.