#how did the wailing star know to use elixirs...

[dhampling]

oh dear god please I beg you just a teeny tiny snippet will suffice, please provide a follow-up to Earth Tav somehow reuniting with Astarion, via reincarnation or another divine intervention 😭

in reference to this post here, where Astarion handles a Tav from Earth who returns home after the defeat of the Netherbrain. my darling dearest. your wish is but my command. this is open ended because i was tempted to take it in an nsft direction, but for now please enjoy! cw: none, fluff, the doccy who references are out in FULL FORCE today.

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It’s not until the wound has fully scarred over and he’s lying in a sweat-heavy trance that he feels a familiar ice-pick of intervention making headway into his brain. 

Someone is tampering with his dreams. 

Another quest, perhaps? Another person wanting him to traipse the length of the Sword Coast for their own gain once more? 

Lazy by way of an impressionable entrance. He’s a little put off by it in all honesty. Unoriginal.

It’s not until his bleary-eyed dream self rubs the glare from his eyes that he sees the vision before him and chokes.

You. 

It’s been a tenday since he last dreamed of you. 

He must’ve been slacking. 

Your sheer unbridled whimpers of laughter as you barrel towards him. Skidding to the ground where he sits, cross legged; rushing to cup his face in your hands and smatter it with hurried kisses.

“It’s real. This is real. It’s not a dream. I’m here. Well. In your dream, but it’s me.’

It takes him a moment. He inhales deeply.

Gods. It is you. The smell with which he became so familiar, nights under the stars with his nose buried in the crook of your neck.

‘I don’t know when I’ll be able to do this again, if ever.’

Your forehead presses to his as his fingers find yours, looping together as he gasps for air.

‘I think of you every single day. I miss you, every single minute.”

There’s a broken sob in his ear, heavy with spit and shakes.

He heaves a slight wail of his own. Arms lift to pull you down into his lap.

“Love. Oh, love.’

Astarion doesn’t care how you’ve done it. He doesn’t know how long you have left together in the ballroom of his mind and intends to spend every second in the present.

‘My lost love. Look at you.”

As his eyes run the length of your face he studies for changes. You have more grey at the root of your hair, the creases around your eyes a little deeper. Not aged too significantly, but it’s been a while since your adventure together in your realm, too.

You snort a teary giggle. 

“Look at you! Beautiful thing. Gods love you still.’

He must look pretty similar. A little more battle-worn, surely; but aside from that the only difference is the rings running up his pointed ears. You toy with them as he holds you close around the waist. 

‘I never got to say goodbye, did I?”

No. Not this.

“Don’t. Please.”

You pull back a little and your eyes meet once more, both glimmering wet and aching. It takes a moment for you to speak.

“I’ll spend my whole life looking for a way to come back to you. But this-’

You gesture to the scintillating purples and blues around you, the grass. It’s a similar vision to that of the dream guardian from all that time ago. 

‘I’m using a star for the energy to say goodbye.”

He sobs something guttural. Of course you’re destroying a celestial body to see him once more. It couldn’t be something simple, could it?

“Keep doing it! There’s a sky full of them!’

He laughs into you. 

‘Or better yet, come back. Please.”

“I’d be old by the time I got to you. People might stare.”

He fumbles for your hand once more. He’s been stashing potions and elixirs to negate your ageing should you appear on his doorstep one day, but you don’t need to know that.

“Don’t care. Come back. Come back to me.”

Your own laugh sounds like it was borne straight from the heavens.

“You don’t think I would if I could? In a heartbeat?”

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book One: Gold (Prompto x Reader) Chapter VI

The next morning, (Y/n) wandered into the convenience store. She offered to do some shopping for the boys and stock up on supplies for their dangerous trip ahead. She looked around at the items on display, wondering what all she should buy with the gil Ignis gave her. While staring at a few potions on the shelves, memories from the past filled her mind. She remembered the time when they were only 12 and Prompto was living with his adoptive parents. They didn't know about her due to the blonde keeping her hidden in the gemstone whenever they were around.

When his parents went to work one day, they left a sick Prompto behind. She took it upon herself to take care of him while they were gone. She was forced to head to a nearby store for some medicine and was gone for almost an hour due to not being familiar with human remedies. By the time she got back, he was crying. Tears were streaming down his face as he wailed at the top of his lungs. A sniffle came from him every now and then. She learned he was crying because he couldn't find her and thought she'd left him for good. The spirit reassured him before showing him what she bought at the store to help with his cold.

Suddenly, (Y/n) was torn from her thoughts when Ardyn strolled over. She tried to ignore him, but it was futile when he blocked her from grabbing some potions. She kept calm and did her best to be nice. "May I squeeze by and get some potions?"

"Why, of course." He stepped aside. "My apologies, (Y/n)."

She grabbed a few potions and elixirs, ignoring the man when she noticed he was staring at her. She headed to the counter and paid for the items, but she was once again stopped by Ardyn when he blocked the entrance of the store. She looked up at his face, seeing his somewhat unsettling smile. "What?"

"I must say, young Prompto truly is fortunate to have you by his side," he said.

Her eyes narrowed. She wasn't sure what made him say such a thing. "And what brought this up?"

"A mere observation on my part, is all." He sighed dramatically. "Oh, if only Callyx was as dedicated."

"Maybe it's not him, but you. Now if you'll excuse me..." She pushes past him to exit the convenience store and returns to the caravan. She handed the curatives to Ignis, who thanked her.

Once they were all ready to ship out, they left the caravan. Noctis begrudgingly spoke with Ardyn inside the store to tell the man they were ready to leave. Callyx told (Y/n) she no longer had to ride with them before entering the red car alongside his auburn-haired man. The girl didn't complain and sat in between Gladio and Ignis in the backseat of the Regalia. Noctis started the engine once everyone was inside the car.

Like the day before, Noctis followed a safe distance behind Ardyn's car. After leaving Cauthess Coernix Station, Gladio glanced at their destination that loomed in the distance. "Whoever thought of tapping into the Meteor's power was a genius."

Prompto glanced at the Disc. "Can you even go near that thing?"

"They harvest fragments found nearby-pieces that broke off when the Meteor fell. Almost fell, I should say, for the Archaean caught it," Ignis explained.

"And he's still there, holding the thing up," Gladio added.

"Guess he never misses leg day," Noctis commented.

"Or any day for that matter," Prompto said.

"His unceasing toil and the Meteor's might form the tenets of worship for the locals of Duscae," the advisor stated.

"Makes you wonder what it's like down there at his feet," the shield voiced his thoughts out loud.

"Speaking of gods, that Callyx guy seems to know a lot about an Astral that's supposedly forgotten," Noctis said.

"It's possible Callyx has access to ancient texts that mention Brahma. He did tell me a little more about the seventh Astral," (Y/n) chimed in. "The creator god's consciousness resides within the Celestial Crescent."

"You mean that cluster of stars you told me about?" Prompto asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. Callyx even asked me if I was hearing voices coming from it."

"Are you?" Gladio inquired.

"Well..." She clasped her hands together in her lap. "I'm...not sure. I think I hear a voice, but I can't say for certain."

"Eh, don't worry about it, (Y/n)," Prompto said. "Let's tackle one all-mighty being before worrying about another."

"Couldn't agree more," Noctis stated.

Ignis, after a couple minutes of silence, spoke up and discussed another topic. "So you know, it's hot where we're going. Will the camera fare all right?"

Prompto lifted up his camera, examining the device. "As long as I avoid open flames, it should be okay. I think."

"We don't have a spare if it breaks," Gladio said.

"Leave it in the car?" Noctis suggested.

"Oh no, I'm taking it. Not every day you get up close and personal with the Archaean. I'd kick myself if I missed the photo op," Prompto replied.

"Spoken like a true photographer," the brute remarked.

"As they say, "Better to try and fail than never to try at all"."

Noctis grinned. "Look at you."

"Well, they say that, not me," the blonde said.

"Well, you just do what you gotta."

"But in all seriousness, try not to break it. It was expensive," (Y/n) chimed in.

"I'd never break it! It's very precious to me, especially since you're the one who bought it for me," Prompto stated.

"You bought it? With what money?" Gladio questioned, glancing at the girl sitting beside him.

"I used to work in a small boutique in Insomnia. It was run by a spirit like myself. I worked hard for every yen I spent on that camera." The guardian leaned back in her seat. "She was the first spirit I met. Callyx is the second."

"Wow. Are spirits really that rare?" Noctis asked.

"Yeah. It'll take some serious dedication on the empire's part if they want to wipe out all the spirits on Eos."

The group, once again, fell silent. Noctis kept his attention on road to ensure he wasn't too far or too close to Ardyn's car. Prompto glanced into the backseat at (Y/n) before looking towards Ignis. "Hey, Iggy. Can your glasses take the heat?"

At the mention of his glasses, the strategist adjusted them. "Well, I don't see why they shouldn't."

"Even if they couldn't, he'd still be all right," Noctis commented.

Gladio nodded in agreement. "Yeah, Iggy's eyes ain't that bad."

Prompto was flabbergasted at the news. "Oh, really?"

"My vision is passable without corrective lenses," Ignis explained.

"Then why not take 'em off sometimes?"

"Well..."

Noctis snorted with laughter. "You don't get it, huh?"

"Ignis likes his world to be crystal clear," the shield said.

"Indeed. I've never been one for ambiguity," the advisor claimed.

"Ah. I think I'm getting the picture now." Prompto sat back down, turning to face the front.

"What if they were to break? Do you have a spare pair?" (Y/n) questioned out of curiosity.

"I'm afraid not," the bespectacled man answered.

Drawing closer to the Disc of Cauthess, Prompto has one more question to ask the strategist. "Hey Ignis, how's it feel being away from the wheel?"

"Positively frightening," Ignis responded honestly.

Noctis glanced at him in the rear view mirror, eyes narrowed. "What're you sayin'?"

"That I'm no stranger to His Highness' driving habits."

"'Preciate the confidence."

"Wait," (Y/n) sat up slightly. "Is he really that bad of a driver?"

"Morosely, yes," Ignis replied.

"I mean, he can't be that bad...can he?"

"Trust us, short stuff, he's the worst driver you could ever meet," Gladio said.

"I'm not that bad!" Noctis shouted.

"But you admit you're bad," Prompto cackled.

The prince rolled his eyes. "Ugh..."

After another minute or two, they arrived at the Cauthess barricade. It was sealed tight with imperial troopers watching the perimeter. What shocked the group the most was the lack of hostility from the enemy soldiers.

"We're here," Ardyn chirped.

"Better not be a setup," Noctis commented.

The auburn-haired man glanced over at him. "Have I given you reason to doubt me?"

"You don't exactly inspire confidence," Prompto answered.

Gladio was in agreement with the blonde. "Yeah, not very straightforward."

"Neither of you are," (Y/n) mumbled, eyeing both men in the car beside the Regalia.

Ardyn looked away from the group and shouts over the wall. "Hello! It's me! Be so kind as to open up!"

At his lighthearted command, the gates open. Prompto gasped in shock at how easy it was for the man to gain access to the Disc. "Wow, that worked?"

"I may not look like much, but I do have some influence. Aren't you glad we came together? Your audience with divinity lies ahead."

"You're leaving?"

"I drop you at the Archaean's open door, and with that, bid you farewell."

As Noctis drives the Regalia through the open gates, (Y/n) spared one last glance toward the red car. Her golden eyes locked with Callyx's emerald ones for a split second before they were too far apart to see each other. Even with his stoic expression, she could sense something much more sinister under the surface.

"I've met some weirdos..." Gladio mumbled.

"I hope we never meet those two again," Ignis remarked.

"Whoa! Little harsh there, don't you think?" Prompto asked.

"There's something off about those two..." (Y/n) muttered.

"Glad we agree," Noctis said.

The prince continued to drive the car down the dirt path until they came to what appeared to be a dead end. The five hop out of the Regalia and located a narrow pathway to the side. They follow the path and eventually stumble upon a stone sarcophagus. Prompto recognizes the design and asked, "Is that what I think it is?"

"Didn't expect to find a royal tomb here," Ignis expresses his own bewilderment.

Gladio elbowed the prince. "Would be a shame not to grab that power, eh, Highness?"

"Let's grab it and go," Noctis blandly stated.

As the raven-haired boy walks up to the sarcophagus near the ledge, (Y/n) heard a voice again from above. It was the same one she heard yesterday. Looking up at the sky, her golden-slitted eyes focused on the Celestial Crescent. She felt as if someone had put her under a trance. Unconsciously, she walked forward a few steps and came to a halt when the disembodied voice addressed her.

You...the...

"Are you...Brahma?" The girl whispered.

Vessel...mine...

(Y/n) was still in a dream-like trance when the ground begins to shake dramatically. She managed to keep her balance while all the boys weren't so lucky. Prompto and Ignis fall down while Gladio and Noct just barely manage to keep themselves upright. "Here we go again," Prompto said, bracing himself.

"This one's huge!" Gladio bellowed over the loud rumbling.

That's when Ignis notices the ground beginning to crack underneath Gladio, Noctis, and (Y/n). "Get away! Quickly!"

The spirit's gaze was still locked on the sky. She failed to notice the danger and hear the painful cries of the prince as he was overcome by another headache. She reached out a hand towards the sky just as the ground beneath her feet crumbled. She gasped when feeling a plummeting sensation in her gut, snapping out of the trance as she began to fall. The sound of Prompto shouting her name echoed in her ears.

(Y/n) feared for her life, but her fall was short-lived. A hand wrapped around her wrist and ceased her quick descent. "I've gotcha!" Her savior shouted. Looking up, she saw it was Prompto who grabbed her.

"Prompto..." The guardian whispered.

"Just hold on!" He shouted. Using his strength, he struggled slightly to pull her up. When he managed to pull her up onto solid ground, he sighed in relief. "Whew... That was close." He wiped the few sweat droplets off his forehead before gazing towards the girl. "Are you okay, (Y/n)?"

"I'm fine thanks to you," she smiled.

Just then, the Meteor begins to rise before them, revealing Titan. The Astral who has been holding the chunk of space debris on his back for many years makes his presence known. Prompto and (Y/n) stared in awe and fear at the sight of the mighty god. They both flinched when the Archaean's booming voice resounded out.

"So this is Titan..." The guardian mumbled.

Prompto, remembering Noctis and Gladio had also fell, peers over the ledge to check on them. He shouts when seeing they were both on a lower ledge. "Noct! You okay?!"

Ignis stood by the blonde and was relieved to see the prince and his shield were in one piece. "Thank heavens you're safe. Is there a way back up?"

"No, but there's a path. Gonna see where it leads," Noctis replied.

"You three try to get down," Gladio said.

The strategist nodded. "Very well. We'll look for a way. Be careful, now."

"You, too," the prince retorted.

"What? We're going where?!" Prompto shrieked.

"No time to dawdle," Ignis spoke up. "We must make haste."

(Y/n) wandered a little ways from the crumbling ledge and spotted a narrow, rocky path nearby. She noticed it went out of the way, but it was the only route leading down. "What about this path?"

"It's our only option," the advisor said.

"Then down we go!" Prompto cheered.

The trio wandered down the path, watching where they stepped. It was narrow and littered with jagged stones. Prompto slipped a few times due to being distracted by the rumbling caused by the Archaean. Luckily, (Y/n) caught him every time he stumbled. She sighed when he nervously laughed and thanked her every time.

They continued to listen to the Astral slam his mighty stone fist into the cliffside. They weren't able to see what damage the Titan was causing, but they were able to deduce who he was trying to reach-Noctis.

Ignis, Prompto, and (Y/n) soon arrived at a dead end. They looked around for another path, but they couldn't find one. When they walked over to a cliff, they saw a path below. Carefully, they slid down the small rocky slope and land on the path. As their feet landed on the ground, they spotted the Archaean's fist strike across the way. Ignis ushered them to move quickly.

All of a sudden, (Y/n) heard a faint humming. She looked around before glancing upward. Flying overhead were imperial drop ships. Seeing the empire had arrived, Ignis pulled out his phone and tried to get ahold of Noctis. When he managed to get ahold of the prince, he was relieved. "You're safe. Good. Listen, imperial troopers are near."

Morosely, that was all the advisor got to safe before the signal was lost and the call dropped. "Bloody hell," he hissed, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Prompto was about to ask Ignis about the call, but his attention was drawn to their left when he saw movement in his peripheral vision. "(Y/n), Iggy, we've got trouble!"

The advisor and spirit looked in the direction the blonde was. Their eyes widen when seeing Titan's open-palmed hand heading straight for them. The girl was the first to react. She shoved Ignis and Prompto to the ground just as the Astral tried to grab them.

When the Archaean's hand wrapped around (Y/n), she cried out in pain at how tight the god was gripping her. She could barely breath and only managed to gasp as Titan retracted his hand.

Prompto heard her painful wail and scurried to his feet. "(Y/n), no!" He summoned his pistol and aimed, but he was afraid of hurting her if he pulled the trigger and missed. He watched helplessly as she was dragged away by the god.

The guardian squirmed in Titan's grip. She lifted her head just as she realized she was at eye level with the Astral. She winced the moment the Archaean's booming voice echoed out. She couldn't understand what he was saying and could only stare into his eyes. Feeling the god's grip lighten, she gasped when she could breathe again.

Suddenly, her attention was drawn away from Titan when she heard the voice in the sky speak to her.

Chosen...one...

My...vessel...

(Y/n) blinked in surprise. "Brahma, are you the one talking to me?"

Yes...

You...are...my vessel...

She shook her head. "Please, don't choose me. I-I wouldn't even know what to do as the conduit! There's no way I could become your vessel!"

You are...worthy...

Child...of Pneuma...

Heed...my call...and do...my bidding...

Fear not...

I...shall...guide you...

(Y/n) gasped in pain, shouting at the top of her lungs when she felt an intense heat radiate in her chest. She clawed at her chest, the gemstone on her arm pulsating with a brilliant golden light. Blood trickled from her eyes and nose. She released one final bloodcurdling scream before falling unconscious. Her body went limp in the Archaean's hand.

Before the Astral could place the girl down, Noctis appeared out of thin air. He warped and struck the god's hand, forcing him to drop the guardian. The prince caught her and grabbed his sword. He warped them down to the ground near Titan's feet where Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto were waiting.

Once landing safely with (Y/n), that's when Noctis saw her bleeding eyes and nose. Prompto rushes over while Gladio and Ignis provide protection from the Astral. The blonde carefully took the girl's body out of the prince's arms and pulled her into his. His heart was racing with worry after seeing the blood and seeing she was unconscious. He quickly picked her up and carried her away from Titan as Noctis parries the god's fist. He gently placed her down on the ground, glancing between her and the others. Seeing they needed his help, he reluctantly left her side to rejoin the fight.

As the royal retinue continued to fight against the Archaean, more imperial drop ships arrived. The group was ready to deal with the empire, but they were relieved when Titan swatted away some of the ships before they could attack. With the imperials now disposed of, they continued to deal damage to the god.

Eventually, Noctis built up enough energy to activate the armiger. He dealt blow after blow before performing a joint attack with his companions. They dealt heavy damage, causing the Astral to lose his balance and fall to a single knee. After attacking, Ignis then hurls a Blizzard spell at the god's arm. "The game's up!"

Gladio and Prompto follow the advisor's lead and hurl yet more Blizzard spells at Titan's arm. "You're out!" The blonde shouted. The Archaean's left arm freezes from the elbow down.

"It's over!" Noctis swings his sword down into the arm, shattering it all the way up to the elbow. Titan then collapses. The prince turns around to face his friends. "Hey, we all still here?"

"Yep, still here," Gladio replied.

"If a little battered," Ignis added. "How is (Y/n)?"

Prompto gasped, eyes widening as he ran over to the girl. Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis stood behind the marksman as he tended to her. He fell to his knees beside her and used a potion. He wasn't sure if it would help, but he knew it wouldn't hurt to use one. Prompto cups her cheeks in his palms and wipes the blood off of them. He stared at her with a saddened expression. "(Y/n)...?"

He received no response.

Ignis checked on her and was able to tell she was physically fine on the outside. His only concerns were her bleeding nose and eyes, which could be a result of internal injuries. He assisted Prompto by helping him put the girl on his back. When seeing she was safely onto the sharpshooter's back, he stepped away.

Just then, the tremors resume. The ground shook violently. The group's gazes fell back on to Titan. "What-what is it now?" Noctis asked.

Ignis' eyes narrowed, watching the Astral closely. "What is he doing?"

"He's winding up!" Prompto shouted. His grip on (Y/n)'s thighs tighten and he took a few steps back, readying himself to run.

"For the big one!" Gladio bellowed.

Titan roars, his booming cry echoing all around the royal retinue. Gold lights begin to emanate from his body, some of which coalesce around Noctis, showing him the god's memory of Luna standing before the god. Once Luna fades, he watched another memory of the god fighting a cosmic being. Titan, although bigger than the cosmic being, fell to his knees after being defeated.

When the god's memory fades, Noctis blinks in surprise. "That was...Luna. You spoke with her. That's why... But what was with that other memory?"

Titan and the Meteor suddenly discorporate in a powerful flash that sends all the imperial ships in the vicinity crashing to the ground. Lava spews from the earth as the Disc of Cauthess crumbles around the boys.

"Doesn't get much worse than this," Gladio commented. The four find themselves trapped.

Suddenly, an imperial drop ship descends to their location. Ignis grew tense as the airship closed in on them. "The empire! Now?"

The drop ship's door lowers, revealing Ardyn and Callyx. The auburn-haired man smiled at them. "Fancy meeting you here!"

Noctis and the others stare at the two men in stunned silence. Callyx crosses his arms with a sigh. "Maybe they didn't hear you."

Ardyn continues. "It occurs to me I never formally introduced myself. Izunia. Ardyn Izunia."

Ignis was shocked at the revelation. "Imperial Chancellor Izunia?"

"At your service. And more importantly, to your aid."

None of the boys move, instead offering only uncertain stares. Prompto glared up at the two, remembering what the empire's plans were. He couldn't believe Callyx was working for the empire knowing they were hunting down and killing spirits.

"I guarantee your safe passage. Though you're always welcome to take your chances down there," Ardyn spoke up. He glanced around at the faces of the royal retinue after receiving no response. "Buried among the rubble, is it?"

Ignis looked away from the chancellor and guardian, eyeing the prince. "Dying here is not an option. We have no choice, Noct."

Noctis met his advisor's gaze. "I know."

Reluctantly, the boys board the airship. As the hatch closes behind them, Prompto placed (Y/n) down. He then sat down and pulled her body into his arms. He rested his head on top of hers, ignoring Ardyn as he tried to speak to the others. He closed his eyes, holding her tightly against him.

It wasn't long before Prompto's eyes flew open at the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking up, he saw Callyx and glared at him. He watched the emerald-eyed guardian kneel in front of him. The moment he tried to touch (Y/n), Prompto summoned his pistol and aimed it at the man's head. "Don't touch her."

Callyx retracted his hand before raising it as a sign of peace. "I only wanted to check on her. What happened?"

Prompto lowered his pistol slightly, but kept it aimed at the spirit. "I-I don't know..." He looked down at the girl slumped against his chest. "Why're you working with the empire? Aren't you the one that said they were killing spirits?"

"I made a deal with them a short while ago. They allowed me to keep my life in exchange for loyalty. I'm using my position to warn any guardians I come across. (Y/n) is the first guardian I've met outside the empire."

"Won't they kill you once they learn you're protecting other guardians?"

"Most likely, but I'm willing to risk my life to protect my people."

Even at Callyx's declaration, Prompto didn't trust him. He dispelled his pistol and chose to remain silent. The spirit walked away after taking the hint and rejoined Ardyn and the others.

Now alone, Prompto buried his face into (Y/n)'s (h/c) hair and whispered, "Please wake up soon..."

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter || Masterlist

[kiara-carrera]

mere monstrosity

pairing: sweet pea x brooke holliday warnings: mentions of blood and gore, minor character death word count: 4,890 author’s note: for the southside archive’s weekly au ‘werewolf’. very loosely based off the 2011 red riding hood movie, as well as that one episode of tw set in france. but like, very barely. like the aesthetic is there, not much more. also reggie exudes some major gaston energy, but that’s unrelated. a part two to this will come eventually if i can find enough inspo and if people like it enough!

read on ao3 or continue on under the cut!

Everyone in the village of Riverdale has heard the tales.

The story of the wolves and the man. A story — the telling of a nightmare, really — of men who could transform in the light of the moon. Stories of beastly creatures that walk silently and discreetly among them in the daylight, but who become something entirely different at night.

Some say it’s only under the light of the full moon, some believe it to be at will. The ones said to bend a will are always more terrifying because there’s an added element of surprise, no planning that can be done. But all the same, the stories are always tales of horror, never heartwarming. Stories of unearthly creatures never are. It’s always about the beast murdering and hunting and then being hunted right back. Man is always made to be the victor, vanquishing the beast back to the hell it came from.

They go by many names, every iteration having a different title. Shapeshifter. Lycanthrope. Wolf-man. Beasts. Half breeds. But most of the storytellers in Riverdale had taken to calling them one thing and one thing only: monsters.

Each and every tale, while following different paths, all have the same patterns when you looked past the gory details and frightening endings. A man, a wolf, a moon. The darkest of nights come to bring the darkest of creatures. A man and a wolf, one and the same. Flesh by day, fur by night. The sharpest teeth imaginable, maw slick with the blood of its victim. Claws as pointed as blades, a way to rip through chest cavities to the beating hearts of the pure and for leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. A man, a wolf, a murderer.

Some perceive these creatures to be the work of the Devil, embedding demonic entities into poor, unfortunate souls. Other believe it to be the work of witchcraft, curses placed upon those who made enemies of the old crones. Most just see it for what they think all tales like these are — fiction.

Because everything can be fiction until it happens, right?

That’s what the people of Riverdale used to believe. Their land has always always been peaceful. Quiet. Safe. Nothing bad ever happens in the village situated along the river and the thick groves of trees known as Fox Forest. Children are free to roam the forests without fear of danger. Nights hang over the village, the sky inky black canvases dotted with crystalline stars, and all they are followed by is the rise of the sun. The night doesn’t bring fear, no more than the day does.

And then the deaths began.

The first victim that death claims is none other than Jason Blossom, the son of an affluent family. The Blossoms have lived in the northern part of Riverdale for years, the stories detailing that it’s their ancestors who settled the village to begin with. But while Great Grandfather Blossom achieved a memory linked with the settlement, his descendant finds a legacy enriched with darkness.

Jason came into the world with his twin sister and had left alone, found at the banks of the river, just outside the tree line. His chest had been torn open, face mangled and body nearly unrecognizable. He was in pieces when they found him, or so the rumor goes. His heart was missing and a trail of blood scattered off in tracks amongst the once virgin snow.

Tracks that suspiciously resembled wolf tracks. Tracks that resemble the paws of a wolf that trail off into the snow, less thick with Blossom blood the further they lead away from the body. Tracks that, eventually, morph into footprints.

Human footprints.

Fiction and reality seem to blur when this detail comes to light. And yet, all the same, fiction and reality seem to be separated in the minds of the villagers.

The village was sent up into an uproar with the death of the Blossom boy, villagers crying out about the animal attack that had to have taken place. For it had to be an animal, nothing more and nothing less. That’s how it always starts with these stories. A man, a wolf, a moon, a death. Animal attack. That’s what they’ll always call it. The superstitious will try to make the people see past the obvious answer that an animal is the cause, but no one ever believes them.

Because again, everything is fictional until it’s not.

The authority of the village puts out a search for an animal that supposedly took Jason’s life. They round up a few of the strongest boys in the village, the ones not too sickly and frail to hunt the beast. The sons of the families Mantle, Mason, and Clayton enter the woods with nothing but a vague idea of what they’re hunting and a belly full of fire and revenge at the thought of their fallen comrade. It takes two days, a group situated in the thick of the forest with weapons before they return dragging the carcass of a wolf as if it’s some sort of prize.

Weeks go by. Jason is buried. He’s buried in the cemetery that’s behind the Church, Father Solomon blessing his spirit to find peace. His sister, a pretty redhead named Cheryl, seems to be eternally on the verge of going off the deep end, dressed in long black dresses every time she’s seen out in village. Cheryl’s probably the first who feeds into the hysteria, not believing the elders and village leaders for a minute when her brother’s death is regarded as an accident.

She doesn’t say the words, but people can tell what she’s thinking most days. On good days, she’ll be silent in her suffering. On the bad days, her curls have sprigs of monkshood — wolfsbane — woven into them, toxically beautiful plants obtained from her mother’s garden. No one asks her why wolfsbane — they know. She believes the old wives tales, the horror stories. People call Cheryl crazy and parents warn their children to avoid her.

She’s not crazy. She’s not. They just don’t have reason to believe otherwise yet.

And then death claims another. Dilton Doiley, a scrawny boy at the top of his class at the local schoolhouse, is found deeper in the forest, hundreds of feet from where Jason was found. The scene is almost identical to when they found Jason. Chest ripped open, covered in blood, left to rot amongst the rows of maples. Wolf tracks. Human tracks. One and the same. A man, a wolf, a death. He’s buried and it’s like repeating the same brutal history.

Except … except Dilton’s death comes far more unexpected than Jason’s did. Jason was thought to be a freak accident. But Dilton’s passing slaps the village in the face, for they believed they vanquished the beast. Suddenly, the carcass that Reginald Mantle toted into the village’s center is nothing more than a mere animal killed in vain. Suddenly, another mother has lost her son.

His mother’s already used to grief, losing her husband years prior, but it’s her son that seems to do her in. She spirals and suddenly Cheryl’s not the grieving madwoman of the village anymore. Old Mrs. Doiley will scream her suspicions at anyone who will listen. She theorizes and points fingers, shunning people she believes responsible and demanding justice for her son. The elders of the village, ones whose ancestry stems from the wicked village across the river whisper how it reminds them of the stories of witch trials that once occurred many, many years ago.

She points fingers and she wails most days and it’s become commonplace in the village for her to do so. The only one who doesn’t seem to watch her with ridicule or fear is Cheryl. The village now has two firm believers in the stories that the elders used to tell to scare the children into obeying their parents. Two believers and a village of people clinging onto a reality that unravels more and more as the snow falls over the land.

The longer the winter rages on, the longer the list of victims become. The bodies pile up, the time between deaths ranging anywhere from weeks to mere hours between corpses being found. Corpses that were once people now just become names and little wooden crosses embedded above graves. They become stories to their friends and families. They become warnings to little kids, proof that you cannot go out safely anymore. And eventually, they just become afterthoughts.

Ben Button, a tall and gangly blonde who was a little odd, but meant well. Little knew him, so little mourn him. The few friends he did have will raise a glass to him and then try to move on.

Midge Klump, an angelic beauty who’s death seemed to rock the village to its core. Her passing sees a lengthy farewell, a long drawn out day of sobs to accompany rivers of tears.

A drifter named Kurtz, who had been once accused of robbing the apothecary and offering strange elixirs to adolescents. His death is almost rejoiced, although done in secret. He receives a burial as a means of disposing the body. There is no funeral, there is no grave marker, there is no one to remember him.

Joseph Svenson, who had once been regarded as the village degenerate. He lost his family when he was younger and never married, so there’s no one present when he’s buried.

By this point, the village is in shambles. No one goes out after dark. No one steps near or beyond the tree line of Fox Forest if they can help it, no longer believing the deity they once prayed to in order to keep them safe. For if the gods could create such a monster, how could they be trusted with prayers?

Father Solomon, bless his heart, tries to instill faith in the villagers, to keep their connections to their god strong in these troubling times. Some turn to religion, as people in chaos always do, but the deaths continue anyways. There is no god that can save them now.

Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third begins his conspiracy novel for the sake of having something to do. He sits in the dark corners of the local pub, fingers stained black from his inkwell, surrounded by stacks of filled pages. No one knows if he’s truly a believer or if he’s just looking for a story to tell, but there isn’t a single person who questions why he insists on documenting this part of Riverdale’s twisted existence. He spends most of his time at the pub or down in the southern area of the village, his home, discussing the old tales with elders like Thomas Topaz.

No one calls him crazy. And no one calls Cheryl crazy anymore or even little Old Mrs. Doiley. In Riverdale, no one’s crazy anymore.

They’re just afraid.

Everyone’s afraid and the madness seeps into the village easily and it’s clear as day on everyone’s face. No one knows what to believe, no one knows where to put their faith, and everyone goes to sleep at night surrounded by unease. Some try to act like everything’s normal, like the village suddenly has a wolf problem. As if there’s something in the water making them crazed.

Most try to live their lives, but it’s hard. There are children to think about. Livelihoods. Some wonder if the village will make it to spring or if…whatever’s hunting them will pick them off one by one before silver snows can melt into flower buds and greenery.

Brooke Holliday just tries to keep living, day by day. She gets up and ties back her hair and puts on her dresses and tries to pretend that her village hasn’t fallen into a rut of hysteria. She doesn’t voice her opinions on the death and no one bothers to ask.

There’s something…different in the way Brooke operates under all of this chaos. She goes about her days, not feeding into the fear that people have but also not discounting how they’re feeling. Somewhere, embedded deep within the pages of Forsythe’s novel, there’s a mention as to how the blonde carries herself throughout this. More than a footnote, shorter than a chapter. He watches her carefully, never too long to dive deeper into what’s different about her during these dark times, but enough to notice. She’s different, calm but on edge at the same time…almost as if she knows more than she lets on.

He chalks this up to the fact that she hears everything. Not because she’s a good listener, but because she’s employed under old man Tate at the local pub, the same one where she can see her friend add another twenty pages to his manuscript over the course of days, not knowing she’s mentioned among his pages. The same pub where she hears family men bemoan about keeping their wives and children safe. The same one where she can hear some boasting arrogantly that they’d take down the beast one-handed if they came across it.

Reginald Mantle, the same Mantle who took the life of the wrong animal, falls into that last category. He’s always been a bit of a loose cannon. Devilishly handsome, well built, and from a respected family from the northern part of the village, he’s the kind of good stock that Brooke assumes she’s expected to be interested in. Even more so now that’s he’s begun to spout his tales of would-be heroics. Frankly, she just thinks he’s full of it.

Tonight is no different as she brings him and his companions another round of steins filled to the brim with amber liquid. Mantle’s been here for over an hour, prattling on to anyone who will listen. His dimwitted companions hang onto his every word and the few girls in the village who are of age and not in a courtship seem to flock to wherever the dark-haired man goes.

“Wherever this beast is,” Reginald begins to boast, a smug expression on his face as not one, but two — deeply misguided, Brooke assumes — maidens fawn over him. “I will find him and his head will have a place above my fireplace. A story to tell my grandchildren.”

Brooke tries her hardest not to roll her eyes. She figures that he got lucky during the last outing into the woods. Try that again and he’d probably ended up maimed or worse. She sets down the drinks, before wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist.

“You’d do well not to go in the forest looking for a fight you could potentially lose, Reginald,” Brooke quips. “Wouldn’t want that pretty little face of yours to be ruined.”

The two women dangling off Reginald’s arms glare up at Brooke, while most of his companions burst into laughter at the anger blooming on their friend’s face. He wears the kind of expression he dons when he expects his opponent to back down, bow out. But Brooke’s known him since childhood and frankly, she’s never been one to be afraid of the self-proclaimed Mantle the Magnificent.

“Laugh all you want,” he sneers at her. She wants to interject that his friends are actually the ones laughing, but she bites her tongue. “But it will be an entirely different story, Miss Holliday, when that beast comes for you next and you need a rescue.”

Rescue? From him? She’d sooner want to be the wolf’s next meal. “You mistake for a damsel and that’s your first mistake, Reginald,” she tells him, before drifting away to another table that needs drinks.

Brooke keeps her head high, not caring that she can most definitely hear the sneers that Mantle throws her way under his breath. She pays little mind to the opinions of oafs like him. Once upon a time, Reginald had been tolerable. But over the course of this bloody winter, things in Riverdale have changed.

She figures it’s only natural for something like this to change people. In a way, it makes sense. Once deaths like this occur, with so much superstitious lore filling the blank spaces in between, it’s only natural that people’s true colors would spill out over the page. Reginald’s always felt that he had something to prove. It only makes sense he’d choose now to be the time to do it.

The doors to the pub burst open, winter winds whipping through the bar easily, flakes of fresh snow drifting in as well. Everyone’s eyes seem to fall on the group slipping in out of the cold and Brooke can feel her heart pick up as she sees who’s made themselves known.

It’s a group of men, the ages of them ranging from young to old, who hail from the southernmost tips of the village. For years, even before the hysteria that started with Jason Blossom’s death, the southern villagers have always been detested by the northern residents. No one’s exactly sure why it happened this way, but it’s always been the unspoken way of the land.

At the schoolhouse, the rooms were divided. At the church, they sat in different rows. The children were warned against playing together once they started to reach certain ages and most young companionships faded out by certain ages. Northern men are taught to turn their noses up to southern women. Northern maidens were always warned against the men of the south. Crossing over lines like that would be blasphemous to most and it’s gotten to the point where there’s a clear divide in the village. But old man Tate’s pub has always been common ground between the north and south and that’s where the trouble for Brooke always seemed to begin.

Trouble, all six foot three of it, that had just walked into the bar.

His name is Nathan, but he’s known amongst his friends by the nickname of Sweet Pea. His hands rub together feverishly, trying to bring quick warmth to the near frozen digits. He trails behind his friends, but he moves slowly, eyes scanning the bar until he lands on the blonde barmaid. And almost as she couldn’t help it, her eyes lock with his.

Brooke swallows thickly as she watches him from across the bar, hand still gripping the drink she had brought to the table beside her. Her heart feels like it’s running a race alongside the fastest horses and she knows her cheeks are warming with a blush as a ghost of a smile carves across his lips. An almost imperceptible nod is thrown her way before he licks his lips.

Almost instinctively, she’s pulled into a daydream, hidden memories playing out in her mind for her almost tauntingly. She can still feel his hands gripping her hips through the layers of her dress, can feel the way his lips slot against hers as if they were made to be together. Her hands in his hair, his rucking up her skirt. Whispered sweet nothings, hush filthy phrases in her ear. Kisses down her collarbone, devilish lips sucking purples and reds into her milky skin. Dark corners, the back room of the bar after closing, the shed behind her house, anywhere that no one’s likely to intrude upon.

Him, all of him, just for her. For all the moments they share, she is his and he is hers and nothing can take that away from her until it’s over. Her mind is a filthy place as she watches him cross the bar and slip in beside Forsythe and his other companion, sweat-slick nights of passion playing over and over again until she’s certain her grip on the beer stein will shatter the glass.

Her blush darkens by the second as she finally turns away from his gaze, knowing he’s most likely chuckling to himself as she makes her way back behind the counter where some men sit. She’s fighting a growing grin that wants to cover her lips, the same grin she has any time he’s near. Her memories dance across her mind, taunting and teasing when she feels a familiar heat pulsing inside of her at the thought of them. Under the layers of her skirt, her thighs press together a little tighter.

It’s sinful, what they have. Countless nights together, nothing between them but skin and sweat and heat. Sinful. Forbidden. It’s secret, what they have. She’s expected to marry someone from the northern edge of the village and he’s expected to stay away from her. If anyone were to find out that they were together, that he had deflowered her…Brooke doesn’t even want to know the consequences of that.

So, what they have is secret. Forbidden. Sinful. Delicious. Heart racing. Love. Brooke loves him and Nathan loves her and one day they’ll be together. One day, they’ll leave this all behind. That’s her fantasy. That’s her dream. That’s their future. But for now, it’s late-night trysts and hushed confessions of love in the darkest of corners. For them, that’s perfect. It’s perfect.

But like all love stories, soon it will be threatened. Compromised.

For there’s a secret that they share that’s far more dangerous than sex and love. A secret about him, his friends, one he entrusted her with the day he declared her love. One that frightened her, but not because she was afraid of him. Because she was afraid for him. Afraid for what this hysteria meant for him.

A man, a wolf, a moon. This is how it starts. Man hails from a pack with a long lineage of shifting. Man and pack do not hunt humans, do not threaten the ways of nature, merely only serving to protect. Protect against the feral ones, the packless, the murderers. Man falls in love with a beautiful girl. Full moons come and go, murders start. This is the end of all things for them.

The end begins now.

The doors burst open to the bar again, but this time, there is no joyful laughter or hands rubbed together to gain back warmth. There’s only gargled shouts, crimson blood dripping on the hardwood floor that tracks in from the snow. There’s only Archibald Andrews clutching his chest tightly, blood seeping through his fingers. There’s only Andrews calling for help through a mouthful of blood with horror in his eyes.

“Andrews!”

The shout comes from Reginald, who’s up in an instant and sprinting to his side. His friends follow closely behind and soon the redheaded Andrews man is being lowered to the ground as everyone’s sent into a panic. It’s almost nightfall, that much can be gleaned from the still open door. Nightfall. Monsters always come out at nightfall.

Brooke moves across the bar in a flurry, carrying multiple rags behind the counter. She’s on her knees beside Archibald within seconds, shoving his hands out of the way and pressing the clean rags against his wound. It’s large, covering the left side of his chest, in the shape of claw marks. Her heart drops at that, but she tries to focus on anything else while someone sprints out of the bar and down the road towards the village healer’s home.

Staunch the blood flow, staunch the blood flow, she tells herself. He can be bandaged later. Her hands are shaking as she presses down even harder.

She seems to be the only one focused on the blood.

“Who did this?” Reginald snaps at Archibald, eyes alight with fury. “What happened?”

Brooke’s eyes narrow in a glare as she turns her head up to look at him while still pressing down on the blood flow. Her hands are stained crimson and so is her dress, but all she can think about is how insensitive Mantle’s being. “Reginald, he—”

Archibald murmurs something then. The crowd huddled around them falls silent, every set of eyes flickering down the boy who might not make it through the night.

“Arch?” Brooke mumbles, his childhood nickname falling off her lips. “What…what did you say?”

This time, he murmurs louder. His voice is hoarse and his eyes are fighting to stay open, but he looks directly at her when he says it. “M…Monster. Men turning to w…wolves…back to men…”

And there it is. The big grand reveal. Brooke feels her heart stop at that moment. They say the truth will set you free, but all she can feel in that moment is the crushing fear that stems from this coming out. Wolves and man, one and the same. Wolves and man, responsible for the many murders that have haunted their village over the course of a frigid winter. Jason, Dilton, Ben, Midge, Kurtz, Svenson. All fell to the hand — claw — of the beast, the shapeshifter, the werewolf.

The monster.

She can hear every story the elders have ever told, can see the wolfsbane woven in the Blossom girl’s hair, can feel the grief that radiates off of Old Mrs. Doiley. For everyone in Riverdale has heard the tales.

Including Reginald Mantle.

Fury licks across his features, dark eyes almost turning black in rage as Andrews’ confession sinks in for him. Monster. It’s the only echoing in his mind as anger burns through him. A monster, in his village, killing his friends and people.

“I knew it!” he sneers, getting to his feet faster than Brooke was aware anyone could move. His foot kicks out, sending a chair sailing across the room. “I knew the second that Blossom died it wasn’t just some ordinary wolf. There’s some fucked up creature running around our village killing people!”

It’s a bold claim he’s making, Brooke notes, saying that he knew. He was one of the ones who went into Fox Forest after Jason died looking for a wolf, an ordinary wolf. But Reginald, he always has to appear ten steps ahead because he has something to prove.

“This ends now,” he thunders, hand tossing out to gesture at where Archibald’s barely clinging to life. “These monsters already killed enough of us and tonight they tried to take Andrews too. But I say no more. No more death. No more monsters!”

He’s met with a round of cheers, mostly from older northern men and his friends. No one notices the way that the table of men who just entered the bar not too long before Archie say nothing. Forsythe watches with cold, calculating eyes. Nathan watches with a blank expression, arms crossed. But that’s overpowered by the way of the ones following Reginald’s lead.

Anger seems to flare through the bar like a stroke of lightning, men angrily scowling and clenching their fists. Archibald’s blood flow seems to be slowing down a bit and it’s that fact that lets Brooke focus more on what’s happening around her. With so few words, Reginald has seemed to instill fury into those around her. A domino effect of anger, fear of the creature turning into the need to destroy what’s different.

“What should we do?” Mason asks, narrowed eyes turning to Reginald. Other’s follow suit, people looking to Mantle as if his word is law.

For a moment, Mantle says nothing, deep in thought. And then all at once, it seems to come to him. His eyes narrow. Clambering up onto a table, raising his fist in the air, Reginald shouts. “I say we kill the beast!"

He’s met by more cheers. A mob seems to be forming, for there is a beast on the loose. In some sense, it only makes sense for the wolf to be hunted. It’s caused chaos and strife and pain and grief and it needs to end. This winter cannot go on with so much red staining the white snow. People will not be able to live if they are afraid.

Fear is a powerful thing. It makes people do stupid things or it can make them do horrible things. Riverdale is a village that’s filled with so much fear. So what stupid or horrible thing will they do with it?

Brooke has an idea of how it will go, thoughts fueled by everything she’s ever known from stories. The tales always go the same way, follow the same structures and patterns. The death comes first, it always comes first. But then the full moon rises again and the people, they’re ready now. Ready to face their fears and the monsters. The beast is discovered. The beast is killed. But what happens when there’s more than one wolf and only one is a monster? What then becomes of the wolf who does nothing more than protect his loved ones?

Across the bar, through crowds of angry men, Brooke���s eyes lock with Sweet Pea’s. This time, there’s no sexual charged daydreams. There’s only fear.

Fear for him. It blossoms in her chest, sprouting from the seedlings of fear she carried for him every day. It’s sad to say, but it’s almost as if Brooke’s been waiting for this to happen.

For this is how it starts. A man, a wolf, a moon. A list of murders not at his hand or his pack, but ones that will surely be placed upon them if they’re discovered.

A man, a wolf, a moon. The woman who loves him and a village full of men who wish to destroy him.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Knowing Not Knowing

"Early in the spring of 1997, singer and songwriter Jeff Buckley headed down to Memphis to begin pre-production on what would have been his second full-length album. A few weeks after Buckley arrived, his bandmates flew in from New York to join him. He was in high spirits: the songwriting was going well, and he was reunited with his group. The same night his band arrived Buckley went out for a late-night stroll to a Memphis harbor and waded into the river. He had always admired Led Zeppelin, and was singing "Whole Lotta Love" when a boat passed in front of him. He lost his footing, perhaps dragged into the water by the boat's wake, and was never seen alive again. He was thirty years old, two years older than his father, the folksinger Tim Buckley, had been when he died of a drug overdose.   "I first met Jeff Buckley and saw him perform about two years before he passed away. It was near midnight and Buckley was sitting int he back office of a Tower Records store in lower Manhattan. Buckley had become a scion of the Lower East Side antifolk scene, and was preparing for an in-store performance in support of his album GRACE.   "But first he needed to do something: he insisted on listening to a crackly old recording of "The Man That Got Away" by Judy Garland, in the pretext that he wanted the store manager, who had given the CD to Buckley, to understand how magnificent a gift it was. Buckley needed to demonstrate the album's beauty. He had also picked up gratis CD reissues of vintage Aretha Franklin and Nina Simone records, and two albums by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, who had a major influence on Buckley's singing. While Buckley could occasionally summon the same kind of ecstatic vocal power that was Khan's trademark, his singing had more in common with Garland's delicate, vulnerable warble.   "Buckley was an unglamorous star. That night he was wearing a wretched pair of weathered combat boots- the sort you occasionally see homeless men selling- a frumpy gray cardigan sweater, and jeans that hadn't been washed in a long time. Ditto his hair. In an oddly white-trash bit of accessorizing, Buckley's wallet was attached to his belt by a chain, in the style favored by motorcyle gangs. Three days of beard growth rounded out his anti-coif, but his sex appeal remained intact: a nervous girl approached to ask if, as she suspected, he was a Scorpio. Another pressed a poem she had written for him into his hand. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket, as though he would cherish it forever. Maybe he did.   Buckley was at an odd moment in his career when he died. Having moved to New York several years before from California, where he was raised by his mother, he crawled his way up through the ranks of teh insular lower Manhattan music scene. He had beome a mini-star in that highly circumsribed mircrocosm, perched on the cusp of national and international success. That night at Tower records the line between Lower East Side local hero and international stardom seemed pretty thin. On one hand, his debut album sold several hundred thousand copies (although more in Europe than America), and there was a trhrong of photographers and autograph-seekers pressing around him. ON the other hand, he wasn't above hauling his own gear onstage, more or less indistinguishable from the half dozen stringy-haired sound men and roadies who were putting together the sound system in the first place.   "Buckley had no video in heavy rotation on MTV, largely because he insisted that people judge the music on the way it sounded before supplying them with an accompanying image. For the same reason, he refused to even suggest a single to radio deejays. 'What I'd love,' Buckley said, 'is if a deejay had a lineup of songs, and he'd just use one of my songs as part of a really nice evening. But that's the way I would deejay, not the way they do it. They usually have playlists.'   "For a guy with folksinging in his blood, Buckley had assembled an arsenal of prog-rock guitar effects you'd expect at an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer show and had set his amp at cat-spaying volume. (In fact, he had been raised on Led Zeppelin and Kiss.) Several dozen more stringy-haired people with assorted rings in their lips and noses (his fans) materialized. AS he stepped onto the makeshift stage, a grumpy security guard began clearing some fans from a stairway, but Buckley interjected: 'Wait! Those are my friends! Can they stay there? I give them special permission.' What started as dispensation for four friends ended up being extended to anybody who wanted to stay.   "The set began with a ghostly wail from Buckley, and a mildly Middle Eastern guitar line. He sang with a vibrato that quivered like the tongue of a snake. It was so atmospheric that you hardly realized his bandmates were rocking their tits off. That was the tension: Buckley ululating in sensual falsetto, the band churning out mid-seventies Led Zep knockoffs. He seemed a strangely ethereal cherub in the midsst of all that visceral thrash.   "After the show, Buckley signed autographs, taking several minutes with the thirty or so fans who lined up for an audience with the tousle-haired singer. Rather than just scribbling an autograph, he wrote a personal note to each person. Everything he did seemed to place poetry before commerce, but I couldn't help wondering if it was all an elaborate ruse, a crafty stance aimed at those disenchanted with the slickness of pop posturing. Didn't Buckley, after all, want to make a lot of money and sell records?   "'If it happens it'd be great,' he said later that night, over omelettes and wine at an all-night eatery, 'but we just play to express. I want to live my life playing music, so that we can be immersed in it. In order to learn how deep it goes, you have to be in it.'   "As to why he took so much time with each of the fans who asked for an autograph, Buckley articulated his basic anti-rock-star stance: 'The way I experience a performance is that there's an exchange going on. It's not just my ego being fed. It's thoughts and feelings. Raw expression has it's own knowledge and wisdom." He trailed off, as though humbled by the mere thought of his audience wanting to hear him play, or asking him for an autograph. 'I've been in their position before and all I wanted was to show my appreciation to the performaer. So I feel like it's kind of generous of them to even be asking me for an autograph.'   "'It's true that there's also the people who want a piece of you,' he conceded. 'But it's pretty hard to keep feeling protective all the time, because there's really nothign to protect yourself against. Sometimes people shout at me on the street, and they feel they know me through my music. But that doesn't substitute for a real personal relationship. I don't feel like people know me, I just htink we share a love for music in common, and for some reason they key into the way I play. I feel appretiative when people come up to me, and I feel good when we connect. Usually, it serves as a nice comedown after a performance. Any other conduct would bust the groove, because I'm buzzing when I get offstage, and I'm consciously protecting that connection because that's what got me through the performance in the first place. It's an invocation and worship fo this certain feeling, this direct line into your heart, and somehow music does that more powerfully than anything else. It's like ! a total, immediate elixir.'   "By all appearances Buckley conformed to the stereotype of the poetic artist: largely lacking the practical, thick-skinned psychic barrier that separates most of us from the harsh realities of life. With a rabbit-like nervous disposition and a hypersensitive vulnerability that bordered on the tragicomic, he looked like he was about to burst into tears at any moment. His face was contorted and slightly tortured-looking during most of the interview, though I got the impression it wasn't so much the experience of being interviewed that was torturing him but the pain of grappling with his own thoughts and the world around him.   "Relationships were at the heart of Buckley's world. Although he was marketed as a solo artist, the attitude he had toward his listeners mirrored the relationshiop he formed with his three-piece backing band. 'Playing with a band is all about accepting a bond, accepting everything the way it is. It takes a lot of patience and a lot of taking chances with each other. It wakes seeing each other in weak and strong lights, and accepting both, and utilizing the high and low points of your relationship.'   "It wasn't only interpersonal relationships that Buckley held sacred-- he was aware of making his music in relation to all the sounds around him. The environment was Buckley's co-composer: to his ears, no melody or rhythm was separate from the sounds going on in the background. 'It's not like music begins or ends. All hinds of sounds are working into each other. Sometimes I'll just stop on the street because there's a sequence of sirens going on; it's like a melody I'll never hear again. In performance, things can be meaningful or frivolous, but either way the musical experience is totally spontaneous, and new life comes out of it, meaning if you're open to hearing the way music interacts with ambient sound, performance never feels like a rote experience. It's pretty special sometimes, the way a song affects a room, the way you're in complete rhythm with the song. When you're emotionally overcome, and there's no filter between what you say and what you mean, your language beco! mes gutteral, simple, emotional, and full of pictures and clarity. Were you to transcribe it, it might not make sense, but music is a totally different language."   "'People talk all day in a practical way, but real language that penetrates and affects people and carries wisdom is something different. Mayve it's the middle of the afternoon and you see a child's moon up in the sky, and youfeel like it's such a simple, pure, wonderful thing to look at. It just hits you in a certain way, and you point it out to a stranger, and he looks at you like you're weird and walks away. To speak that way, to point out a child's moon to a stranger, is original language, it's the way you originate yourself. And the cool thing is, if you catch people in the right moment, it's totally clear. Without knowing why, it's simply clear. That sort of connection is very empirical. It comes from the part of you that just understands immediately. All these types of things are gold, and yet they are dishonored or not paid attention to because that kind of tender communication is so alien in our culture, *except* in performance. There's a wall up between people all day long ,but performance transcends that convention. If pop music were really seen as a fine art or if fine art were popular, I don't know what the hell would happen-- this wouldn't bee the same country, because if the masses of people began to respect and really open to fine art, it woudl bring about a huge shift in consciousness.   "'Music is so many things. It's not just the performer. it's the audience and the architecture of the song, and each builds off the other. Music is a setting for poignancy, anger, destruction, total disaster, total wrongness, and then- like a little speck of gold in the middle of it- excitement, but excitement in a way that matters. Excitement that is not just aesthetically pleasing but shoots some sort of understanding into you.'   "Buckley's songs were composed with made-up chords, bright harmonic clusters that seem too obvious not to have been written before, yet they rarely feel formulaic. There's a lot of open strumming, suggesting that the songs were written largely for the sheer physical pleasure of playing them. He and his band modified the arrangements during each performance, playing with an elasticity and openness typical of Buckley's personality. 'Hearing a song is like meeting somebody. A song is something that took time to grow and once it's there, it's on its own. Every time you perform it, it's different. It has its own structure, and you ahve to flow thorugh it, and it has to come through you.'   "Buckley's entire career reflected on his outsider's approach to the music business. When he arrived in New York, rahter than recordings a demo or finding an agent, he simpley began to perform for free. He palyed at a small cafe on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and before long, crowds were lined up out the door. As a result, representatives of record companies sought out Buckley, rahter than the other way around. 'There is a distinct separation of sensibility between art as commerce and art as a way of life. If you buy into one too heavily it eats up the other. If instead of having songs happen as your life happens, you're getting a song together because you need a cetain number of songs on a release to be sold, the juice is cuked out immediately. That approach kills it.'   "Still, it took a strong belief in one's art to sit in a small cafe and trust that the world's record companies would come calling. buckley palyed down his seemingly effortless approach to career as though it were common-sense. 'I just wanted to learn cetain things. I wanted to just explore, like a kid with crayons. It took a while for me to get a record contract, but it also took a trememdous amount of time for me to feel comfortable playing, and that's all I was concerned with. And I'm still concerned with that, mainly.   "'I don't think about my responsibility as a musician in terms of any kind of religious significance. I don't have any allegiance to an organized religion; I have an alligience to the gifts that I find for myslef in those religions. They seem to be saying the same thing, they just have different mythologies and expressions, but the dogma of religions and the way they're misusued is all too much of a trap. I'd rather be nondenominational, except for music. I prefer to learn everything through music. If you want divinity, the music in every human being and their lvoe for music is pretty much it. It's the big indication of their spirituality and their ability to love and make love, or feel pain or joy, and really manifest it, really be real. But I don't believe in a big guy with a beard on a throne, telling us that we're bad; I certainly don't believe in original sin. I belive in the opposite of that: you have an Eden immediately form the time you are born, but as you are conditioned by your caretakers and your suroundings, you may lose that original thing. Your task is to get back to it, so you can claim responsibility for your own perfection.'   "buckley considered the development of awareness to be the main goal of his life. 'I think of it as trying to get more aligned with the feeling of purity in music, however it sounds. I think music is prayer. Sometimes poeple make up prayers and they don't even know it. They jsuit make up a song that has rhyme and meter, and once it's made it can carry on a life of its own. It can have a lot of juice to it and a lot of meaning: there's no end to the different individual flavors that people can bring to the musical form.   'In order to make the music actual, you have to enable it to be. And that takes facing some ting sinsude you that constrict you, your own impurity and mistakes and blockages. As yo uopen up yourself, the music opens up different directions that lead you in yet other directions.'   "Asking most pop musicians if they're satisfied with records sales is liek asking moleds about the aging process: they say they don't care, but it's hard to believe. For commercial recording artists, sales are the only objective indicator of whether they're doing things right- that fans are sincerely motivated to walk into records stores by the tens or by the millions, pull out their wallets, and pay for the music. But with his quiet, unaffected boice nearly a whisper, Buckley steadfastly maintained tha the really didn't want to sell a million records- and it was strangely believable. When he talked aobut multiplatinum-selling bands who felt "disappointed" by a mere five million copies sold, the disgust he felt for commercialism was palpabale. 'The only valuable thing about selling records, the only thing that matters, is that people connect and that you keep on growing. You do many choices based on how many poeple you reach, meaning, now that I have a relationship with strangers worldwide, I have to try not to let it become too much of a factor and just accept it. The limited success we've had in the past is definately a factor, it's just there. It jsut is. The whole thing is such a crapshoot, you can't really control what your appeal is going to be. My music ain't gonna make it into the malls, but it doesn't matter. I don't really care to make it into the malls.   "'Whether I sell a lot of records or not isn't up to me. You can sell alot of records, but that's just a number sold- that's not understood, or loved, or cherished.   "'Take someone like Michael Jackson. Early on he sacrificed himself to his need to be loved by all. His talent and his power were so great that he got what he wanted but he also got a direct, negative result, which is that he's not able to grown into an adult human being. And that's why his music sounds sort of empty and wierd.   "'Being the kind of person I am, fame is really overwhelming. First of all, just being faced with the questions that everybody faces: Do I matter? Should I go on? Why am I here? Is this really that improtant? All that low self-esteem shit. Your'e constantly trying to make sure that your sense of self-worth doesn't depend on the writings or opinions of other people. You have to wean yourself off acclaim as the object of your work, by learning to depend on your own judgment and knowing what it is that you enjoy. Youhave to realize what the difference is between being adored and being loved and understood. Big difference.   "'I don't really have super-pointed answers to the big questions. I'm just in the middle of a mystery myself. I'm not even that developed at having a real psycho-religeous epistemology about what I feel. All I can tell you is that I feel. It's just the same old fitht to constantly be aware. It's an ongoing thing. It'll never be a static perfect thing or a static mediocre thing, it just has it's rise and fall.'" The following chapter has been transcribed from Shambhala Publishers' _Inside the Music: Conversations with Contemporary Musicians about Spirtuality, Creativity and Consciousness_, by Dimitri Ehrlich; ISBN #1-57062-273-6

[rockerchick1330]

~ Flower ~ A Chris Cornell fanfiction (Chapter 9)

Hey again hunnies! Sorry I haven't been posting so often, school recently resumed for me and, ya know -_- xD but I am excited cause I do have a lot of great ideas for the plot, hope you guys enjoy! Love you all and thank you so much for the support! XOX!! (This is Star's POV btw) Warning: This chapter does contain explicit, sexual content... The staircase was probably a faint blur at that moment. I constantly batted my eyelids until the thin, sheen of liquor based influence cleared it's infestation of my pupils. The bitter, yet cloying, taste of victorious spirit still lingering on my tongue. It was certainly responsible for the undefeatable grin plastered across my curled lips, twitching wider until my flushed cheeks ached. The bubbling din of Xana's drunken giggles that emitted like joyful sobs from her throat were quite peculiar, considering the lack of comical humor that Andy condoned. Her feet swirled and danced on the staggered brick path, the stiletto heel of her shoes often snapping sharply against the concrete. "Careful babe," Andrew snorted, rather amused than concerned of Xana's mentally numb condition. He coiled a protective arm around her tiny waist in assistance to avoid any minor incidents. After scribbling what I had assumed to be my originally designed signature on the freshly printed contract, I reminisced on the previous celebration. The loud, flustering cheers of finally being recognized as a foreign, Seattle Hard Rock band suffocated and drowned my self esteem positively. The vivid memory of Layne and Mike encouraging me to chug what appeared to be a quart of infused Vodka. The tingle and smoldering singe as the smooth, what I considered to be at the time, elixir rolled down my gullet. That thrilling after flame that left the linen of my throat raw. Yet, the satisfying pain wasn't enough to distract and amputate the roaring, distorted applause and jeers that followed immediately. With the liquor still churning in my stomach and my immunity barely flinching at its perilous contents, I retrospected on the latter consequences which I further disregarded. The professionally documented and typed sheet of great exaltation flitted and jolted my visual thoughts. The way I had the least heed for the seemingly endless paragraphs, transcripted in ebony ink. Skimming through the elegant font array of sentences just to display some sort of discretion, I hovered atop the labelled, dotted line. Its broken base already autographed by the uniquely drawn signatures of my band mates, I felt a sharp tremble and anxiety spume inside of me. Lines I assumed would've been jaggedly written were perfectly equable as my soul, gravitating on the carbonated ripples of my drinks. With both record executives offering us the typical introductory speech and invitation, an attentive Ashton absorbed most of the information. My attention was diverted on the most regular and uneventful individual in an assembly of notable, ensuing melees. Previously preaching the gospel of Rock 'N' Roll on stage, my eyes had strayed to the shady, sexy figure observing silently on the back. Neither of his fists were lodged into the air and his jaw was clenched shut, not permitting any chants or screeches of support. Clad in the sleek, appealing leather jacket I absolutely adored and fawned upon when he was clothed in it. His long, moisturized curls cascading down his broad, squared shoulders and his ghastly pale complexion shimmering beneath the flickering audience lights. The florid, overdone stage smokers occasionally fogged and clouded the once prominent view of him. I contemplated on the sudden adrenaline rush fumbling with my mature status and in exchange for foolish illusions, but I knew for a certain fact, it had to be whom I was convinced it was. Spitting lyrics out and attempting to congregate how he could've possibly slipped out of the insecure gaze of Susan was overwhelming. My consistent breaths and hesitation on particular lines disoriented my tongue, tying it into tricksy knots. Failing to shove and rid the sensual and intimate fantasizes of him out of my subconscious, I struggled to latch back onto the clasp of my usual performance ego. The moaning of Brandon's whammy bar piercing like a struck bell and creeping through the speakers. The way Ashton's fingers explored and journeyed across and beyond the frets of his guitar, performing licks that weren't even comprehendible. I felt my chest tremble, my rib cage shiver as Cyd's rhythmic bass line seeped like liquid gold from her rusted strings. Paired with Tristan's ridiculously angst amplified drumming, both were coupled romantically. Their depth pleasing the ears of dozens of spectators and fans, making it all the more satisfying to experience. But then, I could've no longer excused the mysterious, abstruse figure, for he was then trudging sluggishly beside me. His hands were buried within the grave of his pockets awkwardly as he occasionally attempted to conceive a normal, casual conversation. Skipping up the staircase, I refused to halt and await his presence as to conceal the existent endearment I shared with him. For cautionary purposes, Andy didn't hesitate or even inquire consent before scraping Xana off her feet. "Andy!" She squealed, struggling abundantly within his cradle intended arms. She punted her legs ferociously whilst wavering and deliberately flinging noneffective blows at his chest. "Baby, calm down!" His intentions of being placid and soothing were completely misinterpreted by his agitated, altercated tone. "No! I'm not a baby!" She bickered like a pouty, aggravated child. Being oblivious to her argument, her milky, shaved legs jolted, rather fiercely that time considering that her left shoe was then plummeting towards an untamed, decorative rose bush. "Fuck," I heard Andy hiss beneath a heavy, irritated breath. "My shoe! Go get it Andy!" Xana instantly swapped her once savage and violent behavior for one of much more agony and affliction for a materialistic object. Either way, Andy hadn't threatened to disobey an intoxicated Xana, bidding Chris and I farewell as we hurried up the creaky stairs. Our weight occasionally shifted the metal planks, a hazardous event I had grown accustomed and acquainted with. "Hey, Star-" arriving at the top floor, he somewhat timidly hailed my attention. "U-Uhh, about what happened today." I hadn't any confidence to properly assemble words, far much for my ability to avoid necessary eye contact. I apprehensively coughed, clearing my throat of the intentional hitch of air that dared to choke me. "W-What?" I ignorantly blurted, tripping over the complicated obstacles that were embarking on my tongue. Just the brief recall of the comprising, yet absolutely orgasmic, encounter Chris and I endured permitted a bright red glow that tinted my cheeks. The surreal feel of his hot, obscene touch merely scratching the surface of my sexual pinnacle. How delicious and delightful his long, calloused fingers apperceived my inner heat, stroking me in that undescribable pattern. He brushed every single inch of my valid weak spots, making me vulnerable, feeble beneath his accomplished smirk. My already aroused girlhood fluttered, reminiscing on how exceptionally he stimulated its palpitating nub of pink flesh. My teeth reflexively clenched my lower lip on the erotic vision of how warm my skin rose from his singular tease. But the most pleasurable and achingly amazing sensation was my achieved climax. It was beautiful, that final contraction and then the sharp ripples of my internal muscles. It was amatory and wonderful, that finishing cry and tight buckle of my pelvics. I would've sacrificed anything I was required to to experience a lengthy, passion driven intercourse session with Chris. "When we-" he paused abruptly as he gazed down at my lowered chin. "Well, when I touched you." I pursed my lips into a thin, firm line, fiddling nervously with the frayed ends of my distressed, acid washed jeans. "Chris, I-I don't know what to say," I mumbled rather charily whilst he ran his tongue along his chapped, bruised lips. Though he labored with the use of understood gestures to plead for applicable, visual communication, my aplomb had withered like the petals of a shriveling rose. I adverted my attention to the semi reflective surface of his boots, the disheveled laces making me cringe mentally from its lack of uniformity. My initial ambition was to ignore the emotional incision that spewed and exhausted my heart, trading it for a more unchanged and aloof spunk. Briefly surpressed by a figurative impediment, I coughed and shrugged either off my tensed shoulders. It was excruciating to mask my true intentions and love for him beneath the girl I attempted, but failed, to be. "I'm sorry for-" "No! No!" I denied and interrupted his sincere apology. Alternating my body language, I tilted my hips in accordance to the shifted weight amongst my legs. Slightly levitating my chin humbly and indolently swaying, I proceeded. "It was n-nothing really," there was an unintended strain in my voice when falsely confessing our affair was of no worth. His eyes frowned at me sympathetically, knowledgeable enough to recognize my transparent lie. "Nothing? What happened today was nothing to you?" He muttered questionably, unfazed by my unrealistic reply to react properly. We were shortly disturbed by the familiar wail that was squawked a floor beneath us. "Fuck! Fuck these motherfuckin' thorns!" He easily disregarded Andrew's cry of arrogation whilst I attempted to alter it into a distracted, miserably doing so unsuccessfully. "I think it meant more to you than it did to me." His assumption immediately captivated me in his skillfully invented snare. "T-That's not true," I spat hastily, abusing my innocent tongue for emitting such fibs. My jaw firmly clenched as my teeth sank into the inner flesh of my lips, silencing my untruthful phrases. I knew well he hadn't been swindled by my charade, proof being the twitching smirk that itched the corners of his lips. With the faint, apologetic moon mimicking his current emotions then, she casted a tender, ghoulishly romantic glow onto our silhouettes. Stumbling back against the front door and wincing at its irritating groan, he properly confronted my figure, skyscraping above my head. "You're a really bad liar babe," he mused, a mere grin tickling at his tempting, irresistible lips. I was immensely startled by his swift motion, barricading my body within the defense of his toned, leather clad arms. His fists solidly plastered onto the door behind and occasionally brushing on my curves as if the intended contact was an incident. My constant wheezing was audible then as he leaned at an appropriate level and reluctantly distanced our faces. That beautiful shimmer and sparkle that wedded his astounding emerald irises never failed to dupe me into a serene epiphany. His pale, perfectly chiseled features and alluring body added to the undeniable urge I felt for him. I desperately grasped at my sanity and control, reminiscing on the later remorse that would've haunted me. But I hungered for him, lusted after his touch and kiss, I needed him, buried deep within me, physically without any boundaries. "Is it that obvious?" I breathed, exchanging necessary oxygen with him, thirsty for any substance that contained matters of him. His hands were then fluctuated on my waist, firmly preparing me for what was soon to occur. Savoring the absolutely delicious taste of his lips as he sloppily latched onto my tongue, my eyelids grew heavy with the great mass of lust weighing them down. Feeling his arms snake around the entirety of my waist, I noosed my frail arms around his neck, gravitating on the very tips of my toes. "Chris," I muffled between our passionate kiss when his either hands heaved and groped at my full, prominent butt cheeks. "Fuck, I just need to see your body one more time," he sighed, regaining the brief disconnection with an equality of desire. "I just need to hear you moan my name again." My skin crawled like six legged fiends on beneath my flesh, making my body violently shiver within his secure prison. Finally committing to him, I breathed, dainty and soft. "P-Please, I need you Chris." Due to a sudden, lustful and horny impulse, he snapped at my lower lip, clenching it sharply between his teeth. Sucking at it and chastely licking its moisturized surface, I whimpered in delight and gasped. "I wanna make you feel so good," he seductively mumbled, lingering on my already swollen lips. "I want you sprawled out and moaning so loud for me when I finally have you." I unintentionally moaned, pleasured just by the unholy thought of hot, procrastinated sex with him. The mild foreplay and exchanging of filthy innuendoes were persuading us accurately, that was until his forsaken brunette snake slithered in... ★★★★★★★★★★★★★ I groaned, bothered and harassed by the vivid imagery of what had previously happened, excluding the interrupting melee from Susan. I uncomfortably shifted and revolved around my scattered, futile sheets that were much too distraught to provide coverage. The fragrance of his musky, alluring cologne infinitely dwelled on his indigo flannel I somewhat alleviated myself within. My digital clock flickered with bold, red numerals which accordingly read '1:35 A.M'. I was unable to analyze or comprehend the idea of slumber. The concept of Chris irritated and nagged annoyingly at me, depriving me of any relief of relaxation. Observing intently as the scarlett digits increased by each ticking minute, another sixty seconds of my deteriorating life squandered on him. My bed was the grave of the underlying scenario that we both part took in several hours before. Its deranged spirit whispered of my sinful disobedience to my once instilled oath. Fluctuating in multiple, unsatisfying directions on my unleveled, measled mattress, I forced my face into my fluffed pillow. The severe, suicidal contemplation of simply stifling myself within the feathers and cloth floated across my subconscious like an innocent cloud wavering amongst the sky. Discreetly exiting my regular thoughts, I stiffened at the sound of heavy, unsteady footsteps thumping down the corridor. Assuming it was Chris roaming the hallway and scraping the kitchen for left over delicacies or expired meals, I presumed to my normal plotting and suggestions. I didn't expect the abrupt introduction of his figure creeping into my room. A streak of yellow light seeped into the ebony atmosphere, approximately glaring straight into my squinted eyes. With shrunken pupils, I inspected his dark silhouette, immediately biting my sore lower lip slightly. His loosely hung boxers, sewed and embellished with a checkered design, barely clung to him. The elastic band of his briefs hung with peril on his extreme, low torso, exposing a mere inch of his muscular indented 'V'. Paired with the nonexistent shirt he wore, I immediately fawned over his sexy, appearance. "Chris, what are-" he harshly shut the door behind him, not exasperated by the still erect lock that perched open. The lack of lights made it difficult to properly detect what his purpose of entering so exaggeratedly was required for. I only realized his ambition when he invited himself to hover on top of my tiny figure. "I'm not finished with you babe," he growled, immediately beginning his intended goal. Clenching both the buttoned seams of the oversized, rugged flannel I was huddled into, with a single, brutal tug, my bare chest was no longer secluded. Before having a moment to protest, he pinned my wrists down on the ruffled covers of my bed, migrating his lips to my neck. My argument only emitted as a faint gasp and moan, thoroughly enjoying his constant, violent nibbling and sensual sucking at my tender flesh. He was already familiar and accustomed with my body. With eventual lag and a teasing ego, he finally arrived at my perky, round breasts. Adorning them with hot kisses that threatened to burn or singe my flesh, I sighed as my chest heaved and released. "Ah! Chris!" I whimpered when he began suckling at one of my erected, solid nipples. Grazing his warm tongue on every single inch of my boobs, my twinging embarrassment or, perhaps more appropriately, shame faltered away like ashes crumbling from blue flames. My skin immediately roused in temperature, contagiously spreading throughout my entire body. Paving his path down my cleavage and flattened stomach, I hesitated when he taunted the waistline of my vulgar panties. "C-Chris," I wheezed as his tongue traced the spacious region between both my pelvics. My heart was palpitating at a surreal rate along with the rapid flow of my blood curdling through my veins. The vague puncture of fear struck me. "I-I'm scared," I honestly confessed as he fiddled with the satin trim of my underwear. "Shh-" he hushed gently, his lips brushing intimately on my inner thighs. "Don't be scared, I promise I won't hurt you." With his fingers prying my panties down and permitting them to dangle around my ankles, he briefly savored a moment to admire my pubic area. Licking his lips and firmly fixating my limbs on how he desired me to be positioned, a shallow breath hitched in my mid throat. "Relax for me," he purred with his hot breath purposely fanning against my glistening genitals. His soothing words smoothed out my ridged edges and choppy fright, leisurely easing my pressure like magic. He firmly grasped onto my thighs, so tightly that my skin seeped through the gaps of his long fingers. With sufficient time to plot out his performance, I pursed my lips and screwed my eyes shut. All his persuasion finally paid their debts in the end. I strangled the sheets from my iron grip, moaning aloud as an approval of his current gesture. His tongue was soft and supple against my shimmering, folds, concentrating especially on my plump, aching clitoris. "Mhmm," I whimpered, my body jostling sharply when he proceeded to pacify my flitting clit. "O-Oh! Chris, I-I." My hips automatically bucked, angling myself for him to make proper love to my flesh orally. The undescribable pleasure tingled and swished inside of me as events developed more erotic and heated whilst he preserved strong eye contact with me through his curtained hair. I grinded against his then inserted fingers and tongue, edging myself to an absolute wonder of an orgasm. "Ohh! Oh yes!" I convinced him more. My toes curled as a thin, sheen layer of sweat built upon the surface of my skin. I felt myself hot and boiling within my lower abdomen, reflexively earning subtle screams and cries then. Easily predicting my oncoming climax by my obvious reactions and muscle contractions, I pouted and whined when he distanced his once consistent lips from me. "D-Don't stop, please," I pleaded as he licked the residue fluids up from the scape and circumference of his lips. Cleansing his sticky fingers with his mouth and returning to kiss me, my interestingly queer taste still lingered on his skilled tongue. "I've got something better for you babe," he whispered sexily as I raked my nails down the width of his firm, strong back... That night was it, the blissful farewell to my purity. The pleasurable moment of combing with his being, becoming singular in soul and mind with him through physical contact. It was impeccable, beautiful, perfectly executed. But nothing, not even considering our passionate sex, was enough to defeat the comforting promise we vowed to one another. "I love you Chris, so much." "I love you more Starlett, I always loved you."