#it was real and it mattered a lot and had ripple effects across the remaining half of the show

[all-pacas]

CAMERON HAD A THING FOR CHASE ALL ALONG: THE PROPAGANDA

I've talked before about how you can make a fairly decent case for Chase having a tiny crush on Cameron since S1: I'd never go so far as to say he was in love and pining this whole time, but the man was attracted and made it pretty clear. It's admittedly harder to see this from Cameron's POV, since the show is not very good at illustrating her feelings generally (her crush for House is blatant, but also arrives from on high out of the blue), but… I think you can make an interesting case that Cameron had been lightly interested in Chase for just about as long.

The thing is: in S1, the two are clearly friends. As early as episode two, we see them joking around together (Chase also takes a moment to sexually objectify her), and Chase is actually the most likely of the team to stick up for Cameron or defend her: he makes something of a habit of telling House her good ideas, and there are a few differential scenes where he takes her side over House's. Cameron, in turn, is both the only one to doubt/refuse to believe Chase would rat to Vogler, and is openly worried about Chase in Cursed. It's useful to compare Foreman's relationships with them both here: Foreman and Cameron clash surprisingly often about patient care and ethics, and both immediately (correctly, mind you) assumes Chase ratted to Vogler and doesn't show the faintest interest in the Rowan Chase drama. Cameron and Chase joke around, stick up for one another, and get along. The one exception is in Heavy, when House intentionally pits them against one another to save their respective jobs: I'd argue that Chase turning on Cameron so fast is meant to be surprising in part because they're usually so aligned.

Chase is also someone Cameron confides in. He is the one she talks to about her crush on House, and the scene in which she first addresses it is fairly telling:

Cameron: Did House seem weird to you? Chase: Are you expecting him to be weird? Cameron: We spoke about how we felt. Chase: You told him you liked him? Cameron: No, of course not. Chase: What are you talking about, then? Cameron: I asked him if he liked me. Chase: Why would you do that? Cameron: Because I like him. Chase: You like him, like him? Cameron: Doesn’t matter, he doesn’t like me. Chase: Hey, he doesn’t like anybody. And nobody likes him.

Cameron feels vulnerable here, and yet she goes to Chase and is pretty up front with him. He doesn't seem that surprised by her crush, and even tries to reassure her about it. She does not have this conversation with Foreman, nor is it the only time she and Chase talk about this sort of thing: they have a very similar conversation in S2's TB or Not TB, where she tells him about the patient asking her out.

(*As an aside, Cameron's habit of using Chase as a sounding board for her crushes on other men is probably a big reason he ends up so insecure and worried about House as a romantic rival later on, lol.)

In S2, we actually see this friendship continue: Chase is openly worried about her in Hunting before the Meth Hookup, asking her to drinks, checking up on her, and even offering to work overtime on her behalf; this is again fairly different compared to Foreman and House's more muted reactions (and his own later apathy towards Foreman in Euphoria, lol). She is somewhat understandably more muted in supporting him in The Mistake, considering they'd just had sex — but she unilaterally tells Stacy Chase did nothing wrong, and doesn't deny her bias towards him. They're friends! They've always been friends!

But there's no denying there's always been a sexual/attraction aspect, too. Cameron is actually the main instigator of this: in Occam's Razor, she hears that Chase might be interested in her and sexually harasses the hell out of him; this isn't a sincere sign of attraction, exactly, but… Chase makes a surprisingly number of comments that make it clear he's attracted to her, and it actually is requited. She makes jokes about his sexual prowess in Safe, she enjoys teasing him in Occam's Razor, she is consistently amused instead of annoyed when he jokes about patients wanting to ask her out or drawing attention to her necklace and therefore breasts. It's not flirting, exactly, but the sexual edge is always there: in a cut line in Occam's Razor, Cameron confirms she does find Chase attractive and want to 'jump' him, but is resisting these impulses because she can control herself.

She is told repeatedly in Hunting to be selfish, to do something she wants, to have fun for a change. And she calls Chase over for sex. (This, in an episode where she also had a major health scare and he was the only one to show open worry for her well being.) We can't pretend that oh, the thing she always secretly wanted to do was meth: the episode pretty clearly implies she's been wanting to fuck Chase for a while. When he tells her it can't happen again, she doesn't argue or seem upset… but tellingly, she never says it was a mistake, or a bad idea. She calls out the patient for lying about how happy he is, but never actually seems to regret her actions. She did something she wanted, and that could have just been having casual sex, having fun for once… but she called Chase.

This is something she repeats in S3, in an even more telling way. Cameron doesn't just decide to start a FWB relationship out of the blue, because she's bored: she claims it's convenient and simple, but you absolutely should not forget that earlier in the episode she and Foreman had a discussion about commitment, that relationships are on her mind. Foreman told her she's afraid of commitment, and so she turns around and… propositions Chase? She's trying to prove Foreman wrong here, prove herself wrong. And it's clear right away that Cameron doesn't believe any of her words about convenience and practicality: by the next episode, she and Chase are spending all their time together at and out of work; by Top Secret and Fetal Position they're not just having sex all over the hospital but eating meals together after work; by Airborne she's calling it a relationship and being corrected by Chase. Even if she's insisting it's a casual relationship, she spends two months glued to him and kind of treating him like they're dating.

And again — it's Chase. She doesn't proposition Foreman, she never tries again with House after S1 (the Half Wit makeout session being clearly driven by her lingering crush but not at all an attempt at a relationship with him), she hesitates but rejects TB Guy, she doesn't try to date anyone else. She keeps singling out Chase, someone she already likes and cares about and who she knows cares about her (even just as a friend). She keeps propositioning him. Chase, too, seems to believe there's more to this than she insists: he is honestly surprised and hurt when she rejects him in Airborne ("You can't tell me that you—", he starts), and in Act Your Age reads her dead to rights by pointing out how wildly out of character her stoic act is. Implicitly — and explicitly, according to the show — he is correct.

In Lockdown, Cameron is nice enough to tell us how she (at least retrospectively, in her head) views the relationship. She is trying to stand up to Chase's accusations, but it also does read as a statement of intent, and it does match up fairly well with all of this:

CHASE: The first time you slept with me was because you were on crystal meth. CAMERON: I was on the drugs because I was emotional. It was the emotions that led to the sex, not the drugs. CHASE: Not true. After that, you refused to let it go further than just sex. CAMERON: Because I knew I was falling for you and I didn't want to.

She slept with Chase not because she wanted the sex, but because it was Chase, because she was emotional and scared and he was her friend. She rejected him in Airborne because she was scared of falling for him, not because she didn't care. She has cared about Chase since S1; Cameron runs and avoids her feelings whenever she can as a rule, and this is no different. But she's cared the whole time. She keeps singling out Chase because she likes him, not because she doesn't.

[sassooda]

Worlds Away JJK AU / Chapter 16 - Observer 🔞

w/c - 6,503

     Choso’s curiosity has been getting the best of him lately. He remains mindful in his duties but he can’t help but research in his spare time, knowing that the unknown is slowly eroding away at him.

           Yesterday, he had some updates about Itadori’s control over Sukuna, which he muddles in an attempt to pull Getou’s attention from him, so he made his way to Getou’s room to deliver the report. He heard crashing sounds and grunts but knew better than to simply open the door. As he leaned into it though, he began to hear the muffled cries of a woman, some sounding comparable to Elska’s but the rest resembling horror. To his dismay, he became intrigued and decided that he should take a peek using his observer’s technique.

           Choso quickly strolled his way back to his office and shuts the door behind him. He places his phone on his desk and sits down in the swiveling leather chair. He removes the tie from his hair in an attempt to relax. He hesitates for a moment, feeling a little dirty about his intentions for doing this but he really needs to know more. While still sitting, he turns his back to the door and draws an oval shaped design into the air. He closes his eyes and focuses on mapping the trail to Getou’s room, a much simpler task than transporting people. When he finishes, his eyes open and before him is now a real time vision of what was happening in there.

           He sees Getou mounting a curvy black-haired woman who’s bound up in chains but face down on her knees. Choso is confused because although it looks sort of like what Naoya was doing to Elska, Getou seems to be hurting the girl in front of him. She’s not crying but her expression definitely reads distress in contrast to his that has an engrained smile accompanied by laughter. He can’t see much from this approach but catches sight of Getou’s length as he begins to harshly administer repetitive full thrusts, ramming the woman into the floor. Her entire body jolts with each round which seems to excite Getou further as he taunts her “I knew you were a slut.” Choso was trying to take away as much as he could from this display but couldn’t help but feel Getou was doing it wrong…Naoya’s approach seemed a lot less, well selfish. He hears the woman grunt into a whine, “I didn’t say you could cum yet bitch.” Getou began striking the woman with her own chains and he decided that was enough…he didn’t care to see anymore. He remembers the shiver that crossed his body as he released the technique, forming even more contempt for the man he worked for.

           Today though he thought, ‘Maybe I should try her…’. It’s been a long one but he found himself with extra time since he didn’t need to be on medical standby, everyone was at the base. He sits down in his chair like before but less relaxed for he doesn’t know what he’s going to see… ‘hopefully nothing like yesterday’. He again traces the oval in the air before his eyes shut until he can once again navigate the distance and map the path. Once he’s completed this he opens his eyes quickly to the sounds leading from the window like projection.

           He sees Elska riding Gojo, although he wouldn’t know to use such vocabulary. His mouth drops at the full view, being thankful for whatever it was in that room that created the shadow he could infiltrate. It’s as if he’s sitting across from the couch, only mere feet away. Now he can see exactly how it’s done.

           His eyes are completely honed into how Gojo and her are connected, where and how she’s making him to move in and out of her. Their moans hitch his breath. He finds himself with that strange feeling, that overwhelming tingling that makes him grab himself through the cloth of his pants again. He notices that his own meaty extension is becoming firmer, throbbing in response to the naughty sights playing out before him. When she gets up, he frowns and sighs thinking that he must have caught the end of it but she soon sits back down on him, leaving Choso to see now her face and breasts.

           She’s definitely having a better time than Getou’s woman. Her expression is soft with furrowed brows and an open mouth. He finds it interesting that she seems so overwhelmed but is controlling the situation and doesn’t slow down. A high-pitched “Ahh!” leaves her as he watches Gojo’s smile widen. He’s doing something with one of his hands but Choso isn’t at the right angle to view it. Whatever it was, she seems to really like it.

           He leans back in his chair, hand on his crotch as he continues to watch them go at it. He puts some pressure into his palm and brushes down towards his knees, causing himself to vocally shudder. ‘This is strangely wonderful’. He’s watching the climaxes unfurl between the two, their cries making him grip himself now and he sees Gojo hold her down in place above him, pushing into her. He’s seen so much in his lifetime and wonders how he never discovered this before. ‘I wonder if my brothers knew?’ The show before him has come to end but he doesn’t release the technique so he can take in their bareness as he gathered that helped him feel good too. He’s reaching into his pants now, fondling himself in different ways, experimenting with what feels best. His hands are pretty big but now his grip has widened more than usual as he holds himself snuggly. He’s not even aware of his own moans as he mirrors the same motions along his shaft that would be experienced if he were with one of those girls. His body tenses up, causing the rest of him to become erect as well while he quickens his moving hold. There’s a small amount of liquid oozing out of the head. He runs his fingers along the tip, giving it a fluent ribbed like texture and his toes curl for a second. “Uhh..ah”. ‘Feels really fucking good.’

           He’s back to focusing on their interactions while stroking himself. Gojo is dressing her as she seems to be losing her usual collected state. He doesn’t find her as exciting in this situation covered but the little dress is still pretty revealing, appetizing in a way. He bits his bottom lip. He’s about to remove himself from his pants as they seem to have shrunk around his thighs and hips but then the door to his office swings open.

           “Cho-so I need you to sign off on the-…” Naoya’s voice is lost as his eyes meet Choso’s technique. His earlier good mood is decimated as he’s watching a naked Gojo embracing a barely dressed Elska. He’s immediately enraged at the fact that they’re holding each other and the implications of how their dress…or lack thereof… insinuates a situation of abhorrence for Naoya. “What does that blue-haired dick think he is doing?” He then sees Choso’s flushed face paired with open pants and still clothed erection.

           “What the FUCK is going on in here!?” Naoya’s deep voice booms through the room, hollowing Choso as he jumps to stand up. He braces himself as Naoya beelines for him, or so he thought. Naoya completely passes him though, in an attempt to jump through what he thinks is a portal, completely heated at the sight of Gojo swaying his woman in his arms.

           “Naoya NO! YOU CAN’T!” Choso grabs onto Naoya’s shoulder and uses his cursed energy to rip the large man away as fast as he could. Naoya flies backwards to the other side of the room but Choso knows it’s too late when he sees the ripple effect cascade outwards from where he assumes Naoya’s hand penetrated its surface. He can see Gojo looking around the room in a completely defensive state, hoping that he’s still left ignorant as to what just happened. He releases the window quickly after that.

           “That technique is only untraceable as long as what is observed remains undisturbed!” Choso catches himself actually raising his voice for the second time ever, which seems to throw Naoya by surprise too. “You could’ve ruined everything!” He’s trying to calm himself, “We lose a major advantage if they find out I can do this Naoya…”

           “I thought I made myself pretty clear you little perv, you’re not to touch yourself to her…what the fuck!?” Naoya is standing himself up, brushing the dirt from his arms and cracking his neck. He’s irritated by this ‘HIM TOO NOW?’ He doesn’t understand that Choso is simply inquisitive about the act and isn’t actually wanting to try and take Elska, he’s just paranoid after it seems everyone else does.

           “You actually said for me to not touch myself to the thoughts of you and her.” Choso corrects Naoya in a matter-of-fact manner, still collecting himself from the infusion of his groin and the seriousness of what almost happened. “Why didn’t you just call or even knock?”

           “Choso…she is spoken for...BY ME!” His eyes trail down to Choso’s pants. “Do you understand why this is wrong? If I see this again, I’ll tug it so hard it falls off…and I DID!” He points to Choso’s phone that’s lit up and displaying 4 missed calls. Naoya’s voice is still raised as he has yet to calm down himself. He felt like if he didn’t get to her right in that minute, or at least soon, he’d lose her forever. It was clear to him, her affections for Gojo and that made him insecure about his own for her. He never planned on caring for whoever his wife would end up being, marriage has always been about beneficial arrangements within the clans. He didn’t even care much for the idea when she was mentioned to him initially, years ago, ‘Just so long as she can produce strong heirs.’  Now however, he found the time and distance between them to be torturous, he knows she feels something for him too but isn’t able to sum up the totality of exactly how much that is. He knows he’s lucky to have such emotions for his intended and now feels the need to share them.

           The room remains soundless for a minute until Naoya sighs and looks to Choso. “Look, I’ll keep this our little secret if you do that for me so I can see her tomorrow...” He’s still pretty pissed off about everything he just saw…literally everything…but when he looks to Choso who is undoubtedly embarrassed, he can’t help but feel bad for the guy. ‘He’s new to that stuff.’ Naoya thinks of how she looked in that tiny little slip and shudders pleasurably before turning his attention back to his pitiful friend. Choso probably would have remained uncorrupted had Naoya only done his job that day when he caught them. He realizes this. “Just don’t do that to her ever again. You need to find someone else to peep on, Tom.”

Choso doesn’t understand the reference but nods his head in agreeance while looking down to the right…still too embarrassed to meet eyes with Naoya while on that subject.

Naoya sighs again and walks closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Look, it’s alright, all men have been through something similar at one point or another.” He tries to add encouragement to his voice because other than this, he’s grown really fond of him as they’ve grown closer. “It’s almost like a rite of passage.” He trudges up a smile, “You’re just a really, really late bloomer buddy.” He pats Choso’s shoulder and then turns to leave the room. He seems in a hurry all of the sudden. “I fucking mean it though, leave her OUT of it. I’ll know too if you don’t!” He smiles and pulls the door shut behind him, never even addressing properly which papers he needed signed. A faint, “I’ll be back in the morning” is heard as his footsteps fade.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

           Toji was confidently strolling the halls with a large paper bag in hand. ‘He won’t be able to resist this special edition.’ He woke up on the floor of his demolished apartment without wings luckily. He’s still over joyed about his new form, loving the power surging through him although he hasn’t summoned any cursed energy since the scuffle between him and Gojo. “Tch…Gojo…” he grumbles, “I am surely the better option now, she just needs the truth.”

           He arrives to Nanami’s office but finds that it’s empty. ‘Maybe I should have called. He better not be on a mission.’ He stands in front of the doorway speculating where the shaman could have been at this time of day. He walks further down into the hall aimlessly, really looking for anyone who would know of his whereabouts, Megumi even if he was lucky, until he begins to hear voices. He nears them, recognizing them as the distance disappears. “God damnit…” He says as he leans into the doorway to find Nanami, Gojo and Elska sitting around a conference table.

           He first looks to Elska who looks in much better condition than the night before. As he scans over her white tanktop and skin, he’s thankful initially to see that he didn’t leave her with any bruises but then gathers that meant she’s likely fed since. Gojo stands up immediately upon seeing Toji, slightly confused as to why he wasn’t able to sense him like before.

           Nanami sighs, “I swear if you two break anything, I’ll make sure it’s deducted from your pay Satoru…”

           Toji immediately punches a hole through the door, “HAA you heard him!”.

           “TOJI what the hell?” Nanami is standing now too, his hands having slammed down on the table.

           “Toji stop it!” Elska is still sitting but her expression is stern.

           Toji throws his head up, “I’m sorry Nanami…I couldn’t help myself.” He sighs, “I won’t do it again…”

           Elska looks satisfied by this but the other two men were shocked by how easily he listened to her. Toji shuffles to the side of the table closest to him and hands the bag to Nanami. “This is for helping me with my room.” Ending with a mischievous wink.

           “The fucks he talking about Nanami?” Gojo turned his entire head in a dramatic way to narrowly eye his blonde friend. He’s can’t believe Toji would have the balls to show his face again so soon after what happened. ‘And now there’s talk of a room?’ He turns to Elska now on his left, checking to see if she’s uncomfortable by his showing up but she isn’t. Her posture has actually straightened and her eyes have yet to leave him since he entered, which he doesn’t like.

           “I never said yes, Toji just doesn’t liste-…”

           “Fuck that, I’m moving in y’all. My place is toast now and I have no other choice.” Toji throws his hands up in comical defeat as he prepares to lay the gravy on them. “My son is here and so is my ma-…Elska…who is still in danger by the way.” He looks to Gojo now, both of their eyes narrow simultaneously as the scowls also form. Satoru rolls his shoulders back and intensifies his presence.

           “What happened at your place, Toji?” Elska’s voice in brimming with concern as she now finally stands, joining the others in the room. She lands her right hand on Satoru’s arm to display that she’s still very aware of his hesitation but is also asking him to hold off for a moment.

           “Doll, I’m so glad you asked…” A wide grin takes over Toji’s expression as his excitement builds. He wanted to show her rather than tell her but this is still going to be good. “It turns out that you gave me wingsSHAHHHHH” The cry that leaves him is thunderous and wild.

           Toji hunches over and grabs at his shoulders, “Aww FUCK not right now!” He’s struggling to the floor as he finally catches himself before falling over, being on his hands and knees now. Elska tries to run over to him but Satoru grabs her arm and pulls her back forcefully, not knowing what to expect. Toji’s muscles are dancing along his back as his skin begins to stretch from large bone protrusions. “Why does it hurt so bad!?” After what seems like forever, they finally rip through and the massive deep grey wings take shape around him. His tattered shirt falls forward, holding on by the waist. His wings were much thicker than Elska’s and used more body area where they conjoined from the spine outward. No one says anything at first, they just stand there as the gusts wave through them.

           “They’re…beautiful.” Elska gasps and reaches out for one of the stray feathers that was blown across the table as he’s tearing off the rest of his shirt. “They’re so big! Wow Toji!” She can’t help but feel excited at his time, finally seeing what others saw when they looked at her. His stature was large as it is but with the added mass of feathers, he almost seemed imperial…like some kind of winged royalty. Their eyes meet for a moment but the gaze between them seemed timeless. Her eyes begin to glow, fangs slowly forming. She mindlessly tries to walk towards him a second time, with him never leaving her sight. Satoru snatches at her again and yanks her backward which throws her back into reality.

           “Have you forgotten what he’s done to us? To YOU?” Satoru’s words are harsh, stinging as she recollects exactly what he’s referring to. ‘Why am I like this… He’s right.’ “I’m sorry.” Is all she manages in response.

           “No. I don’t think so Gojo…you’ve got this all twisted.” Toji’s voice is lowered, he seems like he may even growl. He steps a little closer, wings twitching randomly as he does. “Elska… he kidnapped you from your world, held you prisoner, abused you…” He sees Nanami’s eyes widen as he tears off the cap of the bottle and just chugs from it. “And then he had your memories erased.”

           Satoru hasn’t moved but his grip on her arm has become unbearable as she tries to pull it away from him. He releases her instantly not being conscious of his actions. “My love…please, don’t listen to him…” His eyes remain on Toji, evolving into a menacing state. Satoru is actually the one to growl, “It’s not that simple.”

           “Great! Now that’s out in the open…” Nanami is only now putting down the bottle, already showing signs of intoxication. Everyone turns to him to address the random interruption as he pulls the bottle out of the paper bag and slides it to Elska. “I can’t fucking believe you two right now…she deserves the next go.”

           Elska receives the bottle, catching it with both hands along its path. The atmosphere is so incredibly tense and weird as she tries to take in Toji’s words. “That would explain a lot actually…” Hands shaking, she swigs the bottle herself, coughing slightly afterwards to her first try of Jameson. It probably looks as if she didn’t enjoy the taste but she repeats the same action twice more, drinking more in each time. She’s sure that information was shocking but can’t bring herself to negatively emotionally react. ‘It’s almost not surprising though and that would explain that flavor.’ “Jesus you guys…what the FUCK?” She rarely swears but felt this was as good a time as any…still kind of dazed as she pieces things together from her own perspective.

           Satoru is still frozen solid as he fails to understand her reaction once again. He’s finding that even after all of this time, she’s still so unpredictable. ‘How did she just take that kind of information in stride?’ She doesn’t seem to discredit it, in fact she seems to be coming to terms with it. ‘Is this it, is she going to leave me?’ He’s staring off in space, retreating into his mind, when he feels her nudge him with the bottle. He looks down to her as she looks straight ahead, unwilling to meet his eyes at the time. He slowly takes the bottle in disbelief and quickly guzzles some like his life depends on it. ‘Is she just having a delayed reaction? This is fucking creepy.’

           Toji is waiting for shit to hit the fan too. As he listens to Gojo chasing a buzz, his eyes meet Elska’s and he’s not sure what she’s feeling, she’s not giving anything away. He was expecting her to completely freak out and maybe even attack Gojo herself, hoping so anyways. She looks up to him again for a moment and he can sense her gears turning. “Are you alright, doll?”

           Gojo slams down the bottle, surprisingly not shattering it. “Stop with the fucking pet names before I rip your fucking mouth off.”

           “I will be once Sati hands you the bottle.” She giggles a little as the sudden introduction of alcohol begins to affect her as well. “Sati, don’t be such a dick…I mean, seriously…like you’ve room to talk right now.”

           He thinks to be offended for a second but can’t help but still remain on edge by her demeanor. She hardly speaks to him that way and he’s completely unsettled by her composure. ‘She’s still calling me Sati…’ He shrinks down as the pressure seems too great, he’s wondering if he would’ve preferred her to lose her shit. She finally looks back at him and she even smiles. ‘Why?’

           “Elska…” his voice is so unsure of itself as her name leaves his lips.

           “Pass Toji the bottle.” She sees Satoru’s reluctance as he’s picking up on the symbology of the situation. “You’ve both said your piece now stop being a child and just do it.” She looks to Toji now who is extending out a hand, smugly ready to accept the forced gesture. “Toji, don’t make this any more difficult than it already is…” To this he huffs and removes the arrogance from his expression.

           Nanami stands up, laughing, “Grown men…” and shakes his head as he announces he’ll be right back. Everyone watches him leave until Satoru finally slides the bottle across from him, towards Toji. “Take it, cunt.”

           “SATI.”

Toji and Gojo’s eyes are locked, even while Toji drinks. After the first sip he lets out, “HAHH…yea, this definitely was needed today.” Before tilting it upwards for more. His wings flutter as he takes in the beverage, causing Elska and Gojo’s attention to remain on him.

           “I need that again before I say my bit…” Elska now waves to the bottle in Toji’s hand which he leans over slowly to hand it to her, unnerved by what exactly it’ll consist of.

           She guzzles some this time and Satoru twitches in response, probably wanting her to slow down considering she was such a lightweight. When she sets it down, it’s with purpose. “Listen you two…” She sighs deeply, “I am not oblivious, I was simply missing pieces of the puzzle. Sati, my dream last night…I believe it was a memory of the first time I gave myself to you.” She notices Toji shift his stance, being out of the loop. “You’ve always had this taste about you, I’ve sensed that side of you this entire time. The nightmares, I’m accepting now that they may potentially all be memories…which means I know far more than you think I do.” Both men remain silent, unsure of where this is heading. Satoru’s face looks like he’s in pain, genuine agony as she progresses, turning towards him, “You’ve done some really horrible things my dear, to me and others as well… I can’t argue that.” She places her left hand into his cheek as he buries his face into it reflexively. “And as sick as it is, I almost understand. If I remember correctly then I think I’ve said this before although it’s even more so true now.” His eyes anxiously meet hers, “You were raised to believe that love was not in your nature but Sati, you are no monster.” He inhales sharply to this, almost as if he’d been holding his breath the entire day. His eyes close as his face reddens from emotion, “You didn’t know how to express your feelings properly then but you do now.” He brings his hands up to her one on his face and gently holds it as a single tear rolls down his other cheek. “If you never took me, I wouldn’t be here with everyone from this world today…I’m happy here.”

He responds in a whisper that leaves a timid smile as he recalls that wonderful night, and soaks up her current words, “This must be love.” To which she half laughs, half cries as her own tears are beginning to form as well. “Elska…” He decides to finally embrace her, “My Elska…”

           Nanami enters the room again, “I knew I had another one somewhere! With the content being spewed, I just knew that one wouldn’t be enough.” He sets the second bottle down and opens it, uncaring that the first is unfinished. “I care about all of you, yes even you Toji…but this is the most dysfunctional shit I’ve ever heard of in my life.” He laughs wearily as he swigs from the new bottle.

           Toji turns the chair in front of him around leaving the support in front of him as he sits at the table, feeling defeated. ‘How in the fuck did that just go down like that. All of that work, lying, sneaking around, scheming…and for what? She still loves him anyway?!’ He reaches for the first bottle and gulps a decent amount down. “What the fuck man…”

           She turns to Toji now, placing her hand on top of the one teetering the bottle on the table. “You Toji, you’re not innocent either…you need to stop trying to manipulate us.” He scoffs to this, removing his hand and the bottle from under hers to drink again. “Toji…” The hurt is evident in her tone.

           “Look doll, since I’m taking this harder than you are let me just have a minute.” He softens his voice to her, “This isn’t what I expected to be honest.” He watches her drink from the second bottle that Nanami handed to her. A smile forming on her face as she wipes away the liquid that spilled from her lips. She’s wearing black sweatpants too but the snug little white tank top, now has little dribbled murky spots from the spillage. He’s feels it minutely but his wings flutter again while he observes her.

           “Toji, you’re still very special to me and you should understand that thoroughly.” She sees him darting eyes over to Satoru after she spoke to which a grin formed indicating that Satoru probably didn’t like that. “We are bonded now; our relationship is also very unique.” She now sits down, feeling tipsy and warm. “I can’t believe it’s finally out there.” Her relief is clear as she leans back and stretches. “It really all makes so much more sense now.” Her composed demeanor instantaneously relaxes everyone in the room, it becoming evident that her ability to be understanding and empathetic had been greatly underestimated.

           Nanami leans over where he sits, “Shame on these men, Elska. Imagine if you had a quiet guy like myself.” He laughs to his own words as he waits for the rebuttal.

           “Not uhh Nanamin you’re a scoundrel too! I caught you staring at her ‘little lady’ last night.” Satoru laughs loudly as he knows he��s just struck a nerve. “You’re face right now!” He’s lost in snickers as his tension fades.

           Toji and Elska stiffen to these words. Toji angrily snaps his head to Nanami not understanding why that would even transpire, “WHAT?” He stands and his wings begin to flail.

           “Toji you have to calm down! I’m sure it’s a joke!” She glares at Satoru for stirring things up again, “Why would you say that?” She shoves his shoulder and hoping that small bit odd normalcy they were experiencing wasn’t just ruined.

           “I’m kidding, we all know our Nanamin wouldn’t do such a thing!” He turns to his now statuesque friend with an evil grin, hinting that he’ll blow the shit out of proportion if he needs to, he has the power to throw him under the bus. Nanami loosens his tie while he awkwardly chuckles and finally begins relaxing again, fully comprehending what Satoru’s eyes were saying.

           “Alright boys…I’m in desperate need of a shower” She stumbles a bit once standing and remembers that she’s still technically wearing both men, “Ok maybe a bath then.” All four chuckle as she straightens herself and makes her way to the door. I’ll come back when I’m done if you’re still gathered here.” And she waves as the room falls quiet to her absence.

           Satoru and Toji both take a swig at the same time which causes Nanami to laugh. “You know, you two aren’t so different from each other if you really think about it.” This statement wasn’t met well though and they refused to look at each other.

           “Difference is, this fuck always wins.” Toji rolls his eyes as he sits again, placing an elbow down on the table to rest his head in hand. He’s facing Nanami, allowing his hand to block his view of Gojo.

           “I really do I guess… I still don’t feel like it though.” He sighs as the outcome is still blowing his mind. His little Elska is really something else. He’s twirling the ends of his hair as he thinks about how much time he spent in fear of this exact predicament. He was so sure she would be mortified…and rightfully so. “You still get to feed from her though so it can’t be called a true victory…fucker.”

           “Are you seriously telling me that even after all of this, you two are STILL making it about yourselves?” Nanami completely removes his glasses now as he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Neither of you really gave her a choice to begin with so why is it so important that she chooses now? What, like you value that or something suddenly?” His tone is still friendly but he’s getting agitated at how they could fail to get along or even understand.

           “What are we supposed to do, fucking share her?” Toji spits instantly, empty chuckles leaving his mouth as his nerves are being worked again.

Gojo shifts his weight in his chair and crosses his legs.

           Nanami brings his hands together in an intense moment of deliberation. “I mean, yea…maybe.”

           Toji postures himself upright immediately, “She’s not a fucking toy.” He looks to Gojo out of curiosity as the man chugs some more from the second bottle, surprised to not hear more protests from him as well. He looks like he’s thinking now too.

           “If it weren’t for Naoya then I wouldn’t even be considering this.” Gojo is smiling wide, feeling a little drunk now. “I wonder how he’s doing...”

           “What do you mean by that?” Toji is quick to want to understand the implications of that sentence. One of his eyebrows are raised as he gives Gojo his full attention.

           “Well… when I was sealed, Naoya brought her to me. He was putting her…in a tough position and one thing led to another. It was a really bizarre occurrence but long story short, that was almost a threesome.” He pauses a moment as if he’s reflecting, “Had I been able to move? It would’ve definitely been a threesome.”

           “He fucked Elska?” Toji’s voice is matched with the same surprise as his expression. Naoya has been officially underestimated as well.

           “Right in front of me.” He takes another drink as he greedily relishes in the memory. His mannerisms were so casual that it didn’t seem to sit right with the others listening. “She was partially in my lap for the majority of it, I just couldn’t move.”

           “What? Satoru, are you serious? And he’s still alive?!” Nanami is flabbergasted by the calmness as the words left his possessive friend’s mouth. ‘I did not need to know all of this.’

           “Well…” He laughs to himself as he makes eye contact, shifting between the two, “Of course initially I was ready to disembowel the fucker but as it progressed, I just realized that I was into it!” He shrugs his shoulders as he relives the situation some more, a deep sigh existing his lips.

           “I’m going to kill that little shit…” Toji drinks again, “He wants to make her a fucking Zenin, Gojo, surely you know this. What do you think the boy is cute or something?”

           “Of course I’m aware but I’m not going to let that happen. Also, I’m not attracted to Naoya…I just like how he makes her feel.” He shivers now to his own words. “Woah, that sounded weird to actually say.”

Nanami is genuinely curious about all of this now. He removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves to reduce his alcohol sweats. He never would’ve imagined Satoru being open to this considering he’s one of the few people that was familiar with the devil inside of him and how Elska existence made him behave. He would always keep an eye on her from afar just in case Gojo ever relapsed into old, terrible habits. He never has but upon seeing how incoherent and roughed up she was last night, he did fear for a second there. “Could you see the same possibilities with Toji?”

           Gojo looks over Toji fully, from wing to toe. He’s acting like he’s sizing him up for the first time all over again. He wants to say no but in his current state of mind he can’t help but admit that he’s a little interested. He could argue that it wouldn’t be right due to Toji’s feelings for her, understanding that it could be threatening…but he knows Naoya falls under this exact category as well. “It wouldn’t work, Toji would have to cut off his own dick.”

           “What?” Toji and Nanami question at the same time. They look baffled at what may be assumed as an outlandish ultimatum.

           “Don’t you remember Toji, that day… the day you fucking tricked me into a misery? You said you would rather chop off your own dick than ever lay eyes on my mine.” He now hoots at how seriously they took him a few seconds ago as he was really just being a shit. He’s surprised when Toji actually cackles to his joke, unable to fight off that stupid infectious laugh. Nanami’s humor doesn’t seem to mesh well with mention of a dick lost however.

           “Would you be able to stay in your fucking lane if I said yes?” Gojo is all seriousness now as he questions Toji, implying that he is really thinking about it.

           “I don’t know exactly how I would do that but are you really considering this? What if she doesn’t even want to?” Toji’s failing to hide his excitement. Sure, he didn’t want to share if he could help it but he also recalls a time where he wasn’t so against the idea. “Holy shit, I have an experience like that with Zenin too now that you mention it.” Gojo and Nanami are both all ears, Gojo’s face being a little more serious as this will be news to him. “Well…uhh…it was after I fed her for the first time…” His voice trailed off wondering if he should’ve kept his mouth shut but Gojo doesn’t look like he’s going to swing, yet. “We didn’t know Naoya was there but it turns out he came for his men, who Elska fantastically handled. There was blood everywhere and the sheer amount of gore…so fucking impressive.” He realizes he’s getting off track as Nanami ducks his head back in confusion. “She released her pheromones and the little shit lunged out of nowhere not having been affected before.” To this the three of them laugh as they can all recall their first time exposed to the scent. Their bellows chimed in unison as the cordial air surrounds them. “He’d never met her before and couldn’t understand why he wanted her to keep biting him. He squirmed so bad at first. She stole a chunk of his nuts that day I swear.” He laughing but then lets out a sigh, “But I didn’t want to hurt her and I wasn’t in the right mind to fight him…so I watched until I knew I was losing control…then I left. He wasn’t going get too far, she was taking advantage of his not knowing and got away shortly afterwards.”

           Gojo seems amazed by that last part. ‘I didn’t want to hurt her…I left.’ He turns to Toji sincerely, “You really fought the urges?” Feeling slightly less of man when he considers how he never could…there was no way he could resist her like that. ‘So Naoya was lying about their encounter...’ he was beginning to believe it after he saw how Elska was affected by him, being grateful for some clarity.

           “I’m a big guy Gojo, I really didn’t want to hurt her.” Gojo perks up slightly to this inference. Toji thinks he even liked the sound of it. “If I’d gotten ahold of her again, I’m not saying that would’ve gone well though.”

           Nanami is just watching everything unfold as he continues to drink. ‘To think after all of this time it finally comes out and it’s so anticlimactic. They’re holding a conversation now…and the subject matter at that…wow.’ “So Satoru, what do you say? Are you willing to give it a shot?”        

           “You’re not touching her with your wings out so you’ll need to figure that out first.” He’s been nothing but astonished today, “If she can accept me the way that I am, I feel I have to try to accept you I guess…” He folds his arms in a playful pout while looking to Toji out of the corners of his eyes. “No promises that this is a happy ending though.” He tries to hold his face but the alcohol mixed with his immaturity pulls out laughter instead.

           “We’re really getting through the issues today. I never would have thought it’d be this easy.” Nanami holds up his bottle as to toast before passing it to Toji.

           “I’m…I’m not even sure what to say but I know what to do!” Toji holds up the bottle to repeat Nanami’s action and smiles to him. He feels the blunt clinking of thick glass as Gojo has raised the bottle in his hand to meet Toji’s. He’s so surprised that he isn’t even able to hide it from his face.

           “This should be interesting.” A wicked sneer takes over Gojo’s expression as the three men have finally come to an agreement.

Next Chapter (17) >>

Chapter List

[wordfires]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Characters: Essek Thelyss, Caleb Widogast, Beauregard Lionett, The Mighty Nein, Lucien (Critical Role) Series: Part 5 of Essek Week 2021

this is for day five of @essek-week which was breathe // eye contact! i had a lot of fun with this one even if it didn’t come out to be very long

as per usual with these feel free to read on here or on ao3!

The battle was not going well. 

They had gone in with a plan: surround the Tomb Takers on all sides and keep the magic users separated so they couldn’t all be taken out at once by Lucien’s anti-magic eye. And it had turned the tide in their favour. For a time.

But now Essek was just scrambling for an idea while trying to stay out of Lucien’s path. And trying to make sure that every last member of the Mighty Nein made it.

He could see Beau still standing, Yasha by her side. Veth sprinted throughout the cavern they were in, firing bolt after bolt. Caduceus and Fjord within a tornado of iridescent beetles, flashes of magic showing through. Jester not far off, or was that her duplicate? 

The Tomb Takers had been scattered, and while Lucien stood at the centre of the chaos his remaining followers flew in and out of Essek’s field of vision as he searched for Caleb. Flashes of magic, a counterspell, bolts and gleaming metal⁠— 

He saw Beau’s legs fall out from under her, Jester’s duplicate popped out of existence, a strangled but familiar cry echoed in the cavern.

No⁠. 

They would not die here. The Tomb Takers would be felled, and his friends⁠— his family, would live. And they would be whole and good and safe. The Mighty Nein had trusted him, taken him in, given him nothing but kindness he had done nothing to deserve. He was already damned but he would ruin himself before he let them die. 

An idea of a spell flickered in the back of his mind.

There.

Following Lucien’s line of sight, Essek found Caleb.

The wizard was frantically rifling through his pockets, components falling used with no effect from his hands. Lucien stalked towards him, tail cracking through the air as he moved.

The spell clicked into place in Essek’s mind. He remembered learning it, delicately copying it into his spellbook as he had decided he would never use it. 

His hands already held the components before he remembered why he made that decision.

It didn’t matter anymore. He was on borrowed time and he would let the sand run from his hourglass if that meant more for them.

The words of the spell tasted sour on his tongue, burning as he pulled his hands through the air, feeling the space between them thicken like tar. He pulled at it, spinning it over into itself and crushing it into an ever-smaller sphere, over and over and over again. With each motion Essek felt the spell tear at his body, pulling his joints apart and darkening the edges of his vision.

He gritted his teeth, inhaling once, and letting the last word of the spell fall into place and shoving the spell into Lucien, a sudden wind ripping through his hair as pain stabbed down his spine.

Black spidered across his vision as he felt the spell take hold.

Every single inch of his body burned as he felt his knees buckle, pain rippling through his muscles and crushing his bones to dust.

He hit the ground and there was nothing.

Almost nothing.

Essek blinked without eyes. Stars glittered in a sky that did not exist. He floated, feet firmly on unseen ground. He felt everything and nothing.

It was wonderful and terrible all at once.

He thought he smiled.

“Breathe, Essek, come on you stupid wizard!” 

Eyelids that very suddenly existed flew open, and air flooded very real lungs, immediately followed by a hiss through his teeth as pain blinded him and he saw that field of stars and impossibility for just a moment.

There.

Blue eyes, bright with something he couldn’t name quite yet, framed with familiar orange hair. Essek locked onto them, letting the rest of his vision slowly fill in around the eye contact with… 

Caleb, that’s who the eyes belonged to. At the back of his mind he saw hours flipping through books, eyes meeting briefly before looking away. 

Essek didn’t want to look away anymore.

In his periphery, memories filled in as he processed the scene. A house with a tree growing from it, a dinner, a homemade hot tub, a party, hours of trekking and planning in the snow. Blue hair and blue monk’s robes, green beetles and green skin, faded yellow flowers and a bright yellow dress. Hushed voices and boisterous laughter.

They were all there. They had all made it.

He had made it.

Essek pulled himself from his memories, looking from face to face, putting names back in place.

He found Caleb’s gaze again, holding it. The other wizard’s face split into a grin, and Essek felt his own lips stretch into an identical shape.

He felt his lungs heave again, and he couldn’t help but hope to see today’s sunrise, and every sunrise after that for a very, very long time.

[goodnightallwhites]

Elizabeth in Shock by Zenalite

Chapter 1 - Encounters

An infinity of books couldn't keep her entertained. A journey through several tears resulted in a whole lot of new books. Elizabeth sat cross legged on the bed and went through her haul. Books on law. Books on philosophy. Books on... travel? The worn tome that came into her hands detailed travels done in Africa and came with many painstaking maps of various regions and illustrations of different landscapes, fauna, and even local people. Elizabeth flipped through pages with detachment, until one particular illustration of a tribesman caught her eye. His lanky body had been painted white and he held a spear in one hand. But what made her stop short was the size of the thing between his legs. Surely there was something wrong with it. Surely one couldn't get that big naturally. That's just vulgar! Elizabeth flicked the page away, not sparing the matter another thought... then went back to look at it again. "How can it be so big?" she wondered aloud. Frustratingly, the author decided to comment on every little thing about the illustration except the penis size. "What incompetent fools." She had looked through enough anatomy textbooks and art illustrations to know that they couldn't get that big. If anything, they were usually a quarter of what that was, or less. The only thing she could think of that differed in what she had seen and what this illustration in particular showed was the origin of the man in question. Certainly, even her anatomy textbooks were more or less based on the European populations, though there were many other people out there, and Columbia supposedly welcomed people of value from any part of the world. So... Could it have been a distinction of darker-skinned men? Of African men in particular? To have it... that big? "That's interesting," she said, tapping the page and rolling the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. No, not interesting... That wasn't the word she was looking for. Curious. Yes. A curious thing. One that required further research. Her options, however, were somewhat limited. How precisely could she get a man naked to study him? And how many timelines would it take to jump through until she even met one that fit the type? In any case... her best shot of getting a guy to display himself required her prepping up with enough sultry accessories to raise their apprehension. It might've been a scientific question for her, but they surely wouldn't respond well to feeling like experiments. Rather than waste time putting together a new outfit, she simply wore the usual white blouse, but she made one significant adjustment: she wore nothing under it. Her supple breasts moved freely under the thin fabric, their curves filling out the blouse and stretching it, her nipples nudging through. "Somewhat perverted," she judged, inspecting herself in the mirror. But it would do... The next step was to find a man. A black man. The first tear she went through proved to be a complete disappointment. All she had found was a family lunch in a sunny garden. The second proved to be deserted. The third... The fourth... The fifth...  Elizabeth finally entered such a strange environment that it took a while to understand just what it was. The interior was warm and wet, with moisture dripping down the tiled walls. Only when he saw someone go past her holding a towel around his waist and giving her a strange look did she figure it out: a sauna. Oddly a good place for what she wanted, though it was still possible not to find what she needed. Yet as she went down the dark hallway glancing into one room and then another, her body began to sweat from the heat. Elizabeth looked down to see the curves of her breasts swaying as she hurried along, but also that the fabric had become moist and transparent, gluing itself to her skin. How impractical. At length she found one entryway above which the words FOR NEGROES were inscribed in red. Certainly emphatic, these people. Such kind of discrimination would've never been tolerated on Columbia. Only one man sat in this part of the sauna. His back faced Elizabeth as she made her way inside, huge and muscular, strained under some sort of exercise. He is so... great in stature, she thought. Like a statue of Hercules. Every so often she could hear him moan and see his musculature rippling, accompanied by a sloshing noise. Only when she went closer and turned to see him from the front did she see that he stroked himself all alone. A rock-hard shaft stretched from his crotch, his massive hand massaging it up down, milking it methodically. The engorged head spilled cum with every forward thrust of his hand, with a long threads connecting between the head and the floor. His eyes came up and he saw her. "Ma'am?" he asked nervously. You're so big... Elizabeth tried to speak but found herself unable to. The size of the thing had more of a reaction on her than she thought possible, sending a tingle from her stomach area that spread throughout her entire body. After all that jumping around from one timeline to another, she had finally found what she was looking for. And it was real. They truly were that big... Without saying a word, she found herself talking a few steps forward and bringing her hand down to touch it - and wrapped around it. It felt so nice in her grip. Soft at the touch of skin against skin, but as hard as could be underneath, pulsing with life and desire, growing only bigger now that it found itself under her protective warmth. Not only that, but the color... The color contrasted so beautifully with her milky white hand. She couldn't imagine many people having one this big, nor many girls being fortunate enough to touch one so freely. Suddenly, Elizabeth felt excited and honored to be granted access to such a kingly rod. She lowered herself onto her knees instinctively to get a better look at it, fighting against the protests at the man in front of her. Why would he refuse this? Of course, she couldn't be aroused by such a thing. This was only a matter of curiosity. She wrapped both her hands around it, amazed at how much room for a third and even a fourth still remained. Astounding... Her small white hands could barely do anything to grapple with a thing of its size. Still... she tried. She stroked similarly to how he had been doing before, milking every drop of sperm from his cock... I wonder what it tastes like. Such questions couldn't be answered. She couldn't just introduce random substances into her body and hope for it to pan out well. She raised her gaze and found his head to be tilted back, feeling what she imagined to be the same sort of pleasure she felt when tasting a morsel far too sweet for her taste buds. A tingling in the brain. His sculpted chest glistened in the low light, shiny beads like diamonds running down its ebony planes and curves. Elizabeth could feel the tense and release of his body coinciding with the pressure she used on his cock. How interesting... She stroked him gently, then hard, and everywhere in between, trying to see all the possible reactions she could get out of him. Her eyes kept going down to the scrotum dangling below - a tempting target for research, but perhaps too sensitive to this kind of touch. The heat in the sauna, however, made left her dripping wet. The fabric of her blouse stuck to her torso as if glued, almost painful to peel off. Wet strands of hair dangled over her face, while beads of sweat passed her eyes and mouth, destroying her makeup. Coming from the corridors, she could hear some commotion. Have they found me? Or has it found me? Either way, haste was needed if she was to finish all of this in time. With her small white hands wrapped tightly around his thick shaft, she went back and forth, faster and faster, feeling its violent throbbing under heart soft fingers. He groaned loudly, the sound echoing all over the sauna. Ropes of cum shot out from the head and splattered an unready Elizabeth on the face. Still, she pleasured him until every lost drop got milked out, at which point his cock softened. She could feel the threads of his warm seed oozing down her face and between her fingers. As people passed the doorway, she got up and ran, in search of another tear that could get her out. A loose tile held one. Elizabeth ripped into it and stepped past to the other side.   She found herself in an alleyway that connected two busy streets. It was dark out, but warm and breezy. Fireworks were going up in the air at a distance. Well-dressed gentlemen went by with their canes banging against the cobblestones, and every so often a small car would pass by, its loud engine rattling for everyone to hear. I've seen much worse. Her clothes remained soaked. As did her hair. Worst of all, her face was still covered in seed. That had been... one interesting experiment. Though Elizabeth had never felt any particular interest in males, she needed to admit that these black ones were slowly getting her to reconsider. So big and so dark, she thought, unable to forget the sensation of feeling his throbbing member between her pale hands. Now she wished she had done more with it. Who knows when I'll come across one again? As she stood there, dreaming of big black cock and starting to explore her feelings about it, she heard footsteps coming down the alley. Goddamnit! She did her best to bring her appearance to a level of normality, running her hands quickly through her hair and ungluing the wet fabric from her chest. Rather than take the cum off, she rubbed it into her face, spreading it like lotion. As a drop of it made its way to her lips, she brought out her tongue to lick it off. Such a small amount can't have much of an effect. It tasted strangely pleasant... The idea that she savoured the seed coming from the strong black man sent a shiver down her spine. What in the world is the matter with me? "Ma'am, you got a light?" she heard behind her. "A light? No!" But the man came around. He was handsome. Blue-eyed and blonde, with a cap on his head. He smiled. "You sure do look beautiful." "W-Why, thank you..." stammered Elizabeth. "Not from around here, are you?" "I'm afraid not." "Come with me. I'll buy you a drink." She should've said no and gone in search of another tear. But her current feelings were such that she longed for male companionship. ... even if it didn't happen to be of the right color. He did, however, turn out to be a nice guy. They sat together in the little tavern and drank in the gloom, making jokes. Elizabeth noticed that he could never look away from her chest, though the blouse had dried up by now. "Say..." He reached over the table and grabbed her hand. "Can I be frank with you?" "Of course." "I really want to fuck you right now." Elizabeth's mind reeled. Frankness was one thing, but this was simply rude. "Uhm..." "I wanna grab you by the hair and fuck you stupid in that bathroom over there." He jerked his head down the hall. "What do you say?" No way! was what should've come out of her mouth. But as she sat there drinking, her mind went time and time again to the beautiful big black cock she had just experienced. The more she thought about it, the more aroused she came to be, and the more she hated herself for leaving it back there. I should've... tried it. Tasted it. Who would have known? Now she was bound to waste days trying to find another, and one could only guess if it would be as nice and if its possessor would be as compliant. As she gazed at this handsome white young man, she wanted to think that she might strike gold again. Maybe he is just as big. Then again, he was not black. Maybe just a little as big. She would settle for two thirds if necessary. Elizabeth glanced around at the other tables. Then she leaned forwards and whispered. "Is your thing big?" He gave her a look and remained silent. His cheeks flushed somewhat. "I would say so." "But have others said so?" asked Elizabeth quickly. She was in no mood to go in there with him only to be disappointed. "Yes!" he snapped. "Yes, they have." Well then. Elizabeth rose. The two of them, doing their best to look as innocent as possible, rushed for the bathroom. He dragged her into one of the stalls and slammed the door, at which point he began to grope her tits. "God, but these are amazing..." Elizabeth couldn't care less about such praises. Instead, her hands went down to his pants and undid the slip, then pulled out his cock. What came out was hardly the veined trump that she imagined. Instead, a white little worm appeared, so small that she wondered if it could even beat her thumb in a size contest. She cringed, filled by revulsion. "What the hell is that?" "W-W-What do you mean he stammered? Its my cock." But in response, it only seemed to get smaller. "It's just not hard yet, that's all. You need to make me hard." Will it really? Elizabeth wasn't too sure about that. Still, she did find the black guy stroking himself - was that why he became so huge? Ah, to hell with it. Considering that he was also handsome, she decided to give him a shot. She reached down and wrapped the tips of her fingers around the small body and jerked it lightly. The guy leaned weakly against the stall and rolled his eyes pleasure. It did harden... somewhat. But the size remained the same. As she went on stroking it, his reactions became more and more intense. Would he finally get it big for her? But just as she thought it would explode and grow in size, a few transparent squirts flew out of his cock and went... she couldn't even see where! It was barely anything. Breathless, he opened his eyes. "Thank you so much." "WHAT!" snapped Elizabeth, slamming her palm into the stall right by his head."That was it? You said you were big! You little liar! Deceiver!" "I am big," he fought back. "Big? That's small. Not even small. Tiny. How do you think you could satisfy me with that?" He snorted proudly. "Well, good luck finding someone bigger. Especially with that attitude." Right then the door to the bathroom groaned open and shut back loudly. A keychain could be heard rattling around at the same time as some loud footsteps made their way closer to their stall. "I know you're in there," said a low voice. "You gotta get going now. Or else you'll be in trouble. Come on, now. Get out of there before I have to drag you out by force." Elizabeth opened the stall and came face to face with a middle-aged janitor. A black janitor. "Excuse me, miss," he said apologetically, "but you've got to go." His body was huge. Neither fat nor muscular, but somewhere in between, with brawny arms and legs, but huge belly sagging at his front and a double chin draping from his shiny bald head. A black man, she thought, the breath already catching in her throat. Just the sight of him made her entire body respond instinctively - strength waning, replaced instead by a desire to fall down and submit. Her eyes went down to his crotch, desperate to see if he would turn out to be just as big, but his belly blocked it. "Miss," he repeated. Looking him in the eyes, Elizabeth took his gnarled, hairy paw and brought it up to rest on her chest. She touched her hardened nipples with his fingertips, then slowed down and allowed him to take the reigns. Without her guidance, he finally groped and squeezed her soft and tender breast. A young white breast for his old black hand. "W-What are you doing?" the white guy asked in total disbelief. "You there!" he yelled at the janitor. "Stop that at once!" Elizabeth's mouth opened to let out a soft moan as the janitor began to knead her chest with both hands. The white guy ranted against it, but made no move to stop him. He knows he has no chance. "We'll leave here," she whispered to the janitor. "But first you need to let me suck your cock." The janitor laughed grimly. "How about I take your tits out first?" Elizabeth shrugged submissively. "Please do whatever you want." He ripped apart her blouse effortlessly, the buttons popping and hitting the walls of the stalls and finally clattering against the floor. Her plump and perky breasts were out, jiggling softly along with her nervous breaths, the long nipples begging to be touched. The black fingers dug into her young white flesh, kneading it roughly and tugging mercilessly at her nipples. It hurt, but Elizabeth let him have his way with her. Not only did she not have the power to stop him, but she wanted him to enjoy her. Her white young body was his to use in exchange for what he would give her in turn - a strong black cock. She dropped to her knees and began to undo his pants. He took a step closer, leaving her under his hanging gut. At another time, she would've found that disgusting. But now she couldn't care less. Research isn't easy, after all... The cock she found turned out to be more wonderful than she could've ever imagined. Even longer and thicker than the previous one. Due to the age difference, though, this one looked a lot more gnarled and used-up, with veins popping over the whole surface along with the occasional bump. It's still beautiful.   She relished the feeling of touching it and cried with joy at being granted yet another opportunity. She began to strike it enthusiastically, coming up every so often to give it a gentle kiss. "Elizabeth?" she could hear her white companion say. But the janitor accepted it all. His strong hands came down to rest on her head. "That's right, baby. Suck that cock for me." That was all the encouragement she needed. She wrapped her tongue around his head and shaft and licked them up lovingly, still sparing the time to kiss it in worship as she went from the base up to the leaking tip. The huge head barely fit into her mouth. But she brought it in with all her power, sucking her cheeks in and creating a vacuum in which to empty his seed. The janitor pushed his cock deeper down her throat, getting her to gag and choke, but Elizabeth accepted it all gladly. Her little white throat belonged to him. Even if broke under his black cock, that was his right. She had read enough about the animal kingdom to know that males often raped the females to pass on the strongest seed, and that humans likely did the same at one point in the distant past. The only way this differed was that she recognized him as being stronger and worthier. He did not need to force himself on her because his physical dominance and superiority was precisely why she knelt before him in the first place. Elizabeth accepted the idea of being his fucktoy. Gladly. As she struggled to take down the rest of his cock he suddenly pulled her up and pushed her against the wall of the bathroom. Her warm chest, drizzled in cum and spit, pressed against the hard tiles as he lifted up her skirt. "You're a good girl, aren't you?" "Yes... The best." As his cock plunged inside, Elizabeth screamed. Her insides were being torn apart by his ramming shaft, being treated with a violence she never experienced and her fragile white body hadn't been built for. The janitor wrapped his hand around her mouth and kept her quiet, pumping in and out of her ruined cunt at leisure, seeming to enjoy her rending cries of agony. "Excuse me," the white guy said again, stepping up to them. "Y-You're hurting her." "Piss off!" snapped the janitor. He took his hand from her ass shoved him right into the wall. The white guy stared at the scene before him wide-eyed, looking scared. But suddenly, as Elizabeth's rolled-back eyes met his, he started to jerk off. Elizabeth yielded before the massive cock and found pleasure in the pain. She relaxed her pussy and spread her legs, allowing his black cock to penetrate as deeply as it chose. His hand kept slapping her ass at the same time, sending waves of electrifying pain up her back and burning her pale flesh with his black touch. Marking her as his property. Never... Never had she felt anything so powerful and overwhelming. A pedestrian way of putting it might've been that he fucked her like an animal. But that couldn't get at the immense force he directed for the very purpose of breaking her down, nor for the thoughtful joy with which contemplated complete submission to his will and his big black cock. With him, she could accept being trapped in that tower forever.   He picked her up and moved her in front of the mirror, forcing Elizabeth to look at herself. Now her breasts swinged wildly as he pummeled her from the back. A few tears glittered on her face under the bathroom lights. The white guy could still be seen in the back, stroking himself eagerly at the sight of a young white girl being fucked silly by a BBC. "Is that good?" asked the janitor. "Yes..." He yanked her back by the hair, then smacked her face hard. The crackle echoed in the bathroom. "Yes, sir." "Yes, sir," repeated Elizabeth meekly. Then he brought her head back again and pulled her up for a deep kiss, trying to send his tongue deep down her throat. Elizabeth moaned weakly in his grasp. He let her go, a few strands of spit still connecting their mouths. Then he cleared his throat and spit a glob of phlegm right into her face. "Dumb white cunt." "Yes, sir." As he prepared to dump his seed inside, his fingers came forward and slid into her mouth. He opened Elizabeth's mouth as far as it could go as she stared at herself, forcing her into a gruesome smile as her eyes rolled back again and again from the pounding of her pussy. Drool dripped from her lolling tongue. Do black men always like to humiliate us like this? she wondered, the spirit of the research kicking in once again. He began to fuck her ass hard as he could, punching into her womb with his big black cock so hard that she began to scream. A few seconds later, the tears came. But she no longer needed to keep any form of control. She was only a plaything in his hands that he was about to fill up. Elizabeth felt her lower body come on fire and heard the drumming of her heart everywhere in her head. She nearly passed out when she came, her pussy squirting a shower of her juices unto the floor, her legs quivering along with the rest of her body - helplessly, still dominated by the black hands and the black cock. When the janitor pulled out and let her go she fell to her knees, breathless and unable to speak. He zipped up and left without a word, while she struggled to regain her composure. She had come. So hard that she could barely even think. A moment later, as her body came out of panic mode and the flood of pleasure began to stream in, she laughed wildly and decadently, trying to hold still as the aftermath of the orgasm went through her at full force. "Are you okay?" the white guy asked her, coming over. He helped her up. "I'm amazing," said Elizabeth. She grinned with excitement. Her research proved successful. Beyond a doubt, black cocks were incredible. "Say..." started the white guy. "Can you please let me come inside you?" His "hard" cock peaked from the folds of his crotch, dripping a little cum. He was like a child. Elizabeth didn't have the heart in her to deny him. "Make it fast," she said, turning and spreading her legs. "But I don't need to tell you that, do I?" She could barely feel his cock go inside, but he moaned all the same, and seemed to go in and out. "Your pussy is so hot..." What an idiot! She giggled darkly. He couldn't even tell that his cock pushed not through her pussy but the endless stream of black seed that flowed from her womb. Elizabeth thought it fun to egg him on. "Go on, fuck me harder." He grabbed onto her tits and went in and out, the dull wet slap of his cock ringing in the bathroom. It only took a few thrusts until his grip tightened and he shook, spilling inside of her. "God, you're pathetic," she said. "I'm sorry..." "No, you are seriously so small and pathetic." Her flashing eyes held his. "You're an embarrassment. Look at your tiny cock. Look at how little you could do with that thing. Just take that white cock and lock it away forever." He looked down at his cock, now all shriveled up and dripping with thick and viscous cum that she knew couldn't be his own. "I'm sorry," he repeated, putting it away. Well. Not only did the research show that black cocks were far superior, but that white ones were completely useless in either event. Another victory for science.

[ranger-report]

Review: THE WITCHER (2007)

With the recent popularity of The Witcher across mass media thanks to the Netflix series starring Henry Cavill and his arms, I finally began what I consider an epic quest to play through all three of the Witcher games and their DLC. This is, by no means, a small task, but you know I might as well sacrifice myself in the name of entertainment. So I began to play The Witcher: Enhanced Edition, a PC game released in 2007 based on the books of the same name written by Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski. Now that I’ve beaten it I have quite a few things to say about it. But, first thing’s first, and that is easily the most obvious aspect of this game:

It has not aged well. Not at all.

To begin with, the graphics of the game are very 2007. A product of seventh generation graphical technology to be sure, it doesn’t help that it’s running on BioWare’s Aurora engine, which was notoriously difficult to use outside BioWare’s own house. There’s all kinds of graphical glitches, people pass through objects, character models and textures are fuzzy and sometimes plasticine, facial animations are sometimes downright frightening. There’s also the fact that the game reuses the same character model for multiple characters, both important and unimportant, leading me to confusion sometimes as I swore I just saw that goddamn priest I just killed wandering around the city. Except now there’s two of him. And all the merchants look the same, too! This being the enhanced edition there’s a number of upgrades and clarity that’s been added in to the experience, but it’s still dated for better or worse. What has aged well is the use of impressionistic paintings for the purpose of certain cutscenes, adding an extra dose of epic quality to some of the goings-ons. This also includes more “intimate endeavors” Geralt can engage in. Long story short, there’s a lot of women in this game who are willing to throw themselves at Geralt, and if you play the cards right you can get down to business pretty quickly. Sometimes too quickly; one time I brought a woman a loaf of bread and she had sex with Geralt. It was confusing and out of left field. But each encounter comes with a brief piece of tasteful nude artwork of the lady in question as blurred models bump and grind in the background. And, to be completely honest, the artwork is really well done. Although it is very jarring to play a game where sex workers are clearly labeled “whores” and “hookers,” most of the women have a good amount of agency in the proceedings, particularly the two primary romance options, Triss and Shani. Geralt can actually romance these two women to the point of committed relationship, which is refreshing to see that sex is not just a reward for “romancing” a character in a game, but something the characters enjoy, while the romance comes from genuinely caring about someone.

Despite the graphical despondency, main characters fare slightly better, as anyone who needs to be easily recognizable is, and are crafted with much more detail and fine tuning than regular NPCs. While this is fine, sometimes finding these characters is a chore and a half. The Witcher has a day/night cycle, and characters follow this, but when my map is telling me I need to be in one place to meet up with someone, I can’t count that they will actually be there depending on the time of day. And I can’t artificially move the time of day forward unless I have a campfire to meditate at. Meditation is an interesting mechanic, btw, as it basically acts as Geralt “sleeping” and also functions as your chance to level up and distribute talents. On paper, I’m okay with that. In reality, campfires and places to sleep are few and far between, unless you’re close to an inn or someone who doesn’t mind you crashing at their place. And oftentimes you’re running back and forth in linear paths across deceptively open areas, back and forth and back and forth in what can only best be described as tedium when you’ll approach the quest marker on your map, only to find no one there, and need to hoof it back to a fireplace to change the time again. This can also lead to extra consternation if the game crashes, which it did a handful of times during my fifty hours of gametime. Save often.

And, finally, there’s the combat. For better or worse, it’s an exercise in clicking on people to attack them, then clicking again at the right time when your icon changes in order to string together combos. That’s fine. Combat is also divided into three styles between two swords: strong, fast, and group style, with steel blade and silver blade. Strong and fast styles speak for themselves; group style is for when you’re surrounded and need to attack everyone around you. Steel blade is for humans, silver blade for monsters. Sounds simple right? It is -- too simple. Clicking on people is as easy as that, with little interaction otherwise. Sure, you have to figure out which style to use on which enemies, and you can couple in Signs (magic spells) to make your life easier, but repeatedly clicking on people to whack away is bland at best, frustrating at worst. Later on when you can level up your sword styles to include more powerful/deadly moves it becomes more challenging, but even then it remains a strange exercise in an odd hybrid of real time/tactical combat.  Finding oneself surrounded can lead to death quickly, so if you’re not paying attention, you can go from overpowered madman to witcher meat in seconds. Literally seconds: enemies I would have no problem with one-on-one, or even two-on-one, suddenly escalate to an unstoppable force the moment that three or more come in for an attack. The game has a way of forcing Geralt into combat situations without warning as well, making it easy to be thoroughly unprepared for a deadly gangbang around a corner and a cutscene. The game also doesn’t have much of an autosave system, meaning that if you haven’t been hitting that quicksave button very often, there’s a deep chance you could get your ass handed to you and reload a ways back from where you were. Easily the biggest frustration for me in terms of playing the game. Enemies will stack status effects to clobber you; Geralt will attack and get hit; sometimes you can stagger enemies and one-hit kill them, but enemies can still attack while Geralt goes through the slow kill animation. I don’t know how many times I cursed the game in anguish as I was forced to reload yet again after a fourth monster swept in out of nowhere, or the one monster I was fighting decided to get in a Stun attack, then proceed to own my ass. Pausing the game at any time using the space bar can help to get bearings, but you can’t execute commands while paused. Saving in combat isn’t allowed either, so if a big fight starts and you realize you haven’t saved in a while, you’re screwed. Couple this frustration with the intensely boring act of clicking on monsters over and over again to fight them, and here we have the biggest weakness of the whole product.

That being said -- is the game worth playing in 2020? Despite being 13 years of age and regarded as the least accessible game in the franchise, what it brings to the table is a surprisingly effective storyline that involves subject matter which is shockingly relevant. Racial tension. Class war. Plague. Quarantine. Riots. Gray morals. Strange creatures. Frustration. Difficulty spikes. Blurred lines between human and monster. If that sounds hauntingly familiar, it’s probably because that sums up the first half of the year 2020. To say that I was expecting a 13-year-old game to reflect the state of current events would be a massive lie; in fact, at the outset of the game, I was struggling to maintain interest at all. However, as time goes, the story and the choices made are what end up being the game’s biggest strength, and ultimately its salvation.

The story opens up simply enough: Geralt of Rivia, our titular witcher, has been found in a near-death state and nursed back to health by his fellow witchers and former lover, the sorceress Triss Merigold. Coming back from the dead has cost him his memories, however, and the amnesiac Geralt is quickly plunged into conflict as a group of mercenaries called Salamandra attack the witchers’s base to steal the secrets of their mutations. Swords clash, magic flies back and forth, and Geralt is tasked with giving chase in order to retrieve the mutagenic formulae so they can’t be used for harm.

A great conceit in this is that Geralt having no memory of his past allows anyone unfamiliar with the world to gently ease in and learn about the world as he does. The game is set after the events of the books, so this gives an added bonus to readers already knowledgable of events. And as the player learns more about Geralt and his world, a variety of choices come into play. Most RPGs have this option to allow player freedom in telling a story, but unforseen consequences follow every decision; whether they come into play immediately or further down the road remains to be seen, but there’s a ripple effect that goes above and beyond the usual Choose Your Own Adventure details which essentially craft your character into a good guy or a bad guy. What’s brilliant about this is that the game never hints at this; it isn’t until the game breaks away into a cutscene with monologue does Geralt realize how his choices crafted this specific moment. For example, in the Salamandra attack, Geralt can choose to fight off a horrific monster or help Triss defend the witcher laboratory. Depending on that choice, some characters may live or die, and the game will let you know that when it wants to....usually to hammer home a point.

What works to this being the strength of the game even further is the deep narrative, which is often times complex to the point of frustration. But the story develops at a natural pace, and never presents any choice as being right or wrong, black or white, good or bad. The main gist is that the human city of Vizima is under quarantine, fighting off a vicious plague, but also defending itself from the rise of nonhuman freedom fighters comprised of elves and dwarves. The city is divided on this, particularly in class division, with any nonhuman residents living in the slum quarter, while the affluent humans live exclusively in the market quarter. There are humans in the slums too, make no mistake, but it’s very apparent who is allowed to live where. However, the game makes no stance on this whatsoever; Geralt is presented with a series of choices based on the information at hand, and as the game goes on, comes closer and closer to choosing a side between the freedom fighters or the humans as tensions comes to a head with violence. Every action has a consequence, positive or negative, but also depending on who the consequences affect. Questions of moral arise; what truly defines a monster? Is it appearance, or is it action? It’s difficult to really spell it out further without diving into spoilers, as the story should be experienced first hand without any warning. That being said, it’s refreshing to play through a game in which the character is clearly defined as being the hero, but then forces the player to ask if their actions are truly heroic or actually damaging in the quest to destroy the greater evil.

In closing, The Witcher is a mixed bag. Narratively, it’s a stellar effort that swings for the fences and sticks the landing. From a gameplay perspective, it’s a dated game that’s sometimes a chore to play through, even to the point of dire frustration. But it’s one that I can cautiously recommend. While it certainly took me six or so hours to finally believe that I had the hang of it -- I didn’t -- struggling through the first quarter of the game can yield beautiful results, especially once it rolls into the final, jaw-dropping conclusion. What I will say is that it really beats you over the head with your choices, even the ones you didn’t know you were making, and holds up a mirror to ask if your decisions were really for the greater good or not. Outstanding work in that regard. I’m looking forward to playing The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings now that I’ve beaten this, and someday I’ll even come back to see the paths I could have taken. Just with tempered expectations this time around.

Final score: 7/10

[irwinkitten]

into the night | demon!5sos

pairing: luke x oc (with a side of cal x oc)

notes: i’ve been writing this for like, three months. it’s 12.5k long and my eyes hurt from reading it so often. shoutout to @angelbabylu, @calpops, @dammitbands, @rosecolouredash, @cakesunflower, @aspiringwildfire, @converse-luke and @singt0mecalum for the support whilst i’ve been writing this stress of a fic lmao y’all are real mvp’s. there is a potential for a small spin off but ya gal needs to just like, recover from this fic lmao 

warnings: mentions of death

word count: 12.5k!

---

Roe could feel the charged air, even in the events hall. It was never one for her to freeze mid transaction, her smile frozen as she felt the shift in the air, but it happened and her coven noticed.

Once the customers moved on to the next stalls, she found her hairs standing on edge and as quickly as she could, she pulled out the special wipes trying to pass off that she was just cleaning her hands, instead of coating them in holy water.

She could feel the demonic presence in the hall. And her eyes were immediately drawn to the four tall men, dark suits and stoic looks on their faces. But in the town hall, they didn’t look too out of place.

The one with a shock of bleached hair began to meander towards Marcella before his eyes met Roe’s and he changed course.

She dropped the wipe to the side, a small smile pulling across her lips as she held his gaze.

“You doing alright there lads, is there something that I can help you with?”

The four exchanged looks before the one with a shock of blonde hair finally stepped forward from the group.

“You’re the person I was looking for, actually.” He held his hand out to Roe. “To introduce myself, I’m Calum, this is Luke, Michael and Ashton.” Each one nodded at their name and Roe finally stepped to the side from behind her stall, taking Calum’s hand to shake.

He hissed under his breath and she kept her grip firm.

“Don’t move a muscle. You’re idiots for turning up here outnumbered.” She warned the other three who had all shifted before holding still.

“Won’t the humans notice something going on.” Calum finally hissed between his teeth, the dark brown eyes turning black as she continued to keep a firm grip on his hand. She didn’t relent.

“Subtle compulsion to leave the hall. We’ll have an hour once the door is shut. What on earth, prompted four of you to come right into a witches territory and hold out your fucking hand?” Roe hissed in return, her eyes trailing to the other demons who looked uncomfortable.

The clang of the bolt had her releasing Calum’s hand and he cradled it to his chest, face dropped into a scowl.

Without a second thought, Roe shifted her hand a quiet murmur under her breath before a strip of fabric rose from her bags, wrapping it around Calum’s hand. He stared at it for a full second before raising an eyebrow at her.

“I’d rather you be in a better mood. A demon healed is a demon I’d rather talk to. Now. Answer my question. Why did you come here outnumbered?”

Ashton, with fiery red locks spoke up then.

“We didn’t realise that we’d be outnumbered. We assumed it would be an easy pick up.”

“Tell me, where are you right now?” Roe answered evenly.

“In a town hall?” Came back to her, confusion laced through Ashton’s tone. She bit back a scoff.

“Geographically.”

“Glaston-oh.” Calum wanted to smack himself.

“Right in the middle of a fucking town that is known for witches and the occult. You chose now. The day of the equinox. The day were I’d be at my most powerful.” Ashton groaned in frustration.

“That’s why there were four of us. We assumed you’d be alone.” She could see the hazel eyes getting darker whilst the pitch black eyes of Calum’s slowly returned to a warm brown. Roe rolled her own baby blue eyes.

“Next time, have a solid reminder that I’m part of a coven. A coven of thirteen.” Luke’s eyebrows furrowed as Michael’s eyes widened.

“Shit. Calum was this some sort of suicide mission?” Luke hissed and Calum shot Luke a scowl, the clearly younger blonde falling quiet at the dark look he was receiving.

You pick a day that I’m at my most powerful. Why?” Calum eyed Roe for a moment before his gaze returned to the bandage, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Tugging the bandage off, he turned back to Roe, holding it out.

“Does your coven know of your heritage?” He asked carefully and Roe felt her back stiffen.

“You mean do they know that I’m a half-witch, half-demon hybrid? Yes. Why else would they have made me coven leader? I’m the only one who was willing to kill to protect the coven and our secrets.” Calum felt his lips twitch forward as he slowly sank to his knees, watching as her frustration turned into concern as the other three followed his lead.

“Coven Witch Roe. We seek you out for protection against our own kind.” The four spoken in tandem and she could feel the old magicks ripple beneath her skin. “We offer ourselves to you for whatever your needs will be. Protection, ingredients, even a sacrifice if we must. In exchange we ask for protection from our kind.” They fell silent and she could feel two different magicks thrumming.

“Marcella, do you revoke the blood bound promise against these four demons?” Her eyes moved from Calum’s to Marcella who could could clearly be seen struggling.

The decision seemed to be made as her back straightened up.

“I, Marcella, witch of the Summer coven, renounce the blood bound promise of vengeance against these four demons and these four demons alone.” Her knees shook, her body hitting the floor. The other witches didn’t flinch.

“I, Roe, Coven Witch of the Summer coven, accept the four demons, Luke, Calum, Michael and Ashton into our coven for protection. As long as a witch in this coven draws breath, the protection will stand true and strong.” She could feel the side of her that she’d embraced, the side that was always at war with her, settle as the bound promise settled into her body; her magic thrumming with power as an outwards blast of magic surrounded the room.

Roe swore.

“If anyone’s looking for us, we’ve just given them the biggest signal.” She finally moved away from Calum who swayed once he stood up, Ashton coming to his side to lean on for a moment as he gathered himself.

“Flo, check on Marcella, Cassie, Gem, you two with me, we need to set protections around the town. I will not let my home burn because of some errant demons determined to get you.” The four demons watched in amazement as the three left the hall, the other witches finally breaking rank.

The one she named Flo was already with Marcella and Luke glanced over to Calum who nodded. He made his way over carefully and whilst Marcella could barely hold her eyes open, Flo eyed him warily.

“Her magic is fighting itself right now. She needs an anchor.” His tone was soft, as if he were talking to a frightened animal, but he knew better than to act smug with a witch.

“The second that you bind with her, you know that you cannot take it back.” Flo warned and he smiled, the angelic look on his features catching Flo off guard.

“I’d rather be bound to a witch in a coven than a demon who would murder me at my weakest. I’m newest to this life, I still have my human memories.”

“Her anchor.” Flo whispered in shock.

“The other three have no recollection of their human lives. They’ve lived for so long. Mine aren’t necessarily fresh, but I still remember. That side will anchor her. It’s just an unfortunate side effect that she’d effectively be bound to me for the rest of her life.”

“Marcella, are you listening?” Flo asked urgently.

“I hear you. And maybe it would help. But just, I ask you not to take advantage of the bond. I know that it will give you unrestricted access to my magic and-”

“No, I understand. This bond won’t touch your magic. It’s an anchor. It just means we’re tied together for the rest of our lives.” Luke explained quietly and she paused before nodding.

“Okay. Do it.”

The other witches had gone to help Calum and the other two, watched in amazement as the demon they’d sworn to protect, tied himself to one of their own barely after hours of meeting. They could feel the strong magic settle and it was only a few moments later as Marcella opened her eyes and smiled at Luke.

“Looks like we’ve got a lot to learn. Demon or not, your blood, it’s pure.” Luke snorted at that before helping her off the floor, steadying her.

“What does this mean for you two?”

“Her life is tied to mine.” Luke explained bluntly and the witches understood immediately. He would go where she went, no matter what. Whether she hated him or tolerated him, the bond between them would not allow them separated. Even if he had to return to the underworld, the bond would strengthen to the point of mental communication so he could ensure she was safe and alive.

He’d effectively given up his freedom for a stranger, a witch at that, a witch who had a blood bound vengeance promise against every demon.

Roe returned, her eyebrows raising at the sight of Marcella leaning on Luke.

“He’s bound himself to her.” Flo explained at Roe’s look.

“Good. It secures our protection. Flo, with me. Which two of you are physically oldest and actual oldest?” Roe’s attention turned to the remaining three demons. Ashton stepped forward.

“I’m physically the oldest. Calum is the actual oldest.” Roe nodded her head.

“I want you two with myself and Flo. The next spell we’re doing should help throw anyone off our trail. It’s why I’ve left it till last.” This earned curious looks from both witches and demons alike.

“Roe, don’t tell me-“ Flo began but Roe shook her head.

“No, it’s not a sacrificial spell. However the protection magic will drain me. Once the spell is complete we’ll need to vacate. Pack up the stalls, cast scent dampeners. Meet back at the coven home. We’ll move on from there.”

The four demons watched in surprise as the other witches nodded before moving around the hall. Luke immediately went to help Marcella, earning a small smile from Roe and Michael assisted Gem.

She made her way out of the hall, the secluded alley next to the hall offered her the space and time for the spell.

“Flo will be the chanel for the coven. It means they’ll all be pushing their magic to the spell, but I’ll take the brunt of it.”

“That will kill you!” Calum half hissed in shock. Roe smirked.

“Half-demon. However you two will chanel your own energies through Flo to help stabilise and effectively help the magic ground itself with the ancient power.” Both demons looked awed as she took Flo’s hands and they immediately flanked Flo, placing their hands on her shoulders.

They could feel the magic tug at their souls, the thrum of her covens magic that protected them.

They watched as Roe’s skin went pallor, her body trembling as the magic settled. Calum had the quickest reflex as she dropped, his body moving around Flo and catching her.

“Has the spell taken?” His tone was voice of the concern he felt for the hybrid in his arms.

“It’s settled and it’s strong. They won’t be able to get near the town.” She confirmed after a second before they returned to the hall, spotting that the stalls that the witches had run were packed away.

“The other stall owners will be here in a few moments. I suggest we get her out as quick as possible.” Marcella warned quietly and Calum nodded.

“I can teleport with her, but I need direction.” He finally got out and Flo rolled her eyes before gripping his bicep. He tried not to hiss at the magic that seemingly covered him and his cargo.

“You get us going, I’ll guide you. We’ll meet you all back at the house.”

Seconds later, the three of them melted into the shadows and as the crowds slowly returned to the hall, stall owners only passing it off as the norm, no one noticed how various women weaved their way through with ease, three of them accompanied by dangerous looking men.

But once glance at arms entwined, or hands in the case of one couple, no one gave them second thought as they left the fayre, eyes scouring each face as they made it to the cars that were grouped together in the separate parking lot for stall owners only.

“Split between the cars. We can’t keep our eggs in one basket.” Gem advised, Marcella keeping a tight hold of Luke’s hand as she pulled him to her car, three other witches trailing behind.

Cassie, who had taken ahold of Ashton’s arm as they left the hall kept her grip and practically frog marched him to her car. Another three witches followed, laughing at the scowl on his face.

Gem grinned at Michael.

“Looks like it’s you and me, demon boy.” He rolled his eyes but gestured for the older witch to move first, the last two witches following behind him.

“I’d rather be eaten alive by witches than tortured by demons, sweetheart.” The comment was playful, teasing. But the answering grin he got in return made his own lips curve into a smirk.

“I can do both, demon boy. C’mon. Flo will have our heads if we’re not back in time.”

He chuckled as he slid in the front passenger side whilst she got into the driver's seat.

When they reached the coven home, the three demons were impressed. They could see the old brickwork that set the foundations of the house, giving way to the new work that showed the extension of their home.

Whilst they were under the protection of the coven, they could feel the magic embedded within the walls and land, seemingly testing them.

“Uninvited guests get stuck on the boundary ward line. However, magic can sense our protection, our intent. As long as you show no ill intent, you’ll be fine.” Gem explained as she guided the three in.

They were met by Flo who looked tired, dark circles under her eyes. Gem tutted.

“Why haven’t you rested, silly child?” Flo snorted at the older coven member, a yawn escaping her lips.

“Had to make sure demon knew the rules. Made sure Roe was okay too.”

“And you’re not in bed because?” Gem prompted and Flo rolled her eyes.

“I’m going, silly witch.” Came the retort from the tired witch. Gem laughed, pressing a soft kiss to the younger witches forehead.

“Sleep sweet Flo. Dreams will not bother you whilst you rest.” She nodded in thanks before disappearing upstairs.

“I’m assuming something just happened?” Ashton’s question was quiet and Gem nodded as she guided them to the sitting room.

“A coven of thirteen is difficult to find, let alone combine. We all have different affinities and there are times we clash.”

“Your affinity would be something with the mind?” Luke queried, his knee bouncing as his eyes darted to the doorway as a few of the witches walked by.

“Something like that. Varying gifts come with various power. Despite our Coven Witch being a hybrid, she also the most powerful. Next to her in measurements of power would be young Flo. Had any of us attempted what the four of you did,” her eyes moved to Ashton, “we would have died.”

“Is that why Marcella collapsed?” Gem’s eyes turned to Luke and she smiled.

“Marcella is powerful and gifted in her own right. However her blood bound promise was so vast that to revoke it from you four alone left her magic and body feel like a plug had been pulled and she couldn’t stop the flow of water escaping.”

“So my bond with her was effectively a plug?” Gem nodded.

“You most probably saved her life as well. Which incurred a debt. A debt that would be beneficial for both of you.” Luke’s eyes sharpened on her as Calum entered the room.

“You witches and your debts.” The tone was devoid of emotion and she shrugged.

“Old magick works in her own ways. We learned not to question what old magick does, however we question new magick with ease, break down and work it out to be sure that it won’t interfere.”

“Old magick is very much like karma.” Came the dry response from Calum.

Gem lifted an eyebrow in curiosity.

“She’s a bitch.”

“Yet here you stand, alive because of Old Magick.” Gem fired back and Calum paused before rolling his eyes, fingers running through his bleached hair.

“Why would the debt be beneficial to Luke and your witch?” Luke pressed his lips shut, annoyance flashing across his features.

“Because if they acknowledge and act on the life debt, they would be a tandem pair. His gifts become hers and vice versa. It would let both of them tap into new gifts that would be a step to protect each other better. Their power would increase significantly too.” Gem explained and Calum nodded once in return.

“I’ll need to talk to Marcella first. She deserves the choice rather than just being thrown into another bond without warning.” Luke finally spoke and Gem smiled.

“Each of you continue to prove my notions about demons wrong. I might even consider you friends when the ordeal is over.” And with that, she left the room, leaving the four demons to their thoughts.

Michael threw up a privacy bubble, his eyes turning to Luke.

“Mate, you’re already bound to the witch, why are you even considering this life debt?” Straight to the point and blunt. Luke rolled his eyes.

“We all know out of the four of us, I’m the weakest point. I’m the youngest, I haven’t nearly enough training to even last against one of the elders looking for us. And my own powers are still in their infancy. Why would I not consider it?” He fired back and Calum leant against the side of the fireplace, watching the two.

“Why would you tie yourself down to one witch? A witch who has a bound vengeance promise against our kind?” He countered, making Luke scoff.

“We’re already bound. If binding ourselves further means we can better protect ourselves and them? I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I’m not taking that choice from her.”

“Luke’s right.” Calum interrupted Michael, the latter leaning back into his seat with a frown.

“We need to better learn ourselves to help protect this coven that have given us sanctuary and protection. But he can’t take the choice from her or they’d have us in chains that we’d never escape from.” Calum continued, his eyes holding Michael's.

It was another five minutes before Michael relented.

“Fine. But don’t be expecting me to sleep with one of them.”

“We know you well enough, Mike.” Calum shot back playfully, laughing as Michael flipped him the bird before taking down the privacy bubble.

Cassie chose that moment to stick her head through the door.

“Gem is about to lay the law down with the coven. I’d suggest you go too because there are a list of things that are a massive no in this home.”  The four exchange looks before following her out.

“What, no leaving the toilet seat up?” Michael teased, causing Cassie to roll her eyes.

“Not really. Most of us found this coven as solace.  It all of us had a good life, hence why Gem will lay down the law with all of us.” The four exchanged looks before following Cassie into the garden where all the witches, aside from Roe, Marcella and Flo, were gathered.

It was interesting to watch how the other witches easily bowed to the wishes of the older witch. Only a few younger ones argued, their untrusting eyes staring at the demons for longer than necessary. But Gem held firm.

“They’re under our protection. They sought us out peacefully instead of kidnapping which is what any other demon would have done. We owe them that, at least.” She soothed and the younger witches relented, albeit reluctantly.

Calum noted to keep an eye on the ones that protested, the last thing he needed was a fight with the coven who were sworn to protect him.

—

Luke had tried to get Marcella alone just to talk to her, his eyes watching as the other witches hustled her away from him or took her attention so that he couldn’t interrupt.

His friends would have laughed if they hadn’t known the repercussions of the binding being ignored.

“How do you get a witch alone without her coven sisters burning you to ash with their glares?” Luke finally muttered after day four of this. He could feel his temper slipping and Calum noticed as the room temperature steadily increased.

“Control it, Luke. I’ll talk with Roe.” Luke shut his eyes, taking in a deep breath as he tried to shove down his temper. He didn’t want to give the witches more reasons to keep Marcella from him.

“You’ve been doing what?!” Echoed around the house, and Luke’s eyes snapped open, his glare settling to the closed door. Calum rolled his eyes.

“Looks like our Coven Witch is finally awake.” He muttered under his breath and Luke rolled his own eyes in return.

Before he could make a snide remark, he watched as the door flung open and Roe marched in, Marcella being tugged in behind her.

“But Roe-”

“But nothing, Sapphire.” Roe snarled back at the younger witch. Luke’s eyes were on Roe’s hand, watching as it tightened around Marcella’s wrist and a low growl built in his throat, only for it to die away when she all but shoved his bound witch towards him.

He didn’t hesitate to catch her when she stumbled and almost immediately the anger settled, relief flooding through his veins and Marcella visibly relaxed at his touch.

“Do I teach empty brains?” Roe snapped at Sapphire who, to her credit, flushed in shame. “Coven meeting, now. Demons, you’re in this too since one of you is bound to us.”

Luke found himself unable to let go of Marcella, but she found herself reluctant to move too far from him as well. They followed after Calum, who wore a smirk as he followed after Roe, passing the shamed witch, a smug chuckle falling from his lips.

Sapphire reached out to grab Marcella as they passed, but the growl left Luke’s lips before he could even think it. She flinched back and hurried ahead of them.

“‘About fucking time.” Ashton muttered as he joined them.

“Us or them?” Luke commented sarcastically. Marcella giggled.

“Both.” Ashton grinned before joining the room of witches. Roe made them all sit around the table, taking her place at the head of the table.

“Who here was actively keeping Marcella from Luke?”

No one dared to move until Roe’s fist slammed down on the table.

“Fucking answer me! Who?” She snarled and very quickly six hands shot up. She realised that it was the younger members of the coven, but their ages held no excuse in her eyes. She’d taught them all the importance of her heritage and what she’d learned.

“Calum, kindly inform these idiotic witches what they were doing?”

Calum sauntered from his spot at the back of the room, standing next to Roe. She shifted, allowing him the space at the head of the table and all of the witches realised the subtle exchange.

Roe was sharing her power as Coven Witch, with him.

It didn’t go unmissed by the demons.

“You were effectively killing both of them.” The casual comment earned a couple of scoffs. “If you don’t believe me, ask your witch how she was feeling? Ask Luke how he felt, because I can guarantee, had I not realised how fast his temper was changing, you’d all be dead.” The scathing remark was met by silence this time.

Marcella spoke up.

“I felt like I was dying. My chest was constantly on fire and every time one of you asked for my help with spells, I felt that I couldn’t touch my magic without it burning me.” Roe’s eyes hardened as she gazed at the six that had held up their hands.

“When a demon is bound to anyone, human, witch, fae, it doesn’t fucking matter. But if you actively try to keep them from their bound, it will kill them both. It is why Bindings are so rare, but it is also why taking them into the coven was important. Especially when he willingly bound himself to her, knowing that he could still end up dying if she so wished it.” Roe snapped and the six gazes dropped to their laps, shame filling the room.

“None of you are to request help from Marcella for the next week. I don’t fucking care if it’s her gifts you specifically need, you don’t talk to her. And you should be grateful I found out now instead of when she died, because it would be a very different meeting we’d be having.”

The demons realised a warning when they heard one and realised that despite the coven being a family, Roe wasn’t afraid to remind her sisters what she would do and had done.

When the room emptied out, Luke guided Marcella out of the house, his hand still in hers and he could feel the bond settle back in.

“It feels nice not to feel like I’m dying.” The comment was made in jest, and he tried to smile at it, but she understood why it turned into a grimace. “Sorry Luke.”

“It’s fine.” He finally muttered quietly. The peace of the surrounding forest really helped settle his thoughts that had gone into turmoil at the thought of her dying.

He half hated how smitten he already was for this witch. But he knew it was the bond working to their favour.

“Now that I’m not trying to be turned to ashes by your sisters, would you do me the honour of allowing me to take you out on date?” She could see past the confidence and bravado he put on, her lips curving into a smile as she lifted her hand, her palm resting against his cheek.

“Of course. But I’m afraid it’ll have to be in the human world.” And for the first time in days, he laughed.

“I think I can survive that. How about we put some disguises on and sneak out?” His voice had lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, and she giggled softly.

“It’ll be the most fun I’ve had in years, kind sir.”  Luke grinned as his fingers snapped and their appearances changed, his blond curls receding before settling into a scruffy flattened look, facial hair growing enough to make his face look a little aged as the blonde shifted to a dark brown and his baby blue eyes turned green.

Had she not witnessed it, she wouldn’t have believed it.

Her own dark locks shifted red instead, her hair growing shorter. He held up a conjured mirror to show that her features had shifted enough that even her own parents wouldn't recognise her. It helped that her eyes went from a hazel colour to chocolate brown.

The pair went out as they were, Luke dressed in plaid pants with a leather jacket and graphic t shirt. Marcella added her own denim jacket to her summer dress and he couldn’t help but think she looked a vision as they left the house together.

No one questioned them as they headed into the town, hand in hand. They fit into the rush of the humans around them seamlessly. His eyes kept returning to their entwined hands and he couldn’t stop the smile if he tried.

They found a small cafe that had hot food and an outdoor seating area, so they placed their orders and headed out to the area. Even with the sun shining, the cae was mostly empty. It was later in the day so most of those who wanted food had already been and gone.

Luke warily eyed one of the smaller occult shops, his back tingling as he recognised the protective magic.

“You’ll find that with some stores, neither of us can enter.” Marcella commented quietly and he realised her words.

“Because you’re bound to me, right?” Their conversation was hushed, the bustle of the street reaching through the small cobbled alleyway that led to the secluded seating.

“Unfortunately. But most of the shops I’m no longer able to enter, I never really liked anyway. Too many fake spells and the wrong protective enchantments.” The nonchalance shocked him for a second before he smiled.

“I’m still sorry for it. I forgot that being bound to me would mean that you’d be barred from a lot of things.” Her hand reached across the table and took his, making his eyes meet hers.

Idly, he decided that as nice as the brown eyes were, he liked her hazel ones better.

“You did what you had to do to keep me alive. I’m indebted to you, L-love.” She caught herself before saying his name, remembering that there would be people listening. He smiled and shifted his hand in her grasp, bringing her knuckles to his lips.

He enjoyed her cheeks turning pink at the action.

“I couldn’t just let you be. Plus, I still have my humanity. The others lost theirs years ago.”

“Any of you would have sufficed, but had it been the others, I’d have had to complete the bond almost immediately for my magic not to destroy me.” Luke snorted before falling silent as their food was bought out.

They both thanked the waitress as she handed them their cutlery and left them to it.

For a few moments, the only sounds was the bustling street and their cutlery scraping against the plates.

“So what did you want to know then? I can tell you’ve had questions for days.” Marcella finally spoke up and he smiled.

“Not here, sweetheart. Those questions are for your ears only. How about you tell me what you’ve been studying?” And she understood his silent request.

Ears were listening and they couldn’t trust anything at the moment. So she told him about her University days, acting as if she was just finishing her studies rather than the fact she’d finished years ago.

And so they swapped stories, Luke editing his enough so his tales didn’t sound so morbid. But she laughed and he was struck with how beautiful she looked.

Part of him wondered if it was the bond working overtime to compensate for the time apart, but then he didn’t care.

Out of the four demons, he was the closest in touch with his humanity. And he knew that the bond was taking advantage of that. But he cared less as they talked about various stories of their childhoods.

The way her lips would quirk up had his own mirroring her actions.

By the time they’d left, leaving a hefty tip for the waitress, he enjoyed the sunshine on his skin as their arms swung between them, fingers interlocked. He realised in that moment that if had to be bonded to any witch, he was glad it was her.

“I don’t want to try and not be with you, love.” She finally murmured. Luke smiled.

“I wouldn’t even entertain the idea, sweetheart.” He finally whispered and the came to a pause by the park where families were milling about.

“Do you want to see where this bond will lead us?” She whispered, taking a step closer to him, her eyes doe like. He felt entranced and vaguely wondered if this was part of her gift.

“Absolutely.” He murmured and his head dipped, his lips meeting hers and the bond not only settled, but she relaxed against him, her hands sliding around his neck.

She pulled away seconds later, her cheeks flushed as he pressed his lips against hers, once, twice, three times.

“Best decision I reckon. Now, how about we kill some time together before we head back to those laser eyes I was receiving?” She giggled as he tucked her into his side, arm slung across her shoulders as they walked through the park together, enjoying the peace of the day.

When they returned to the house, it was obvious to any of the inhabitants how quickly the bond took. Sapphire was the most vocal one.

“How can you stand to be so close to the kind that murdered your entire family, Marcella?” She finally snapped, earning a growl from Luke.

Marcella stared at Sapphire, frustration bubbling. She knew that the younger witch had her issues with the demons, but she was struggling to forgive the girl for actively keeping her away from Luke.

“Because he didn’t murder them, Sapphire. He saved my life by binding himself to me, so of course I’m going to make the effort for him at least.”

“You promised.” She snapped back and Marcella felt her heart twist.

“I did. And I promise you that we’ll find the demon that stole you, but you cannot blame these four, not when they so willingly came to us for protection. If they’d hurt any of us, don’t you think they would’ve avoided us?” Marcella reasoned. But she could see the anger in the younger witches eyes as she stormed away from the couple.

“What was that about?” Luke finally asked and Marcella sighed.

“Part of our history.” She replied, guiding him up to her room. He paused at her door, his hand falling from hers as he stared at her in shock.

“I didn’t-I don’t-”

“For such a big bad demon, you’re very flustered.” She teased as she took a seat on her bed, pointing to the chair at her desk. “We need to talk, I can soundproof the room at least from the prying ears of your brothers. My sisters know what I’m about to tell you.”

Luke seemed to relax as he finally stepped into her room, his body sinking down onto the chair. He scooted it as close to the bed so that their legs were touching.

“The bond isn’t as settled as it needs to be right now.” He explained quietly and she nodded in understanding.

“It’s fine. So what questions do you have?” Her relaxed smile eased his worries.

As he began to ask his questions, it started out as simple things, like her favourite food, what kind of music she enjoyed. Luke kept it light before steadily venturing into uncharted territory.

As she talked, she asked her own questions, about his human life, about how he found himself here. He was honest. The only ones who truly knew his life had been the three he considered brothers. It was easy to talk to her, almost cathartic as they talked.

Then he finally asked the question that had been bugging him for days.

“Why all demons?”

She froze at his question before sighing.

“All I ever knew growing up was my family. I had five brothers and six sisters. I was the youngest.” Luke found his eyes widening. He’d sensed her power, it wasn’t as strong as Roe’s but it matched Flo’s easily.

“The seventh child?” She grinned at his amazement.

“I’ve done well to keep my power hidden from the other witches. The only ones who know are Gem, Roe and Flo. It’s to protect myself mostly.” He nodded in understanding.

“It’s safe with me too.” She smiled at his words before continuing.

“I had aunts and uncles in abundance. It was a family unit that worked for us. I think I must have been nine or ten when a couple of my aunts came rushing home, frantic. They’d spoken of a fight with demons, of how they’d cheated them from their deal with a human.” Luke sucked in a sharp breath and she gave him a grim smile.

“I bet they weren’t happy.”

“Suddenly my family home was being shored up as a fortress. But it wasn’t enough. I’d been hidden, as the youngest and most powerful, it boiled down to protecting me. I remember hearing the screams as the first demons attacked.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper and Luke’s hand reached out but hesitated at the last second. Instead, his hand lifted, wiping gently at the tears that had fallen.

“Take your time, sweetheart.”

“I watched them murder my entire family. They were going to kill me before one of them said about leaving me with the horrors as a reminder not to mess with demons. I ran crying, vowing that on my blood I would find and end all demons. My magic manifested and I don’t remember much else until Gem and Roe found me. They’d felt the power of my vow.”

Luke found himself lost for words. He could understand the strength of the vow in the midst of grief, but with grief from a child, he knew that magic was wild and uncontrollable.

“And over the years, your power has only grown, and the vow with it.” He pieced together and she nodded.

“Had you not bonded with me, I would’ve died that day.” More tears were falling and he moved from the chair, sitting on the edge of her bed. She allowed the comfort he offered, her body sagging into him.

“You realise that if you acknowledge this, there’s no going back for us.” He was careful with his words. He knew the bond was still snapping back from their forced separation, but she nodded anyway.

“I remember rituals, I create them. This one, I know that it’ll tie us, but there’s one more that would need to be done, and I’m not ready to do that.”

“When you’re ready, sweetheart. It’s your choice, I promise.” He whispered as he pressed a kiss into her hair, holding her as she let out the emotions that had clearly been locked away.

“Thank you.”

—

He should’ve known. The second they entered the underworld, he would’ve been tracked.

Marcella’s mental presence in his mind had given him the effort he needed to collect the few relics that Roe needed.

She was humming along to the radio, the connection giving him enough information.

And as much as he wanted to stop himself from falling for her, to just keep it as a binding, he couldn’t. The more he got to know her, the more he fell.

When he arrived back on the human plains, he missed the crack that reverberated, his own ears ringing from the shadow travel.

But he felt the first burn against his back, a yell of agony escaping as he collapsed to his knees.

“Sweet little Luke.” The voice that irritated him through the start of his training filtered through as something burned his skin and he realised that this could be it.

‘Marcella, baby. I’m a distance from the house. I got followed.’ His internal call to her was cut off as he felt chains not only wrap around his body, but they burned.

He could do nothing but fall to the floor, a cry of agony escaping as the chains were pushed further into his skin.

Burning, everything burned and he could feel something in him snap to life as his body convulsed against the pain, his teeth gritting together to stop the noise from escaping.

“Sweet little Lukey, come to play at last.” Belize's tone was sickeningly sweet.

“I was never yours to play with, Torrid.” He ground out, making a smirk appear on her features that relayed innocence.

Luke knew better.

“Oh I know. And look at you, playing with a little hybrid who thinks it’s a powerful creature. But your little pet hasn’t met me.” The chains tightened and he finally released the scream that had been building up.

“There it is.” Her tone sounded like a release, how his Marcella said his name when he was buried inside of her. He felt his insides twist.

“Roe will never let you live for this.” Luke ground out between sharp breaths and Belize laughed.

“She’ll never know who sent her a gift of a demon's head on a silver platter.”

Luke closed his eyes.

—

‘Marcella, baby. I’m a distance from the house. I got followed.’ Marcella’s head snapped up, her face akin to horror as Gem stepped into the kitchen.

“Marcella?”

“Luke.” She whispered, before a jolt of pain shot through her body, a strangled cry escaping from her.

“Fuck. Roe!” Gem half screamed as she grabbed Marcella, pulling her up to her feet before her body twisted and a startled cry escaped her.

Roe appeared, Calum in tow and he knew.

“They got him.” Something inside Marcella snapped as she pushed herself to her full height, the pain filled gaze meeting Calum’s.

“Who?” The word was hissed, her teeth clenching to stop the cry escaping her.

“Belize Torrid and her ilk. The ones after Roe. She thinks that by killing Roe, it will make her some kind of ruler of the underworld.” Calum explained and worry finally crossed his features as Marcella’s body contorted in a way that had him realising it was bad.

“The chains.” He finally realised and his look of worry morphed into one of horror.

“Marcella can you locate him?” She was leaning on Gem and he could feel the magic gathering. Roe grabbed Calum’s and Gem’s wrists.

“Down!” She half snarled, dragging them with her as the burst of magic escaped, throwing the room into disarray. When they looked up, Marcella was gone and Flo hurried down the steps.

“What the hell happened?”

“We’re scrying. Get Marcella’s scarf.” Roe snapped as she pulled both Calum and Gem back up.

“Are either of you hurt?”

“No.” Came a unified response and she nodded before marching through to the living room, her hands still wrapped around their wrists. She dropped them when she reached the drawer that held the map.

“Fuck the rules on this right now, they could be dying.” She sneered at the flash of warning she received.

Once she had her scarf, and the location determined, Calum called for Michael and Ashton. Both didn’t hesitate as they linked together and were gone within seconds.

When they arrived, they could see Luke in a protective dome, chains wrapped around his body and glowing. Calum snarled as he stepped forward but was held back by Ashton whose eyes were captured by the sight of Marcella turning more and more vicious.

“Who knew little Lukey got himself a toy.”

Marcella never responded, something having changed within her. Calum was awestruck as she began to use borderline darker spells that even Roe never touched.

“The little witch sad about her demon dying? I’ll set the body alight, just for your tradition.” Roe went to stop the fire from consuming Luke, but she gasped as the shield absorbed it and left him unharmed. That was when Torrid began to get brutal with her attacks.

The small group of six tried to surround themselves around Luke, to help him, but Marcella’s magic was fierce. When it burned Michael’s hand, they didn’t try a second time.

They tried to help her, but the witch and demon were locked in a battle that got darker with each passing moment.

“Cal, if she keeps using the dark spells, she may never recover.” Roe finally whispered. It was why she’d never used them, never having needed to, but also knowing the lure of the power. And with her demon side, she knew that the temptation would take a hold.

“I can’t do anything. This is on them.” He finally whispered as they watched a dark, sickly looking purple spell speed across the green and slammed into Torrid.

She laughed hysterically as Marcella lifted from her stance.

“A warming spell?” The sneer was on her face as she lifted an arm before freezing.

“That wasn’t the colour of a warming spell, was it?” Calum quietly asked and Roe shook her head as Torrid began to scream.

“It’s a torture curse. Boils the blood until it burns your body inside out.” Roe whispered, mortified as the smoke began to rise.

Marcella didn’t move until the demon was ashes, her body sagging as her shield dropped and she collapsed next to Luke.

“You can’t leave me, not today.” She ground out as her fingers pulled at the chains, her body clearly protesting the pain from them, but she didn’t care.

Roe watched in amazement as Marcella cut her palm and began the chant. She finally moved to Luke’s side, slicing his palm for her as she continued the spell, allowing Roe to smear the blood on her lips as she did the same to him.

“We are bound, mind, body and soul. I share what is mine; my blood, my gifts, my life.” Roe stepped back and they watched as her lips touched his and the flare of magic was more gentle as it settled over them.

Roe felt her heart clench as Marcella collapsed on top of Luke’s unmoving body.

“We need to move them.” She finally got out, her voice thick with emotion, her eyes blinking away those tears.

It was silence as they moved the unmoving bodies.

—

“Where are we?” Marcella’s head twisted to see Luke, his body unscathed. No scars, no blemishes. She looked down and saw the same.

“We must be in some kind of limbo.” She finally replied and his eyes finally took her in.

“Baby.” He whispered before she threw herself at him, a sob breaking free from her lips. His arms wrapped around her, his own tears escaping as he held her. She was in his arms and safe.

“That fucking demon hurt you, god I felt it in my bones, Luke.” She got out, and his arms only tightened around her as he turned his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her hair.

“Which is why you’re both here.” A third voice had them pull away, shock covering Marcella’s features whilst incredulity crosses Luke’s.

“No way.” Her voice was a whisper as the angel stepped forward, her grip on Luke getting tighter.

“Gabriel.” Luke finally spoke, the angel smiling in return.

“Archangel fucking Gabriel.” Marcella whispered, awestruck. Luke held back his desire to snort.

“You two are quite the conundrum.” Gabriel finally broke  the silence, gesturing to the seats that seemed to materialise from nothing. The room they were in was too white, too clean.

They sat down, hands clasped together and Gabriel sighed.

“How are we the conundrum?” Luke snorted at Marcella’s words.

“A witch, semi-bonded to a demon who she’s also dating and sleeping with. Sums it up, doesn’t it, Gabe?” Luke tried to keep the scathing tone from his voice, but the smirk he received in return told him he wasn’t successful.

“Fully bonded.” Was all Gabriel stated simply.

Luke’s eyes whipped to Marcella who couldn’t meet his own.

“You foolish, beautiful witch.” He finally whispered, his hands cradling her face as his lips met hers softly. It was soft kisses against her lips until they remembered that they had company.

“Hence the conundrum.” Gabriel interrupted. Luke frowned.

“How?”

“Had she not completed the bond, you would’ve disappeared, just like your kind do when they die.” Marcella’s body stiffened, her gaze dropping into a scowl at the angel.

“What happened?”

“You completed the bond. You shared your mind, body and soul with him which brought you two to me. Marcella would be allowed passage, whereas Luke would disappear.”

“I didn’t complete the bond for you to take him from me.” She snapped at the angel, momentarily forgetting who she was talking to. He smiled

“Which is why we won’t. You have two options. For both of you to follow after me, but you would forever be barred from the human realm. You would be under scrutiny, Luke especially. Or, you can return to the human realm. The only difference would be that Marcella would never age. You have merged blood so she would effectively live forever. She would, for all intents and purposes become a hybrid, like her Coven Witch.”

Despite her temptation to see her family again, her loved ones, she knew her choice. Gabriel could see it too.

“Say it out loud.”

“Go back.” Came from the both of them and Gabriel snorted.

“I don’t expect to see you back here for a very long time, if ever.”

And he began counting back and suddenly Marcella could feel panic bubbling as the pain grew stronger.

Everything went black.

—

Roe knew the questions were coming.

The brooding demon who frightened humans and made her transactions difficult, had been watching the coven closely.

He ran errands when they weren’t able to, got into places their magic couldn’t.

She knew he was building up his questions.

Seeing Luke and Marcella look so lifeless, she could feel part of her clawing to punish, to hurt. Another part felt lifeless as they looked.

“We burn our dead.” Calum’s statement drew a hiss and she whirled on him.

They’d lain Luke and Marcella together, because they knew even in death the bond would carry.

“I refuse to burn either of them. Not-not until-” Calum understood her words. He desperately wanted them to live, but their lifeless bodies contested to that.

“We need to talk then.” And she immediately bristled, wondering if the demon was deluded with grief or if he really didn’t care.

“One of my witches has just fucking died and you want to talk?” She snapped, making him hesitate and sigh.

“I’d rather not think about their deaths right now. I want to drown these emotions so I can’t feel them but you won’t let me. So if I can’t destroy my liver for it to heal again, then I want to ask you questions.” And it clicked.

She didn’t argue following him to the garden. The sun shone brightly, even with her bad mood, she let her eyes slip closed as they say on the porch swing, her skin practically glowing.

“When did you discover you were half demon?”

“My father visited. I’d grown up with witches and knew they existed. But one day he was there. My mum was dying, and the coven were helping her. They helped her because she was one of them.” The bitterness laced within her tone made Calum look to her, her eyes open and watching the trees branches dance in the wind.

“They knew what you were.” It wasn’t a question. She nodded anyway.

“They loathed my presence. When he turned up, my mum had pleaded with him to take me, but he couldn’t. He could only promise to protect me.” Her tone was softer, a sharp change from her previous one.

“Did he?”

“He died saving me. I know that he was really high up on the chain of command. He gave me this the day before he was murdered.” Her fingers twisted the bracelet, that he’d seen her play with, off.

She dropped it into his open hand and his breath immediately caught as he recognised the sigil.

“Did he explain the sigil to you?” Her confused eyes moved to the spot where his hands were and she traced the lines delicately.

“I never knew it was there,” her whisper sounded broken, “he just told me the bracelet had properties of protection that would display at the right time.”

Calum could feel his lungs taking in air that he didn’t really need.

“Lucifer's sigil.” He finally choked out and she froze, her eyes darting between his stunned face and the bracelet.

“What does it mean, Calum?”

“You, and subsequently your coven, are under the protection of the king of Hell himself. How the fuck did your father even get this?” Despite his and the boys’ defection from the underworld, he knew that the King of Hell could burn them within hours of finding them.

It only drew forward more questions.

“I don’t know.” She murmured, her fingers tracing the engraving.

“Who taught you about your demon side?” Calum finally asked, slipping the bracelet back on her wrist.

“My father when he could. He taught me how to tap into that side, to merge my magic with my gifts. He realised I was a powerful hybrid and sought out finding another coven that wouldn’t murder me in my sleep.”

“This coven?”

Roe smiled at that.

“Originally is was just Gem and her three sisters. When my father discovered them and asked for help, they took me in and trained me. Helped me hone my combined powers. Along the way, the coven began to grow. When Gem’s sisters were killed by hunters,” Calum growled, “we agreed that we would use that magic of thirteen instead of three. We said we wouldn’t take in any more until places became open due to death.”

Calum refrained from making a comment. He knew his morbid humour which helped him deal with the sadness would not be appreciated right now.

“You said you were the only one who was willing to kill to keep the coven safe. What happened for that to become necessary?” Roe paused as she watched the leaves danced through the air, being carried by the wind as she sighed.

“After Gem lost her sisters, we realised that we needed to better protect the coven. Gem didn’t want to be the Coven Witch. She was distraught. She was heartbroken.”

“She was grieving.” Calum’s words made Roe pause before nodding.

“A few other witches wanted to step up, but they weren’t willing to do whatever it took to protect the coven. The hunters discovered our little hideout and because I’d agreed to trial as Coven Witch, it was my decision when we caught them.”

“You killed them?”

“Tortured then for information before killing them. I discovered that there was a witch from my mother’s coven who wanted me dead. So she posed as human and hired a hunter.” The disgust made Calum raise an eyebrow but she didn’t elaborate and he didn’t force her to.

“What happened then?”

“I showed up at the coven home and confronted her. Because she’d set a bounty on my head and failed, the other witches knew it was my justice, not theirs.”

“You killed her too?”

“I set an example of what would happen should they choose to cross me.” And Calum laughed.

“You’re more demon than you care to admit, but it’s refreshing. You know your limits, know the temptations. Yet you’re the most perfect contradiction.” He breathed out once his laughter died down. Roe felt her eyes drop to her lap.

A finger slid beneath her chin, coaxing her to look up. Baby blue met chocolate brown and it took her brain a second to register before his lips were on hers.

And she felt everything seemingly wake up. Her senses seemed to wrap around Calum as he kissed her and it was almost dizzying.

But she loved it.

Pulling apart, taking in a slow deep breath, he smiled a real smile that made her heart stutter.

“You’re a witch and a demon. But I also like just Roe.” He finally got out and she laughed.

“Good job every part of me likes you too.”

A scream echoed through the house, shattering their moment.

It took only a second for the two of them to react, pulling away and sprinting from the garden. The scream had originated from the room they’d left Luke and Marcella’s bodies. They rushed through the house to the room, stopping dead at the sight before them.

Roe swayed before her knees gave out, hitting the floor in shock as she stared at both Marcella and Luke. The couple were sat up, and confused.

“But-but you died! We saw you bond and then you died!” Roe half shouted as Calum helped her to her feet, his arm wrapping around her waist to keep her steady.

The world was spinning.

She pulled away once she knew her legs would not give out and launched at them both, her arms going around both of them as a sob broke free.

“You fucking died, you assholes.” Their arms shifted and pulled her tightly.

“I saved his life. Archangel Gabriel was waiting for us.” Marcella finally whispered and Roe could only hold the two of them tighter.

They were both alive and she could feel her magic touching them both, the shock covering her face as she pulled away.

“You’re a hybrid?”

“We’re okay, thanks for asking.” Came the sarcastic response from Luke as Calum stepped up and half pulled Luke off the table.

Luke didn’t fight as his arms wrapped around his unofficial leader, the comfort of his brother in all but blood hugged him.

“I would tell you not to do that again, but you’re young.” Luke snorted into Calum’s shoulder, but they held onto each other for moments longer, Calum savouring the fact that Luke was indeed alive.

Once he pulled away from Luke, he surprised Roe by pulling Marcella into a hug as well. She kept quiet as they reassured themselves the couple were okay.

“We need to tell the others.” Roe finally muttered.

“Where is everyone else?” Luke asked quietly. Roe shook her head before shrugging.

Calum felt a spell leave the room, and then footsteps thundered through the house, coming down the stairs and doors slamming open.

Gem reached them first and yelled in glee as tears fell down her face, reaching Marcella and pulling her close.

It was chaos and confusion as the witches and demons clamoured to witness that they were indeed okay before they finally left the room and headed to the meeting room. Calum’s hand was holding Roe’s, and it was noticed as they both took the spot at the head of the table.

“Right, despite the emotional turmoil we’ve all been in the last day, I’ve discovered something important.” Calum’s voice was calm and authoritative. His fingers squeezed Roe’s.

“What happened mate?” Michael finally piped up and Calum sighed.

“Whilst talking to Roe, learning about her heritage, The bracelet she wears, carries Lucifer's sigil.” Every witch in the room stiffened as the other three demons’ eyes widened.

“No fucking way.” Ashton finally whispered.

“Clear as daylight. Which means there’s something going on and we need to get back below and talk to the King himself.” Roe stiffened. As did Marcella.

“He’ll sense my vow.”

“He’ll make you re-word your vow. He knows which demons murdered your family, Marce. The re-wording won’t hurt you and with you being bound to Luke, the magic will adapt, seek out those that caused the damage.”

“Is that why it was against every demon?” Michael asked quietly and Marcella nodded.

“I never knew who murdered them. I just remember the laughter as I ran screaming. They let me live. I vowed vengeance against every demon that day, and my magic manifested years too soon because of my grief.” She explained and Michael nodded in understanding.

“The coven won’t be able to come with you.” Gem spoke up and Calum nodded.

“The only ones who would survive would be Roe and Marcella.” He explained for the witches whose faces held confusion.

“If they come back anything less than perfect, I will strip you to ingredients and then have you ingested by the hounds.” The threat sounded so different coming from Gem’s lips, but Calum understood. Gem had practically raised them both.

“I can only promise that I’ll look after them. I cannot guarantee anything other than that. If the King wants us dead, we’d be dead.” Gem’s face fell, but she nodded.

“When will you leave?” Cassie asked quietly. Despite her fascination with Ashton, Calum knew there was no love lost between the two. She was more curious about his life, his gifts. She’d tracked them all down and grilled them eventually to learn from them.

“Tomorrow night. We need to give ourselves a recovery period. Especially for Marcella and Luke.” It silently reminded the group of the couple’s supposed deaths not hours before.

“Looks like we best get planning then.”

—

The following morning, the house was sombre.

Luke hadn’t let go of Marcella, their bodies tangled in the sheets. Despite what most of the house had  assumed, there’d been nothing happening the previous night.

They knew that it was just the need to be held, to feel that shared emotion between each other, one that healed the wounds that had been burned into him the day before.

Although his skin was damaged, she’d kissed every part of the damaged skin, his own lips repeating her actions.

When they’d fallen asleep, his arms hadn’t relinquished his hold. When they’d woken up, neither had moved throughout the night.

Calum and Roe were in the same position.

She’d pleaded with him softly, her own terror finally showing through at the thought of going into Hell, as a hybrid. She’d embraced her demonic side, but she knew there was a very big chance she would die.

And it left her feeling unsettled.

Calum had ignored the ribbing from Michael and Ashton, raiding a middle finger to them both when he followed after Roe. They’d laughed in response but they could see it was a big thing for her.

They knew the coven was unsettled at the choice, but there was no dissuading them.

Finally there was movement and it seemed to be a switch for everyone.

It was long after breakfast had finished, Roe and Marcella had corralled Gem and Flo into the sitting room, each witch clutching a cup of tea.

Marcella had noted quietly that the burning hot mug didn’t pain her like it used to.

“We need to prepare for every eventuality.” Roe’s voice was quiet and the two hybrids could see the tears in their unofficial mother’s eyes.

Gem knew what was coming.

“Should I die, you need to hold the coven over until Flo is ready to step up into the position.” Flo’s eyes widened at Roe’s words.

“But, I can’t do that! That’s not-” Marcella cut her off.

“Yes you can. Next to the both of us, you are a powerful witch. You’re ready to protect your coven and home. What more could we ask for in a Coven Witch?”

“You’re asking me to consider this if you both die.” Flo snapped, a tear falling. Both hybrids felt their hearts twist painfully at the single tear that fell.

“You have to consider the possibility of us not making it, Flo.” Despite Roe’s intentions behind her words, they could see a few more tears fall from Flo’s eyes.

“You’re my sisters and you want me to consider stepping up if you die?”

“Gem would take control until you’re ready.” There was a pause followed by a brief nod from Gem.

Flo left the room hastily and Roe could feel her shoulders sink.

“She’ll get there. But none of them have had to face losing a Coven Witch before. It’s a lot.” Gem soothed softly and they both nodded in return.

When the sun fell below the horizon, the sky turning a burnt orange as darkness crept up, the coven and four demons were deep within the forest that backed onto their home.

They’d avoided the area where Luke had been tortured and both he and Marcella had died. They’d made sure they were a secure enough distance away from the protections of the home as well.

There was no goodbyes passed, the witches terrified that it would be their last goodbyes to two of their own.

So with long looks and pleading to stay safe, the four demons linked arms with the two hybrids and shadow travelled back to their own realm.

Roe’s eyes studied the underworld with a look of awe on her face. The warmth wasn’t one to bother her, but the sudden appearance of a group of demons did.

She didn’t have time to defend herself as harsh cries echoed around her from Marcella and the other four.

“Look what we have here, some witches who are very lost and the four defectors. Oh how the King will praise me for killing you all.” A feminine voice hissed in Roe’s ear as she saw her sister being restrained.

She finally took note of the sharp claws and the bindings and she knew that she was done for.

The sharp claws very nearly drew blood, both Luke and Calum snarling.

It was when a knife was pressed into both witches sides that they stopped struggling. They weren’t prepared for the growl that ripped through Luke’s chest, the other demons freezing at the sound.

“He’s bonded!” One of the females shouted, a hysterical laugh escaping her lips. “Which witch do we kill?”

“No! If you’re so determined to kill, then take us, leave them alone!” Luke snarled out, eyes pitch black as the skin on his face began to crack, red running through the cracks.

Marcella saw a new side to her bonded and despite her knowledge of demons, she wasn't scared of him.

Roe was ready to accept her fate, her eyes on Calum. His own chocolate brown eyes had gone black, straining against the bonds that held both him and Luke in place.

“Let go.” A deep voice rumbled, making the demons freeze.

“But your highness, they defected from-“

“I said let them go.” A whip cracked, wrapping around the females neck. Her knees gave out immediately as her hands lifted to grab at the whip, only to scream as her hands burned.

Both witches were let go, as was Luke, Calum, Michael and Ashton. Both Roe and Marcella moved to their demons, Luke’s appearance returning steadily to normal as her fingers moved across his skin.

“I’m safe, I promise.” She whispered, her lips pressing against his chin. Roe allowed Calum’s hands to roam, reassuring himself that she wasn’t hurt.

“They defected!” The female snarled out and their saviour laughed in her face.

“Would you think I wouldn’t know? I pushed them to defect.” Roe could see the whip tightening, but neither her or Marcella turned away as the female clawed for air. Her face was impassive as she watched the demon die.

“If I find any of you having gone for these four and their bonded again-“

“Might as well execute them now.” Marcella snapped, making every demon in the vicinity freeze.

“And why would that be, little witch?” Her eyes turned to Luke who nodded once before her gaze returned to the newcomer.

“Belize Torrid almost murdered us both, with the help of these demons. They trapped Luke in glowing chains before they disappeared like frightened rabbits. Belize didn’t realise I fight for what is mine.” His gaze as even as he met hers before he nodded.

“Consider it done.” With a snap of his fingers, each demon dropped, their fingers clawing at their necks, desperately scrabbling for air.

Marcella couldn’t find any sympathy for them.

“I want you four in the office with the hybrids.” Neither witch had a second to gather their thoughts before they’d reappeared in a spacious office, the floor to ceiling window facing whatever Hell was, the building clearly on an outcrop that oversaw everything.

“Take a seat.” He indicated to the various seats scattered. He didn’t object to the protective hold Luke and Calum had of their witches.

“To the two who do not know, I am Lucifer. Roe, my child, it is wonderful to see you having grown into a fine young woman.”

Roe stared at Lucifer, her eyes incredulous as she processed the information.

“Fucking knew it.” Calum muttered. This earned sharp looks from his brothers, and an amused one from Lucifer himself.

“How did you know it, Calum?” His tone was laced with amusement. Luke stiffened next to Marcella and she shared a worried look with Roe.

“When Roe showed me her bracelet, one from her supposed father, I know your sigil anywhere, your highness.” Calum explained, keeping his tone respectful when he realised he couldn’t afford to let his attitude slip

“So you worked that out?” Lucifer promoted and Calum shrugged.

“I was suspicious. But we’d just seen Luke and Marcella die. I couldn’t make sense of it, not until they came back.” Lucifer nodded, his eyes turning to Luke who froze like a deer in headlights.

“You should be dead. Yet this witch saved your life.”

Luke wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew he was meant to be dead. He knew that because of Marcella’s stubbornness and by the grace of Archangel Gabriel, he was still alive.

“When you bond with a stubborn witch who is prepared to fight Archangel Gabriel to stay with you, I think it’s obvious how I’m still alive.” He finally commented. Marcella lifted her head almost defiantly, her gaze meeting Lucifer's.

It was tense for a moment before the King laughed.

“Mercy help those that come for you two. I look forward to seeing the both of you over the coming years, especially since the lovely witch is now a hybrid.”

“This witch has a name, use it.” Marcella snapped and Luke felt his blood run cold.

“You’re lucky, Marcella that I’m in a good mood.” A shiver rolled down her spine and she relaxed into Luke, pressing her lips together.

She realised then that she’d overstepped a line, if the death grip that Luke had her in was any indication.

“Who was the man you had me believe was my father?” Roe finally spoke and Lucifer smiled.

“Talon, he was my second in command. He knew I couldn’t afford to be seen on the human plains, not with your mother and not with you. He told me of the coven, of your treatment. I instructed him to teach you, learn of your heritage. The bracelet was not only protection but it would hide your hybrid scent from other demons.” He explained, the bracelet pulling from her wrist and floating in the air above her.

“Did he do it on your orders or did he truly care for me?” This pulled the King of Hell up short. He sighed.

“At first it was on my orders. But he learned about you, your feisty attitude. I’m almost certain he came to love you as his own.” Her hand reached out, plucking the bracelet from the air and slipping it back on. She simply nodded.

“Is that why he left the files for us to find?” Ashton finally asked and Lucifer nodded.

“He knew that word had gotten out. He trained the four of you, albeit Luke was only recent, but he saw the bond you shared and he knew that protection would benefit all of you in the long run.”

“Will I have any more errant demons after me?” Her question was quiet, eyes on her lap and Lucifer shook his head.

“Not for a while. Anyone that dares attempt will suffer my wrath, and that’s if you’re not through with them. I hear Belize suffered incredibly.” His eyes turned to Marcella who simply nodded. He smirked.

“Your coven will be under a solid protection that is mine. As long as a member of the coven breathes, my protection will stand strong and true. They will not be able to hurt you. It extends to the four of you, as well.”

Michael's jaw dropped open in shock.

“This means the four of you will essentially be taking place as my seconds in command. Ashton and Michael, you’re free to come and go for missions. Calum and Luke, you’ll be the liaison for the human realm. I won’t send you out on missions until your bonds have settled.”

The four demons seemed to be lost for words. Marcella finally spoke up.

“Would you care to explain that, your highness?” She earned an appraising look from Lucifer who shrugged.

“The bonds you share with both Luke and Calum are strong, but if I were to have them coming back and forth repeatedly, the bond could snap, killing all of you. I happen to be fond of my daughter, and by extension, you.”

“How long does it take for the bond to settle?” Roe finally asked and Lucifer grinned, sharp teeth flashing. Part of Marcella seemed to recognise the predator and her body subtly shifted closer to Luke.

“A decade, maybe more. You’ll know when it does settle. As for the other two, they’re free to come and go as they please between missions.”

“Talon set it up for this, didn’t he? Taking over his position and everything?” Ashton commented quietly, making the King nod in agreement.

Nothing needed to be said. They began to understand why they’d been trained the way they were. Why they’d been taught so many more things that other demons would’ve killed to know.

“Witch Marcella of the Summer Coven.” Lucifer finally I toned and she froze for a second before standing, knowing that the King was invoking the old magick.

“The vow you made as a child is no longer compatible for you, the demons having murdered your family suffering the justice of their elders for their actions that night.”

She had to stop herself from talking back, demanding why had she not been sought out to relieve the vow. Then she realised had they done it years ago, she would’ve simply died a lot quicker.

“Lucifer, King of Hell and the Shadow Realm it touches, I release my vow of vengeance against the demon race.”

Roe felt the magic and her skin bristled with the power.

Part of her set a small reminder to begin training Marcella up if they survived the journey.

“I accept the revoke, Witch Marcella. Try to avoid making vows when you’re riddled with grief. I do believe two is enough.” Her cheeks flushed as she returned to Luke’s side.

Lucifer simply smirked.

—

The group didn’t linger in the shadow realm for much longer than they had to. They didn’t want to tempt fate or the good mood the King had been in.

They arrived in the same spot they’d left in, the rising sun filtering through the branches of the trees as the group realised they were still alive.

“What the fuck did we just go through?” Michael finally muttered and the group of six laughed, the relief tinged with borderline hysteria at the fact they had gone to the Shadow Realm and survived meeting Lucifer.

“I think we just survived the most terrifying meeting and Luke’s witch is a badass with no sense of self preservation.” Ashton replied sarcastically, Marcella flushing at the comment, sticking her tongue out at him in response.

“It means we get another chance at things.” Calum murmured, his eyes meeting Roe’s and she beamed at him.

“So, Coven Demon, what do you say to breakfast and we finally go on that date you need to take me on?”

Calum could only laugh as they made their way back to the coven home, excited shouts of joy reaching their ears when they crossed the boundary line and headed towards the house.

“I’ll take you on all the dates you want to, sweetheart. We’ve got at least a decade to figure it all out.”

---

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[bigskydreaming]

Do you think that fics where Dick is in 24/7 Big Brother Mode and his whole existence is to take care of the other kids (which are most of the fics I've read, but I'm not sure how prevalent that trope is or or if those are just the types of fics I click on), are trying to make Dick essentially replace Bruce as a father figure when Bruce can suck a little at it? Not to try to justify that, just curious where the extremes come from, that Dick is either a raging jerk or a super soft caregiver.

Yes and no, I think. 

On the one hand, I definitely think there’s a tendency towards that for that reason, because of this implicit idea in a lot of canon writers and fans that Batman can’t be Batman without emotional and mental health issues. With at the same time, a lot of inadvertent ableism accompanying that, because like….people overlook the fact that like….you can have mental health issues and be bad at various emotional and social interactions and STILL be a good parent, like, they’re not mutually exclusive. I mean, Bruce HAS been a good parent at tons of points in canon, and at no point has anybody said….that is an impostor, that’s not Batman. 

But still, there remains this idea in a lot of times and places, I think, that Bruce is just….resistant to change. That he is who he is, for better and for worse, and that there’s no point in trying to alter his behavior in in character ways, because it either won’t stick, or he for some reason won’t be “Bruce” anymore. 

And this I think is where the tendency to slot Dick into that second parent role comes from. Like, I think that trend is already there to begin with in society, with it functioning that way in a lot of families, where this expectation is placed on eldest children…but then add on top of that this unspoken view I feel a lot of people have, that there’s just no POINT to trying to address where Bruce’s parenting is lacking, because he wouldn’t get it, or whatever….but Dick’s right there, so just have him step up and pick up the slack, even though that shouldn’t remotely be his role or responsibility in the family…

And you’ve got there a recipe for Dick being the super soft caregiver 24/7.

BUT.

Then you have to factor in the Good Dad Bruce Wayne fics, the ones who discount his worst tendencies and canon instances of being abusive or neglectful, because understandably, a lot of fans don’t want to see or have to deal with that in their content when writing Batfam. Its not what they’re here for, they don’t stan an abusive father, so why should they have to write the character in a way that’s fundamentally opposite to what they view as him at his core, the Good Dad that drew them to him in the first place? And they shouldn’t have to! 

No fan should be hampered in writing positive, wholesome Batfamily content simply because a bunch of dumbass edgelords over the years wrote Bruce being abusive to his kids without these canon writers GETTING that they were writing him as being abusive….and so they didn’t address it as such ever, and it continued, or reoccurred.

BUT.

Here’s my issue with how this tends to play out…..because the fics that COMPENSATE for Bruce’s shitty canon parenting or ignore it entirely to focus only on the good parenting in canon or Bruce’s characterization at those periods….

This is where we most often see Dick the raging asshole, who causes strife and conflict in his family, or is too stubborn and hot-tempered when interacting with Good Dad Bruce.

And this is where I get so so frustrated….because they’re ignoring or choosing to disregard Bruce’s worst parenting, which is totally their right….BUT at the same time, making no adjustments for how a LACK of those shitty canon parenting moments would in turn result in vastly different characterization and behavior for Dick too….especially around the times of their greatest canon conflicts.

If you change Bruce’s behavior, or omit the times he’s been a bastard to his kids….BUT you do nothing to change Dick’s behavior in turn….THEN Dick inevitably tends to look like a spoiled selfish asshole….because here’s Bruce being this perfect, doting father….and yet, their conflicts still exist….and those conflicts still have to come from somewhere….enter Dick The Asshole.

I’m ALL FOR changing, addressing or compensating for Bruce’s worst canon writing, in regards to his children. Where people keep losing me is they fail to consider the ripple effects of a Bruce Wayne who never let his children down the ways he has in canon….and thus never would have given Dick in particular cause to have the trust and abandonment issues and anger he has towards Bruce a lot of times. And I say Dick in particular, BECAUSE this is where its so important to acknowledge the way fandom and canon have chosen to willfully disregard a lot of what Bruce has done to him specifically….because it doesn’t fit the narrative of “Dick is the favored son” or whatever reason may be for that.

Like, this isn’t as much of an issue with Jason, for example, because nobody’s overlooking the ending to UTRH or RHATO #25. Nobody’s forgetting to consider that take away Bruce’s shittier writing, and voila….he and Jason have a MUCH better relationship…..because, that’s what we get in Good Dad Bruce Wayne fics. Its a lot of the reason FOR those fics.

In comparison, the unwillingness to engage with things like Bruce hitting Dick and throwing him out after Jason’s death….by being so willing to gloss over that or making this one of the specific things people ignore, but WITHOUT compensating for how the absence of this particular story would in turn affect Dick and his stories…..like look how that breaks down in comparison:

Because in NTT #55, the issue where all that happened….Dick went to see Bruce, to try and console him and grieve with him over Jason…even AFTER Dick had already dealt with the realization that Bruce had made no effort to contact him about what happened and the funeral had been held while Dick was still offworld. So, those were already issues that Dick had acknowledged and been shown willing to put behind him to focus on the bigger picture and be with his dad while they grieved for their brother and son….with Dick, upon Bruce finding him in the Batcave, making NO attempt to start a fight, and clearly expressing that he wanted to be there FOR Bruce, to grieve WITH Bruce.

The only reason it didn’t play out that way, and Dick and Bruce weren’t both in the Manor in the wake of Jason’s death, helping each other cope and move on AS A FAMILY….is because Bruce instead tried to instigate a fight with Dick, hit him, blamed him for Jason’s death, and threw him out.

This is important if ONLY because….this is the ONLY reason Dick - who HAD made an effort to reach out to Bruce and be there for him - WASN’T there, by the time Tim came along. Was the REASON Tim had to come along, and seek Dick out in another city and beg him to come back because Batman needed him.

So see how easily it gets flipped? By refusing to acknowledge or address BRUCE being the one to drive that canon wedge between them there, BUT still making no effort to compensate how the absence of Bruce’s part of NTT #55 would change Dick’s stories and choices….Dick inevitably looks like the one who just…isn’t there for Bruce, makes no effort to be, or just doesn’t care or prioritizes his own anger or guilt or whatever you want to pass that off as. But bottom line is, Dick’s the one inciting conflict, because Bruce has been given a fandom pass on….inciting the conflict. And nobody’s making any effort to factor in that without Bruce hitting Dick and throwing him out…DICK WOULD HAVE BEEN THERE FOR BRUCE AND WITH BRUCE. Like he initially tried to be.

And this is the sort of thing we get in a ton of Good Dad Bruce Wayne fics, even though its the extreme opposite of Caregiver/Substitute Parent Dick Grayson in Bad Dad Bruce Wayne fics.

Its because no matter how much people cite Dick being the heart of the Batfamily…Bruce is still the central pillar everything else revolves around. And the real issue isn’t the extremes for Dick’s character….its the extremes for BRUCE’S character, the sheer scope of the difference between Good Dad Bruce and Bad Dad Bruce…..with everything else rippling out from that.

And Dick, by virtue of being the closest to Bruce in length of history, age, various other ways….will additionally ALWAYS be the one to take the brunt of those ripple effects, for better or worse. Be the most affected, the most changed, by extension of the changes made to Bruce.

Or at least, he SHOULD. Except that’s not how it works out, when people only change Bruce.

So we get all these fics where Bruce is the kind, supportive, understanding dad we WANT him to be, and so choose to write him as….but Dick meanwhile still has his canon Daddy Issues….but now COMPLETELY without cause. When if you think about it, the MORE you change Bruce from his shittier moments in canon, into a better parent, specifically…Dick SHOULD in all respects be perfectly positioned and poised to benefit from that the most….and have a lot of HIS canon issues and insecurities and such….basically negated by Bruce’s positive parenting, in stark contrast to the stories that shaped Dick in so many negative ways.

Le sigh.

Anyway, back to how at the beginning I said yes and no in answer to your question….the no part is that there’s only so much I think its JUST because Dick’s a convenient substitute for parent when Bruce is written as being bad at it in various ways. Part of it I think also just has to do with Dick’s core characterization as being such an empathetic and supporting character for those around him pretty much any time. 

As I’ve mentioned before, there’s a big problem in ALL our media, across the board, with these kinds of character archetypes being taken advantage of for their caregiving tendencies, without reciprocation….because its just in their nature to not demand or make a big deal about not receiving the same care and attention from others in turn……which, if nothing else, saves writers a hell of a lot of story time and space…which they can then devote to even more focus on the characters they’ve chosen to center as more dynamic and essential to the core narrative.

To support my stance on that front…..look at age swap fics in Batfandom. Notice how even in fics where Dick is repositioned to be the ‘baby of the family’ and the one who needs to be protected and cared for…….there’s no real tendency or trend towards making any SPECIFIC one of the older boys responsible for the others in the way Dick is in caregiver/substitute parent type fics? 

Sure, there are a lot of plots about how Damian as the oldest in these fics SHOULD be more responsible for Dick or his younger siblings….but its his failure to do so, specifically, that drives the conflict of a lot of these stories….because in none of them is there ever the implicit understanding that Damian, as the eldest, should be fully capable of stepping in to compensate for Bruce dropping the parenting ball, the way Dick is in the normal dynamics of the family. 

Like, all the age reversal fics I’ve read, yes, all his brothers are shown looking out for Dick at various times and in various ways….but I rarely ever see any single one of them CEMENTED in that stand-in caregiver role, where its EXPECTED of them….the way its frequently expected of Dick in canon.

Because, IMO, there’s this understanding and ACCEPTANCE, that this just isn’t their character type. And rather than address the discrepancies this creates between these fics and ones where Dick is the eldest, per canon, and expected to parent his siblings….people just kinda…roll with it.

And that would be my take on why we so often and so easily see Dick flip-flopped between extremely opposite takes.

[myherorp]

THE QUIRK DATABASE HAS BEEN UPDATED !

incoming information on villain, red.

get to know them !

faceclaim: lee taemin 

name: jo kioh

villain name: red

gender & pronouns: male, he/him

age: 26

association: none

occupation: thief, informant

reputation: he’s not all too well known, but that’s something kioh’s tried hard to do. he doesn’t really find satisfaction in infamy. it just seems like a lot of work, but then again, it’s not like his power is incredibly useful. find the right circles, and they might have something to say about red. annoying, with a hood pulled up and half-hiding, too nosey for his own good and with a mouth on him. it’s only when he talks too much, knows too much, and that’s when it’s learned that he’s got a quirk. it doesn’t matter how much you try and rearrange him, he’ll go and put everything back in the right order. it only crosses the line into dangerous if he knows too much about you. and that’s the good part of blending in, nobody cares about telling things to someone they think is unimportant. one might liken him to a rat, and kioh would likely shrug and agree.

the quirk !

quirk name: regenerative healing

quirk description: this mutation allows for kioh to heal rapidly from any physical injury or ailment due to cellular regeneration. it allows for him to recreate lost organs or appendages (such as limbs) without leaving behind a trace of injury (scarring). due to the fact that the mutation is constantly working to regenerate itself if something is wrong or broken, it means that kioh is usually in top physical condition as he is constantly in the process of reverting back to a healthy state.

abilities:

self repair: all physical injuries are repaired through regeneration of cells. time may vary depending on the severity of the wound or injury.

inexhaustible stamina: since the body is repaired within moments of being broken down, it is near impossible for him to overexert himself or to put strain on himself in a way that would cause fatigue. however, it is possible for kioh to essentially ‘run out of fuel’ and pass out due to the body attempting to repair itself with he does not have enough in way of energy to do so while he is still physically moving.

disease immunity: due to the mutation constantly regenerating and repairing cells, a disease would not have enough time to take effect on the host.

weaknesses: 

while kioh obtains the ability to heal himself, he cannot suppress his pain and so he is still vulnerable to inflicted attacks despite being able to heal from them. though he does seem to have a somewhat amplified pain tolerance.

the larger the injury, the longer it takes for kioh to heal himself. while a cut may only take a few moments, for a limb to reattach or re-grow it would take a considerably longer amount of time.

despite immunity against diseases, drugs or poisons can still have an effect ( such as pain ) and will not be broken down due to regeneration. however, if said drugs cause damage to his organs, the damage would then be repaired.

while the regeneration keeps him in optimal physical condition, it cannot halt or slow the aging process on his body as a whole.

the regeneration applies only to physical ailments, and not to mental conditions or diseases.

since the mutation took over and replaced his own immune system, if depowered for an extended period of time he is incredibly vulnerable to infectious diseases as he has no way of dealing with them.

regeneration increases his nutrition requirements, and as a result has an incredibly fast metabolism that he has to keep tabs on in order to attempt to maintain his weight.

the history !

triggers: bullying, violence/injury, pain as a coping mechanism

january, 5 —

when he sticks his hands into the snow, they burn. cold searing in past the skin and biting sharp like mice teeth. kioh hisses, curls his fingers, retracts his hands, then repeats the motion. he’s five and doesn’t entirely understand the concept of a coldness like this, or how it can ache like fire. he just thinks it’s pretty when the sun scatters across ice fragments — wants to dip his hands in and roll it into a ball. so he withstands that pain, digs teeth into his lower lip and ignores the wind curling up and under the hem of the ill-fitting jacket sliding down one shoulder. claws out his handfuls of snow.

he’s disappointed later, when it all melts into puddles that leave him bone-soaked and shivering. ignores that gut kick of an impulse to cry over it all while his mother scolds him in the kitchen for making a mess while she tries to scrub warmth back into his hands through the pilled fabric of an old kitchen towel.

it’s the first winter kioh ever remembers.

he doesn’t like the season much anymore.

may, 13 —

his parents fight like it’s their hobby, so kioh decides he likes it too. not in the way of fists and violence, but with his mouth. antagonism pools like acid under his tongue, and it’s around the time of middle school that kioh can’t help but spit it out.

it doesn’t match him well; too gangly with colt limbs and an inability to hold his ground. but he can’t help himself. he can’t just take it with his head tipped down until boredom replaces that sadistic glee of that underdeveloped empathy of middle schoolers.

there’s no bite past his bark, and his status in the classroom matches this revelation. it tuns him into something of a pariah, circling with his sharp-toothed intentions, his classmates drifting off and away. there’s no real blame there, for not wanting to associate. for not wanting to invite that treatment on themselves. for sticking next to the kid inviting in antagonism from boys twice his size.

he was never blameless.

but he was always lonely.

august, 15 —

his house feels hollow.

his parents coexist within the walls of their cramped apartment, but that seems too understanding a term.

it’s always cold, even trapped in the humid swells of summer. they hate interacting, kioh can read it in their posture. stiff at the shoulders and something chilling in their eyes. sometimes it’s tipped out onto him, spills out across the room and drowns out whatever intentions he’d once had of fixing it.

he thinks they regret. they regret each other, they regret their lives, they likely regret him too. sometimes it feels like they’re all acting out a make-believe role to another reality. one where they’re all fractured apart, strangers dropped into the same building.

he sneaks into the kitchen at half past two and eats the rest of the cereal hunched over the sink like it’s a sin. ignores his father and the way he knows he’s drinking soju by the bottle from the smell alone. main characters of their own droll plays, and kioh doesn’t want to disrupt the pointedly settled stagnation that’s grown over their lives.

he feels like if he breaks it, it’ll topple. a ripple effect and finally everyone will pin the blame on him.

so he drifts along like a ghost instead. sneaks out and pretends like his parents might care if they find his bed empty at four in the morning. if they find the liquor stashed in his closet.

it never comes up as an issue.

september, 16 —

there’s something comforting in the way a bruise blooms across his skin. unfurls in petals of black-blue-green; like an imprint of reality. scars are similar, moments left scattered across his body that he can’t forget. proof of existence. and he’s developed this sort of dependency on it, morphed violence into this sense of satisfaction.

the reaction’s better, kioh thinks, when he’s doubled over in pain with a laugh trapped up in a wheeze, tripping over empty lungs on the way out. there’s a sort of bewilderment found there, the way they might forget to grab at his backpack, dig through it to see if he has money or smokes they can take.

he likes that sharp pull of focus, and the endorphins that fizz their way up his spine and explode white and blinding in his head.

he doesn’t really talk about it to anyone. how he intentionally walks himself into situations that leave their marks across his body. doesn’t really talk about how he’s decided it makes him feel more settled, less lost.

and anyway, who does he have to talk about it with?

march, 17 —

and then his self-made reality fades away.

kioh half hates it, his quirk. his skin is too pretty now. entirely smoothed out. can press a bruise into his shin and watch it fade before it has time to form.

it feels like a loss of control at first.

and then he turns reckless with it. like the beating of wings against this proverbial cage, but it doesn’t matter if those bones snap anymore. they just revert. he learns this too as he pushes the limits farther and farther. the sharp, blinding pain of cracked bones before they knit their way whole again. half a day later and kioh’s fine.

a split lip, a gash, landing wrong on a pipe and walking home with a limp. it didn’t seem to matter, his body would just fix itself back up again. like proving a point, that kioh couldn’t even lord over himself. at the whim of something improbable.

was it really a surprise he never grew into a hero?

november, 20 —

at first he tries. his quirk isn’t obvious, and it’s easy to skate under the surface. presumed normal in near-every situation. his family doesn’t have a lot of money, nor the care needed to push kioh into a better sort of life than they had.

he tries to study, ends up at a part time job for a while. then he moves out and into a half-basement apartment for dirt cheap, peeling wallpaper and poorly-covered mold growing near the ceiling. not that he has to worry about his lungs.

he spends too much money on cigarettes and convenience mart food and somehow remains the same despite his penchant to overeat.

it’s when he fails out of his third semester and gets his hours cut that it all starts to tremble, the threat of reality over his good intentions.

and he starts to think.

it’s not like it would matter, really, if someone hurt him on the tail end of a robbery.

it’s not like his body wouldn’t fix itself. put everything back into the right place.

he could deal with the pain. he always had.

december, 24 —

kioh considers himself to be something of a freelancer. willing to walk himself into dangerous situations for a price, and he doesn’t really care what the reason is. money or information or something stolen.

sometimes it’s his own selfish interest. wants money, mostly. isn’t that what it boils down to in the end?

he can pretend like he’s an alright person. might not target someone who looks like they’re in a similar position to himself. but what’s it matter if he lifts an expensive watch off daytrader? pulls a wallet off a man dressed head to toe in a designer fit?

he’s got a decent knack of falling under the radar. as long as the police don’t pick him up, it doesn’t matter too much. the threat of violence poses little deterrent for him. like a cockroach, kioh is able to bounce back, slide himself in through the cracks, insistent and undying.

it’s probably in his own favor. he’d never lost that inclination to use his mouth.

july, 26 —

kioh tries not to make a name for himself.

technically, he’s terrible. the antithesis of a hero, and he doesn’t want to be one. seeks out enough money to make rent on an apartment that’s not a whole lot better than his first. keep his abilities as hushed as he can.

but it’s hard so many years in, despite his best efforts.

more annoying than anything, the boy who refuses to both die and shut up.

he becomes a threat when he starts to get nosy. stows too much information in his head that they can’t knock out of him.

but what’s kioh to do other than turn it into the next best enterprise? finding intel and selling it off to whoever promises to foot the bill.

dead men tell no tales, sure. but that hasn’t been applicable to kioh now for years.

all you have to do is pay him.

the personality !

scavenging for information he can put to good use. the problem with this containment is that it leaves him lonely. residually; something that has spanned and stretched out taffy-thick throughout his life. he’s not so sure he can recall what it feels like to welcomed, wanted, some word lodged in between. everything has been left hollowed out and drafty. and with that came a peculiar sort of coldness. a desire to freeze people out; scathing and biting and bruising in order to keep himself in his hollowed out space of nothingness.

he’s vindictive, and won’t leave things well enough alone. talks too much, and he says it’s because it doesn’t matter, because if someone hits him for it everything will settle back into place. leaving him looking unaffected enough, just an off-kilter smile and red-stained teeth. he seeks it out though, that pain. even if he doesn’t really admit it to himself. uses it like a tool - a way to cope, or some sort of self-punishment. like he’s proving to the world that he doesn’t like himself all that much, either.

so what if nobody else does too?

so what if it’s left him a villain?

at the core of it all, he’s tired. but he’s twisted up so caustic and near-cruel that it’s nearly impossible to wring the admission out of him.

self-defense mechanisms at their finest, and a desperation to keep all the pieces of himself in place.

[solitaria-fantasma]

Dark Arts and Demons - Ch. 35

The ‘spicy’ ice cream was actually quite delicious, and (once he’d worked up the courage) Penn shyly asked Savina Pepper if he could have another.

As he retreated back to his ‘private’ booth with the succulent treat, the spirit skirted around the edge of the room to avoid the people still remaining. Mr. Kingsmen had pulled the real Arthur outside to ‘have a talk’ as soon as the group had broken up, and the scary blue-haired girl - Vivi - had left with the dog-beast, Mystery. They had books at home that they needed to read, to know how to safely pull Penn out of his Arthur’s body, and put Arthur back in.

She had pulled Lewis aside before she’d left, and whispered - all while side-eyeing Penn where he sat huddled in his booth - to ‘keep an eye on that one’.

Penn had tried not to take it too personally.

But Lewis didn’t try to approach Penn until a little while after Vivi had left, and the restaurant floor had been detail-cleaned. Pepper Paradiso had a reputation to uphold, after all. Eventually, however, there had been nothing left to do, and Lewis had (somewhat hesitantly) approached the only occupied booth.

“Hey...” Penn winced, and sank a little lower in the booth seat. He’d been quietly hoping that Lewis would just watch him from a distance, like Vivi had been. “Listen, I’m, um. I’m sorry. About calling you ‘dangerous’ before.” Lewis rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “We thought you were someone who’s done very...very bad things to us,” Gods above, was that an understatement. “And...we were scared-”

“That I might hurt your family.” Penn finished sullenly. Lewis winced. When it was said out loud like that-...well, no. It sounded terrible either way. But he’d been hoping not to have to say it out loud, anyway.  “You do not have to worry.” Penn fidgeted nervously with the milkshake glass, turning it back and forth on the table and drawing his finger through the condensation on the outside. “I will not hurt these people.” He promised. “They have all been very nice to me.”

“...mm.” Lewis hummed, and shifted on his feet. Penn wondered why he did that. Wasn’t this man a spirit, like he was? He was pretty sure normal people couldn’t change themselves into a flaming skeleton…and survive, at least. “May I sit down?” Lewis asked, gesturing with one hand towards the booth seat opposite Penn. The spirit hesitated, but nodded his head after a few seconds’ thought.

He was going to be with these people until he could be removed, and Arthur could take his body back, whether he liked it or not. It was probably in his best interests to try and be as accommodating as possible.

“Thanks...” Lewis slid into the seat, and folded his arms along the table. “So…” He smiled, and the expression was so warm that Penn couldn’t help but relax, even just a little bit. A tiny part of him felt unnerved, by that. “Mama tells me you actually like Cayenne’s ‘spicy milkshake surprise’?”

“It is...very tasty.” As if to make a point, Penn took another sip of the milkshake. “I like the flavor, and the way it makes my-...um...A-Arthur’s...tongue tingle.” Lewis’ made a curious sound, and leaned back in his seat, seemingly missing (or maybe ignoring?) Penn’s slip of the tongue.

“Arthur usually can’t handle a lot of spice.” The other spirit revealed. “Mama and Papa made a special spice-free version of some of our dishes and deserts, just so he could try some of them.” The ghost scratched thoughtfully at his cheek. “I wonder why you experience it differently? Maybe it’s a ‘mind over matter’ thing, and you have a different tolerance because you have nothing else to compare it to?”

“.....yes.” Penn said before taking a long sip of the shake. He had no idea what Lewis was talking about, in all honesty. But he liked this strange atmosphere that was starting to form - one where he didn’t feel watched or threatened. It felt like coming home had...before he’d learned that he wasn’t who he thought he was.

“....” Lewis’s smile widened, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. Penn swallowed nervously, and leaned back just a little bit. “Do you like tacos?” Lewis asked, steepling his hands in front of his grin. “Because there’s this recipe for a chipotle dessert taco I’ve been working on, and I really, really need someone to taste test it…”

…….

Of the many difficult things Arthur had to do in his lifetime, he considered this awkward heart-to-heart with his uncle to be the hardest of them all.

Lance had already seen him - and even helped him through - some of his lowest points in life. He had been there when his parents had walked away from him, and when he couldn’t sleep through the phantom pains of a freshly lost limb. He’d listened patiently when Arthur had rambled about demons and green skin in the haze of hospital-grade painkillers, and Arthur had nothing but gratitude for all his uncle had done for him.

He just...hadn’t wanted Lance to know how far he still was from ‘okay’.

But out there, on the back patio of Pepper Paradiso, with nothing but the distant song of cicadas to fill the silence, Arthur told him.

About the voice in his head that had once blended with his intrusive thoughts, only to grow more and more distinct and vicious over months and months, and the nightmares he’d kept to himself. About his fears of being ignored, or his concerns being laughed off. About his fears of being taken all too seriously, and abandoned by the people he loved all over again...

Lance listened to all of this with his usual stoic poker face, and when Arthur had finally fallen silent, he reached out, and wrapped one arm around his nephew’s shoulders. The firm, one-armed side hug was a small gesture, but Arthur sank into it gratefully. He���d been half-expecting a stern lecture on ‘taking stupid risks and the consequences of such’, like Vivi had given him on the flight back to their hotel, but in retrospect, that wasn’t Lance’s style.

“I’m sorry.” He’d said them so much over the last few days, the words were starting to lose their meaning. “I swear, this wasn’t the outcome I wanted. I just wanted to...to...” Arthur cringed and ground the heel of his ghostfire palm against his forehead as he searched for the right words.

“To clear the air.” Lance supplied. Arthur released the breath he’d been holding, and sagged, letting his arm drop down to his lap.

“Yeah…” He murmured. “Exactly.” Lance patted his shoulder a few times, and Arthur continued to lean against his uncle for the duration, quietly marveling at how much lighter he felt. Maybe he should have gotten all this off of his chest a long time ago…in hindsight, it wasn’t having the disastrous ripple effects he’d feared, and really, it would have avoided an awful lot of trouble to have just gotten it over with…

Lance patted his nephew’s shoulder one last time, and then lowered his arm. Arthur took the cue to sit up, and scrubbed his hands across his face, though any tears had long since dried. He took a deep - and somewhat shaky, still - breath, and let it out slowly. The sound of the cicadas seemed a little bit clearer.

“Arthur,” Lance started. “I want you to know that you can trust me. I know I’m not the easiest guy to come to with big emotions like all that,” The man quickly held up a hand before Arthur could speak. “But you’re my family and I care about you. Even if I don’t understand all of what you do or what’s going on in our life.” He still wasn’t big on all these supernatural shenanigans...but they were a part of his nephew’s life, and that, by extension, made them a part of his.

Nothing he could do but learn to deal with it.

“If you need to get something off your mind - no matter what it is - I’m always gonna be here to listen, and I’m not here to judge you.” Lance continued. Arthur wondered how he could feel a lump in his throat with no nervous system. Wouldn’t Vivi love to hear about that? “What’s done is done, and yelling won’t take anything back, so I’m just gonna suggest that, from now on, we talk about things like this, ‘stead of keeping them all bottled up.” The elder Kingsmen shifted awkwardly, and crossed his arms.

“I’ll be up front with you, kiddo. I’m gonna be just as terrible at it as you.” He admitted grudgingly. “I don’t exactly wear my heart out on my sleeve, so to speak. But I also won’t ever ask you to do anything that I wouldn’t do, myself, so I’ll promise you this: If you’ll trust me enough to vent to me when you feel overwhelmed or upset or anything else, I’ll trust you enough to do some opening up, myself.”

“.....” Arthur made a choked up sound, and scrubbed his hand across his face again. “Sure thing, uncle.” He promised. If his voice cracked a bit, Lance would never tell.

They sat outside for a few minutes more, listening to the cicadas, and the sounds of the traffic around the building slowly increasing as the day wore on, before standing up, and heading back inside the restaurant.

[embracetheapocalypsewithme]

Yes, Mistress...

It took me a ridiculously long time to write this piece for @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash‘s Writing Challenge, but it’s finally done! This was for the Nipple Clamps prompt, and I hope you all enjoy some Sherry x Negan femdom smut on this fine Saturday. I know Negan did. See?

Summary: Honestly? This doesn’t have much of a plot, but I will say this: Negan. Sherry. Nipple Clamps. Femdom. Kink. And lots and lots of smutty goodness! Also, sex on a desk!

Word Count: 3,341

Warnings: So much smut. Nipple torture. Riding. Oral Sex. Negan’s filthy mouth. Sherry’s nearly as filthy mouth. Bodily fluids. Power dynamic shifts. And also, this is probably a very bad representation of a healthy D/s relationship...but...you know...it’s fiction, so...

Yes, Mistress...

A looping silver chain dangled delicately from Negan’s fingers, glimmering in the late afternoon sunlight that streamed through the two large windows which flanked his desk. Sherry squinted at the object and leaned in a little closer over the desk, trying to determine what she was looking at. Negan took the opportunity to peer down the neckline of her dress, causing Sherry to straighten up and glare down at him as he sat in his well-worn office chair.

“Fucking pervert.”

“Heh. Yeah,” he smirked at her and leaned back in the chair, “You fucking love it though. Don’t lie.”

“Oh, fuck off!” she cried, wanting desperately to wipe the cocky expression off of his face, while still being wholly unable to hide the slight smile that crept across her lips.

“I fucking knew it! You’re blushing!”

“Oh my god! Shut up!” she furrowed her brow, “What am I looking at here, exactly? It’s too long to be a necklace…”

Negan snickered, but remained otherwise silent.

“Are you seriously going to make me play guessing games now?”

Sherry could feel her frustration building and settling in the centre of her forehead, threatening to turn into a tension headache. Some days she could take a little bit of Negan’s juvenile games. It was almost charming in a stupid way that reminded her of being a teenager again and falling for the class clown. Today, sadly, was not one of those days.

“Seriously? I’m not playing this game with you, Negan,” she scolded, crossing her arms across her chest. This had the intended effect of hiding the copious amount cleavage that the little, black dress she wore produced.

“You’re no fucking fun today, Sher. Who pissed in your fucking cornflakes anyway?”

He all but pouted, and slumped forward in his seat a little. The expression made the huge, middle-aged man seem almost boyish, and Sherry perked up a little bit at seeing the wind get taken out of his sales.

“I’m in a fantastic mood, Negan,” she said innocently, “What makes you think otherwise?”

Sherry loved getting under his skin a little every now and then. They had been together just long enough that she knew exactly which buttons she could push, and she was exceptionally good at pushing them in just the right way to get a rise out of him. It was the only entertainment she had now that there was no Netflix. She just had to be careful not to go too far and incur any punishments; there were lines that you just did not want to cross with Negan.

“They’re fucking nipple clamps, Sherry. For you. For your titties.”

Negan held the chain out to her over the desk, waiting for Sherry to take the clamps out of his fingers. She stared in disbelief for a moment, her hands glued to her sides, before speaking.

“And what exactly do you propose I do with those?”

“Put them on! I wanna see these on you. It’ll be so fucking hot, Sher!”

His eyes had gotten big and glossy, almost hopeful, and he had moved forward in his seat again, evidently waiting impatiently for a show. Sherry took a fair amount of delight in dashing his dreams against the rocks.

“Ha! Nope! Not happening, dude!”

“What? Why the fuck not?” he asked. There was that pout again and the slight whine in his voice cutting right to her last nerve and causing Sherry to grit her teeth in annoyance.

“Because I have fucking sensitive nipples and I don’t like putting clamps on them!” she replied obstinately.

“Oh come on! They have little pads on them for comfort! They aren’t, like, the real deal kind. They’re mostly just for show. And I bet your tits would look fucking outstanding in them!”

“Nope! Not a chance!”

“Sherry, as your husband, I order you to get topless and put these fucking nipple clamps on!” he said sternly, standing up from his chair and moving around the large desk to stand beside her.

Sherry gazed up at him defiantly, feeling very small and fragile next to the lumbering brute. And yet no fear made its way into her mind. When she looked at Negan the only thing she ever felt was annoyance and occasionally pity. He really was a simple creature when you got right down to it. Not a monster; just an overgrown child who needed boundaries set.

“N. O. Spells ‘no’, Negan.”

“Sherry…”

“Oh my god! Do not start whining at me!”

She began to walk toward the office door, but Negan grabbed her wrist gently, causing her to spin around.

“What, Negan?! What?”

“I’ll wear them first to show you they don’t hurt.”

Sherry snorted at this and rolled her eyes at the earnest expression he wore. If he thought that this was going to get her into wearing glorified clothes pins on her nipples, he had another thing coming, “You can’t be serious…”

Without saying a word, Negan stripped off his characteristic white t-shirt and threw it away before splaying his arms outward with the palms up as if to say “See?”

“Wow. You’re topless. I’m so impressed,” her tone was far more cutting and cruel than she had intended it to be. Perhaps this cruelty was in direct proportion to the stirring she felt between her legs at the sight of his muscles rippling as he moved. Fuck! She hated how hot she found him sometimes!

“Here!” he thrust the cluster of silver chains toward her and she hesitantly took them in her hands, “Put ‘em on me!”

“You know what? Fine! If it’ll make you stop whining. But I’m not putting them on no matter how long you wear them.”

“We’ll fucking see about that...”

“No. We won’t.”

She took a step toward him, nearly pressing herself against his body as she inspected the rubber-coated clamps to get a sense of how they worked. It seemed as though there was a little screw that could either tighten or loosen them. She spun the moving piece to the left and watched as the clamps moved further apart.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice Negan’s hand move around her waist until it had clamped down on her ass firmly, startling her.

“What the fuck!”

“Hurry up, lady! I’m ready to fucking go…” he ran a hand across his crotch, accentuating the growing erection that had arisen from his pants.

In a flash of movement, Sherry swatted his hand away, forcing it back by his side. Her eyes flared at him in a combination of annoyance and arousal.

“No touching! Not until I say!”

“Jeeeesus! Yes, ma’am!” he saluted her sarcastically and winked.

“Ma’am? No…That’s what you call an old woman using a Senior’s Discount to buy Chantilly perfume at Sears. Let’s use…Mistress.”

“Mmmm…Mistress? That’s hot. That’s like some Elvira Morticia Vampira Queen of Fucking Darkness dominatrix shit. I like that,” he leered down at her and rubbed his hand across his now fully hardened cock.

“And don’t touch yourself either!” the sternness in her voice surprised Sherry herself.

“Yes, fucking Lady Sher, Dominatrix of my fucking heart and owner of my wretched cock.”

“Gross. Just say ‘Yes, Mistress’. Ok?”

“O-fucking-Kay…I mean: Yes, Mistress!”

“Good boy. Now get ready for the nipple clamps.”

She placed the black rubber nubs of the clamp against the tender flesh of his nipple, enjoying the contrasting colours for a moment before slowly turning the screw mechanism to the right and tightening it against him. After a full turn she heard Negan let out a soft hiss of discomfort as his nipple sprang to attention, puckering beneath the clamp.

“You like that, huh?” she chided him, and brought the second clamp up to his other side.

“Fuck yes!”

“Uh-uh! Wrong answer!”

Her voice was positively gleeful as she tugged gently at the silver chain that was attached to the tightened clamp on his nipple.

“Ughhh! Yes, Mistress!”

His voice wavered a little and his eyes grew increasingly wide as she resumed hooking his second nipple into the remaining clamp. Once this was done, Sherry stood back slightly to admire her handy work.

Negan was a sight to behold with both nipples hardened and bound in the rubber of the clamps while the decorative silver chains looped against his chest and upper stomach. Even Sherry had to admit to herself that this was fucking hot. Sometimes, when Negan was right, he was fucking right!

“Very nice indeed!” she clapped her hands together and an impish grin lingered on her lips.

Moving like silk, she sauntered up to him and confidently grabbed the silver chain in her right hand, giving a sharp tug to the clamps, which forced Negan to lean forward. She met him in the centre, firmly pressing her lips against his to conquer his mouth with her own. The kiss felt like a battle between the two figures, one large and domineering and the other a mere feminine sliver. Yet, it was the smaller of the two who won the battle by tugging at the chain again and causing a whimper to escape Negan’s throat. She nipped at his bottom lip as they parted.

“Fucking hell, Sher! Where did that come from?”

Without answering, she gave two slight tugs to the chain to let him know that he had messed up.

“Mistress. Fucking hell, Mistress…where did that come from?”

“You don’t know everything about me…”

“Well, it’s fucking hot as shit anyway!” he motioned down with his eyes and she followed his gaze.

The front of his pants had darkened in a very specific location as precum dripped from him, soaking into the fabric  a reaction to her taunting.

“Oh my! It looks like I have a little slut on my hands who likes having his nipples played with. Is that right, Negan?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Oh! Good, little slut! You finally got the name right! Amazing!”

She grinned up at him sadistically, but her hands made their way to his belt and gently unhooked it before following suit with the button and zipper. Biting her lip, Sherry yanked the loosened fabric down around his ankles, and watched as his cock bobbed for a moment after being freed. The entire length was already glistening with his arousal and Sherry had a hard time dragging her eyes back up to meet his. She had never seen Negan this hard before.

“Ohhhh! Fuck, Mistress!” he threw his head back, puffing out his chest and bracing himself against his desk as Sherry stood between his legs.

Dragging her long nails over the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh, she allowed her finger to trace around his cock and balls, never quite touching him in the way she knew he wanted her to.

“You want me to put your dirty, old prick in my mouth, slut?”

“Yes, please!”

She reached a single finger up and hooked it around the chain, plucking it sharply and eliciting another whimper out of Negan.

“Yes, please what?”

“Yes, please Mistress!”

“That’s more like it…”

Her finger left the silver chain and trailed a line down his torso, stopping at the base of his cock. She leaned forward and brought her mouth close to the head of his hardened member, blowing her warm breath against it before trailing her tongue around the perimeter teasingly.

“Holy shit!”

Negan’s hands instinctively moved to the back of Sherry’s head in an effort to push her mouth further down his length. Dismayed by this act of insolence, she abruptly stood and grabbed Negan’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, forcing him to look her directly in the eyes.

“Did I say you were allowed to touch, little slut?”

“No, Mistress…”

“That was a fucking rhetorical question. Because when I say you can touch, we’ll both fucking know it. And it ain’t gonna be for a long while.”

“But-“

“No whining!” she jerked the chain a little harder than the previous times and watched Negan’s heard roll back on his neck as he moaned deeply. At first she thought she had gone a little too far with the pain gimmick, but as she watched his cock twitch and a fresh bead of precum rise to his slit, she knew he was enjoying it too.

Sherry’s face softened and she brought a hand up to his cheek to stroke him gently, “What do you think your punishment should be for this rude gesture, little slut.”

Negan’s eyes searched her face for clues of her wishes for a moment, his brows knitting together. Realization flooded his face suddenly and he grinned broadly at her, “Wanna ride my cock, Mistress?”

Sherry considered her response for a moment, finally deciding that a ride on her temporary man toy sounded like a great idea to her.

“Ok! Get on the desk.”

Negan did as he was told, carelessly pushing the few books and office implements on the desk’s surface to the ground and laying back against the its deep wood. He was far too large to fit across it entirely, so his legs dangled over the side at the knees and caused Sherry to giggle at how ridiculous he looked; especially with the nipple clamps still firmly in place. But she had to admit: his cock was too nice to pass up.

She carefully climbed on top of the desk, straddling him and roughly pushing her dress up and her panties aside to line his head up with her warm slit. Without any warning, she lowered herself around him, enveloping his cock within her depths.

“Mmmm! I think Mistress got a little bit into this too. You’re fucking drenched down there, baby!”

“Did I say you could talk?” she asked coldly, giving the chain a warning tug that caused him to hiss through his teeth in pain.

“No, Mistress-“

His words were cut off by a moan as Sherry began to ride him ferociously, with an animalistic hunger, taking him as deep inside her as she could. She loved being on top of him, feeling his strength moving beneath her. Knowing that he could flip her over and do whatever he wanted to her whenever he wanted. Knowing, too, that she was in total control of him in other ways at the moment, and feeling secure in her fleeting dominance.

Negan had been right, of course. She was more turned on than she could remember being in a long time. It was like their early days of sneaking around behind Dwight’s back at the hotel when they would fuck on musty sheets in the uninhabited rooms. There was a passion and an urgency to their fucking that caused an orgasm to grow rapidly at her core.

She could have stopped it, or at least slowed her pace to prolong the experience, but she didn’t want to. In fact, she let her fingers wander absently to her clit where they circled and pressed firmly, unleashing a shuddering orgasm that caused her to double over against Negan’s chest. As she came back to herself, Sherry lifted her eyes up to find Negan staring at her with a curious expression on his face.

“That was fucking fast! I told you that you were fucking into this, Sherry…” there was that cocky grin again. Even in her post-orgasm bliss, she knew she had to wipe it off his face.

With a devious gleam in her eyes, Sherry let her tongue trail across his salted flesh until it connected with the silver chain. She flicked the metal into her mouth with her tongue, catching it in her teeth and then giving it a sharp yank, all the while never breaking eye contact. Negan’s own eyes clamped shut and she felt his cock twitch inside of her.

“You were a very good little slut today,” she cooed at him, letting the chains drop from her lips, “Do you want your reward?”

“Oh fuck! You know I do, Mistress!”

“Good,” she slid from him and lowered herself off of the desk, leaving him exposed and glistening with her wetness, “Scoot close to the edge. I’m gonna clean you up and make you cum.”

Excitedly, he scooted his bare ass across the desk until he was sitting on the edge with his legs dangling over, his feet firmly touching the hard wood floor of the office. Sherry wasted no time in taking her place between his muscular thighs and licking up the length of his shaft, relishing how his juices mingled with her own.

“Mmmm…We taste really sweet together.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmmmhmmm,” she replied, sliding her lips softly down him until his head just hit the back of her throat. She looked up as she rose off of him, allowing his cock to leave her mouth with a soft “plop”.

“I wanna taste!”

“I wanna taste what?”

“I wanna taste us, Mistress. Please?”

Sherry rose just enough so that their mouths were parallel and she could kiss him deeply, allowing his tongue to explore her mouth and taste both of them on her lips. She felt a shudder of pleasure rumble through his body, and abruptly broke off the kiss, lowering her mouth once again to him.

This time she sucked him harder, allowing her head to bob at a faster pace. She knew that all of her riding and teasing had made his cock exceptionally sensitive, and that any slight increase in speed or pressure could send him into a mindless flurry of moans and shivers.

She loved the feeling of power that came when she had him completely under her control.  The big, bad monster that everyone feared had been turned into a babbling mess under her tongue. That power tasted sweeter than anything she had ever experienced. It was the taste of her pussy soaked around his cock and the sound of his whimpers and moans as she increased her pace further, his hands clenching the edge of the desk with white knuckles.

He was trying to hold on, breathing slowly to delay his orgasm as long as he could. Sherry knew this and decided to counter by allowing his head to pop deep into her throat, taking him almost the entire way down. She bobbed her head, ever so slightly, so that the most sensitive part of his dick would rub against the narrowest portion of her mouth. This was her killing move and they both knew it.

“Oh fuck! Fuck me! That’s not fair!”

His head was thrown back, eyes closed in ecstasy, as Sherry gazed up at him, his cock still lodged deep within her throat. She could feel it pulsing there, pumping his release deep inside of her, giving her no choice but to swallow every last drop he provided.

Once he had calmed down and allowed his body to drop to the desk’s surface, Sherry released him from her mouth. His still-erect cock bobbed in the air while his chest heaved up and down, his breathing still erratic from the orgasm.

“Well, I’m convinced,” Sherry began, “The nipple clamps seem like lots of fun!”

She stood and bent over him to loosen the screws which still held the toy in place.

“D-does that mean I get to see them on your titties?” Negan asked in a daze with his eyes still closed.

“Maybe. Someday. But not today,” she replied before planting a kiss on his sweat-streaked forehead.

“Baby, I don’t think I could handle another round with you right now anyway. I think you fucked my fucking brains out.”

“Good.”

Now it was Sherry’s time to smirk down at the dazed and sleepy man as he struggled to sit up on the desk again.

“Come see me later tonight after dinner. I’ll be here waiting with the clamps,” he said, his tongue still thick, causing him to mumble, “I think I need a fucking nap right now though...”

“Ok. A deal is a deal. See you after dinner.”

With that, Sherry straightened her dress across her thighs and exited the office with a spring in her step.

[evolutionsvoid]

If anyone has even the slightest idea of what a mancer is, then they would know well enough that Mancer Syndrome is a dangerous and deadly affliction that humanity faces. The use of mana and magic can already be dangerous enough if put into the wrong hands, and history has already proven this time and time again. Mancers are an even greater threat, as they lack any form of humanity or reasoning. They are primal creatures of immense power, capable of wiping out towns and leveling castles. Not only is it a major threat to the citizens of the land they inhabit, but to those who train in the art of magic. With great patience and practice, one can use mana to gain great powers and bring about change to the world around them. Mages who use ice to preserve food for trade, water magic to save sinking ships and flames to warm freezing villages during brutal winters. Those with morals and a conscience can help many people, but even the purest of heart is vulnerable to Mancer Syndrome. No matter how noble your intentions or how great your control is, those who do not practice safe mana usage will slowly poison their internal mana and can potentially lose everything. That is what makes Mancer Syndrome so insidious, as it can effect anyone at any time. Many who go into magic and mana training often do not take the warnings seriously. No matter how often the teachers or mentors may warn them, there are dozens of students and users who do not think such a disease could affect them. Some would think "oh its just one little spell. It won't hurt too much," or "this spell isn't tied to an element, so it shouldn't cause any harm." So many times people think that they know best, that they found some loophole that they can exploit. In the end, though, they are always proven wrong, as their mind degrades and their bodies warp. For so long, people work on assumptions and half-baked ideas to get the maximum usage of their mana while supposedly avoiding mana poisoning. This is where we get these scourges, from people who think they know better or believe they are invincible. In fact, there is a type of mancer that was birthed solely by the belief that "this type of magic doesn't cause poisoning." That would be the Psychomancers. Before records revealed their existence, many believed that magic that birthed Psychomancers was "safe." There was no element tied to it, and it came so naturally that many schools claimed it was a pure form of mana use. To this, I am referring to telepathy and telekinesis. Powers that rely on the mind and use one's thoughts as a tool. Sending messages directly into one's brain, or using your mind to create false images out of thin air. All magical abilities that relied purely on thought and the human brain were thought to be safe from mana poisoning. It was spells that used real elements, like fire and ice, that caused such problems. Using mana on one's mind and natural body surely couldn't do any harm? It turned out that it did. It caused a lot of harm.

The stages of Psychomancy are not as obvious as ones for Cryomancers or Mycomancers, as they mainly occur in one person's head. Those who are focusing solely on mental powers and telekinesis will seem perfectly normal for the longest time. They will just seem a bit too reliant on telepathy and telekinesis. Some colleagues may point out that their friend is using their normal voice less and less, or that they hardly pick up anything with their hands anymore. To a watchful eye, this would be signs of mana poisoning, but many miss it. Mages, sorcerers and wizards are always guilty of showing off, and mental powers are an easy way to show their abilities. Students in schools and colleges love to use these simple powers for tricks and day to day routines, seeing it as perfectly harmless. The use of telepathy never raises any eyebrows, and people using their mind to pick up objects is just as normal as a knight sparring with a friend to hone their skills. With this mindset, mana poisoning in the department of Psychomancy is usually missed until it is too late. At some point, the user will cease all bodily movements and activities. No more walking, talking or moving in general. Every word is sent through their mind, every object needed is used solely with their mental abilities. The infected mage will become bedridden, voluntarily, as they see any form of physical movement as "primitive" and "obsolete." If it ever comes to this stage, it is too late. I do not care what any other professor or master says. They can ramble on about cures and ways to nurse them back to health, but I say it is all rubbish. The whole reason why no one does what is necessary is because they want that power. An esteemed school would never want to lose such a genius headmaster, so they make excuses. An army would never wish to remove a mage of such power, so they act like nothing is wrong. In the end, it is always the lust for power that causes such downfalls. So I beg of the reader, if you know someone who is gone that far, kill them. Don't believe in the cures or the remedies. Do not believe that they could get better, or that they are strong enough to resist. Kill them before they can achieve the final stage. The final stage of Psychomancy is a horrifying one, as the poisoned mana warps the body and brain. Those who succumb to Mancer Syndrome will feel their muscles turn to dust and their brain surge through their own skull. Body and limbs will atrophy, as the head splits open to reveal a massive brain. Membranes and tendrils will form from the warped tissue, as the body twists itself into a new shape. What remains of the mage is a drained useless husk dangling from a wrapped, pulsating brain. A human turned into some kind of jellyfish, who drifts through the air on waves of mental energy. Though disgusting in appearance, many do not see the threat Psychomancers pose when they first encounter them. Floating in the air as if it was water, they will see the Psychomancer drift across the landscape. Limbs dangling in the breeze as it lazily floats along. If they didn't look so gross, people may find it beautiful. The rustling of leaves, the quiver of grasses as the Psychomancer drifts upon the breeze. That is until they realize that there is no wind. Psychomancers do not use such obvious things as fire and ice, as their powers are more subtle. It is all in the mind, and many do not see it until they get too close. Seeing the movement of grass or leaves on a calm day is a way to spot a Psychomancer's field. If one is especially daring, they can chuck a rock at the creature and watch it stop in midair. Though they may appear harmless, a Psychomancer has mastered the skill of telekinesis to a terrifying degree. They are surrounded by a field of magic that they have absolute control over, allowing them to pick up and shatter boulders without a second thought. Ranges may vary between individuals, but most exude a sphere of influence of about fifty yards in diameter. To some, this may seem insignificant, or exploitable, but it is much more powerful than you would imagine. Though they cannot affect anything outside of their field, those that enter their range will be exposed to every ability they have. Worst of all is their telekinetic abilities, which has ascended to a point that it is literally the way they see the world. Looking at a Psychomancer, one would assume that they are blind, deaf and completely lost to the world around them. This may be true in the realm of sight, sound or taste, but a Psychomancer is much more aware than one thinks. To make up for their lack of sensory organs, Psychomancers use telekinesis to an extremely refined degree. They can use their mental powers to feel the world around them, creating millions of tiny hands to feel around their environment. Every inch, every crook and cranny is felt and registered. They use this to such a degree that they can "see" and "feel" everything that falls within their sphere of influence. Anything that is not within their range is just darkness to them, but they honestly don't care. If it truly matters to them, it will eventually enter their sphere, or they will simply run into it as they drift. This field is emitted constantly as they drift along, using their millions of invisible hands to feel the new environment that enters their range. That is why the grass ripples as the Psychomancer moves, or why the trees shiver at their presence. They are just checking them out, constantly keeping an eye on every little thing that is around them. Though it is used primarily for navigation and observation, their telekinesis becomes terrifying to behold when a new moving object enters their field. Be it a wandering leaf, a fluttering bird or a charging warrior, the Psychomancer treats it all the same. When something new enters the field, they will seize it in an invisible grip, stopping it in its tracks. A bird that flies into their field will be snagged out of the air, as the Psychomancer wonders at the new presence. It will feel over every bit of the animal, enjoying the soft feathers, marveling at the sharp talons and curious about its desperate struggling. Like a child, it will play around with the bird, moving its wings, spinning it around in the air and eventually tearing it to pieces. Anything that gets too close to a Psychomancer's field will be subject to its curiosity, and it loves to explore and discover to a dangerous degree. Their mental strength can bend steel and pull apart armor until it is mere shards. This is a strength they do not fully understand, as they will turn animals into dust without a second thought or an ounce of guilt. They just see it as exploring and understanding, curious observations that cover every fiber and drop of a being. If they shred a human being during their studies, oh well. It was a curious thing, and they had their fun. Something else of interest will eventually wander in. To fully understand the abilities and dangers of a Psychomancer, it is best to know their mental state. With a glance at the brain, people will instantly assume that it is an all knowing being, one that could understand every aspect of the universe. It turns out, though, that it is the opposite. Psychomancers are extremely dumb. They have zero understanding of what is going on around them and are bewildered at the simplest of creatures that get near them. This is because of their abilities and brain growth. As you should know, the massive wrinkled brain is the source of all their power and their very existence. It is this organ that creates the sphere and allows them to manipulate matter at a microscopic level. It also allows them to exude their mood and feelings into the air, which any person in the field can pick up and feel. It allows them to enter minds with ease and read thoughts as if they were books. All of this power, though, takes up a lot of brain space. Every square inch of the wrinkled mass is devoted towards these powers, allowing them to function at such a high degree. Anything else is seen as useless and is promptly erased. So while their powerful brain can pull the legs off a gnat with ease, it can't remember anything past five seconds. The memory parts of the brain are severely reduced and practically atrophied. Any memory that is older than a few moments is forgotten and lost forever, as the brain simply cannot hold it. Thus, Psychomancers have the power of gods, but the mind of a baby. Everything that enters their sphere is brand new and exciting, and they are quick to poke and prod it. They are extremely simple of mind, where they like the things that are good and absolutely hate the things that they perceive as "bad." It is not uncommon to see a Psychomancer drifting about with several objects floating within their sphere. This is because a Psychomancer may favor a certain texture and will keep it around so that they can always enjoy it. Stories tell of Psychomancers drifting about with entire trees caught in their field, as they are pleased by the feel of bark. Another Psychomancer was said to love the feel of fur, and thus had several ��desperate, dying mammals hanging around them. Terrible to imagine, but just think, that is what they do to things they like. Anything that is seen as dangerous or "mean" is met with unstoppable destruction. I have seen a Psychomancer turn a hunting hound into a fine mist after the trapped animal growled at it. Things that squirm too much in their grip may be seen as "annoying" and then quickly dispatched. If the being within their field exudes any feeling or thought of aggression or anger, the Psychomancer usually gets mad and then promptly obliterates them. When it comes to dealing with mancers, Psychomancers are one of the hardest to fight. Their sphere of influence creates a 50 yard death zone to any person or projectile that enters it. Arrows and catapult shots are turned to dust, and any stupid warrior that rushes in will be turned into a red stain within moments. So I highly advise that anyone trying to fight a Psychomancer should stay far away from their field. Don't even risk it, stand 100 yards away. You don't want to be anywhere near them. If they grab you, you're dead. There is no escape from that grip. If parts of your body start to tingle or vibrate, start running. That is a sign that the field is getting close. Even if you are clear from their field, be mindful of what direction they are headed. Since they are dumb and blind to the outside world, a Psychomancer just picks a direction and goes with it for hundreds of miles. This makes them easy to individually avoid, as one just needs to step aside from their range and let them drift by. It is not so easy when the thing is drifting straight towards a city. It has no clue what is ahead of it outside of the field, and it doesn't really care. If you are caught in a situation where a Psychomancer is floating towards a populated area, the first thing you should do is get it to change direction. Fighting a Psychomancer takes a lot of time, so don't think you can stop it before it starts liquidizing peasants. The best way would be to find which direction is the safest for it to travel, and then try to draw it that way. If the northeast direction has no cities or towns in its path, then stand to the northeast and start chucking stuff at the Psychomancer. Fire volleys of arrows and launch dozens of rocks at its field. Do everything you can to get its attention or arouse its curiosity. All you need to do is make it think "hey, what's over there?" just for a single second. It will then change direction to head towards the source of all the weird stuff, promptly forget why it changed direction but then keep drifting that way regardless. Once its path is clear of all bystanders, than try to fight it. One should throw away all physical weapons immediately, as they are worthless. No physical object is going to last within the field long enough to hit the brain. What you need is magic. Spells and magical projectiles can still be affected by telekinesis, but they are harder for Psychomancers to grab and can move fast enough to overwhelm them. It would be nice to say that all you need to do is toss one fireball at it and call it good, but that is not the case. Most likely you will need to call in a platoon of mages so that they can throw hundreds of spells at the mancer until one makes it through and strikes the brain. Thankfully, Psychomancers are incredible frail and will often go down after a single solid hit to the brain. The hard part is just getting something to do that. Other tactics can be used. Trapping the Psychomancer in a field of fire may work, but it needs to be very strong and very hot. It will use its field to push away the flames and keep its body from frying. A long enough burn, though, will dry out its brain and cause it to weaken, giving a chance for the fire to overwhelm it. The best way to do this is to burn an entire forest around it, adding more fuel to the fire to keep it raging hot. (Note: Do be aware of dryad habitation within the area. You start lighting up trees near their homes and they will flay you alive.) This tactic can be flipped around, using ice instead of flame. Long enough exposure can freeze the brain, which can disrupt the field long enough for someone to land a hit. All of these are extremely hard to do and very time consuming, but it is worth it in the end. One less Psychomancer haunting the land makes for a safer world. One final note for dealing with Psychomancers: NEVER TRY TO MENTALLY LINK UP WITH IT. There are those who think they can communicate with it telepathically or use their superior minds to outwit the beast, but they are all dead wrong. Exposing your mind to a Psychomancer is a fatal move, and those who try to reach out to it never last more than a few seconds. Though they are dumb, their mental strength is ungodly. Mages who think they can override the dumb brain will have their own minds ripped from their skulls, as the Psychomancer senses a new thing and pulls it close. Some of the most well trained sorcerers in their time have had their consciences yanked out of their brains, leaving their bodies as empty, drooling husks. The mind that is seized never takes such a violent separation well, and will promptly panic. This irritates the Psychomancer and it will literally tear the conscience to pieces. Even if it didn't, it would mean an eternity trapped within a primitive mind that could end you in a moment. Your spirit floundering in a maelstrom of mental energy and insanity, desperately trying to appease the Psychomancer while not falling into the void of forgetfulness. Imagine that death, fading into oblivion because someone literally forgot about you. It chills me just thinking about it, and hopefully should be a good enough deterrent from such a stupid idea. Cavarious Shaid

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

Online dating isn't a game. It's literally changing humanity.

In our Love App-tually series, Mashable shines a light into the foggy world of online dating. After all, it's still cuffing season.

The swipe is about as casual a gesture as it gets. 

On Tinder, Bumble and every copycat dating app, choices are made in the blink of an eye. You're not  making definitive decisions about this stream full of faces; it's more a question "could this person be hot if we match, if they have something interesting to say, if they're not a creep and we're a few drinks in?" 

You feel so far removed from the process of dating at this stage, let alone a relationship, that swiping is simply a game. (Indeed, the makers of the mobile medieval royalty RPG Reigns intended its simple left-right controls as a Tinder homage.) You're like Matthew Broderick at the start of the 1983 movie War Games — enamored with technology's possibilities, gleefully playing around. 

And like Broderick, who discovers that "Global Thermonuclear War" isn't just a fun version of Risk, you couldn't be more wrong. With each choice, you are helping to set uncontrollable forces in motion. When you swipe, the future of the human race is quite literally at your fingertips. 

Luckily, you may be accidentally saving it rather than accidentally destroying it. Mostly. 

For millennia, humans were most likely to marry and/or raise kids with (which, then as now, wasn't always the same thing) members of their own tribe. That changed a little when we started to sail and settle around the world, but ideas about religion and race and class still governed our dating decisions — in the rare cases when those decisions were fully ours to make. 

In pre-World War II America, we were most likely to meet our significant others through family. In the 1950s came the rise of meeting "friends of friends," and that method stayed dominant through the rest of the century. 

Even as we declared in the 1960s and 1970s that love was all that mattered, meet-cute was mostly for the movies. Nearly half of all marriages were drawn from the same old pre-vetted, limited pool, blind-date setups. 

SEE ALSO: Here are the best gay dating apps, since meeting people IRL is hell

Online dating started to make a dent in the question of how we find our partners as soon as the internet arrived in the 1990s; it wasn't not just porn we're looking for. By 2000, according to surveys, 10 percent of opposite-sex couples and 20 percent of same-sex couples met via the internet, overtaking family introductions. 

By 2010 — two years before the launch of Tinder — those numbers had reached around 20 percent and 70 percent respectively. "Friends of friends" setups had dropped by 20 percent in both cases, so that limited-pool and online-pool setups were about equal. 

Surprise, surprise: the Tinder era has supercharged this trend. A fresh-as-of-January Stanford study looked at data in relationship surveys that goes up to 2017, and found that 29 percent of heterosexual and 65 percent of gay couples had now met online.   

In 2014, Tinder was processing a billion swipes a day; that is now closer to 2 billion. Tinder says that 36 percent of all people on Facebook have created an account; that would translate to 800 million people. More total Tinder matches have been made than there are people on the planet, by a factor of 3. 

It's such an addiction that Bumble's in-house sociologist, who formerly worked for Tinder, has to advise us to do no more than half an hour of swiping a day for maximum results. The rest of the world is just as addicted. The 370 million users of Badoo, the most used dating app internationally, are on the app for 90 minutes a day on average.

Smug internet marrieds

And it's not like we're just spending this time mindlessly matching and never meeting. There are an estimated one million Tinder dates every week around the world. Nor are we just dating and never getting serious; given prior trend lines, a 2015 study found that the wide adoption of internet dating had probably increased the total number of marriages by 33 percent compared to a hypothetical internet-free world. 

As counterintuitive as it sounds, Tinder may well have helped save marriage as an institution, simply by bringing us more of them. Not to mention faster. Again contrary to conventional wisdom, researchers say online meeting-based marriages happen more quickly after the first date. The jury is still out on whether online-based marriages are more or less likely to end in divorce; there are studies that point in both directions. Call it a wash. 

Either way, this is our new romantic landscape. At least one third of all marriages in the U.S. are now between partners who met online. That's more than 600,000 couples every year who would, in any other era, have remained total strangers. 

The influence of these internet-minted couples on the dating world isn't over when they marry; it is just getting started. Internet marrieds get to play yentas. They can set up friends on dates with each other — still a thing, even in this day and age. 

Who knows how far out the ripple effects go, how many people who would never dream of being on Tinder and Bumble have the course of their lives changed by swipes and matches regardless.  

If you've ever noticed on your commute that a bunch of other drivers are taking the same odd Google Maps or Waze-led routes as you, creating entirely new traffic patterns, you get what we're talking about: sudden chaotic unplanned real-world results based on vast digital adoption. Listen closely to your dating app, and you might just hear the roar of a vast human tide of unbridled connection and love, a great wave that is already changing the world, and shows no sign of slowing.

Race and class

First off, there's clear evidence that online dating is creating mixed-race couples at a faster rate than our increasingly diverse society would. This topic is low-hanging fruit, research-wise, because there's a lot of data already associated with it. 

Since it was officially OKed in all states by the Supreme Court in 1967, we've seen a slow but steady rise in the percentage of all new U.S. marriages that are interracial — from 3 percent to about 9 percent in 1995. Progress was slow, but it was progress.

However, separate studies in 2017 and 2018 both concluded that online dating since '95 turned that straight line of growth into a curving one. The stats are worth quoting at length (emphasis mine). The first study:

The second study adds that you're more likely to date someone from a different race if you're dating online, by a factor of about 7 percent. That doesn't seem a huge difference, but it adds up over time as online dating becomes exponentially more popular. 

Bottom line: Millennials and Generation Z are doing more for society-wide racial integration than many leaders of the Civil Rights struggle in the 1960s — and even the 1990s — ever dreamed possible. 

But online dating isn't all good news for those of us who want a fair and just society. Because of course, race isn't the only dividing line that developed countries like America struggle with today. There's also class. 

Here the data gets impossibly murky, because people don't exactly divulge their financial status in the Vows section. But there's another proxy for class, and that's the troubling trend towards  exclusive, private membership-based dating apps.

There's the League, which has 300,000 members and a 500,000-strong waitlist. There's Luxy, which boasts that half its members are worth half a million or more. But the poster child for this brave new balkanized world is Raya, the LA-based online dating service that only accepts 8 percent of applicants and is currently 10,000 strong across a dozen countries. 

Some of the more desperate have been known to offer as much as $10,000 for a membership, according to this New York Times profile. No dice: to get one you're judged on factors like your Instagram following and how many people you know who are already in the club. 

On Raya, the well-heeled and well-connected swipe without having to see a single face from the hoi polloi. The founder had utopian visions of a global dinner party, a "digital Davos" for dating. But as with many utopian visions of the past, this has its own unintended consequences.

If Raya is the kind of thing we all secretly aspire to be on, then the future may be one of multiple tiers. Dating apps would become the new rungs of the social ladder. And all the gains made on the interracial front would be lost as people only meet others at their same income or Instagram-follower level. 

That effect could last for longer than one generation, if history is any guide. If you and your partner met on Raya, you may look askance at your kids if they want to hang out on tattered old Tinder. We're talking about dating apps creating a new aristocracy. 

Which in turn means that we might want to look at apps like Tinder, Bumble, and Badoo in a new light. 

By using these widest possible pools of potential dates, rather than aspiring to something more exclusive, we're keeping ourselves open to more random love connections that cut across lines of race and class and everything else that divides us. We're doing our part to keep society more open, more diverse, less stratified. 

Even if we come to the popular apps with certain racial or class preferences, we can still allow ourselves to be surprised by an unusual match, to think outside our normal boxes, at least for the length of one date. We have nothing to lose but our preconceptions. 

We still haven't determined the name of this vast global game we're playing, or what the final boss level will be. But let's hope it's less of a snobby, royalty-based medieval Reigns game, and more of a vast, experimental, hot melting pot. Call it Global Thermonuclear Love. 

More from Love App-tually

My terrible online dates live on as zombies on Instagram

Finstas make online dating so much more complicated

The rise of the Tinder-themed wedding

WATCH: Arturo Castro talks about the first time he dated a vegan

[qqueenofhades]

HEllo! It's me again and boy do I have prompts! The one fic I want written more than anything in the world is Garcy + fake dating. Just give me all the "Oh we are totally pretending and there are no real feelings her AT ALL" pretty please I will love you forever

so as noted, i couldn’t quite think of a good fake dating idea, but please accept 2.3k words of angsty bedsharing + “we need to huddle for warmth,” because i am trash and have no self control.

The wind just about rips the door out of Flynn’s hands as hestruggles to close it, swearing under his breath. The dark, howling, snowingnight rushes at him, slashing sideways against his face, but after a momentmore, he manages to wrench the latch in, and some of the tumult stills. Onlysome, though. It’s still beating against the greased-paper windows, the chinks inthe logs, the tiny, sooty hearth, gasping and whining. Something in the windsounds so much like a child crying that it raises the hackles on the back ofhis neck.

This, however, is not what he has time to be presentlyconcerned with. They’re lucky to have made it here (a fur trapper’s cabin bythe looks of it, cruel toothed things and hooked knives and snowshoes anddrying skins hanging from the low rafters) and until the storm lets up, theyhave no chance of finding the idiot andhis sidekick again. The Time Team has spent the last three days sloggingthrough the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest in 1805, trying to catch up to theRittenhouse operative planted in Lewis and Clark’s expedition, and, it goeswithout saying, they do not have a Sacagawea to save their asses. They havestuck together as much as possible, but splitting up has been necessary a fewtimes, and, well. They can’t put Flynn and Wyatt together, seeing as they wouldprobably kill each other within five minutes, and also because they can’t leaveLucy and Rufus unprotected. No one, least of all Rufus, is keen to pair Flynnand Rufus, and despite the lingering tension (and Wyatt’s 0% approval rating ofthe idea), everyone knows that Flynn/Lucy and Wyatt/Rufus are the logicalpair-ups. That, therefore, has been the plan. As for where the latter two arein the blizzard, Flynn doesn’t really care.

Lucy is shivering so hard that her teeth rattle. Flynndouble-checks that the bar is wedged in, then kneels by the hearth, stackingsome of the damp wood from the pile. He takes out his lighter and tries to getit to catch, but it doesn’t. His breath is gusting silver in the freezing air,even inside the cabin, and he swears again. “I hate the fucking past.”

Despite her shivering, Lucy arches an eyebrow, as if to saythat if so, he is really in the wrongline of work. It takes him a few more attempts, but he gets a feeble, gutteringfire started, and they press in, shoulder to shoulder, trying to defrost theirfrozen hands. When they can finally move their fingers without them being indanger of snapping off, Lucy looks around. “Do you think there’s anything toeat?”

There are a few barrels and sacks and bunches of driedthings, a rust-bottomed cauldron on a trivet, and something that, by the smellwhen they uncork it, has been there for about a hundred years. Theygrimace and hastily cork it again, trying to put together an edible stew. Makes youmiss microwaves and five-minute meals, opening an app on your smartphone and gettingdinner delivered to your door. Even the most intrepid pizza guy would havetrouble making it here.

The stew isn’t that good, but it’s hot, and both of them areso hungry that they inhale it without complaint. There isn’t exactly a lot ofwashing-up to do, just stacking the bowls. Then Lucy says quietly, “I hopeWyatt and Rufus are okay.”

Flynn could give a damn if they are or not, but he supposesthat if they get killed, Lucy will be sad, and he might get shanghaied into yetanother stupid mission to save them. “I’m sure they’re fine. You three seem obnoxiouslyadept at surviving.”

Lucy flashes a slight, hesitant smile, almost despiteherself, that clenches Flynn’s innards unexpectedly. He’s still mad at her andhas been making sure she knows that, but the night is cold and dark and rawenough as it is, and he is briefly tired of punishing her. Half of it is hisown rage at himself, anyway. He’s like the storm himself, overflowing andravaging everything it touches, without regard for friend or foe. Ripping,tearing, freezing, devouring. They sit staring at the struggling firefor several minutes, not saying anything. It’s hardly warm enough to remove anyof their snow-driven cloaks and blankets, but since they have now thawed, they’rewet and uncomfortable, and they’ll probably catch their death of cold anyway.Flynn gets up, peels off a few layers, and hangs them by the fire, where theysmoke and steam.

Lucy glances sidelong at him, then does the same, goosefleshrippling across her arms as she hugs herself. Flynn is uncomfortably, intenselyaware of it, her proximity in the low light, the tangled knot of dark hair onthe back of her neck and falling in her face, which makes his fingers itch withthe urge to tidy it. Furious with himself, he clenches his fist until thethought goes away. (More or less.) Then he nods at the bed in the corner, anarrow cot with a straw-stuffed mattress, a ragged few quilts, and what lookslike a buffalo robe, thick and heavy. “Go get under that beforeyou bite your tongue off with your teeth chattering.”

Lucy looks at him for that extra brief, oblique moment, thendoes so, crawling under the heap of covers. Flynn himself is too cold, but alsotoo proud to ask her to bring one over, and besides, he should probablykeep watch. He takes out his gun, checks it thoroughly, makes sure it’s all ingood working order. He has no idea what he’s expecting to bust through the doorin the middle of a blizzard. The Abominable Snowman? Wyatt? The AbominableSnowman, Wyatt?

It grows late. Lucy’s breath slows, but he doesn’tthink she’s asleep. The fire is low, drying their clothes is leaching most ofthe warmth from it, and the chill is savage. He can hear Lucy’s teethcontinuing to chatter, no matter how hard she tries to stop it. He can bereasonably certain that they are not about to be hit with a midnight ambush,though it would be unforgivable for his vigilance to slip and permit it. Finallyhe says gruffly, “You sound like a nutcracker.”

“S-sorry.” He hears the straw of the mattress rustle as Lucytries to hunker further down. The bed is in the corner, however, and there isdefinitely a lot of wind swirling in. His teeth are starting to rattlethemselves. He’s spent time in Russia during winter (and Russia in general). Ifthere’s one thing he’s used to, it’s cold. But he always had modern microfiberjackets, hand warmers, boiling samovars of tea, modern buildings with modernfucking insulation. Not this joke of a cabin, perched in the butt-end ofnowhere, just a few logs and slaps of mortar keeping out the elements. He’d golook for more firewood, but he’d lose his way quickly. No flashlight, not evena lantern.

God, he hates the past.

Flynn considers a moment more, knowing that he isn’t goingto ask her, and neither is she going to ask him. Both of them are remarkablystubborn like that. He is angry with her, yes, but he also doesn’t want to sit hereand listen to her slowly freeze – if only since trying to explain to Wyattbloody Logan what happened would be even worse. He remains where he is. Then heturns, takes a few strides across the creaking floor, and shucks his boots, gunholster, and remaining jacket. She shifts almost automatically as he climbs inbehind her, putting himself between her and the wall, settling himself into theuncomfortable, scratching mattress. He pulls out the buffalo robe and tucks itfirmly over both of them, not sure where to rest his arm. Her hip is thenatural location, but, well. He holds it stiffly instead, awkwardly.

Lucy’s breathing catches slightly. He is big enough to engulfher nicely as they spoon, his chin on top of her head, the pillow thin andflat, but he doesn’t pay attention. He can feel a slight heat between themwhere their cold bodies press together, and after a few minutes, notices thathe has forgotten to keep his arm propped away from her. It falls around her,tucking her into his chest, and he makes a movement to pull it back. She shiftsinvoluntarily, stopping him.

Flynn can feel a definite and particular tightness in his chest(and elsewhere) that doesn’t necessarily have to do with the freezing air. He isforcibly reminded of cuddling with Lorena on lazy weekend mornings, feetsticking out from beneath the quilts, her warm and boneless in his arms,neither of them wanting to get up to make breakfast, until Iris ran in andtackled them. Lucy feels that same way, soft and warm and fluid and female,melting into him despite herself, until Flynn can feel himself unavoidably responding,and he tries to shift her away. No. Oh, no. She doesn’t get to know she’shaving this effect. This power. Over him. That she always has.

(Garcia Flynn is a very smart man in many ways.)

(He is a very stupid one in many others.)

Lucy subconsciously resists his effort to separate them,which has the effect of bringing them rather closer as she squirms around. Theyend up side by side, her half on top of him, the buffalo robe twisted aroundthem both, their faces very close, staring at each other in the dark shadows ofthe dying fire. He can see her pulse hammering in her throat. She is sprawled onhim, she shifts just so, and both of them can feel his hardness wedge nicelybetween her legs. It’s not entirely indecent – there are still at least five layers of clothing separating them – but it is also far from the innocentpursuit of warmth. Her eyelashes flutter, and he gulps back a choked breath,still trying to get her off. “Lucy – ”

She doesn’t answer. Still looking down at him. If theblasted woman is going to try to use this moment as blackmail, proving that heis lying out his ass when he says he doesn’t care for her or want anything fromher… well, it’s probably no more than he deserves, for being stupid enoughto get himself into this situation in the first place. She gives a slight,involuntary roll of her hips, dragging herself against him, and one of hishands rises, entirely without his consent of course, to grip hold of her. The otherrises to her face, giving in and tucking the loose strand of hair behind herear. Despite the cold, he can see a bead of sweat starting on her brow.

Flynn touches the bow of her lower lip, opening her mouth, runninghis callused thumb along the line of her teeth. Pushes a bit, into the warmth,as she sucks it for a moment, curling her tongue. Then he pulls back, strokingalong the line of her cheekbone, leaving a slight glisten on her skin. She grindson him again, harder and more deliberately this time, and he feels the frissonof shock and sensation to the back of his spine. If it feels this good with allthe clothes, he wonders, how much better might it feel without?

He’s not entirely sure if the same question has occurred toLucy, though from the look on her face, he’ll flatter himself that she is notcompletely hating this. One of her smaller hands finds its way into his largerone, fingers linking, as she pushes it back alongside his head. He’s still onhis back beneath her; she’s the one in control of this, guiding them throughthis strange, sensitive, silent – whatever it is. Their eyes remain locked,unblinking, as his other hand drifts down and settles on her hip, thumbsettling in the hollow, fingers tracing the line of her slender waist. He feelsimpossibly guilty, as if he’s straight-up cheating on Lorena, no matter theattractions of the current situation. As if she might walk in from the night, aghost of the forest, see this, and be horrified. If he does somehow see her again– if he had to explain –

Lucy can sense his misgivings, the way something has subtly changed,and it’s impossible to say what exactly crosses her face. After a moment,however, she lets go of his hand, and slides back on her knees, rolling offhim. The heat lingers, but muted, dulled, burning lower, like the flame in thehearth. Flynn closes his eyes hard, clenching his fist, still able to feel heragainst it. He is not sure if he wants to dream of Lorena and Iris tonight ornot. It feels better, safer, wiser to keep them away from this.

A voice jeers in his head, asking when he ever did the wise thing. He ignores it.

Lucy settles down next to him again,as he lets out a long sigh and tugs the robe straight, staring at the ceiling,listening to the wind wail. He waits. Her breath slows. This time, he thinks that she is in fact asleep.

He’s fairly sure that he won’t.Has gotten far too used to these long, lonely, bitter, silent vigils.

And yet, eventually, with Lucysleeping next to him, curled into his side – if she can fall asleep rightbeside him, let her guard down like this, she must know he’s certainly not going to hurt her, still trustshim, stupidly, stupidly – he does.

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘THE MAGIC FLUTE’ “Can this be the end of worry?”

© 2020 by James Clark

     The films of Ingmar Bergman always present difficulties—difficulties of narrative (as with nearly all films); and difficulties of theme (as almost unique). Unlike virtually all other film artists, his communications presuppose that each of his works vitally contribute to the one being viewed. Unlike normal conundrums which may be absolutely resolved, the interest Bergman has attended to will never disappear. His embrace of his theme is complex to a degree almost unimaginable.  But in the case of those who have devoted time and energy to hopefully grasping the heart of those haunting depths, it remains a shock and a dismay that the range of these films have not been recognized. (The situation here, is likened to Reichardt’s Wendy mired in narrative, while Lucy makes a hidden difference.)

Though our helmsman leaves movie buffs bemused, he is, in fact, far from the only practitioner of his ilk. In ancient Greece, there were thinkers who drove their sensibilities along lines familiar to Bergman. They encountered the advantage-zeal-simplism emanating from Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, and their Judeo-Christian offshoots with their punitive style. The so-called Dark Ages were not only about Neanderthals, but also furnaces of inquisitional pedantry. By the time of the 18th century, and the overrated Age of Enlightenment, a form of surreptitious opposition to throttling of what the pre-Socratics had discovered, had become a shadowy form of rebellion, known as Freemasonry [free building]. One of the artistic giants of the era, composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, was, in fact, a Freemason; along with a close associate, Emanuel Schikaneder, who became the librettist for the Mozart opera, The Magic Flute (1791).

Bergman was, as you know, an inspired builder of filmic innovation. But, with his version of The Magic Flute (1975), his muse abandoned the totally new, in delight with a sort of sidekick, namely, Mozart. The film we see today does put out a vigorous recommendation on behalf of classical rational power, in accordance with a clientele besotted with Age-of-Enlightenment righteousness. But Mozart, while giving due to the status quo in the opera, evinces, with Mozartian elegance, a subversive counterattack. Aptly, then, Bergman, always subversive, will alight upon features of the modern world in his scenario, having made no significant progress beyond the days of Mozart. But he must also acknowledge the rare, if quixotic, daring, spilling out from one, remarkable modest source, being food for thought in a world convinced that only a mob can get things done.

Three golden clouds become reflected on a lake where ducks quack. This shimmering resolves to three closely positioned radiant towers of striking beauty. A statement of disinterestedness, paradoxically opening a saga rife with rabid advantage. Then, in a cut to an estate with towering trees, which manage to be neither real nor unreal, reminding us of the full-fledged forest at the outset of Bergman’s film, Cries and Whispers (1972), which eschews facile piety, an overture—comprising three melodramatic opening notes and a sunburst sky upon an old stone statue of a warrior bidding to upstage those mysterious motions in the lake.

Having opened up a volatile current in this way, it may be apt to mention that both Masonic Mozart and warrior Bergman never lose sight of a trio like the one in the lake. Each of them navigates the stream of their sensibility by which to temper a rampage of statement which would result in grotesque insistence. Rolling back such a travesty would bring to bear a third presence (of synthesis), maintaining that threesome which only a consummate acrobat and juggler can deliver (acrobatics and juggling being watchwords for Bergman, as illuminating in his film, The Seventh Seal [1957]). And here, again, that matter of rancor and confusion cannot be detached from those crucial resolves. Therefore, by way of emphasizing the fixture of poison, the preamble slashes across the rococo scene, in the form of an extensive filmic presentation of the audience, in 1975, of a performance, in Swedish, of Mozart’s blue-chip opera. Many cameos come and go, and return again, during the Overture. But one figure comes to us in a special way, a blonde girl about 13 years of age. On presenting her in close-up, being vaguely questioning, there is a cut to the theatre’s closed curtain and its figures, so different from the modernists. On a beige ground, a cupid looks out to a secular gratification. Once again, there is the girl, now flashing a secular glare. Back we go, to the rest of that curtain, a woman warrior in a helmet, and brandishing a spear. The tough customer changes her sneer to a more accepting tone. Following that passage, there are close-ups of other patrons, some less intense than the girl; and others more wrapped in concern for cares having nothing to do with the show about to fully begin. Moreover, the magic camera of Sven Nykvist often launches cuts amongst the audience so rapidly and with parts of faces and bodies indistinct in close-up to an upshot of strong unusualness. There is also a remarkable range of nationalities in that theatre, especially in view of Sweden’s homogeneousness at that era. In fact there are ripples of pan shots showing many from lands beyond the Caucasian world. Many of those show a pleasure in dipping into a new experience. And, as we attempt to find the motive of such a bizarre introduction, we do settle upon the factor of diversity of outlooks. Before long, the blonde girl comes to us with a wicked smirk. The Overture has landed her, not into a vigorous musical and theatrical reflection, but into the realization that such diversity around her in her (perhaps rather sheltered) life constitutes a complexity of priorities she instinctively hates.

   And here, about to mine the scenario of righteousness triumphant, is the Anna of Bergman’s film, The Passion of Anna (1969), and her war cry, “Real Security,” a woman warrior ready to savage all but those, like herself, who maintain a saccharine cocoon devoid of depth, creative joy and loving courage. That is to say, this strange film is a prequel to the Anna rampaging (with impunity) in the earlier film. That is also to say that such outrage won’t stop, though it might be outflanked. Our film today measures those gifts in the shadows, from Heraclitus, from Mozart and from Bergman, to mention a few.

Before leaving this polyglot assembly, we should acknowledge resources of endeavors in the seats, never to be big names but always noticed in apt time. Whereas that beige motif—reaching over to the narrow chromatic talents of Marianne, the frequently married in the Bergman film, Scenes from a Marriage (1973)—spells effete toying, there are in that theatre visitors who could belong to what Mozart hoped. Bergman has posited, in addition to Anna’s cheerleading, many elderly music lovers, whose faces reflect ravages of strife, disappointment and ongoing struggles. Also, there are Asians and Africans, perhaps bringing to the event more intuitive earthiness than the regular opera patrons. And, in addition, there could, from amidst comfortable circumstances, those who extend themselves beyond their habits. (It is not, I think, far-fetched to notice that the audience watching a far from glowing film, in Abbas Kiarostami’s film, Shirin [2008], has been somewhat modelled upon Bergman’s film and Mozart’s opera.) Let Anna sulk and scheme; but many of her fellow attendees have been scouted for something better, though better may be only very slight.

In order to cut to the chase of a cluttered melodrama, we’ll point out at the get go that the main holy (Enlightenment) man and guardian of Plato’s pedantry, namely, Sarastro, keeping the faith for a planet at a safe, Hollywood measure, is a dead ringer for the sainted Orson Welles! The latter’s stature, in the firmament of big, particularly rests upon the 1938 radio broadcast, “The War of the Worlds,” and the 1941 film, Citizen Kane (the latter regarding more or less fake news to make things happen). This Sarastro, having a cabinet of professorial pedants decked out in clerical robes in tune with what academic action has always been and always will be, had stumbled into a troubling marriage with a figure calling herself “The Queen of the Night”—her breasts on display being Marilyn-like. As this Los Angeles takeover by Bergman, putatively keeping abreast of modern times, wends its express-like way, the job of 21st century war here should take precedence.

   Perhaps the best way to discern any daylight here is to hang on to the travesty of Hollywood and its endless soap operas. To that effect, the so-called “serpent” of Mozart and Schikaneder, presumably starting the excitement, becomes a T-Rex on the order of a middling kids birthday party. The protagonist, namely, “Prince Tamino,” runs amok with this supposed excitement and becomes saved by a trio (of course; and, of course, out of order) of the female minions of the Queen. So there we have the designated hero being rescued by women. “Oh, help, and protect me now!” (Right here we have the roots of a flaming disciple of the system of deus ex machina. Of course, he’ll toe the line and end up the successor of Orson Welles. But a lot of verve flies out elsewhere, verve we need to examine.)

The girls sing, “Our valor saved him from the beast!” They also sing, “This is indeed a youth most fair. Such beauty in a man is rare… Indeed, he has a graceful air.” (Tamino looks a lot like our Prime Minister—a mixed blessing, indeed. Now, in fact, having given the heavy lifting to a woman, while he delivers boring platitudes and stands in for selfies.) Those days the Queen was livid, due to Sarastro’s kidnapping their daughter, Pamina, on the basis that her mother is not a team player. With Tamino being a shoo-in for heroics of various kinds (including putting a smile on Pamina’s face), there appears a non-matinee idol and bird-catcher, namely, Papageno, whose fate it is to be regarded by one and all as a clown. His introductory aria, however, shows that he himself intuits being as bright as anyone, and perhaps a bit more. “A fowler gay in me you see. There are not many more like me…I’m a well-known person here, beloved wherever I appear. I play my pipe, and at the sound all kind of birds do flock around… Of course I’m happy in my trade, but I get lonesome for a maid.”

Though the rescue mission carries Tamino’s name, Papageno, whose habitat is that domain of darkness, is drafted to accompany the adventure. The latter reaches the fortification/ prison quickly, because he trusts a poetic nature. “A bird showed me the way.” Tamino’s far slower transportation is a prosaic hybrid of low-tech blimp, requiring manual cranking, and bemusing mumbo jumbo involving three young children, called, “spirits,” delivering the action. Adding to the facile conclusiveness, we have learned that slam-dunk Tamino will become the daughter’s lover, no question about it. “If you are not indifferent to her, then bliss, honor and fame await you.” The “Queen,” a somewhat daft poet running that jurisdiction, dips into mechanisms to have her (and her operatic-pedantic audience’s) way. A magic locket of hers—an early phone—brings up the pretty girl. And she outfits Tamino with a magic flute; moreover she endows Papageno with a set of magic chimes. But the latter already is adept with his pan pipes. This dream-job—the Queen’s fixers, sing, “The path to fortune lies open…”—launches with the boss bragging about her state-of the-art equipment. “Just play, and you may take for granted your listeners will be enchanted. The sad will feel the joy of life. The bachelor will seek a wife. For by its sound man is inspired to live in peace with all the earth.” At this rush of idealization, Papageno remarks, “… not really my line…” (Anna sneers at the lack of consensus.)

Papageno crashes the sanctuary, begins to usher Pamina away from the golden rule, and then he runs afoul of the enforcer of this effete Gulag. That narrative setback is nothing dramatic to thrill about. But the solidifying of ironical American entertainment priorities here, is a startling challenge in the current of Bergman’s quiet war. Monostatos, the eagle eye, has been cast in the vision of actor, Lorne Greene, the Ben Cartwright mover and shaker and bane to cow-rustlers, in the long-running American television Western, “Bonanza.” Monostatos’ rather exotic surface and hyperbolic delivery has been intensified by the 14th century clown-jester head-piece of two streamers extending from both sides of the head—rather like long-horn cattle. Here we go, into the realm of Bonanza! Later, Papageno sings out some syncopation to Monostatos and his calves (little kids with those horns), to imply that the whole ponderous statement, pushed by Sarastro, can be countered by forces of lyricism. He had tried, vaguely, to impart to Pamina that in the currents of mood she could begin to get real. “How sweet the lot of womanhood, love will warm us day and night. Love is the source of true delight…” But in being thus encouraging, he slips beyond problematical tonality, and becomes a huckster. Here we have the first of a series of members of the cast with a card held up, expressing axioms, dovetailing with television commercials. “Love brings relief in pain and sorrow. It soothes a soul in misery.” That “relief”- sell will go apace to detonate a clutch of time-bombs on the order of gospel TV, Christmas cards and political sloganeering.

Then, right on cue, photogenic Tamino is easily persuaded to join the flush competition. The “spirits” tell him, “This path will lead you to your goal, if you pay heed to this expedient… Here are the rules: Don’t lose control; Be steadfast, silent and obedient… Obey the rules and you will succeed, if you make use of the expedient.” At the imposing castle gates, he disregards three flames and pronounces, “I strangely feel it would be wise for me to do as they advise.” On a quick take of the façade, he’s ready to say, “The gates and columns, their towering beauty, would point to a reign of art, wisdom and beauty. Where art is protected, and beauty may dwell. The people are happy, the master rules well… My purpose is noble, my notions are pure…” (Coherence, what coherence?)

Though he flounders to the tune of, “Sarastro, mark these words, you scum!” he soon tangles with a professorial type, dressed like a medieval priest, in an office clogged to the ceiling with books, who readily and successfully changes what mind he possesses. The prof uses a quill pen, but such lack of weight is plenty enough to turn Tamino into a budding priest, the landslide of classical rationality virtually mowing down everyone in its path. (As the weak protagonist plays ball, a cut to Anna in the seats finds her in seventh heaven.) The keeper of the magic flute moves on to entices many woodland creatures. But, unlike the nature of Papageno, Tamino attracts Disney creatures, far more denizens of bourgeois nurseries than wild beasts. Consequently, Tamino’s song rounds up Pamina and Papageno, as the reluctant wild ones clarify where they will remain for life. Pamina asks, “Can this be the end of worry?” And, for a second time, Papageno slips into prime time. “Faint hearts never won a single thing,” he declares, from resources of care and resources of carelessness. He resorts to the chimeric chimes, instead of his trusty pan pipes. “Sweetly chiming bells, your worth is beyond all measure. Would that everyone on earth would have so dear a treasure. Then to your harmonious souls love would flourish all around. It would mean the end of strife, fear and violations. Love would heal the nations.” (The prissy rhyming here does, in fact, heal nothing,)

That would serve as the jangled preamble of Sarastro’s (tone-deaf) power in action, shining on his daughter’s betrothal. A torchlight parade has flared up, and we hear cheers of, “We hail our master, his heavenly visions! He wisely decides and we gladly obey. He is our prophet…he shows us the way!” Having a Citizen Kane knack for what the market wants to hear, he handsomely forgives Pamina for having a taste for the uncanny, “the night.” Also, he welcomes Tamino, whose malleability has been widely noted. In an impetuous move (driven by a trace of deadly error), the “master” finds in the dreamboat the perfect way to spend the perfect retirement, free from the baleful consequences of his cowardice.  A committee of heavy readers and full-length robes  performs a further scrutiny of the promising stranger. Sarastro declares, “Tamino is waiting [for your approval]. He intensely desires to find a goal and purpose in life, and aspires to become a member of our brotherhood.”/ “Is he virtuous?”/ “He is.”/ “Is he fearless.”/ “He is.”/ “Is he reticent?”/ The chief smiles and nods, “Yes”/ “You deem him worthy, do you not?”/ “For Tamino, I have destined my daughter. Therefore, I took her away from her mother, an arrogant creature. She would have our Temple reduced to ashes. Her ultimate purpose is to control the world. Pamina and Tamino shall protect our holy principles… In true love, you shall find the origin of wisdom. That is why I shall resign my power to Pamina and Tamino.”

 Although the fix is in, with the cabinet rather sluggishly approving the abrupt new wave, the culture insists that the power-to-be perform feats of great daring to ensure that the leader be some kind of Hollywood hero, as against day-to-day equilibrium. Though unexplained, the inclusion of Papageno in this display, may have to with the latter’s bona fides beyond optics. While Tamino dons a clerical robe and a clerical demeanor (eyes shut) and close to a single flame needing more than that, when the clerk directing that so-called “House of Trials,” asks Papageno, “Would you, too, strive to obtain wisdom?” the natural hunter replies, “No thank you… A good night’s sleep, good food and drink, that’ll do me.” (With a background of cave paintings and a grim reaper.) The clerk moots finding for him a pretty and virtuous wife. (Bergman amends that wife, who was very old in the original, to a pretty young girl.) This gives Papageno a start; and after some suspicion, he goes ahead with the proposition. (“Like me?”/ “Young and pretty!”)”What’s her name?”/ “Papagena!” (The making of a synthesis.) You must not speak to her until the three trials are over. At this unforthcoming scheme, Papageno begins to feel that the Queen of the Night, his bird supply client, has more to offer than kill-joys. He utters the heresy, “An evil spirit is presiding over this sacred brotherhood.” Tamino scolds, “A wise man trusts himself and forms opinions of his own…” (The setting is rife with skeletons and skulls.) The savvy  hunter of hidden goods recalls, “It’s also said the devil feasts upon the victims of the priests…” (an allusion to the former priest, in Bergman’s, The Seventh Seal [1957], stealing from victims of a plague). “To trust the Queen, I am inclined…” At which, Tamino argues, “A Queen still has a woman’s mind.”

Papageno begins to cry, due to the lack of cogency swirling around him. The clerk tells him, “Pull yourself together now. Be a man! But the rural guy has a very different cruising speed. “Man be damned. If the gods intended Papagena for me, why all these nightmares? On the endless journey, love may be lost on the way.” (To emphasize that Papageno’s expectations can be faulty, there is a cut to the swarthy cowboy, complaining that his color shuts him out of the good times. His soliloquy is delivered in face of a sleeping Pamina, and his ire drives him to declare, “Though she find me reprehensive, I shall own her here tonight.” Then, in another of those roiling moods, he thinks the better of it and leaves the bedroom—a bolt of energy no one else in sight can manage. On the heels of Monostatos’ recovery from committing  rape [one of those fender-benders Papageno, when weakening, wants to see gone for good].) There is a parallel U-turn in an awakening Pamina. She envisions that her mother represents unfinished business and that she (Pamina) is obliged to kill the father who had big plans for her. This reverie, then, strikes the daughter that both parents are bad news, lacking nuance. Though embroiled in such nuance, Pamina won’t seriously touch it, for herself. (The putatively cool mom, now acts like a lunatic. “I’ll curse you forever,” if the melodramatic event fails to happen. The musical delivery by the Queen resembles an irate rooster.) Then Sarastro drops by and imparts to her his soporific, utopian creed. “No wrath may be permitted within those sacred walls.” That day, Tamino religiously undergoes a trial of silence—good news to the high priest; but bad news to a Pamina inferring that he no longer loves her. (In a little scene bringing to mind the skits of Abbot and Costello, Papageno babbles along, running into the fury of serious, pedant-guy Bud Abbott.) As this seasick moment progresses, we discern three lights in a row, the middle one out of order. The cheeky one of the duo declares, “I wish I were back in the woods. At least I might hear a bird.” He keeps coming back to the girl being a prize for undertaking the tests, and he argues, “Her kiss would prevent me from thinking…” We had had a little flash of the eager girl before being held back by the clerk—a very pretty girl, in fact. And when finally she does appear (way before the tests are done), she has put on a shock wig and blackened her teeth. That evokes from the fowler, who was having a drink of water, a spray of the water, surprise and mirth, nearing to uncanniness. His sense of humor being in great contrast to the deadly solemn coming from all but Papagena. “Come, keep me company,” he invites.  “Lessen my boredom… How old are you?” She laughs, “How old? Eighteen years and two minutes…” They share a laugh, and he says, “I suppose you have a sweetheart…” “You bet!” she retorts. “As old as you?” he braces./ “Ten years older than me. That’s love for you!”/ “What is his name, then?”/ “His name is Papageno!” And she pokes him, as he had poked her./ “What’s your name?” he asks./ She flops over like a rag doll. “My name is Papagena!” And she runs away. By contrast, Tamino plays a melancholy tune on his failure-to-thrive flute, surrounded by those skeletons and skulls. Coming at the end of that achievement of carefree, we have been readied for a satirical version of the sublime. (Here also, we have Anna back, pondering a collapse of domestic security.)

 Pamina, after slogging through snow in the courtyard and close to suicide, has a rather delirious rendezvous from the “spirits,” which brings her to the revelation that Tamino the machine would only seem rude and treasonous if he had been obliged to keep silent  as a sacred duty. (An early nudge of depression had the child angels yelling, “She’s utterly demented!”) Before this realization fully took hold, she would dash desperately back and forth along black fencing against pristine, white snow, the real magic of dynamics so hard to maintain in a Dark Ages world. The dead weight, the daft weight, and what now? That “what now?” becomes the real point of the shower of history our film poses, Bergman knowing that long after he would be gone the bankruptcy he had audited would move to another reckoning.

Patching her romance and getting back to easy street—“Hurry now, I miss him so!”—flushes out a big smile from Anna. Also back, is one of those TV heavens, perhaps, “I’ll be home for Christmas”: “Two hearts that love, having conjugated, cannot be separated. They need not ever fear a foe. The gods protect them where they go.” What remains here, in the form of a coda, provides supplements of what could be called, “The War of the Worlds.”

One of the profs tells her, “Your father permits you to visit Tamino in The House of Trials. You are to give him his flute.” Sarastro announces, “Oh, comrades in our brotherhood, see what splendor!” A chorus sings, “Soon to our sacred band he swears allegiance.” (Ceremony, in the billions, like this, having produced imprisonment while imagining getting ahead.) The new face of oldness enters a burning cave where much fighting and rutting is in session. Tamino the Grim had played his “magic” flute which ensured that the pious lovers would tread safely within this hell. (The preamble of that trial is strewn with torches inviting creative logic [dialectic] which, in this context, will never come to fruition.) The pedants pule, “He who endures this deadly passage to the end will be purified to ascend to heaven. The gods of wisdom shall his eyes unseal… Thus to him the mysteries of life reveal.” (Tamino places his hand over his heart.) The sealing of the deal, for a presumed great job, elicits, “I don’t fear the unknown yonder. The virtuous path I long to wonder.” (Anna likes what she sees—real security.) There they are, like a couple of beloved TV stars, or smart YouTube heroes. The fans cheer, “Advance! Advance! Advance into the sanctuary!” And don’t tell me it’s overkill.

At that moment, the Queen of the Night, completely off the rails, stages an attempt to wipe those grins off their face. Monostatos joins her bootless resentment. Of course, a cast numbering millions would brush them off. But the only highlight there is the Queen evading extinction, while Monostatos commits suicide, and her fall to the pedantry of domination retaining a frail speck of dignity. Pamina witnesses that perdurance, but, in a draft of Bergmanesque drama, she opts for “real [mob] security,” instead of lonely depth. The Age of Enlightenment, as far as the [myopic] eye can see. At a victory parade, Sarastro warms up the troops with, “Victorious Truth will enhance his renown!” (To be amended by, “Victorious humbug metastasizes apace.”) Two falcons are in attendance, for decorative, not substantive, action. (Another deuce lacking a third.) After the wedding and the celebration of the new leaders, Sarastro leaves town. Why? We have, on his departure, another glimpse of a quick hesitation. Why would he not stay on during the new wonderfulness? Orson the gamer, knowing something else has not been handled well, and requires solitude to really shine?

The film dares us to find, in a goof, more creative equilibrium than a powerhouse of pious dominance. That the paradox rifles through the operatic, melodramatic foreground, to be overtaken by a marginal and hard to read modernist glitch in the audience—Anna being the only obvious 18th century dogmatist in the house—endows the film with its Bergman imprimatur. However, with the display of quite total allergy to what the cosmos provides, the drama of errancy becomes precisely the domain of a pronounced creativity. Having seen from the get-go that joining the madness of that morality would be a wasted life, Papageno has become all about finding that girl with ambient wit. (His long-term plight, couched about what’s wrong with him, could well be in fact regarding what’s wrong with them.) He roams the area of the fortress, calling out her name. He makes a turn to hanging himself, due to having lost the only one he can imagine living with. But, to his surprise, he finds, “I make no move… Now let’s see if I should count to three” (a big smile crossing his face). After three, he once again wonders about dying by his own hands, only to feel that that move doesn’t attain to cogency. (In the Bergman film, Summer Interlude [1951], a selfish ballerina confronts her shabbiness and proceeds to leverage her grossness to a strange form of euphoria. Her turnaround lacks staying power. Papageno and Papagena are something else. Such a “glitch,” though, could be a rich field of dreams.)  The metaphoric spirits once again oversee what is in his heart, pelting him with snowballs for being stupid. “Your only life is lost if you should die…” And, more metaphor, he remembers the chimes of a musical patron. “Maybe you wouldn’t feel so tragic,” the three metaphors nudge, if you had used your bells of magic” [bells of courage]. “My little bells ring sweetly for me and call my darling girl to me…” Far from eloquent, they meet again like this: “Then I’ll be your tender hubby…”/ “And I’ll be your little missus…” (That the bells were seen first in the air, implies [metaphorically] an elegant partnership.)

One of Papageno’s many slips involves trying to take credit for the kill of the monster, a feeble show of cheap advantage. But that he makes up for it is a bit of a mess, is perhaps as much as can be expected on this tone-deaf planet/ stage. Papageno, fresh from his pardon from the lie, fires out the facile prayer, “Oh that the lies of every liar could thus be sealed and locked for good, instead of malice, hate and ire.” The pedantry of the former brings nothing substantive to the reflection. At its heart, the demand of this film calls for unprecedented nuance. Going on to speak of a lovely brood of girls and boys,” Papagena delights in the discovery, “We do not need a lucky penny, we shall be fortunate indeed…”  (Papageno’s syncopation had lead Papagena to him.) Anna begins to celebrate, but the improvisational keenness onstage, the volatility, distresses and annoys the budding fascist. The two rough and ready on the fringes of stricture close the action with a large family of children.

The actress/ singer playing Papagena has been captured at the stage wings of the theatre, expressing her affection for the actor/ singer playing Papageno. In addition to the audience, we have a glimpse of the modern backstage during the intermission of the show. Many of those in clerical/ academic garb shed their one-track tone. The actor/ singer, organizing The House of Trial, hands over to the actor/ singer playing Sarastro the score of the 19th century opera, Parsifal, a work influenced by Buddhism. One of the children/ longhorns reads a Micky Mouse comic book, which includes Donald Duck and Goofy. The Queen of the Night smokes a cigarette under a sign saying No Smoking. The T-Rex plods by, apparently unwilling to go home. The actor/ singer playing Tamino plays a game of chess with the actress/ singer playing Pamina. She wins easily. At two points of the curtain, Sarastro and the comic kid peer out at the audience. (From the past to the present. And what do you have?) In a bit of a hybrid, the Papageno is first seen backstage, asleep, then waking up and rushing to meet his cue. Along the way, he passes a chessboard. Also, two candles alight, kick off the endless work and play. This links, once again, to a “glitch,” like that fortuitousness coming out of oblivion.

[fashiontrendin-blog]

5 Women on Why They Stopped “Taming” Their Hair

http://fashion-trendin.com/5-women-on-why-they-stopped-taming-their-hair/

5 Women on Why They Stopped “Taming” Their Hair

From a young age, most girls are acutely aware of the difference between “good” hair and “problem” hair. One ripples and bounces across TV screens during shampoo commercials; the other is spelled out on the bottles like a diagnosis: frizzy, dry, coarse, kinky, or — my favorite — unmanageable, as if the worst thing hair could do is defy your grooming attempts.

This impossibly narrow beauty ideal has all kinds of consequences for those who don’t fall within it, from bullying and alienation all the way to racial discrimination. This means it doesn’t just cost girls and women money or time, it can cost them a sense of inherent belonging or self-acceptance.

The silver lining of being force-fed dumb rules is the freedom to be gained by breaking them. The natural hair movement, which has done so much valuable work in eschewing and reshaping beauty conventions set with one type of (white) woman in mind, is one example of what shattering those rules can look and feel like.

There’s no shame in enjoying spending time on your hair, or reveling in the manipulation of it, but there remains something undeniably meaningful and subversive about skipping that process in favor of wild, frizzy or generally “unkempt” hair. To celebrate the literal and figurative beauty of that defiance, I asked five women who don’t tame their fluff to tell me how it feels to let it fly free.

Jasmine Burgos

Jasmine is a journalism student at Hunter College and a fashion intern living in Long Island.

How would you describe your natural hair? When did you start wearing it like this?

BIG, bouncy and wild! Since I was little, my hair has always taken over my face. Sometimes I can’t even see or I’m accidentally invading someone’s personal space. It’s great. I began to consistently wear my hair naturally by my freshman year of college.

Did you used to try to “tame” your hair?

My childhood consisted of hair relaxers and regular trips to the Dominican hair salon. You wouldn’t see me without sleek, straight hair. I remember all of the countless hours spent under the hairdryer ’til my ears burned and, to top it all off, the constant tugging away at my roots with a scalding blow dryer. But I endured every minute of it because, at the time, this was what girls with “difficult” or “time-consuming” hair did. It was my normal. I eventually grew to be obsessed with the process because the end product was beautiful.

Growing up, you’re taught that beauty is pain. I felt beautiful with my straight hair — it was softer, longer and a whole lot easier to take care of. If my hair wasn’t straightened, it was twisted up into a bun. Eventually, straightening my hair became inconvenient because I enjoyed exercise and I hated having to be careful with not sweating “too much,” or being super anxious to leave the house when it was raining or humid. It was an exhausting way to live. Once I began attending school in New York City, where it was much more diverse than my hometown, I began to care less about looking perfect, looking like everyone else, and looking like someone everyone else wanted me to be. I began to present myself comfortably and naturally, and that started with my hair and makeup. So far, it has been the most liberating decision of my life.

What’s your hair routine like now?

On wash days — typically Sundays — I wash with shampoo, detangle with a deep conditioner, let the deep conditioner absorb into my strands while I wash off the rest of my body, then rinse it out and end with a leave-in conditioner. Most of my washing/conditioning products are by Shea Moisture. I don’t rinse off most of the conditioner. If I want extra shape, I’ll add DevaCurl shaping gel or Cantu styling cream. I add all products while my hair is still wet, then I prefer to let it air dry if I can. Once it’s mostly dry, I’ll use the blow dryer on a cooler setting to get my volume up.

All other days of the week I refresh my curls by wetting them and reapplying conditioner to ensure they’re being moisturized every day.

What’s the most common comment or question you get in regards to your hair, and how do you respond?

Where do I begin!?

Is it yours? Is it real? Is that a wig? How do you, like, get it to do that? Do you curl it every morning? (This one is especially funny because I barely have time to apply makeup every day let alone tirelessly curl every single strand on my big head.) How do you even deal? Have you tried straightening it? And the biggest one of all: Can I touch it?

I realize that those who ask these kinds of questions just aren’t as exposed to black hair or big hair or any sort of different hair for that matter, so I can’t really blame them. I try to educate those genuinely curious. But for those who are clearly just trying to make me feel uncomfortable, I smile and show them that I’m proud of my kinks by simply saying, “Yes, it’s all mine and no, you may not touch.”

How does your hair make you feel?

Powerful. Funky. Unique. Audacious.

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Katie Stockton

Katie is a Clinical Information Manager living in Staten Island.

How would you describe your natural hair? When did you start wearing it like this?

Fluffy, curly, yearning to spread its wings and become trapped in the car door as I close it. Aside from a few forays into bangs and some sporadic straightening with my mom’s CHI flat iron (which I never gave back, sorry Mom), my hair has been the same since high school.

Did you used to try to “tame” your hair?

I went through a couple phases of hair suppression. When I was younger, it was all about detangling and keeping it contained in a ponytail. If I ever complained about my hair being too hard to brush, my dad would offer to chop it all off with his pocket knife. I did not take this lightly because once at a softball game he cut a fat wad of gum out of my teammate’s hair after her fed-up parent gave him permission.

When I got a bit older, my mom tried to teach me how to blow dry it, which I never had much success with and wasted a lot of John Frieda Frizz-Ease in the process. Then the CHI came into our lives and I’d spend an hour or more making it super straight. Like, lifelessly-plastered-to-my-head straight. People paid me attention and were very complimentary whenever I wore my hair straightened, but in retrospect, I don’t think it was worth the time and effort. And it’d start to puff back up in any amount of humidity or sweat. Especially my baby hairs and cowlick.

I started consistently wearing my hair as is out of laziness and burgeoning self-acceptance.

What’s your hair routine like now?

I wash my hair every three days or so. I’ll brush out all the knots and shed hairs right before I get in the shower, then shampoo, comb through my conditioner with a wide tooth comb, clip it up, do my other hygiene activities, then rinse out thoroughly. I’m currently using the Acure Organics clarifying shampoo and OGX coconut milk conditioner. My go-tos used to be the Acure Organics moisturizing shampoo and conditioner, but I haven’t tried them since they reformulated.

The most important part of my routine is the air-drying. Right out of the shower, I very gently wrap my hair up in a classic bathleisure towel situation. I use one that is highly absorbent — NOT terry cloth — and waffle-textured. After that sits for 20 minutes or so, if I have the time, I’ll do the same thing again with a dry Turkish bath towel.

Once I’m tired of that/need to leave my house, I’ll take it down to finish air drying unrestricted. No touching, unless to flip it to the opposite side to encourage volume up top. If the ends look too dull or sad, or if I feel like smelling great, I’ll use some Stark Skincare hair oil. But I don’t rake it through! Just press it in.

What’s the most common comment or question you get in regards to your hair, and how do you respond?

“It’s so long!” is a frequent one, and it does not earn more than a one-word response from me. I feel like when people say this, they’re going for the most innocuous comment possible, which makes me afraid they are secretly thinking mean things.

Strangers and acquaintances also love to touch my hair without asking. Their eyes glisten and their hands shoot out while they tell me how much they love my hair. Thanks so much! But please don’t touch me without my approval!

How does your hair make you feel?

Sometimes like I have a bug on me. But it’s only a stray hair.

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Beatriz Williams

Beatriz is an artist, grad student and future therapist living in Manhattan, New York.

How would you describe your natural hair? When did you start wearing it like this?

My natural hair is wild and alive. It has a mind of its own and I’m OK with that. I started wearing my hair as big as it is now a few years ago, after I graduated college and moved to New York City.

Did you used to try to “tame” your hair?

Up until a few years ago, “taming” my hair was always a part of my life. I remember trying out different products when I was younger including moose, gel, leave-in-conditioner… whatever would give me the least amount of frizz possible. Frizz was the enemy. Perfect, shapely, bouncy curls were the goal. Wearing my hair “big” now is definitely something I have grown into. Sometimes I actually make my hair frizzy on purpose and brush it out just to get an even fuller effect. My hair has become part of my identity. It reminds me every day how proud I am of my Latin/African roots. Because of this, I wear it big to make a statement.

What’s your hair routine like now?

I wash my hair maybe once or twice a week and put conditioner in it after I get out of the shower. I let it air-dry and shake my head from side to side, and up and down to help it dry with the most possible volume. Then I just let it do its thing.

What’s the most common comment or question you get in regards to your hair, and how do you respond?

A lot of people tell me that they like my hair and ask what products I use. I also have gotten that my hair looks like a pillow and they want to take a nap on it. I usually just say thanks and laugh it off. Some people do ask me if they can touch it and I tend to say yes more often than not.

How does your hair make you feel?

My hair gives me superpowers.

Sandy Sanchez

Sandy is a copywriter living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

How would you describe your natural hair? When did you start wearing it like this?

My natural hair is black, frizzy, a mix of very wavy waves and tight springy curls (especially in the bottom layer of my hair), with lots of baby hairs. The top layer, near my roots, sometimes has its flat days. I’d consider my hair a mixture of 2C and 3A, I think? It depends on the curl you pick out of my hair. I started wearing it naturally in 2013. Aside from my childhood years, of course.

Did you used to try to “tame” your hair?

I was a very curly-headed baby. My mom always told me that strangers would ask her if they could touch my hair. Once I hit around second grade, I started becoming self-conscious of my curly hair. I’d wear my hair in a tight, low ponytail every single day to keep it low-key and out of the way. I did this up until seventh grade. This was around the time side bangs and sleek straight hair was “in.” I still think about that scene where Mia in Princess Diaries gets a makeover and has her frizzy hair straightened out and she suddenly becomes “beautiful.” That scene would end up impacting me for years to come. I straightened my hair every single day starting in 2006 up until 2013 once I discovered the straightener, because I thought that beauty meant no curls and no frizz.

The straightener was my savior but my frizz always won the battle. I’d try so hard to have straight hair and by the end of the day, I could see the curls starting to come in again. It was a cycle of me hating my hair, straightening it, still being frizzy, seeing the curls coming back, getting mad, and then straightening it some more.

One day in 2012, I decided to wear my hair curly to school because I was getting sick of having to straighten it. I was absolutely terrified and I ended up getting so many questions. How come you’ve never worn your hair curly before? Did you curl your hair today? Omg, you look so different. I was still hesitant to wear it curly but then finally in 2013, the year I started college, I began to wear it natural every single day and I grew to love it more and more every day. For the first time ever, I didn’t care if I was a ball of frizz and regretted all the years I tried to hide it. Plus, I felt more like myself than I ever had in my entire life.

What’s your hair routine like now?

My hair routine is extremely low maintenance and I love it. I usually wash my hair one-to-two times a week because I’ve trained it throughout the years to not need to be washed so often. I comb my hair dry before washing it, so I only brush it one-to-two times a week as well. I’m not super loyal to any hair brand but right now I’m using the Pantene Curl Perfection and I’m loving it. Every once in awhile I use the OGX Coconut Curls Curling Hair Butter. Products always claim they’re going to “defrizz you,” but they never do and now I really don’t care if they do. I like to shower at night because then I can fall asleep on my wet hair, let it dry overnight, and wake up with tight, fluffy curls that are all over the place. It’s my way of “styling” it with my pillow overnight.

What’s the most common comment or question you get in regards to your hair, and how do you respond?

People are so sweet when it comes to their compliments and it makes me happy! Most of the time people say they wish they had curly hair, too. If someone doesn’t feel comfortable with their frizz, I like to tell them to just embrace it. A little frizz never hurt anyone! Another common comment about my hair I get is that “the frizz works on me,” so I guess that’s a compliment? Once in a while, I’ll get, “Do you ever get tired of the curls and straighten your hair?” To which I respond with: No, not really. Another question I get is “Can you let me straighten your hair one day? It’d be so fun.”

How does your hair make you feel?

It makes me feel so comfortable and cozy! My hair kind of feels like a part of my identity. I love that I don’t have to worry about how it looks. I don’t care if there are flyaways or frizz or a weird part sticking up in the back. I love waking up in the morning and leaving my apartment with my bedhead because sometimes, those are my best hair days. It’s also funny because, when you have big, frizzy hair, your friends can spot you from anywhere.

Hair is a pretty recognizable and signature part of you and, in a way, a form of self-expression, so I’m glad it makes me happy now! The fluffier, the better. I love meeting other fellow frizzy, curly-haired people because everyone has such unique curls and they’re all various shapes and sizes with different frizz levels and each curl is just so special and adorable.

Stacy Collado

Stacy works in a fashion showroom and is also a working model and dancer living in Bushwick, Brooklyn.

How would you describe your natural hair? When did you start wearing it like this?

Dry, frizzy, unkempt. I started wearing it like this when I decided those words didn’t have to mean “bad,” which actually wasn’t until… a year ago, maybe, out of the 23 I have been alive for.

Did you used to try to “tame” your hair?

My background is Dominican, so although it’s extremely common for people of my heritage to have naturally poofy/curly hair, it’s also customary in the culture to use various products and heating methods to tame it. I remember being really young, visiting relatives in the Dominican Republic, and sitting in someone’s living room while they put a hair-relaxing treatment on my head. Smooth and straight was the beauty ideal even among women who could never truly achieve that genetically. Now I know that those treatments were just chemically frying my hair and that it didn’t look good, just damaged.

What’s your hair routine like now?

For me, the trick is to rarely shampoo because it majorly dries out the frizz, and I love to condition so I do that daily. I don’t know if that’s a good thing to do or not. I air-dry, never wear product, and kind of just let my freak flag fly on the regular. I’m interested in dabbling in product these days, but I have yet to find the perfect recipe and I am really into letting it be.

What’s the most common comment or question you get in regards to your hair, and how do you respond?

My goodness, there are so many. “Do you ever straighten it?” followed by, “Does it take forever?” I just take it as an opportunity to go into a tangent along the lines of: “Yes, I spent many years of my life straightening and using all the frizz serums ever invented and realized unruly hair can be sexy AND professional AND just fine the way it is.”

How does your hair make you feel?

Like myself, which I think is probably the most important and most badass thing to be!

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Photos by Emily Malan; follow her on Instagram @emilymalan.

[dream-love210]

In 1933, Prince Charles was eighteen and Disa, Duchess of Payn, five. The allusion is to Nice (see also line 240) where the Shades spent the first part of the year; but here again, as in regard to so many fascinating facets of my friend’s past life, I am not in the possession of particulars (who is to blame, dear S.S?) and not in the position to say whether or not, in the course of possible excursions along the coast, they ever reached Cap Turc and glimpsed from an oleander-lined lane, usually open to tourists, the Italianate villa built by Queen Disa’s grandfather in 1908, and called then Villa Paradiso, or in Zemblan Villa Paradisa, later to forego the first half of its name in honor of his favorite granddaughter. There she spent the first fifteen summers of her life; thither did she return in 1953, “for reasons of health” (as impressed on the nation) but really, a banished queen; and there she still dwells.

When the Zemblan Revolution broke out (May 1, 1958), she wrote the King a wild letter in governess English, urging him to come and stay with her until the situation cleared up. The letter was intercepted by the Onhava police…

Eventually he managed to inform her that he was confined to the palace. Valiant Disa hurriedly left the Riviera and made a romantic but fortunately ineffectual attempt to return to Zembla…She flew back to her perch in a mood of frustration and fury (mainly, I think, because the message had been conveyed to her by a cousin of hers, good old Curdy Buff, whom she loathed). Several weeks passed and she was soon in a state of worse agitation owing to rumors that her husband might be condemned to death. She left Cap Turc again. She had traveled to Brussels and chartered a plane to fly north, when another message, this time from Odon, came, saying that the King and he were out of Zembla, and that she should quietly regain Villa Disa and await her further news. In the autumn of the same year she was informed by Lavender that a man representing her husband would be coming to discuss with her certain business matters concerning property she and her husband jointly owned abroad. She was in the act of writing a letter...She looked up--and of course no dark spectacles and make-up could for a moment fool her.

Since her final departure from Zembla he had visited her twice, the last time two years before, and during that lapse of time her pale-skin, dark-hair beauty had acquired a new, mature and melancholy glow. In Zembla, where most females are freckled blondes, we have the saying: belwif ivurkumpf wid snew ebanumf, “A beautiful woman should be like a compass rose of ivory with four parts of ebony.” And this was the trim scheme nature had followed in Disa’s case. There was something else, something I was to realize only when I read Pale Fire, or rather reread it after bitter hot mist of disappointment had cleared before my eyes. I am thinking of lines 261-267 in which Shade describes his wife. At the moment of his painting that poetical portrait, the sitter was twice the age of Queen Disa. I do not wish to be vulgar in dealing with these delicate matters but the fact remains that sixty-year-old Shade is lending her a well-conserved coeval the ethereal and eternal aspect she retains, or should retain, in his kind noble heart. Now the curious thing about it is that Disa at thirty, when last seen in September 1958, bore a singular resemblance not, of course, to Mrs. Shade as she was when I met her, but to the idealized and stylized picture painted by the poet in those lines of Pale Fire… I trust the reader appreciates the strangeness of this, because if he does not, there is no sense in writing poems, or notes to poems, or anything at all.

She seemed also calmer than before; her self-control had improved. During the previous meetings, and throughout their marital life in Zembla, there had been, on her part, dreadful outbursts of temper. When in the first years of marriage he had wished to cope with those blazes and blasts, trying to make her take a rational view of her misfortune, he had found them very annoying; but gradually he learned to take advantage of them and welcomed them as giving him opportunity of getting rid of her presence for lengthening periods of time by not calling her back after a sequence of doors had slammed ever more distantly, or by leaving the palace himself for some rural hideout.

In the beginning of their calamitous marriage he had strenuously tried to possess her but to no avail. He informed her he had never made love before (which was perfectly true insofar as the implied object would only mean one thing to her), upon which he was forced to endure the ridicule of having her dutiful purity involuntarily enact the ways of a courtesan with a client too young or too old; he said something to that effect (mainly to relieve the ordeal), and she made an atrocious scene. He farced himself with aphrodisiacs, but the anterior characters of her unfortunate sex kept fatally putting him off. One night when he tried tiger tea, and hopes rose high, he made the mistake of begging her to comply with an expedient which she made the mistake of denouncing as unnatural and disgusting. Finally he told her than an old riding accident was incapacitating him but that a cruise with his pals and a lot of sea bathing would be sure to restore his strength.

She had recently lost both parents and had no real friend to turn to for explanation and advice when the inevitable rumors reached her; these she was too proud to discuss with her ladies in waiting but she read books, found out all about our manly Zemblan customs, and concealed her naive distress under a great show of sarcastic sophistication. He congratulated her on her attitude, solemnly swearing that he had given up, or at least would give up, the practices of his youth; but everywhere along the road powerful temptations stood at attention. He succombed to them from time to time, then every other day, then several times daily--especially during the robust regime of Harfar Baron of Shalksbore...Curdy Buff--as Harfar was nicknamed by his admirers--had a huge escort of acrobats and bareback riders, and the whole affair rather got out of hand so that Disa, upon unexpectedly returning from a trip to Sweden, found the Palace transformed into a circus. He again promised, again fell, and despite the utmost discretion was again caught…

What had the sentiments he entertained in regard to Disa ever amounted to? Friendly indifference and bleak respect. Not even in the first bloom of their marriage had he felt any tenderness or excitement. Of pity, of heartache, there could be no question. He was, had always been, casual and heartless. But the heart of this dreaming self, both before and after the rupture, made extraordinary amends.

He dreamed of her more often, and with incomparably more poignancy, than his surface-life feelings for her warranted; these dreams occurred when he least thought of her, and worries in no way connected with her assumed her image in the subliminal world as a battle or a reform becomes a bird of wonder in a tale for children. These heart-rendering dreams transformed the drab prose of his feelings for her into a strong and strange poetry, subsiding undulations of which would flash and disturb him throughout the day, bringing back the pang and the richness--and then only the pang, and then only its glancing reflection--but not affecting at all his attitude towards the real Disa.

Her image, as she entered and re-entered his sleep, rising apprehensively from a distant sofa or going in search of the messenger who, they said, had just passed through the draperies, took into account changes of fashion; the Disa wearing the dress he had seen on her the summer of the Glass Works explosion, or last Sunday, or in any other antechamber of time, forever remained exactly as she looked on the day he had first sold her he did not love her. That happened during a hopeless trip to Italy, in a lakeside hotel garden--rose, black araucarius, rusty, greenish hydrangeas--one cloudless evening with the mountains of the far shore swimming in a sunset haze and the lake all peach syrup regularly rippled with pale blue, and the captions of a newspaper spread flat on the foul bottom near the stone bank perfectly readable through the shallow diaphanous filth, and because, upon hearing him out, she sank down on the lawn in an impossible posture, examining a grass culm and frowning, he had taken his words back at once; but the shock had fatally starred the mirror, and thenceforth in his dreams her image was infected with the memory of that confession as with some disease or the secret aftereffects of a surgical operation too intimate to be mentioned.

The gist, rather than the actual plot of the dream, was a constant refutation of his not loving her. His dream-love for her exceeded in emotional tone, in spiritual passion and depth, anything he had experienced in his surface existence. This love was like an endless wringing of hands, like a blundering of the soul through an infinite maze of hopelessness and remorse. They were, in a sense, amorous dreams, for they were permeated with tenderness, with a longing to sink his head onto her lap and sob away the monstrous past. They brimmed with the awful awareness of her being so young and so helpless. They were purer than his life. What carnal aura there was in theme came not from her but from those with whom he betrayed her--prickly-chinned Phrynia, pretty Timandra with that boom under her apron--and even so the sexual scum remained somewhere far above the sunken treasure and was quite unimportant. He would see her being accosted by a misty relative so distant as to be practically featureless. She would quickly hide what she held and extend her arched hand to be kissed. He knew she had just come across a telltale object--a riding boot in his bed--establishing beyond any doubt his unfaithfulness. Sweat beaded her pale, naked forehead--but she had to listen to the prattle of a chance visitor or direct the movements of a workman with a ladder who was nodding his head and looking up as he carried it in his arms to the broken window. One might bear--a strong merciless dreamer might bear--the knowledge of her grief and pride but none could bear the sight of her automatic smile as she turned from the agony of the disclosure to the polite trivialities required of her. She would be canceling an illumination, or discussing hospital cots with the head nurse, or merely ordering breakfast for two in the sea cave--and through the everyday plainness of the talk, through the play of the charming gestures with which she always accompanied certain readymade phrases, he, the groaning dreamer, perceived the disarray of her soul and was aware that an odious, undeserved, humiliating disaster had befallen her, and that only obligations of etiquette and her staunch kindness to a guiltless third party gave her the force to smile. As one watched the light on her face, one foresaw it would fade in a moment, to be replaced--as soon as the visitor left--by that impossible little frown the dreamer could never forget. He would help her again to her feet on the same lakeside lawn, with parts of the lake fitting themselves into the spaces between the rising balusters, and presently he and she would be walking side by side along an anonymous alley, and he would feel she was looking at him out of the corner of a faint smile but when he forced himself to confront that questioning glimmer, she was no longer there. Everything had changed, everybody was happy. And he absolutely had to find her at once to tell her that he adored her, but the large audience before him separated him from the door, and the notes reaching him through a succession of hands said that she was not available; that she was inaugurating a fire; that she had married an American businessman; that she had become a character in a novel; that she was dead.

No such qualms disturbed him as he sat now on the terrace of her villa and recounted his lucky escape from the Palace. She enjoyed his description of the underground link with the theater and tried to visualize the jolly scramble across the mountains… But when he began to discuss the political situation (two Soviet generals had just been attached to the Extremist government as Foreign Advisers), a familiar vacant expression appeared in her eyes. Now that he was safely out of the country, the entire blue bulk of Zembla, from Embla Point to the Emblem Bay, could sink in the sea for all she cared.) That he had lost weight was of more concern to her than that he had lost a kingdom. Perfunctorily she inquired about the crown jewels; he revealed to her their unusual hiding place, and she melted in girlish mirth as she had not done for years and years. “I do have some business matters to discuss,” he said. “And there are papers you have to sign.” Up in the trellis a telephone climbed with the rose. One of her former ladies in waiting, the languid and elegant Fleur de Fyler (now fortyish and faded), still wearing pearls in her raven hair and the traditional white manilla, brought certain documents from Disa’s boudoir. Upon hearing the King’s mellow voice behind the laurels, Fleur recognized it before she could be misled by this excellent disguise. Two footmen, handsome young strangers of a marked Latin type, appeared with the tea and caught Fleur in mid-curtsey. A sudden breeze groped among the glycenes. Defiler of flowers. He asked Fleur as she turned to go with the Disa orchids if she still played the viola. She shook her head several times not wishing to speak without addressing him and not daring to do so while the servants might be within earshot.

They were alone again. Disa quickly found the papers he needed. Having finished with that, they talked for a while about nice trivial things, such as the motion picture, based on a Zemblan legend, that Odon hoped to make in Paris or Rome. How would he represent, they wondered, the narstran, a hellish hall where the souls of murderers were tortured under a constant drizzle of drake venom coming down from the foggy vault? By and large the interview was proceeding in a most satisfactory manner-though her fingers trembled a little when her hand touched the elbow rest of his chair. Careful now.

“What are you plans?” she inquired. “Why can’t you stay here as long as you want? Please do. I’ll be going to Rome soon, you’ll have the whole house to yourself. Imagine, you can bed here as many as forty guests, forty Arabian thieves.” (Influence of the huge terracotta vases in the garden.)

He answered he would be going to America some time next month and had business in Paris tomorrow.

Why America? What would he do there?

Teach. Examine literary masterpieces with brilliant and charming young people. A hobby he could now freely indulge.

“And, of course, I don’t know,” she mumbled looking away, “I don’t know perhaps if you’d have nothing against it, I might visit New York--I mean, just for a week or two, and not this year but the next.”

He complimented her on her silver-spangled jacket. She persevered: “Well?” “And your hairdo is most becoming.” “Oh what does it matter,” she wailed, “what on earth does it matter!” “I must be on my way,” he whispered with a smile and got up. “Kiss me,” she said, and was like a limp, shivering ragdoll in this arms for a moment.

He walked to the gate. At the turn of the path he glanced back and saw in the distance her white figure with the listless grace of ineffable grief bending over the garden table, and suddenly a fragile bridge was suspended between waking indifference and dream-love. But she moved, and he saw it was not she at all but only poor Fleur de Flyer collecting the documents left among the tea things. (See note 80).

When in the course of an evening stroll in May or June, 1959, I offered Shade all this marvelous material, he looked at me quizzically and said: “That’s all very well, Charles. But there are just two questions. How can you know that all this intimate stuff about your rather appalling king is true? And if true, how can one hope to print such personal things about who, presumably, are still alive?”

“My dear John,” I replied gently and urgently, “do not worry about trifles. Once transmuted by you into poetry, the stuff will be true, and the people will come alive. A poet’s purified truth can cause no pain, no offense. True art is above false honor.”

“Sure, sure,” said Shade. “One can harness words like performing fleas and make them drive other fleas. Oh, sure.”

“And moreover,” I continued as we walked down the road into a vast sunset, “as soon as your poem is ready, as soon as the glory of Zembla merges with the glory of your verse, I intend to divulge to you an ultimate truth, an extraordinary secret, that will put your mind completely at rest.”