#so. like. if you ever read a fantasy book with an oddly familiar presence | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

youarejesting · 4 years

Text

Witching: 08

[MASTERLIST]

Beta: @tinysweetscrown, @lunarlxve

Summary: After your brother goes missing, you find yourself in Seoul with nothing but a prosthetic limb as the only clue to what might have happened. Circumstances lead you to a coven of seven handsome young men. But they happen to be a well-known coven that go by the name ‘Bangtan Boys’. Can they be trusted? Where is your brother?

Pairing: BTS x Reader, OT7 x Reader, Monsta X coven

Genre: Supernatural, Mystery, Drama, Romance, Comedy, Action, and more. HONESTLY ALL THE GOOD STUFF.

Words: 1.6k

The darkness was cold and eerie, the small whine from Taehyung, your only hint at company, he seemed frozen. You reached for your bag only to realise you had left it when you ran out alone. The minutes moved slowly, and you decided to cast without your magical object.

With a twitch of your fingers, the place was lit up brightly with floating orbs. A simple light spell learnt in your beginning years of magic. This place looked oddly familiar and had a stale sweet smell you couldn’t quite place.

Taehyung backed up until he was pressed up against your thigh, tail low between his legs. He growled in warning, and you saw figures sitting around a large round table, the seat in the middle empty. You couldn’t exactly call these things people as they didn’t look alive, a more appropriate term would be corpses.

You stepped closer. Taehyung had your pant leg between his teeth, trying to pull you back. “It’s okay Tae, I am just going to have a look.”

The closer you got, the more curious you became, reaching out to touch one of the magic conductors on the desk. They looked like yours, they all did. Magical conductors came in all shapes and sizes; your brother used a pendulum, Jungkook used a conch, and Hoseok crystals. It was like in fantasy movies where wizards and witches only used wands to conduct magic, but there were so many more options in the real world. It was odd to see two people use the same conductors, as everyone was individual and different. But these were all the same; Scepters all the same. They all had your family's crest on them, just like yours did.

This was odd for a number of different reasons; one, your family’s crest, two, the same magic conductor, and three the weirdest of all; there was a bunch of dead people sitting at a table all looking at the giant scepter, seemingly comfortable. In the middle of the table embedded into the stone was a giant Scepter. The two thick prongs were as thick as Jimin’s thighs.

Stepping up onto the table, eyes transfixed on this monstrosity of a Scepter. Fingers extending out, the figures took arms.

“Y/n!” Taehyung shifted into his human form, his baggy pants in disarray. He scrambled up from his hands and knees. “Get out of there, it's a trap, Ge-”

Skeletons emerged from the ground, wrapping their boney hands around his ankles and dragging him. “Get out of there!” He shouted as the meatless frames pulled him towards the river.

Your hand wrapped around the scepter, ready to grab it and fight off the skeletons. Each corpse around the table was up on their feet, scepters in hand. You felt a warmth pass through your body, a tingling sensation from the scepter as it poured raw magic into your body.

The sensation was painful, you heard a scream, something cool wrapped around your waist, pulling you back through the air, ripping your hand free from the handle of the scepter.

You came to as Yoongi quickly cast a spell over your shoulder. It was impressive how fast he was speaking and in one breath. “With the power of my feet, I step forward, leaving this place behind, taking with me only the willing, the world is my path.” As he spoke, the magic spun in the air, creating a circular doorway.

You knew the spell, and you laughed. This is why your coven taught you the way they did, you could do this spell in three words. Raising both palms out in front of you, you commanded, “Be there now.” Your magic was a fiery color- spinning in seconds and pulling you through the doorway.

Yoongi’s words died in his throat, opening his mouth, ready to ask you a series of intense questions. That is until Taehyung fell forward into Hoseok’s arms. The boys were standing around. “We have to move him, he was touched by the dead, it’s eating away at his body.”

The skin on his wrists, ankles, and shoulders were turning black.

“Hey I found this cool book, I pulled a lot of strings to get it. It’s an anti-curse book” Thackery threw the book at your face, and you stopped it with your magic, letting it fall open on your lap. “You are so scared of your magic, I thought perhaps if you know how to do anti-curses then maybe you might feel more comfortable.”

“That’s great, but I won’t be doing curses,” flipping through the pages, you read the words you hadn’t read in years. ‘The cure to a touch of death’ the very curse you remember using in the magic exam.

“Look, just promise me you won’t let my efforts go to waste” he was trying to suppress laughter, which had you confused. “it cost me an arm and a leg.”

“God, I hate you,” You smacked him with a pillow.

“Let’s get some lunch, I will order whatever you want if you promise me you will learn them all,” he said holding out his pinky. Shoving and calling him a child, you told him you would think about it.

“What do we do?” Jungkook asked while the others rushed around. “Jin, do something!”

“I am trying to, but this curse is stronger than anything I have ever seen, what happened?”

“They were taken, someone transported them. Lucky for us, astral projecting the way I do gets me into a few extra dimensions and realms. But this is something else entirely. I had never seen a place like this before.”

“It was the underworld,” Hoseok said, “You were in the underworld, I had a vision while you were gone and the symbolism of death was everywhere, why someone had taken you there is completely beyond me.”

“Jimin, I need a handful of Yarrow leaves, a singular Anemone leaf, Dahlia flower petals about twenty minimum, the more, the better, the root of mandrake. I need three chives, and if you can find it, I need a-”

“Drop of dew from the oldest tree you have. Yeah, that's not going to work,” you hissed, running through the house trying to find your bag, the hard guitar case, and you carried it all the way back to the kitchen. Butters was sitting on the counter top as Taehyung was now laid across the table, screaming, and writhing in pain.

His veins were tracking, similar to how an infection in the hand would slowly track up the arm, pinking the veins. Except, in this case, the veins turned black. The flesh and skin around these black veins were stained purple and blue, with Necrosis spreading up each limb towards the trunk of his body. You placed your guitar case on the floor, and Jin scoffed, “What are you going to play him a song?” You opened the case, and inside was your magical conductor.

Yoongi stopped looking at you and your magical weapon and froze. His eyes observed it, and even the family crest on the front. “Move, I can fix him, but you have to step back.”

“What are you going to do?” Yoongi asked, looking at you, and you waved your hand. Each of the young men was pushed away from the table where Taehyung was laying, muffled whimpers escaping him.

You looked him in the eyes and sighed. “Tae, I am going to save you, but you have to give something to me in return, okay? It could be anything, but it’s part of the trade; neither of us can decide the cost of your life. .” he nodded, and you began the incantation. It was a simple line. “Whatever vexes me, I will bind, so set him free.”

You made a circular motion with your scepter. As you did, it grew bigger and heavier. Ink, like the midnight sky, began to bleed from his skin across the table, dripping slowly onto the floor. It was sticky like tar and smelt awfully acidic and sweet. You waved your hand with a simple word, and the tar evaporated into the soft smoke that thinned instantly into nonexistence.

Taehyung laid there, his body still for a moment too long than what was considered normal. Taking a step forward, he gasped to everyone's relief.

“How do we know what the trade is?” Jungkook asked quietly.

“We won’t know until he is fully conscious.”

“Guys, we have trouble, someone just entered our territory, and they are powerful,” Hoseok said, looking up at the crystals chiming loudly by the window. “Yoongi, can you go and see who they are?”

The young man seemed to pale visibly at the statement, but not out of fear. He was disappearing entirely until he was invisible, and then his presence was gone. “Jungkook, can you move Taehyung somewhere safe?” Namjoon asked, trying to regain some semblance of control of the situation as Jin and Jimin stood there watching you.

“You have magic?” Namjoon said. “You said you didn’t have it.”

“I said I didn’t use it.” You looked down. “I don’t use it. This is the first time I have used my magic since my specialty exam.”

“Can we see your ID?” the leader asked you, and you stepped back.

“Please don’t ask to see it, please, I will do anything, just don’t look at my ID.”

“We have a problem.” Yoongi stepped out from a sidewall. He was solid, something you had only seen a few times as the man preferred traveling spiritually. “I hope you’re all ready for a fight, it's the Monsta x coven, and they brought something that isn’t human.”

Tag yourself [HERE]

Tags: @m0chilattae @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d

16 notes · View notes

dancingsparks · 5 years

Text

Airports and Apologies

This was written as a part of Sapphic September and for the wonderful prompt “I lied.” by @rockmarina

Also on Ao3

“Have a wonderful trip.” The woman handing her back her pass sounds as bored as she looks, eyes glazed over and already flitting behind her, getting on with her job. Hermione sighs, takes the pass and picks up her suitcase. She knows exactly where she needs to go next, where her Portkey starts and how much time she still has to wait around. She is too early, far too early, with nothing to do and no ability to focus anyway. Her thoughts keep going back to Pansy, to the cold way she told her that she doesn’t care, that it sounds like a great opportunity and Hermione should accept the offer.

Hermione starts feeling sick again at the memory, feelings she didn’t care to examine threatening to overwhelm her, and she shoves them back down and out of her head with a vigorous shake. If Pansy doesn’t care, Hermione doesn’t either. She was right, this is a wonderful opportunity, once-in-a-lifetime, and to decline would have been stupid. And yet that is exactly what she would have done, in a heartbeat, if only Pansy had said the word. There are other ways to further her career, ways that would allow her to keep living here and wouldn’t disadvantage her in the long-run, and Hermione had as good as decided on them when Pansy told her to leave.

So now here she stands, lost in the buzzing crowd of people, suitcase weighting her down while containing none of the things she most dearly wished to pack, tears welling up in her eyes. It’s ridiculous, Hermione is supposed to be stronger than this, supposed to prioritise her work over trivial relationships and unaffected by others opinion on her. Furious, she wipes the tears away, refusing to cry and make a spectacle of herself. Their relationship wasn’t even that serious, there were never any promises exchanged or feelings confessed; nothing worth sacrificing her career for. It makes sense in her mind but it feels hallow; cold logic unable to fill the empty space left behind.

Maybe Hermione should have brought a book, if only to hide behind and pretend she is reading, something to hold on to. But all her books are safely in her suitcase, the first things she packed and therefore inconveniently unreachable. Instead, Hermione settles for people-watching, telling herself she isn’t hoping to see Pansy’s black bob. It’s hopeless anyway, Pansy made it abundantly clear that she is done, that she won’t be coming running after her and stop her at the last second, professing her undying love and begging her forgiveness, begging her to stay, everyone around them cheering for them. It’s an insipid fantasy, inspired by too many romance novels and Hermione wants nothing more desperately. Or she will just have to do it herself, cancel the trip and talk some sense into Pansy.

Yes, she will do that. Hermione won’t be sitting here, yearning and longing but not doing a single thing about it except waiting for someone to save her, someone who won’t come. Nothing worth having comes to you without a fight.

Determined, Hermione grips her suitcase tighter and looks around for the exit when someone bumps into her, holding her tight and causing them to stumble. Hermione lets go of the handle on instinct, clutching both hands to whoever is hugging her, scent oddly familiar and calming her somewhat. After miraculously avoiding what would undoubtedly be a painful fall, Hermione takes a look at who so rudely tackled her, confirming her suspicion.

Pansy looks a mess, nothing like the perfectly styled version of herself Hermione sees usually when they are in public, wearing sweatpants and one of Hermione’s jumpers that she must have forgotten at her place. She still looks more glamorous than one would expect given the clothes, but Hermione wouldn’t have thought anything could move her to leave the house like this. Not that she isn’t elated to see her; even ignoring the implications of her presence she makes a beautiful sight.

She also still has to let go off Hermione, holding on to her arms as if afraid she will disappear the second she lets go. Hermione doesn’t mind. This might not be exactly what she pictured, but still closer than she ever expected to actually happen. The fact that Pansy is here must mean that she changed her mind; that she does care after all and doesn’t want to let her go like this. Good, that makes the whole ‘talking-sense-into-her’ plan considerably easier. Before she can started with that though, Pansy interrupts her.

“No don’t say anything, listen to me. When Potter told me that you left already I panicked, I thought I would have more time, could have sworn your Portkey is later, so you’ll have to excuse my attire.” Pansy stops, as if unsure where to go after this. Hermione knows she is supposed to give her all the time she needs and not to rush her, but she is also impatient and wishes she would get on with it already. “I lied, when I told you that I don’t care. It’s not fine, and I do care, but I - I didn’t want you to give up a fantastic opportunity for something that might go nowhere. But I have always been selfish, so here I am, asking you not to go.”

No, this isn’t what Hermione pictured, but it’s close enough and so Pansy, she wouldn’t want it any other way.

#sapphicseptember2019 #sapphicseptember #pansmione #pansy x hermione #hp #fanfic #my writing #femslash #wlw

37 notes · View notes

witchqueenofthemoon · 6 years

Text

BODY AND SOUL Part 5 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST

Author’s Note: The Youth of Bacchus is listed publicly as being part of a “private collection”, so AU-fictionally-speaking, who knows, it could theoretically belong to the Shepherds. I’ve been meaning to feature Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata in some kind of story for ages, as I’ve loved it all my life (I listened to this version a lot while I wrote this part). I had to include a little nod to my fellow Sagittarius, Jane Austen, with her famous line, spoken by Darcy to Lizzie in a moment of passionate abandon, from Pride & Prejudice (“you have bewitched me, body and soul”), though the title of my fic came originally from the song Hypnotised by Years & Years, as I’ve mentioned before. I mirrored the “breathing” advice from their mothers on purpose. That moment Kenzie stares at Duncan with tears in her eyes over dinner was my homage to that gif floating around of Mallory looking across the table (I always imagine she’s looking at Michael). I’m learning some fascinating stuff from my research for this fic, including the fact that in order to be issued a Black AmEx (“Centurion Card”) you need a special invitation and are required to pay an initiation fee of $7500 with an annual fee of $2500. Rumor has it (it hasn’t been confirmed on record) that Black Card holders need a net worth of around $16 million to qualify. I also learned that Bordeaux goes well with duck a l’orange, which, as a vegetarian, is a thing I probably would have never known otherwise. The line “Then I must be thy lady, but I know / When thou hast stolen away from fairy land” is from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Bouguereau cunnilingus I came up with in my sleep last night and I’m totally in love with it. His painting Evening Mood (which Duncan thinks of when Kenzie is standing there naked in the candlelight) is enshrined at the Museum of Fine Arts, in Cuba. I’m so proud of this part; I worked really hard on it and put a lot of my own emotions into it. I’m proud of what I’ve written here and what I’ve done so far with this story, and that’s a wonderful feeling. If anyone else wants to do visual edits or moodboards for the fic, I’d be so thrilled. The one @nat-de-lioncourt made (here) made me ecstatically happy. I posted some screenshots of the playlist I made for writing the fic on my Twitter, if you’re interested in my music influences/the mood I’m trying to create so far. And as ever, if you’re reading and enjoying, your comments mean everything to me.

Duncan felt as though his spirit was trying to break free from his body. He was leaning against the obsidian counter in his spotless kitchen, his sleek black phone clutched in his hands, tapping it every now and again to check the time, quiet strains of classical music coming from the turntable in the corner of his office; Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. He fiddled with the cufflinks of his shirt again; they were rose gold with black onyx stones. He ran his fingers down his Balmain one-button velvet jacket, breathing deep, letting it out at a measured pace, re-adjusting the collar of his black shirt, though it had already been perfectly straight. Annette had taught him to breathe carefully from the time she had begun to bring him to public events with her when he was still in elementary school. “Never let them see your nervousness,” she had insisted, holding his small hand in hers, pushing at his back so he’d stand straight. “These people feed on weakness, and you must appear to be untouchable them. Breathe until your fear fades away. You can’t use it where you’re going.”

Oddly, he often thought it was the best advice his mother had ever given him. You can’t use it where you’re going; as if his destiny was to do something great, no matter his own doubts about himself. She had always said it with absolute conviction. He knew his mother loved him. That was an absolute, unshakeable truth. Maybe she could accept Kenzie, because I think I love her. He brought his hand to his chin in that familiar tick, running his right index and middle fingers over his bottom lip. That thought had come unbidden, like a tide to the shore. God. I think I do. I don’t know her yet, but I think I love her. It’s so strange.

He made himself breathe out again, focusing his attention on the strains of the Sonata’s first movement; it had always made him think of the dead of night, some abandoned moor far from civilization, bathed in the glow of the moon and a universe full of a million stars hovering above, looking down on the tiny rock of humanity with a studied, sympathetic indifference. Wretched humankind, he thought, moving slowly to the study, all alone in an empty cosmos. It was a thought he’d had many times before, but this time, oddly, his resolute conviction in it faltered. Maybe alone. Maybe not. His eyes fell over the painting that stretched, colossal, against the wall facing his desk.

It was Bouguereau's The Youth of Bacchus. His mother had bought it for him for his 18th birthday: yes, the original. The Shepherds had a net worth of over 3 billion, and she had insisted he needed a legitimate piece when he’d moved into his penthouse alone. He’d always loved it; “it reminds me of when you were a boy and I bought you those mythology books you’d read for hours and hours,” Annette had said, her finger stroking his cheek. He’d gone through a period in his adolescence where he was obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology; had practically every book ever published on the subject, most of them still on his study shelves, though Edith Hamilton’s was always his favorite. He had gazed at the bacchanalia depicted in the painting countless times, its naked, dancing figures, feverish in their revelry; sometimes he would come here and sit in the leather chair behind the mahogany desk, just to stare at it until whatever vinyl he’d placed on the turntable wound down to silence. It had always been odd to him that though the painting referred to Bacchus’ youth (he, the god of hedonism), he was depicted as a pot-bellied old man in it, teetering on a donkey. Duncan had long-ago decided that Bouguereau meant it in reference to Bacchus’ spirit, his essence, one of endless mischief and debauchery. He thought back on the many nights he’d indulged in debauchery himself; the women and men he’d taken into his bed, careless to know their names, content with the pleasures of the flesh, rarely feeling the impulse to see them again. When your mother was Annette Shepherd, you could afford to pay off any troublesome, tiresome attentions. Duncan found that though he’d often felt lust, any experience he’d had until last night had not deigned to come close to the wild, somehow almost painful, intoxicating energy he’d felt when Mackenzie Stone was in his arms. It was as if he’d never known what passion truly was until the moment he’d kissed her, her mouth opening to him; hadn’t understood the winding way of the universe at all until she’d been under him, her sweet whisper in his ear, her small hands on his skin, around his length, in his hair. Her smell, her touch, her presence was like waking up for the first time on a cool spring morning after winter, seeing the sunlight course over some distant hill, watching auburn clouds float into the ether as dawn kissed the world. She had reminded him, or perhaps made him realize truly for the first time, that being alive was miraculous indeed; and he wanted the feeling again, the grip of the desire to live. And that was passion, he thought. Passion was her eyes, where he’d seen her soul floating behind them, seeing his, as though they’d been long lost from each other, and now, finally, had found each other again, through time.

Bewitched, body and soul, he thought, and he could not remember what the line was from. God, but that’s how I feel. He’d considered himself a staunch atheist since he was little more than a child, but something about this woman, this wondrous angel so she seemed, made his resolve falter for the first time in memory. Maybe there is something out there, he thought, surprising himself, a shiver falling down his spine under the weight of his velvet jacket, the C-sharp minor of the Sonata boring into his mind. She exists, and she is some kind of miracle, so maybe something is. Fuck. It was as if someone else had entered his body since last night; the better version of himself, desperate to be good enough for her, desperate to hope for a world where she truly existed, and was not some free-falling fantasy of his own invention.

He fiddled with his onyx cufflinks, clearing his throat, moving to where he kept a small bar cart beside the table the record player rested on, an ornate, priceless Tiffany lamp beside it. He poured a finger of bourbon and drank it down, wiping his lips on the back of his hand as the final strokes of the first movement ended. He glanced at his watch (the Cartier again); it was 8:20 PM. It was time to go; time to go to her.

Surprising himself again, he thought out a silent prayer for the first time since he was a boy: if anyone is out there, give me courage.

------

Samuel shut the door behind Duncan as he slid into the backseat of the black BMW. Duncan felt as though he could jump out of his skin at any moment; his resolve was trembling, and the feeling was truly putting him off-guard. Am I actually good enough for this woman? The thought flitted across his mind and he felt utterly shaken by it, as though someone else had invaded his mind. But he knew the thought was his own. He knew he was truly wondering what he’d done to deserve her in his bed, enraptured, the euphoria of her seeping into his senses. He couldn’t believe he was about to see her again. His body felt like it was vibrating, the bourbon he had drunk to calm his nerves giving them an edge instead, an overwhelming intensity.

“Are you alright, Mr. Shepherd?” Samuel was sitting in the driver’s seat again, peering at Duncan over his glasses, a combination of concern and amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Samuel, I need your good thoughts tonight,” Duncan replied, his guard down. “I need all the help I can get. I’m enamoured with this woman. I’m crazy about her.”

“Let your heart be your guide, Mr. Shepherd.” Samuel held his gaze for a moment, and then looked down, toward the stretch of asphalt in front of Duncan’s high rise. The car moved forward, streamlined, humming quietly, toward Duncan’s destiny.

----

Duncan had texted Mackenzie again a few hours before; after the conversation during which she’d gazed at her phone in awe, falling into the constellation of Cancer on her bed, unbeknownst to him. He’d asked for her address; it was now programmed into Samuel’s GPS, so he could see the minutes counting down to their arrival. He took another deep breath; let it out in a steady stream, opposing thumb pressing into his palm; his eyes, sapphire-like, gazed out the window, reflecting the glowing lights of a Washington evening. He thought of Kenzie in her little black dress, her ankles wrapped in laces, the crystal floating at her throat, her eyes, gazing at him, full of hidden emotion. Her voice rising in his shower; baby, I want you to come. He closed his eyes and his head, crowned in curls, fell back on the leather seat. God, her fingers in mine, her hard little nipples and sweet clit in my mouth and the feeling of her body clenching around mine, how was that real, how is it still all so real and yet like a dream, the smell of vetiver and her skin, her moans, her hair glowing in the light over the bed--

“Mr. Shepherd, we’re here.”

His eyes snapped open, an involuntary fear rising in them. They’d pulled up to an apartment complex, relatively modern, with glass doors leading to an entryway and the doors of the inner apartments visible within.

Kenzie.

“Here I go.”

Samuel nodded, the wry smile playing around his mouth again.

“Mr. Shepherd.”

For the breadth of a heartbeat, Duncan paused, then he pushed the door of the BMW open and stepped onto the sidewalk. Apartment 1R was Mackenzie’s; she’d texted even her apartment number to him. She was trusting him with it, and he understood this innately. He straightened his Balmain jacket (already straight), rubbed the finger into his palm again, ran that nervous, constant hand against his bottom lip, and walked to the glass door, pulling it open. The second door was locked; he saw a neat row of buzzers beside it, each with a tile clearly printed with apartment numbers underneath. 1R. Stone. He breathed in again, long and low, and pressed the buzzer.

He held the breath as the moment hung there, unmoving.

Then a buzzing sound emanated from the foyer where he stood; he pulled the second door open.

Inside, there were four apartments in a long row, and a corner where the hallway turned towards more apartments along the next wall. He walked (wearing black Saint Laurent Wyatt boots tonight, the buckles hidden beneath the hem of his tailored slacks) to the end, where the corner began; 1R. A gold crescent moon ornament, hung from a small nail and a gold-painted, braided length of rope, shimmered in the hallway light against the door. There was a one-sided peephole facing him; he stared at it for a moment; he breathed again, and then he knocked.

An aching pause again; and then she opened the door.

Mackenzie stood there, her chestnut waves falling down over her shoulders and her back (moons along her head, he thought, stunned, moonlight in her hair), and she met his gaze, her hazel eyes aglow with silent fire, though her expression was full of apprehension she clearly had not been able to conceal. He went to speak, but his breath seemed caught in his lungs; he looked at her and his heart was struck with a quiver of aching need. Her mouth was darkly colored; her eyelids were dark, black kohl around her eyes; tonight she was like the hidden face of the moon, and he was immediately beguiled, under her spell.

She was wearing a dress that seemed to be cut out of the air itself; its neckline plunged down through the space between her breasts, coming together beneath them in a deep V, the skin there luminous in the light (I want to kiss that skin now); it was black like the dress she’d been wearing the night before, but it had long sleeves that came down to past her wrists, pointing towards her knuckles. It had been tailored to her small waist, tailored so it hugged against the rise of her chest and the elegant inclines of her arms, and then it fell from her hips, in waves of more silken velvet an inch above her knee, waves he wanted to kneel into, bury himself inside. Knee-high heeled boots stretched along her slender legs (the legs whose ankles I kissed, their redness building an ache in me, he thought), their toes coming to points, but the stretch of skin between where the boots began and her skirt ended was entrancing to him; he wanted to press his mouth there and move it up between her legs again; he ached at the thought. Around her neck was a velvet choker (my hands there my lips on her mouth), and hanging from it was a black inverted moon, its crescent points hanging down towards her shoulder blades. The sight of it sent a cool chill along the back of his neck; it seemed an omen, occult and knowing, a feminine eye that knew him and could see all of his secrets. He resigned himself to this; I would tell her anything. And he knew it was true.

“Kenzie,” he said breathlessly, overwhelmed. She was real. He hadn’t dreamt her; not last night, not this morning, when her light scattered along the hall as she ran away from him. And she was beautiful beyond all words to him; her realness, her weight, her beauty, within and without, shining like a darkened star in the twilight.

“God, you look beautiful.”

“So do you,” a nervous smile spread over her little mouth, and he thought of honey, roses, wine, the sweetness of your soul, Kenzie--and he moved forward, his lips capturing hers, his hands burying themselves in her cascade of hair, and he felt lost for a moment, lost in the tangibility of touching her again, full of relief at her reality. “You’re real,” he whispered into her mouth; he couldn’t stop. “You’re real, and I didn’t dream you.” He breathed in her smell; her perfume was the same. Vetiver, geranium, roses. He wanted to drink it like nectar.

“I know. I was afraid of the same thing. That I’d imagined you.” Her little face was turned up to him, and her darkly-shadowed eyes glistened with moisture. He was filled with a terrible fear that she would begin to cry; he felt a twinge around his heart, a wrenching horror at the idea of her sadness.

“I’m here.” He pressed his forehead into hers for a moment, his fingers trailing through her hair, his eyes closing, overwhelmed. “We’re both here. Everything was real. Everything is real. This is real.”

Her little hands went around his wrists for a moment as he held her, twining her fingers through his on either side of her face, clutching him to her, and he felt a burst of energy, as if her sweetness, her care, her nature of goodness, seeped through her into him, bathing him in warmth, and then she stepped away, out of his grasp. “Take me to dinner, Duncan Shepherd. I’m fucking starving.” She smiled again, like honey, he thought, and he smiled back at her (he watched her face blush towards him at his smile and his heart clenched again), and then he grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her through the door, his fingers pressing into her, the warmth of hand spreading into him like the glow of home after a long, cold walk in the dark.

-----

Duncan grasped Mackenzie’s little hand as she slid into the backseat of the BMW, her eyes meeting Samuel’s through his rearview mirror as they always did Duncan’s. Duncan could see the smile in Samuel’s eyes; he was delighted. Duncan slid in beside her and pulled the door shut, anxious to be near her; Kenzie looked so unbelievably beautiful, he felt dazed, blinded, disoriented once again, wistful for them to be alone together.

“Samuel--this is Mackenzie Stone.”

Duncan watched the clouded patina that immediately came into Samuel’s usually clear brown eyes. “Stone. You wouldn’t be Madeline Stone’s daughter now, would you?”

Kenzie put her chin up, meeting Samuel’s gaze through the mirror, bringing her hands together in her lap over her little purse (it was different than the clutch she’d had at the party; this one had a strap to go over her shoulder, and a gold buckle shaped like a crescent moon, this one facing in a waxing direction). Duncan felt a sort of fierce pride wash over him as he gazed at her lovely, shadowed face, the blush of her cheek and the incline of her neck. She’s brave; she’s honest. She’s so easy to fall in love with.

“I am.”

Samuel didn’t miss a beat, letting his concern slide away. Duncan silently thanked him. “Delighted to finally meet you, Miss Stone. Duncan has said only the best of you.”

“He doesn’t know me that well yet,” she laughed a little, glancing at Duncan, and he was full suddenly to the brim with the desire to hold her, kiss her again, melt into her. Samuel chuckled with her, his very white teeth flashing, his eyes dancing behind his square glasses. He liked her very much; Duncan could tell. How could you not, Duncan thought. Look at her.

“I can’t wait to know you more,” he said to her, Samuel’s watchful eye be damned. He reached to her lap and grasped her hand, looking at her carefully. He wanted her to see how sincerely he meant what he was saying. “I want to know you more than anything.” Kenzie looked at him, her hazel eyes taking on that strange dark hue again, and then she looked down at his hands, as if she felt overwhelmed by his gaze. Samuel’s attention seemed to strategically slide away from them; Duncan didn’t even need to ask him, the partition between the front and back seats rolled up languidly, almost absent-mindedly, and the car moved forward. By the time it arrived in front of Le Diplomate, Duncan and Kenzie were breathless, eyes glittering, breath hitching from the wild locking of their mouths, and Duncan’s lips were smeared with her dark lipstick. She put her delicate thumb up to his mouth as the car stopped, to wipe it away; Duncan captured the finger in his mouth, and sucked at it for a moment, lost in the ecstasy of her touch, the taste of her.

“Duncan,” she whispered, the longing in her voice inconcealable. “My lipstick is all over you.”

“Good. I want it there.”

She smiled at him, and he couldn’t hold back the moan; “Kenzie, baby,” he tried to kiss her again, his mouth hovering over hers, but she pulled away, the smile turning mischievous, and he knew she was watching the yearning in his gaze and his body with satisfaction; she quickly wiped the stain from his mouth before he could bite her finger again, and pulled her hand away.

“Later,” she said, their eyes meeting, and the core of his body tingled, as if touched by a live wire. “Later, I belong to you.” A chill coursed down his spine. He wanted to press his mouth between her legs and make her scream again. He wanted to press his face into the hollow of her neck, buried inside her. But patience was a virtue. He owed her his patience.

The partition went down, languidly; “Samuel, I’ll text you when we need the car. Thank you,” Duncan said. Samuel replied with the smile still dancing on his features, his bright eyes on Mackenzie. “Certainly, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Thank you, Samuel,” Kenzie said shyly, smiling back at him sweetly.

“It is truly a pleasure, Miss Stone,” Samuel replied, and she grinned.

Duncan helped her from the backseat, his large hand grasping her small fingers with fervent attention. “I like him very much,” she said to him quietly, smoothing her dress nervously; his other hand came around and felt at her waist, moving up and down for a moment, lost in the soft feeling of her, steadying her. “He likes you too,” he replied, bringing his face close to her again, breathing in her intoxicating scent. “Samuel’s worked for my family since before I was born, and I trust him with my life. I know when he likes or dislikes someone right away. He thought you were lovely. And you are. You’re the loveliest person I’ve ever met.”

He couldn’t stop himself; the words tumbled out of him, fervently.

“God, Duncan,” she said, her hair shimmering in the lamps outside the entrance, her breath sweet against his face, her eyes glowing, hypnotizing him in their ethereal embrace. “How are you so wonderful?”

“Kenzie, it’s for you. It’s all for you. Anything you want, I want to give it to you.”

She laughed. “Right now, I want dinner. And a glass of wine. That would be nice.”

“So much dinner and so many glasses of wine are in store for you, Madame.” He pulled away, grasping her little hand tightly, the eyes of DC society be damned for now. He’d reserved a private room, but he didn’t care who saw them on their way to it (and he noticed several unfamiliar but attentive eyes follow them through the dining hall--clearly they recognized him); he felt an encroaching abandon, as though nothing and no one could tear him away from her now; let everyone see her, let everyone see them together, and he would do whatever it took to protect her, to sway his immovable mother to good graces when the time came. But first, this evening. First, Kenzie. Angel.

He saw Kenzie’s hesitant face as the waiter helped her into her seat; she saw the exhaustive wine menu and an overwhelmed look came into her eyes at its massive length.

“May I order the wine?” He asked her, his eyes on her, gentle.

“Yes, please.” He wanted to soothe the worry from her; he wanted her to feel comfortable to let her guard down, to be herself with him. Wine menus could get fucked if they made her doubt herself. Anything and anyone could get fucked, as far as he was concerned, if they looked at her the wrong way.

“Château Trotte Vieille Bordeaux, please,” he murmured to the waiter after he perused its exhaustive length for a short minute; he’d looked over this particular menu many times before. He watched Mackenzie’s wide, beautiful eyes glance down at the menu, searching for the wine he’d chosen; they widened further and he knew she’d noticed the price tag. The waiter (a tall young man with a thin face, a long nose and close-cropped hair) nodded, eyeing Mackenzie very briefly with badly-veiled interest; Duncan could see that the waiter recognized him as well, and was clearly curious about the beauty sitting with him in a private room. A less observant person would have perhaps missed the look, but Duncan was almost preternatural in his ability to read others; a useful talent he’d learned from watching his mother and listening to her through years of gains on political stages. He wondered how much a future reporter would pay the man to give them information about Duncan Shepherd’s date at Le Diplomate on a recent Sunday in May, the details of Mackenzie’s appearance, the coy Instagram shots that could potentially materialize of them later. He could see the headlines on the gossip websites now. Duncan Shepherd Spotted Arriving and Leaving with Political Enemy’s Daughter From Intimate Dinner At Posh French Restaurant.

I don’t care, he thought, staring into Kenzie’s eyes, which met his with a mixture of hesitance and open avidity, and that crushing feeling around his heart recurred. He reached out and took her hand. I just don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this woman mine.

“$245. I saw that. Oh my god,” Kenzie breathed, holding his fingers tightly. “That’s the money I spend on groceries in a month.” Nervousness had seeped into her eyes as she stared at him, her mouth open in a kind of stunned realization.

“Kenzie. It’s nothing. My mother spends that much every week on cold-pressed juice.”

“Duncan.”

“You’ll love it. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect with the duck a l’orange, which is, by the way, better here than the duck I’ve had in Paris.”

“Duncan.”

“Kenzie.”

“I feel strange.”

She was biting her lip, and her eyes looked frightened. They pierced his heart; he ached to soothe her again, ached to calm her.

“Mackenzie, listen to me. Please don’t. This is my life. I understand that it may be strange to you, but I will do whatever I can to make you feel more comfortable, more at ease. Anything. Don’t be afraid, Kenzie. I want you here. I want you to be here with me right now, and no one else. Mackenzie Stone, I don’t care about anything else right now except being here with you.”

He watched her face, her eyes growing shiny with the tears hiding behind them, and her little mouth trembled ever-so-slightly, a strange smile falling over her features. She sniffed a little, and a single tear fell from her eye, dropping down onto the immaculate white tablecloth, spreading into a damp orb. He grasped her hand desperately, his thumb rubbing against her wrist. “Baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

She breathed, silently, her overwhelmed expression clinging to the certainty in his blue eyes; he watched her throat and the rise of her collarbones, wanting to press his lips against her there; he watched the whiteness of the skin between the plunging neckline of her extraordinarily beautiful dress. And then her expression seemed to clear from what she saw in his face; she nodded a little, the smile trembling still but steadying for him. “Okay, baby,” she whispered. And he squeezed her hand, his smile widening to her, nodding back.

----

The duck tasted even more wonderful tonight; it was simultaneously the best meal he’d ever had and the one he felt he’d remember the least, somehow; he could only think of and focus on her eyes and her hair and her throat and her gold headband adorned with moons and the tiny movements of her hands and fingers as she ate her bread or stabbed a forkful of spinach or a morsel of perfectly roasted duck or drank the (absolutely exquisite) vintage Bordeaux from her wine glass, catching the dim, romantic evening candlelight from their table in its reflection. He somehow felt he’d never seen another person so clearly and entirely before this night; she was a revelation, so real and so beautiful and her eyes were full of emotion and so open to him, it absolutely took his breath away. He watched her ease into the meal and into his words as they talked; she told him about her father, far away in LaLa land, writing about film, forgetting to send her birthday cards, about her best friend Claire (“shares her name with the president, oddly enough”), and the love she shared with her mother. And there we can agree, he’d said, and told her about his mother, too. “I know how she can seem,” he said, looking away, referring to Annette’s sharp television interviews and her well-chronicled contentions with the press, “but I love her deeply, and she loves me. That’s an unshakeable truth, and it gives me comfort in life.” Kenzie had nodded, understanding. “I feel the same way about my mother,” she had agreed. “She’s there for me when no one else is. She’s given me so much advice that has helped me survive; she’s been a guiding light to me. I admire her strength and fearlessness so much.” Throughout the meal and as they talked, they continued to reach for each other’s hands every now and then; Duncan pressing his thumb gently into circles in her palm, his hands trailing down the expanse of her slender fingers. She’d grasp his fingers one by one, caressing the shape of his knuckles, making him shiver. At one point as he gazed at her left hand in his between staring into her eyes (god, her eyes, I love them so much, like stars), he wondered what it would look like with a ring from him adorning it. He blushed at the imagining; and then he wondered, quietly, what kind of ring she would love. A moonstone, he thought immediately, somehow sure right away, as though she’d told him herself. A moonstone, because she’s like the face of the moon to me, penetrating my spirit, exquisite and divine. He kept the thought to himself, tucking it away to look at later, as she told him about her work as a journalist, how much it made her hope for and want to fight for a kinder, better world. His eyes clouded with her sincerity; he was shaken with a moment of doubt regarding the work he did for his mother, and he knew it was dark work, cloudy work, and not for the first time, he felt deeply conflicted, perhaps now more than he ever had, especially hearing her sincerity. “I feel as though I can’t say no to her, my mother is the only person who has always been there for me,” he murmured. The sympathy shone out from Mackenzie’s eyes, and he knew she did not judge him harshly; knew she understood his confusion.

“I’ve seen and felt how wonderful you are,” she said. “I feel it now. We can always work to be better, be kinder, be gentler. I think it’s something you do every day, little by little, work at like a sculptor chipping away at a stone. Eventually it becomes something extraordinary. But that’s from hundreds of days of tiny work. For me, working on a story is like that. A tiny chipping away to find the essence of truth in something. I think that’s what life is, really. Hundreds and hundreds of days of little work.”

“I want to try to do that with you, Kenzie. Work together like that, a little bit at a time, for hundreds of days.”

Her eyes settled into his. He watched her breathe out, slowly, setting her fork down, the velvet choker at her throat, its moon charm catching the light.

He said it before he lost his nerve. “Mackenzie. Would you...be with me? Would you be mine?”

“Duncan. Oh, my god. I…” Mackenzie trailed off, staring at him. Her shock seemed to extend, and she was quiet. Her eyes had taken on that greenish hue that startled him deeply again. Her soul, deep in thought, full of tangled emotion.

He bit his lip, his eyes darkening, and he looked down for a moment, grasped his wine glass, drank deeply. He set it down, slowly, carefully.

“I know...this all seems so sudden, so fast. But I feel something for you that I’ve never felt for anyone. I meant everything I said to you today. You’ve brought an ache into my heart. I want you. Not just in my bed. I want you in my life. I want you, Kenzie. All of you.”

The moment hovered, quieted. They regarded each other. He felt her eyes rove over him as soft, pulsing music played in the background of the room; down from his dark hair, thrown back, to his eyes, meeting hers with hope and desire, his lips (which would kiss you every day, kiss you always, Kenzie), the fine sheen of ever-present stubble on his cheeks, the bob of his throat, the high collar of his dark shirt, the fall of his velvet blazer over his tall frame, down his arm and to his wrists, his silver Cartier watch shining against the candlelight, down his long hands, one resting against his thigh, the other hovering an inch away from hers on the table, index finger stretched. Light seemed to cascade behind her head, and he was reminded of the way she’d looked last night, like there was a halo around her head, golden and iridescent. It was as if he could see the outline of her soul, and it shook him to the core, again, trembling. He was bare under her gaze; he felt like she was looking into the essence of him, weighing him, deciding his fate. He waited. He had decided what he wanted, and had spoken it to her, and so at least he had had the courage to be honest. At least, he said to himself, I was brave in the sight of her wonder.

She lifted her head a little, and the light danced off her headband adorned with moons. She looked like a queen to him in that moment; like a Waterhouse priestess, throwing gold dust and magick into the night, and he was struck by her lovely, coiled energy, her power over him. She smiled at him, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. It was blinding, overwhelming, filling him with her brightness, the beauty that shined out of her spirit.

“Yes,” she said, her voice steady, smooth, like honey. “Yes, I will, Duncan. Yes.”

He grinned, grabbed onto her hand, leaned toward her, his joy immediate.

“On one condition.”

He stopped. “Anything, Mackenzie. Anything.”

“Be mine, too, Duncan Shepherd. Will you be mine?” A little laugh flitted through her words. He could see the joy in her eyes, and it moved him deeply.

He breathed a sigh of relief; it felt like a weight was lifting off his heart, like wings were beating inside his ribcage.

“Kenzie, yes. Yes, a hundred times, yes. I’m yours.”

-----

They were anxious to be alone together, then; Duncan ached for her, and she whispered “let’s go”, draining her wine glass, the flash of her white throat setting his nerves on edge; Duncan had hurriedly passed his Black AmEx to the waiter, who brought it back to him with a swiftness that seemed almost supernatural. The evening seemed to be pushing them toward their private rendezvous; Duncan no longer wanted anyone else to be near them. He wanted her to himself, this divine goddess who had said she would be his; he still couldn’t grasp that she had accepted him, still felt terrified she’d disappear. He wondered if that feeling would ever fade, or if he’d always feel that fear, that ache for her, already dreading the moment she would leave.

Duncan had texted Samuel and as they practically ran from the entrance of the brightly-lit facade of the buzzing brasserie, their hands clasped together tightly, not noticing the eyes of some of the diners following them this time, not caring, he was struck with relief to see the BMW quietly humming on the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the lamps along the sidewalk. He opened the door for Mackenzie, catching her in his arms for a moment, pressing his lips into the soft space between her ear and her jaw, achingly. She leaned into him, her little body folding into his arms, sucking the air from his lungs, intoxicating. Angel baby. His own. She flitted away from him, disappearing into the backseat, and he followed her eagerly; Then I must be thy lady; but I know / When thou hast stolen away from a fairy land...the line hovered in his subconscious. She was like Titania, queen of the fae, scattering gold, her laugh making flowers burst into bloom, and as he pressed into her in the backseat, the flowers bloomed in his mind and his senses as he kissed her and her little mouth opened against him, her hair tangled in his fingers.

-----

When they’d finally arrived back at his penthouse, she hushed him when he tried to press into her again, impatient for her, his arms around her back, under her shoulder blades, trying to be delicate, afraid he might break her apart with his urgency. “I want a little bit more wine, baby, get me some?” The way she said baby, into his mouth, caused heat to pool in the bottom of his stomach. “Kenzie, baby...” he groaned into her softly, he couldn’t stop. Last night felt like it had happened a hundred days ago--he was starving for her again. He shook his head a little, dizzy, loathe to let go of her.

She grabbed the sides of his velvet jacket with her little fingers; “get it for me baby, I want it,” and he loved the pout on her lips, loved it like he loved her eyelashes, her glowing cheeks, her sweet smell, her insistence. “Kiss me first,” he begged, and he knew he was begging, and he didn’t care, he was lost in her. She pressed her open mouth into his bottom lip, sucking it carefully, slowly, and he pressed his hands into her breasts, trying to hold back the rough desire he felt, the skin between held in her plunging neckline, feeling her hot skin there. “There,” she breathed, releasing him. “Now, baby, give me what I want.”

“Mhmm,” he murmured, his head swimming, letting go of her, aching. He looked back as he moved through his vast living room with its lush carpet and low leather couch, trailing his finger absently along its back, watching her watch him (with eyes ringed in gold) move into his study, where he kept an opulently stacked wine rack beside the standing bar. He pulled a Chablis Grand Cru from the middle rack of the temperature-controlled glass case (a bottle worth an absurd amount of money--at least a grand--but his head swam and he couldn’t care at all, money meant nothing to him right now next to her) and as he turned, he saw that she had followed him, boots cast aside somewhere, on soft, bare feet, into his study behind him, hair shimmering, the gold of her glimmering. She pouted. “I wanted to scare you,” she whispered, eyes glowing.

“You look like an angel,” he replied, the bottle dangling carelessly from his fingers. She smiled, turning, looking at him over her shoulder, the dress falling in the light, beautiful beyond words to him. She turned her face towards the wall that faced his desk (her hair in waves of gold); and she gasped, her eyes falling over the huge expanse of The Youth of Bacchus. She paused for a moment, staring, and then took two hesitant, soft steps toward it, clearly in awe. He came up behind her, setting the bottle to the side of his polished mahogany desk, folding his arms around her waist, nuzzling his mouth into her neck.

“Is this real?” she whispered, leaning into him.

“Yes,” he murmured, kissing under her ear, kissing the incline of her neck falling into her shoulders. “It’s real. It’s called The Youth of Bacchus. My mother gave it to me when I was 18.”

“God. Duncan. It’s so beautiful. It’s beautiful beyond words.”

“No,” he whispered into her ear, kissing it, capturing the lobe in his lips, “you are, Kenzie, you are, only you…”

He turned her face to him, kissing her deeply, his tongue in her mouth, her scent crashing into him, and his arms turned her so he could grasp her hips, and he lifted her, light as air, onto the edge of his desk, her little elegant feet suspended several feet in the air, dangling over its edge. She pressed her hands back onto its smooth surface, and he leaned into her, tasting her, hands running over her in ardent waves, whispering into her, “angel, beloved, baby” and he moved his head down, pushing up the velvet folds of her flowing dress, cut to her body like it was part of her, finding her panties (wet against her for him again, god, he loved it so much), these ones made of soft lace, and his hands pulled them off her, hurried, impatient, and he buried his mouth on her clit, sucking with urgency, and she threw her head back, “oh my god, Duncan, fuck, babyyy,” and he saw her eyes floating back and forth between him and the gigantic painting against the wall of his study, caught up in its beauty, caught up in him, and her eyes clouded with green and gold, as he worked his mouth against her, her hand finding the back of his head, holding him flush to her sweetness, and as she came, crying out with a sound that threatened to overwhelm him in the crashing wave of his desire, he saw a tear fall from her eyes, catching the low, soft light, and he thought about god again, thought that maybe there was something in the universe that had brought her to him, into his arms, and he was full of joy.

----

He led her into the bathroom, the joy still dancing in his heart, inside his blue eyes. “Keep your eyes closed,” he said, and she giggled, clutching his hand, feeling carefully along the doorway with the other one, bare feet padding onto the cold, seamless stone tiles. She stopped; he pressed the fingers of his right hand, hot with his want, along the white skin between her breasts where the dress fell down into the void of her, against her neck, thumb trailing over her bottom lip.

“Okay, baby, open them.”

She opened her eyes wide and gasped again; all along the edges of his claw-foot tub there were roses, so many roses, dozens and dozens of roses, their stems stripped of their thorns and woven together in a tapestry, all the deep carmine red of her lips last night when she’d kissed him under the night sky for the first time; handfuls of petals floated over the surface of the water, steaming into the air, and the bath itself was surrounded by white pillar candles, illuminating the otherwise-dark bathroom with a soft, melting glow. He watched her delighted face with relief; “do you like it?” he asked, unable to keep the hopeful, wistful edge from his voice.

“Oh, Duncan, I love it. I love it so much. It’s wondrous. It’s divine.”

You are, you are, you are, he thought, his mind repeating it over and over, the only prayer he ever wanted to recite. Kenzie, Kenzie, Kenzie.

He watched her, aching, in the candlelight. She gazed at him, her face aglow. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Undress me.”

He leaned into her, desperately; his hands found the zipper at her back, pulling it down with soft urgency as she ran her fingers along his neck and his chest and against the rise of his crotch, pressing carefully and insistently. He moaned, shivering, pushing the heaven-soft sleeves down her arms, feeling her skin with his fingers, relishing the way her breasts, nipples hard, emerged from the cupped embrace of her plunging bodice, his mouth on her neck again. Her dress fell to the ground in a soft heap; she stood before him and he thought of another Bouguereau painting, its beauty flashing in his mind yet paling to her before him in the flesh, one called Evening Mood, the white-skinned nymph of twilight hovering over soft waves, her head softly turned in ecstasy, a crescent moon hanging behind her bowing head.

“You look like the moon,” he said, wonderingly, as her hands pulled at his jacket and pushed it away and her demanding fingers undid his shirt and unbuckled his belt, pulling the zipper of his pants down, pulling out his hard, aching length, her mouth open, her face looking up to him, her eyes impatient, her moon headband and black choker, hugging her neck like a lover (him, her lover) the only things she now wore. He loved that she was wearing her adorning jewelry again, like last night, as they were about to fuck; he loved the artistry of her, unpretentious, unstudied, gold and soft and starry and his, his own, for she’d accepted him, and she was his now, and he was hers, and that was all he knew and all he wanted to know. Her hands drifted over the length of his cock, languid but concentrated, and he pulled away from her touch, leading her to the steaming bathtub, the roses making way for them as he pulled her down into it with him, pulling her on top of him again, loving the feeling of her body hovering above him that way. She reached down into the hot, almost scalding water, its heat causing goosebumps to rise on both of them; gripped the length of his cock again, fingers grazing his sensitive head, her face hovering over his, her mouth almost kissing his, but not quite, her breath cascading into him and she moaned as she stroked him and he moaned into her in return, lost in her, his impossibly blue eyes falling into the night of her, “Mackenzie, baby, that feels so fucking good, you’re as beautiful as an angel, oh god, Kenzie, I love you--”, and the roses clung to the sides of her white skin, the steam that rose off the water enshrining her, and her mouth finally clashed into his, stifling his ardent admission, and he thought again that he could die and be content in the death, content because his last moments had belonged to her.

“Come for me this time, baby love, come for me, okay?” She murmured these sweet words into him, and he nodded, his brow furrowed, completely lost in her touch and her voice; she stopped the firm stroke of her hand around his hardness, and moving her hips, eased down onto him until he was buried in her, gasping, and she moved again, grinding down on him, causing him to stutter “fu-fu-uu-ckk” into her neck, against the softness of her chin, into her skin, and she said “I love you too, I’m yours baby, all yours, come for me,” and he couldn’t stop it, his release was so deep and so consuming that his moan bled into a wild cry that he tried to stifle between the space of her breasts where her dress had plunged, showing her heart to him under the shadow of her delicate bones, and he couldn’t believe that he could have ever felt so good, clutching her little body against him, her soul held in his hands this way. She was his, she had said yes, she was his, this angel, an angel, she loved him and heaven had fallen to earth, and he was holding it, her, she was heaven, heaven in his hands, heaven on his lips, heaven, heaven, heaven...

#millory #body and soul #duncan shepherd #duncan shepherd au #millory au #cody fern #billie lourd #collie #cody x billie #duncan x mackenzie #duncan shepherd x mackenzie stone #duncan shepherd x mallory #ahs apocalypse #house of cards #collie au #michael x mallory #my fic #body and soul millory au

26 notes · View notes

mistressofmuses · 7 years

Text

Must Have Been Some Magic

Laurel flicked the switch by the doorway on, and several small lights strategically placed around the main room came to life, illuminating overflowing bookshelves and wall racks and display cases.

Continuing in, she set her bags down on the kitchen table, one of the only clear surfaces in the small house.

Really, it would almost have been more of a museum than a house, if she ever let anyone else in for long enough to look at everything, or had any kind of organized system to display things, or even a formal catalogue outside of her own head. Fossilized seashells sat next to antique coins, delicate woven scarves draped over the hilts of weaponry spanning centuries, grimoires and other books of esoteric knowledge shared shelf space with miniature paintings, and fine jewelry sat between meticulously preserved flora and fauna specimens. Her collections were extremely eclectic, and she enjoyed the feeling of being surrounded by the things she loved, with a story attached to every object. Some might call her a hoarder, but none of it was trash. She knew all of the objects, everything about them and the story behind each one.

It was always the stories that got her.

She took the silk tophat out of the box it had been stored in. It was fairly old, and made of silk rather than felt or fur. It appeared very well made, clearly professionally done, rather than something mass-produced as a novelty item or costume piece. Without some more specific research, she probably wouldn’t be able to discern its true age, though she was willing to place it as being something from the early 1900s.

She hadn’t been in the market for an antique—or at the very least vintage—tophat, but the man who ran the little second-hand store knew her weakness for an interesting story. Laurel had bought probably a hundred items from him in the past, and he tended to hang on to anything with a unique quality to it, especially if it verged on the supernatural.

This, he’d claimed, was the magical hat that had brought Frosty the Snowman famously to life.

Laurel smiled a little ruefully to herself, and she turned the hat over in her hands. Frosty the Snowman wasn’t even some kind of legendary holiday figure—he’d been invented in the 1950s as a character for a novelty Christmas song. He’d certainly cemented himself as a modern folklore character for the holiday season, but he hadn’t been inspired by anything older than that. Not exactly the kind of legend that could plausibly have any “real magical object” attached to it.

Still, it was a cute story, and seasonally appropriate, even if the mild weather of the last few weeks didn’t have anyone feeling the real holiday spirit. That reminded her to turn on her indoor Christmas lights, and she plugged them in. Several strands of delicate white lights lit up around the dining room window and the border between the walls and the ceiling, giving the room an even more enchanted feel to it, and Laurel sighed with contentment.

She considered putting the hat on and almost hesitated, but she told herself she was being absolutely ridiculous. She flipped the hat over and placed it on her head. She waited to see if she felt the urge to start dancing or singing, but nothing changed. She laughed at herself, and it sounded a little strange as the only sound in the house.

She turned on some Christmas music—fully instrumental, thank you, she much preferred piano or orchestra pieces and Celtic arrangements to yesterday’s pop stars—trying to hang onto some vestige of holiday spirit. She wore the hat for a little bit as she did a little cleaning up, but then left it on the table as she fixed herself a small dinner and read a few more chapters of her current book.

When it was time for bed, she glanced at the hat again and smiled, realizing she had the perfect place for the hat to go.

The Christmas lights in her bedroom were rainbow rather than white. The white lights complemented the bulk of her collection, but her room was her even more private space, full of more mundane treasures like modern novels and stuffed animals, and she was happy for everything to be rainbows.

“Hello Miss Terry,” she said to the figure standing along the bedroom wall.

Miss Terry was a… well, “doll” sounded too reductive, “mannequin” sounded too sterile, “sculpture” too stationary. She was all of those things, while none of those things really described her.

Miss Terry, a deliberate play on “mystery”, had been Laurel’s imaginary friend as a child, and then she’d had no figure to inhabit, but had simply existed in Laurel’s vibrant imagination as a playmate and best friend. She had been a magician for as long as Laurel could remember, inspired by the idea of the classic stage magicians that Laurel had been so impressed by as a little girl. “Knowing” a little girl like herself who could do all those things had been what she wanted most at that age. Oddly, she herself had never wanted to be a magician, even though she had remained forever enamored with the idea of magic, both as stage tricks and something more.

There had been a period of a few years she rarely thought much of Miss Terry at all, during the awkward stage between being too old for imaginary friends and too young to not care.

When she was a teenager she’d resurrected Miss Terry as a character she drew in her art classes and made up stories about. Sometimes the stories had been full of high adventure, and sometimes they’d been escapist wish fulfillment for an awkward lonely teen. Miss Terry had been the perfect friend, confidant, and even fantasy girlfriend.

When she grew up and moved out on her own, living in part off of a generous inheritance from her late grandfather and in part off of the piecemeal work she did at freelance art and part-time jobs, she hadn’t given much thought to Miss Terry at all. Until she’d turned around in an antique store one day, and she’d been there.

It had been the strangest thing, because the figure looked somehow exactly how she’d always imagined Miss Terry, while also being nothing she’d ever seen before. The figure was life-size, and made like a doll. She was stylized, made of a metal frame with poseable joints, with porcelain panels on her limbs, chest, and back, as well as porcelain hands, feet, and face. The porcelain was painted in a lifelike manner, the expression on the face offering a self-satisfied smile, like she’d just gotten something she wanted. She had hair, cut in a short, black bob. And she was dressed like some kind of eccentric stage magician, in fitted pants, shirt, and vest below a tailored jacket, all underneath, of all things, a silk three-quarters-length cape.

Laurel’s breath had been literally taken away when she saw her, and it had taken her some time to compose herself well enough to inquire about the price of the figure. The shop owner had looked at the figure and gave her a price that was steep, but not out of the question. Then he’d knocked it down some, saying the figure was bulky and no one had had any interest in it for years at this point.

Laurel paid, and took Miss Terry home, and got her cleaned up of all of the dust and dirt that had accumulated on her and her clothes. Laurel even repaired frayed hems and sagging seams, ensuring that Miss Terry could look her best. And she’d lived there, in Laurel’s room, for the last seven years. Laurel resumed their “relationship” with little interruption, talking to her, venting to her, and treating her like a quiet friend. She found Miss Terry’s presence there comforting.

No one else seemed to think so. The one time Laurel had gotten up the courage to bring a girl home with her and it had gone well enough to end up in the bedroom, the other woman had remarked that the “weird mannequin” was creepy. Later, she declined when Laurel asked her for a second date, saying that Laurel herself was just too weird for her. Her loss.

Laurel hadn’t brought anyone else home with her after that. Or at least no romantic prospects. And she’d been fine with that. She knew it was silly, maybe even a little pathetic, but she liked her life as it was. She was sure it would be considered some brand of crazy to have such an attachment to something imaginary, but Miss Terry gave her a sense of not being alone.

Now Laurel turned toward Miss Terry, holding the hat behind her back.

“Hello, my dear,” she said. “I have a gift for you. I know it’s a little early for Christmas, but I think you’ll like it. Don’t worry that you didn’t get me anything.” Laurel laughed. “I thought this was nice, and then I realized just how well it would suit you.”

She pulled the hat from behind her with a flourish.

“Here, I’ll put it on you…”

She settled it on Miss Terry’s head, where it fit like it had been made for her. It looked absolutely perfect with the rest of her attire, making her look more like a magician than ever. While Laurel’s old drawings of her friend had often included a hat, she wasn’t sure why she’d never thought to buy one for her before this. Ah well, this one was perfect.

“It looks wonderful on you!” Laurel clapped her hands and beamed at Miss Terry. “All magicians should have a nice hat. It’s perfect for you.”

She turned back to her dresser to change into something to sleep in. Digging through the drawers, she stood up when she heard a sound behind her. She thought she’d imagined it, until she heard it again; the sound of someone taking a step.

Her heart began to pound; she had plenty of value in the house, and she’d always known a break-in could be a risk. Still, she turned to face the threat.

And was nearly face to face with a woman. A very familiar woman, wearing a silk tophat. But she wasn’t made of metal and porcelain anymore. While the slightly crooked smile still graced her lips, those lips were soft and expressive. Her dark blue eyes weren’t painted on, but sparkled in the light of the Christmas lights around the room.

The woman offered her hand, palm up, bowing gently as if asking for a dance.

Laurel reached out hesitantly, until her fingers brushed the other woman’s warm, soft palm. The woman brought Laurel’s hand to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles, showing just how soft those lips really were.

When Miss Terry spoke, her voice was low and husky. “Hello, Laurel.”

@yourbookcouldbegayer

Prompt was: "You found the old silk hat that turned Frosty into a walking talking snowman. Turns out, the hat works on other things too.”

This one turned out very differently than I was first thinking, but I’m reasonably happy with it. And not quite as tight on the deadline tonight! (Tomorrow will be a struggle.)

#day4ofgay #lgbtq+ fiction #genre: fantasy #genre: supernatural #rating: pg #lesbian character #my writing #short fiction #original fiction #holigays 2017

6 notes · View notes

bee-and-bird · 7 years

Text

The Right Words

Authors: D. and K., written collaboratively

Inspirations: Directly inspired and based on Jim Henson’s Labyrinth film, minor inspirations include Seelie/Unseelie faerie lore and other such myths

Word Count: 2,500

Chapter: 3/?

Genre: Romance/Slow Burn/Fantasy

This is a work of fiction based upon Jim Henson’s 1986 movie Labyrinth, it includes some of the characters of the series and plotpoints but is a transformative work that uses these things as building blocks and quickly diverges from the story of the movie. This work is largely self indulgent and written primary for the enjoyment of its authors, if other’s find it entertaining however we’ll be happy to hear it!

Lysander didn't exactly believe he looked handsome, he believed his clothes fit, though, and that was fine enough. Even as he had the thought, again, that it was unnerving they fit so well. He'd follow along with her in silence, glancing out the windows every now and then, doing a good job of keeping his guard up and being aware of his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, of course, as this looked nothing like anywhere he'd ever seen or heard of, even as he vaguely recalled reading about it.

As they get to the throne room his stomach begins to hurt from the nerves, and probably from the lack of breakfast. He nods to his companion as she opens the door, but once they step into the throne room he freezes, standing near the doorway as he looks around the room- taking it in. His gaze, of course, finds its way to The King, and he forces his nervous expression into one of cold defiance.

Fancy waddled down the center of the room, prompting Lysander to follow her up to the foot of the dias and curtsied low, cooing in her most pleasant voice, "Your guest, your Majesty, as you requested." Davren's eyes, focused on Lysander, flicked briefly to Fancy and his smile gained some warmth, though it seemed mildly patronizing. "Thank you, Fancy. You may get back to your other duties~" He waved her off negligently as he rose to his feet in a smooth move, in less ostentatious garb than he'd been in the other night, but no less handsome or eerie. The look of defiance on Lysander's face only seemed to make him grin wider, eyes glinting with mirth. Davren spread his arms wide, "Welcome to the Underground. I trust you found your accommodations to your liking?" One of his dark brows lofted and he quiet obviously looked Lysander up and down, approving.

In the end he followed after Fancy just so she wouldn't somehow get in trouble for him loitering by the door, but his expression remains in place, a mask to hide how afraid he was. He didn't bow or duck his head in greeting, but he avoided eye contact with Davren and just tried to breath slowly before answering. "Yes, thank you." He manages, tugging at his sleeve.

"Excellent." Davren trilled. "I'm glad to hear you're adjusting well to your new home. There are a few things we'll need to go over, both as someone new to the Underground and as a new vassal to myself." He turned on a heel to sit back in his throne, sprawling casually.

Lysander glances from side to side, then to Davren again. "I'm sorry, vassal? Just how long do you intend for me to stay here?" He's not as polite as he could be, due to his nerves, which only makes them worse. Lysander folds his arms across his chest, to prevent more fidgeting, and continues to frown.

Davren lofted a brow, though he looks far too amused to not know what Lysander was talking about. "It's not about how long /I/ intend for you to stay here. You wished yourself away - or don't you recall?" His features turned sharp, a slight edge to his tone. Perhaps he was offended? Who wouldn't want to be part of his kingdom, anyway? "The rules of such a thing are very clear. You forfeit your home in the World Above, and instead take a place in my realm, as a vassal to my Court." And have all your wishes and dreams become reality is a piece left unsaid. To be fair, most people didn't need it said. The world of the Fae was always one of wishes and dreams.(edited)

"I didn't know." He replies meekly, and it was only half a lie. He didn't know the story was true. Not completely true. He glances around again, worry obviously showing through. "So I can't leave? I have... people. That will be worried." No, he really didn't. No one worried about him, no one cared. The people who lived in the town would probably be glad he was gone.

"Lying is unbecoming, Lysander. Or at least such obvious ones." Davren drawled with a small sigh. "You could leave....though I certainly wouldn't recommend it. You'd die." He said bluntly, regarding Lysander with a piercing gaze - as if seeing through him. "If there were any who would protest, I would have received the call to issue them The Challenge. There were none." He moved to rise again, stepping toward Lysander slowly. "You are made for better things than a small, forgetful town filled with infinitesimally smaller minds, Lysander." He stopped a few inches away - maybe five, his wrist twisting to produce a crystal. "See for yourself~" He murmured, and if Lysander looked, he'd see in the orb a town - his town. There wasn't any sound. Nothing seemed different. Just a normal day. The view suddenly zoomed in on a pair of adults, one tossing a familiar book into a nearby brazier. He was shaking his head, but smiled and tipped his head at something the woman he spoke to said. They parted cheerily.

Lysander didn't want Davren to come closer, but he also didn't want to back down, so obviously he was stuck. Stuck, and caught in his lie, and trying to come to terms with the fact that he was being told he could never leave. He'd known, on some level, about that fact. But it was hard to hear it. He's silent as he watches the scene unfold in the crystal, part of him saying no, it was a trick, and the other arguing that even if it was a trick the exact thing was probably happening anyway. Lysander's eyes grow glassy with unshed tears as he looks up to meet Davren's gaze, and then look quickly away. "I was made to be forgotten, you mean." He answers in a soft voice.

Davren's gaze turned a bit more cruel and the crystal turned ever so slightly. There was suddenly sound, and the scene had moved on to two gossiping church-goers. Their words drifted out of the delicate creation to linger between the pair, even though the King's attention on Lysander never wavered. "Disappeared last night, s'wot I 'eard." Said one. "All's they found was that book of superstitions lyin' in the grass." "Good riddance," Huffed the other. "His head was always filled with strangeness. I will miss the cheap labor, I'll tell you that much. Ah well..." She bowed her head and crossed herself. "God willing, the devil won't take any of ours." Davren then spoke, his voice just above a whisper. "They haven't forgotten. They just don't care." Not like I would, he thought, but those thoughts were his own. He always felt something for the abandoned, the unwanted that found their way to his realm.

Lysander raises a hand to rub at the side of his face, still trying to stave off tears. It hurt, hearing what they said about him. Like daggers in his chest. Maybe it would have hurt less if they hadn't noticed at all. "That's worse," he voices his thoughts, head ducked and curls covering his eyes.

"It is." Davren confirmed easily, still watching the other. Lysander can't see the sympathy in the look, not with their head bent like that. A flick of his wrist dismisses the crystal and the King lifted his hands - gloved, oddly enough - to gently grip Lysander's biceps as he spoke next. "This can be the home they refused to give you, Lysander. Do you truly wish to leave, to return to that?"

Lysander looks up at the touch, revealing that a few tears have fallen, even as he keeps himself from sobbing. Years of crying quietly have finally paid off, apparently. "Why do you want me here? Just because I wished for it?" No one really wanted him around, and he didn't expect The King did either.

Davren lifts a hand to Lysander's face, a thumb gently brushing away the tears leaking from the very lovely green eyes the young man had. "My kingdom was built by the unwanted. The outcasts, the abandoned. Look around you." He urges, moving to one side of Lysander to extend an arm to the twittering goblins who were still in the throne room, some of the younger (or more stupid) brawling or betting on dice. Others sat around talking and laughing, but most kept their gaze off the King and his guest, out of respect, or fear. "More than half you see before you were wished away themselves, by family members, friends... some did as you have done, and wished themselves away." The King's presence is warm as his chest lightly brushes against Lysander's arm, his grip still on his bicep. "All have found a home here - and happiness besides." He didn't quite answer the question - more like sidestepped it altogether - because he didn't think Lysander was ready for his answer. Neither was Davren, in some ways.

Lysander blinks in surprise as his tears are brushed away, then lets himself be turned to look around at the goblins. There's something he notices about them, something obvious of course, none of them looked human like him. He swallows thickly as Davren's words come to an end, noticing, of course, that his question hadn't really been answered. But why ask it again, he was sure he wouldn't like what he heard. Taking a deep breath he turns to look back at The King, leaving them quite close to one another. "So I'm going to become a goblin, too? Grow feathers become part of your court?" Not that feathers were so bad really, but he liked his hair the way it was. Lysander seems somewhat resigned now, but his mood may change as he had time to digest all of this.

Davren, surprisingly laughs. "No, not quite. Those you see here are goblins by choice. In the Underground, things respond to one's wishes and will much more readily than the in the World Above." Davren quirks his head to the side, "Many came here hoping to fit in, or find family. As a result, they ended up changing to match those they had come to feel closest to - goblins, in many cases, but there are others who have become other forms of fae, or something as simple as changing eye colors, or hair. The choice does not always have to be conscious... merely strongly desired." The King still hasn't moved away, his feathers twitching slightly as his smirk returned. "Though in my opinion, I think you'd look quite fetching in feathers."

It's Lysander who finally puts some distance between them, taking a small step away as he listens, his frown still in place. At least he looks cute while pouting. His tears, at least, have dried, maybe in part due to Davren's explanation. "I appreciate that, but I don't think feathers are my style," he replies, a hand going to his curls.

Davren's hand twitched, as if to pull Lysander back, but he allows the man to move away without any further gestures. "Perhaps not," He murmured politely, before changing the subject. "Getting back to the rules, we touched on the first. Be careful what you wish for, down here. You never know who or what, might be listening." His eyes flash with a strange light, his smirk in place. "Second - unless on a task for me, you will not be permitted into the Labyrinth beyond the city. It is a dangerous place, not for idle wandering." He gestured to a nearby window that afforded an expansive view of the kingdom, and particularly the labyrinth. "Besides that and any locked rooms, you are free to come and go between the castle and the Goblin City as you please. You will hear from myself or Fancy if that changes. Speaking of her, she'll be your attendant for as long as you stay here in the castle. Do you have any questions?"

Lysander folds his arms again, giving up on looking brave now he simply looks like a lost puppy. A confused, sad lost puppy. But he listens, and commits everything to memory. Don't wish for things? He can manage that. There's a pause after Davren asks him if he has any questions, and he turns a bit to look out the window again, his attention sweeping over the kingdom, the labyrinth, then back to The King. "What are my duties?" Since he was staying here he obviously had to work for it, so he may as well ask now.

Davren seemed a bit surprised. "You desire work?" He could come up with something, given a bit of time and a review of the castle staff. He would ahve thought the young man would prefer some time to adjust, but whatever Lysander wanted, he would get. "What sort of skills do you have? What would you like to do?"

Lysander gives him an odd look. "I've... never stayed anywhere for free. I'm skilled in..." Nothing, really, if he had to be honest. "I can do physical labor, tend animals, clean." He shrugs a shoulder, the fact that Lysander didn't have a high opinion of himself was evident.

Davren's eyes narrowed, thinking as a hand came up to stroke his chin thoughtfully. Before long, his expression broke into a mischievous smirk. "I know just the place for you. For today, take some time to learn the castle and the city. Tomorrow morning I'll have Fancy show you to your new supervisor." Oh, it'd be a delightful surprise. He was sure Lysander would like the library, considering how dearly he held that book of fairytales.

Lysander nods, the way his arms were folded seemed more like he was hugging himself than anything else. "Alright, thank you." He dips his head again, quietly considering if he should have a look around, or simply find somewhere to hide and be alone. He was still processing everything.

Davren let his gaze move from Lysander to the window, commenting innocently. "The gardens look particularly lovely today....but I must be getting back to my own duties." He graced Lysander with a dashing smile, bobbing his head slightly. "It was a pleasure to see you this morning. Take care, Lysander." He turned and made his way not only back to the throne, but out a door behind it. As it shut, he simply summoned another crystal to keep an eye on the blond as he strode to his office.

"Goodbye," he replies uncertainly, suddenly not sure if he wants Davren to leave or stay longer. But soon enough he's left in the throne room, and turns to look at the remaining goblins. Ah. He knew even the ones who were pretending to have not been listening had heard what he and The King had been talking about, even if they had been somewhat quiet. He begins to head for the door he'd entered through, wanting to at least be out in the hall.

None stopped him, but a few curious eyes followed, and predictably, the racket went up at least 5 notches once both he and the King had left the room. The hall is quieter, and very empty, save for the decor.

#writing #creative writing #romance #slow burn #labyrinth #fae #faerie #fae courts #our writing #lab au

2 notes · View notes

amidalogicdive · 7 years

Text

Weather Permitted

Title: Weather Permitted

Rating: General Audiences Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Relationship: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Nyx Ulric Tags: Fluff, Kissing, First Love, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Love, Friends to Lovers

Ao3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12444246

Summary: When they first met, it had been the night of his birthday. Where they got to know one another was in the Kingsglaive arena - weather permitted.

Written for the NyxNoct Fluffpocalypse (Fall 2017)

OCT. 21 - Seasonal: Weather

The first time they trained together it started to rain.

Some might have perceived that as a bad omen, but Nyx knew better than most. To his people, it symbolized rebirth, renewal, devotion… and love. Looking back, he knew everything happened for a reason. Rain, like emotions, found ways into the dried and cracked earth. It flowed deep within and allowed life to burst forth once again.

Like the earth, Nyx had closed himself up for so long without knowing the rain, he should have known that there would be cracks. Realized that a young man, with eyes like the ocean depths, would find a way through those cracks and into his heart. That one silly little prince would help him learn to live, to breathe. In the end, he would be the one to bring life back to him again.

But he wasn’t one to look at things any deeper than he had to. In the end, rain was rain, and his past was unchangeable. This arena was just another building that sat in the middle of the capital city. A place where a glaive and his prince stood, damp and laughing, as the storm passed overhead. Stubbornly, he told himself, it would never be more than that.

The first time he missed the prince it was snowing.

They had been training for several months at this point, and Noctis had become a common sight around the compound. None of the glaives ever treated him like a prince, because he refused to treat them like common immigrants. Over time Noctis had memorized all their names, where they were from, families, birthdays. They didn’t know how he had, but it didn’t matter. It had grown into a mutual respect, which had made an impression on them, and so the glaives had adopted him as one of their own.

Even Drautos, who seemed live and breath, 'annoyed', couldn’t dislike his presence when he’d found a bottle of his favorite Lucian whiskey on his desk for his birthday.

So when the prince wasn’t around the glaives noticed, Nyx noticed. It was too quiet, and the arena didn’t feel quite right without laughter echoing within its walls and a familiar smirk flying by as the glaives played warp tag. But, the prince had fallen ill, and the king had declined all visitors aside from his advisor, Ignis. Of course, that didn’t stop them from letting Noctis know he was missed. Pelna had gotten a card, and all the glaives had filled it with a mix of well wishes and threats to get better soon. Three of the glaves had then cornered the man and made sure the card got into Ignis Scientia’s hands to be delivered to the prince.

Upon his return, he’d chided them while trying to hold back his laughter, for scaring his poor advisor. Nyx would later find that the card had taken a special place on the shelving behind Noctis’ desk.

The first time he realized he might love the prince the cherry blossoms fell.

Nyx had been assigned as a guard to the heir at Noctis own request. The two wandered the spring festival where the Prince has spoken to the crowd in place of his father. It was a cool spring day, and the sun was high the sky as they talked. He had tried denying the truth, the feelings that had started to well up within him. But, seeing him like this made it harder for Nyx to hold it in.

It wasn’t right for a glaive to love their monarch, or in this instance, future monarch. Nyx knew he couldn’t control his emotions, so he kept the feelings locked away. When Noctis laughed, looking up at him with eyes like sapphires and tugged him towards one of the festival’s booths; Nyx denied the flutter of his heart was anything more than what he'd felt for Lib’s or Crowe. Having been alone so long he couldn’t think straight, and he was simply mistaking duty with desire.

So he pushed it down deep within him, continuing to make excuses, and hoped that no one would see his true feelings.

The first time he said those words the summer heat had been unforgiving.

They had practiced throughout the day, coats discarded as the people of Insomnia called to their numerous gods for the rain to fall. Summer had run long this year, and the two had given up on any real training early on. Now they sat at the top of one of the ruined monoliths that occupied the arena, watching the sunset. Nyx laid on his back as Noctis talked of his coming birthday party in a few days, though his true day of birth had officially passed. He was eighteen now, a man, and would officially take the oath accepting his place as his father’s heir.

But Nyx had noticed something wasn’t right. He’d been too quiet, preoccupied with other thoughts and seeming distant at times. When he pointed this out, Noctis had simply looked at him, an oddly sad smile on his face.

“Do you think it’s wrong if royalty falls in love with a commoner?”

Those words had hit him like ice water, making him sit up to meet his gaze properly. “Little Prince, I think you can love whoever you want to love. You’re the sole heir of Lucis, and I have a feeling your father would get over it. Anyway, you’ve got a good heart… who could deny you someone that you’re honestly in love with?”

“You think so?”

He nodded, even though his heart rebelled against the words he spoke. “Yeah, I really do. Your father cares for you and so do the Lucian people. All they want is your happiness. Besides, anyone who loves you should consider themselves lucky. You’re quite a catch, Your Highness.” Chuckling as he said those words, Nyx could only pray it came off as supportive. After all, he knew all too well what it was like to love a prince. Knew that they couldn't be more than what they were at this moment. Friends, comrades, associates… A Prince and his Glaive.

So, to say he was surprised when a pair of soft lips covered his own, was an understatement. His mind shut down as his body relished in the fact that the prince was kissing him. As hot as the day was, the kiss was scorching. As a wandering tongue met his own, he wrapped his arm around the man’s waist to pull closer.

When they did part, panting and gasping for air, Nyx held those dark eyes for a moment. Trying to read them, to see the truth behind the veil that Noctis so often wore. But the veil was gone, his feelings were written there like a book that had been laid open before him. “Noct, am I..?” He stopped the words, afraid that speaking them would ruin everything.

“I think I love you, Nyx.”

He could have died at those words. The walls that he’d held up for so long cracked and crumbled around him as he leaned his forehead against the prince’s and smiled. “I think I love you too, Little Prince. Very much…”

Noctis returned the smile, cupping his cheek gently - and in the distance, it rained.

#nyxnoctocalypse #deathbyfluffweek #nyx ulric #nyxnoct #Noctis Lucis Caelum #its so fluffy!!!#asdfhjkl #logicdive writes #ffxv fic #ffxv fanfic #ffxv fanfiction

20 notes · View notes

canvaswolfdoll · 8 years

Text

Canvas and Video Games

Have I talked about my Video Game history? Feels like I have, but I also can’t remember doing so. I’m also running low on possible essay topics, and haven’t finished off any media that I can review[1] recently enough to do that instead…

So, hey, you nerds, let’s talk about Video Games!

Because that’s obviously been a massive influence on my life, what with… my entire brand, really. Egads, am I a nerd, sitting here with a New 3DS in a charging cradle in front of me, trying to work out how to do better quality streams and deciding to write an essay about Video Games.

It all started with my brother, old Foxface himself. As the family lore goes, my parents once didn’t want video games in the house, what with… the social stigma, I guess? It was different times, alright?

Point is, my brother’s speech teacher was all ‘Hey, you know what may help with speech? Video Games! Get him video games.’

And so my parents did, despite any reasonable connection or evidence in the above argument.[2]

So they bought him the Sega Genesis, the only non-Nintendo console we’ve ever owned. He played Sonic the Hedgehog! Also… no. It was mostly just Sonic.

Obviously young Canvas was also interested in the wonder of interactive media, and the running rodent, so I’d watch him play, and occasionally step in as Tails or try to play it myself. And I was terrible at it.

Eventually, the Nintendo 64 was released and added to our fleet of hardware, and we never looked back! Ha ha!

That’s the console that we really cut our teeth on, with it’s many beloved games, from Mario 64, Star Fox 64, Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (first Zelda game I was ever aware of), and so on and so forth. We ended up with most of the major releases.[3] Also Mischief Makers for some reason.

It was also the height of Video Rental stores, though I never got to choose games to rent. Vulpin stuck with Space Station Silicon Valley which… might deserve an HD Remake, to be honest. Such a bizarre premise people would eat up, nowadays.

The Game Boy Color arrived, carrying Pokemon and various shovelware, plus a few Zelda Games. Tried my best with them, but for the longest time I never actually completed a video game, or got that far, though I did finish Johto in Gold, which is something.

Gamecube came out, the Dreamcast died, and I began to become aware of the surrounding culture as my capabilities to use the internet matured. We also continued a trend of our person game libraries for the generation growing larger than the last. Lots of GameCube games.

Animal Crossing was a Christmas gift early in the cycle, and it was the first video game all of the kids in the family played, to various extents. Elder Sister was her usual perfectionist self, paid off her house, then pretty much stopped playing video games forever afterwards. Little Sister still plays the occasional game (mostly Paper Mario), but largely it’s just Foxface and I who are deep into the gaming scene.

But, like so many things, tracking each and every experience would be a rather sisyphean task, so I should try and refocus here.

Video Games have always been a presence in my life, and thus had its effects on my creative self, from imaginary friends to the little stories I’d crafted pacing the backyard. They were my chief insight into narratives and various genres, design (whether costume or set or mechanical). Nintendo Power helped educate me on the concept of news and industry, as well as the community that could grow from a hobby.

In fact, Pokemon was the main driving force behind the event I joke is the time I’ve ever made friends myself,[4] being approached while reading a book related to the franchise during second grade. It was nice.

Learning about the internet and GameFAQs hinted towards the wider world and culture, and eventually I came upon 8-Bit Theater, which fired up my love of comics in a big way. Comics and stories made from and about elements of video games? That’s so cool!

Then Nintendo Acres happened.

The diminishing use of quality sprite work in video games makes me sad, by the way. There’s just something about the GBA/DS era graphics that invokes joy in my heart, by now even Pokemon has left sprite work behind for models, and even kitschy independent games tend for the super minimalistic version of 8-bit and… whatever one would refer to Atari graphics. Had I artistic talent, I would slather my media in 16-bit evocative of Friends of Mineral Town or The World Ends with You.

In fact, I think that’s one of my main hurdles getting invested in Stardew Valley[5] and Undertale. They just look ugly, even by the standards of kitschy 8-bit style. Frisk is malformed, and all the Stardew characters are in the wrong perspective for the rest of the world. Sprite work can be so beautiful, and yet no one puts in the effort anymore.

Look, sprites aren’t the only aesthetic I love, just so we’re clear. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, I just prefer bright, cheery worlds. Tale of Symphonia is one of my favorite games, if not my absolute number one.[6] There’s just something very nice about a fantasy world that looks lush and vibrant, where you’d be happy to live just for the scenery. The Tales series and Rune Factory also made me very positive about oddly intricate characters in fantasy. I’ve never liked the dirt covered fantasy of… let’s say Skyrim. Fantasy should be about escapism, grand adventure in grand landscapes, not the crushing reality of medieval times.

More Ghibli, less brown is what I want in general.

I may be an oddball for the elements I look for in video games. I like RPGs (obviously) but there’s very few members of the genre I actually enjoy. I flat-out can’t stand western Video Game RPGs.

What I usually look for in games is both a compelling narrative and interesting mechanics, with allowance for the ‘Classics’ and trendsetters.[7] This is something I find lacking in Western-Style RPGs, with their focus on customizing and granular stat advancement. Sure, I understand someone’s desire to try and put a popular character in an Elder Scrolls, or place some curious limitation on themselves while crawling around Fallout’s wastelands.

But because the game needs to allow the player to make whoever they want, it severely cripples the writer’s ability to write the “main” character into the plot, lest they step on the agency of the player. So, from my perspective, we end up in one of two situations: the PC is a non-entity in the plot, with the narrative happening around and to them instead of with them. Or, we get a Mass Effect situation, where they treat it like Choose Your Own Adventure, and you end up shooting a dude when you thought you were just going to arrest him.[8] That’s why I much prefer being handed a protagonist with a history and personality.

Now, those familiar with my tabletop philosophies, and namely my disdain for randomized Character Gen because it takes away player agency might be tilting their head at this inconsistency.

Well, it’s a scale thing. I realize Video Games have a limitation, and thus it’s unreasonable to expect it to cater to you completely. Tabletop, however, allows endless narrative possibilities, because it’s being created in the moment. So, with Video Games, I’m more willing to just let the story take me along as an observer, like a TV Show.

Which is to say, I don’t really project on the Player Character, and am I happy with that. It’s a division between game and story that may seem odd, but it’s what I look for: every piece having a narrative purpose, especially the loser who’s carrying us on our back.

So, narratively, I prefer the style of JRPGs (also, I like Anime and it’s tropes, so…). Yet, I have never really gotten engrossed in any Final Fantasy Game, because list combat is very dull. I mean, grindy, set the auto-attack against opponent style of Western RPGs[10] aren’t much better, but at least it’s got a hint of visual interest.

What am I left with? For a while, Tales of Symphonia, but now I’ve got Rune Factory, with it’s rather simple combat, but still mostly fun (helped along by other elements), and especially Fire Emblem, which what I wish battlemat D&D combat could be: quick, clever, strategic.

Though I’ve only played the 3DS installments thus far, due to lack of accessibility to the early games, which I couldn’t be bothered to try when they were released. Did try the first GBA game to be ported over, but that ended up having the worst, most micromanaging tutorial I’ve ever seen, and thus I am incapable of completing the first level.

I know how to play video games, Fire Emblem. I am aware of the base concept of pressing A. Yeesh. You’re worse than modern Harvest Moon games!

I’ve also never gotten invested in military FPSs, as a mixture of finding the gameplay boring, difficulty mastering it, and mockery whenever I was roped into playing one with friends.[11] In general, I don’t like being in first person view, as I find it limiting to controls, and responding to things that get behind me is annoying, because I flail trying to find the source of damage, then die.

Though, with time, my avoidance has decreased. Portal has a first person camera, but in a mixture of a more puzzle focused game and excellent integration of tutorial into gameplay,[12] it takes an agitating limited camera and makes it very workable, while also teaching the player how to interact with a game in first person.

I also played a little Team Fortress 2, and now Overwatch. The difference with those two over, say, Modern Duty or whatever, is the tone. The two games are competitive, yes, but also light hearted and goofy. Death is cheap and non punishing, the addition of powers make character choice widely different and fun, and, when I do get a little frustrated, it’s very easy for me to take a breath say ‘It’s only a game’ and let it go. Which is important when playing video games, sometimes.

Because that’s what games should always be: entertainment. It’s why I don’t try and force myself through games I’m not enjoying or lose interest in (though obviously I do try and come back and finish the plot) and why I very rarely strive for 100% completion. Because I want to enjoy myself, not engage in tedious work.

It’s also why I don’t care about ESports. Because I don’t care about sports. People doing something very well doesn’t really appeal to me. High-level chess players aren’t interesting to watch or study, seeing two teams of muscled people charge one another isn’t fun, and fight scenes with the usual punching and kicking is dull.

Because, what I look for in most cases is novelty.

Seeing a master craftsman make a thing once can be interesting, just to see the process. See a master craftsman make the same thing a 100 times is uninteresting, because nothing new is happening. When it comes to sports and games, it’s more interesting to see novices play, because they mess up in interesting ways, spot and solve problems, and you get to sit back and go ‘Now, I would’ve done this.’

So, yeah, not a big fan of Counterstrike and League of Legends news, even besides the toxic communities.

Public perception of video games turned rather quick in my lifetime. It used to be such a niche hobby, enjoyed by nerds and children and so such. Yet… well times change, don’t they? Obviously children grew up and brought games along with them, but the hobby has expanded to become mainstream, a console being as necessary as a television, where those without are viewed as bizarre, despite it not being a physical need.[13] We all remember the children who noted their family doesn’t have a TV (or keep it in the closet), and I wonder if XBoxes have gained the same traction.[14]

If only tabletop games could get the same treatment.

Though I still wouldn’t be able to find a group, but still…

Now that I’m an employed adult, I have even more control over the games I play. Which means a Wii U and a custom built PC.

That I built myself, because I also enjoyed Lego as a child.

Between the two, I tend to have a wide enough net to catch the games that interest me. Sure, there’s still some PlayStation exclusives I’d love to try (Journey, Team ICO’s works, plenty of Tales games…)[15] but some of those games are slowly drifting over to Steam, and I already have a backlog, so I can wait it out.

That’s my stumbled musings about video games… Oh! I stream them! Over here! Watch me! I love to entertain and amuse!

Also maybe consider supporting me through patreon? Then I can put more resources into being amusing!

And share any thoughts you have. I’ll listen. Until then…

Kataal kataal.

[1] Did finish rereading Yotsuba&! but there’s nothing to say about besides “Read it!” [2] Certainly didn’t help me. [3] Though not Harvest Moon 64. One day, I will slay that whale. One day… [4] The rest are inherited after old friends leave. [5] Someone on Reddit commented its port to the Switch may help scratch the itch left by Rune Factory. They are, of course, dreadfully wrong. [6] I still dislike do rankings. [7] IE, I’m not a big fan of hallway-bound FPS games, but have played through the Half-Life series. Mostly for the connection to Portal. [8] I know it was in the ‘Renegade’ position, but I thought it’d be played as ‘I’ll risk losing the Shadow Broker to book this small fish’ sort of thing. I’m not very clever, okay?[9] [9] I actually never progressed much further than that. Perhaps it’ll be on CanvasPlays someday. [10] I don’t care if you have a list of subversions of this style, by the way. I really don’t. [11] I once annoyed a former friend for not knowing there’s an aim button. I didn’t know this, because I don’t play FPSs. [12] There’s a very nice Extra Credits about this somewhere. [13] Though as a cultural need… [14] Nintendo Consoles, of course and unfortunately, being considered the off-brand. [15] the PS3 port of Tides of Destiny. Yes, it’s a disgrace of a Rune Factory game, and it was also on the wii but… well, sometimes I’m an insane collector![16] [16] I don’t even need a PS3. I can get it used for, like, five bucks from GameStop…

#canvasrambles #video games

0 notes

washedupreviews · 6 years

Text

Review: Latitude Festival 2013

It’s a long drive from the North-West to the South-East of England, but it’s a journey three of my friends and I made to get to Latitude Festival in Suffolk. Latitude is a music and arts festival that this year celebrates its ninth birthday. The line-up looked ideal for us but we had no idea what to expect from the festival itself. A ticket is in the region of £200 depending on what you package you get. Eight hours after we set off we were completely set up in the campsite and sitting outside our tent with a beer.

We were situated quite close to entrance to the main arena, near the campsite facilities and shops. The late afternoon sun beat down on us and for a few hours we simply did nothing. Behind our tent there were a group of teenagers, probably approaching around 16 years old who had warned us that they were going to be loud all day and night. We laughed as we remembered our first festivals and assured them that we wouldn’t mind, in fact we intended to do much the same. Although, they were oddly irritating for a reason I couldn’t put my finger on at first. Directly in front of our tent was a young couple who, again, we couldn’t believe were much more than 15. The boy bared an uncanny resemblance to actor Michael Cera and as such we named him this for the entire festival. After looking around slightly further afield from our tent it became apparent that this age demographic was heavily represented on our campsite. Perhaps more interesting, was the family tents that were dotted around nearby. This wasn’t quite what I was used to with other festivals, but it seemed a welcome change. That was until on the way back from the toilets I overheard a posh sounding mother chuckling and saying ‘sipping Shiraz in a field! How terribly quaint.’ This sent a prickle of irritation down my spine, but I took it in my stride.

Later that evening we ventured into the arena to see what there was on offer and what we found blew us away. You enter, down a path between towering trees at the bottom of a field. There’s lights hung amidst the branches showing the way in the twilight and a general buzz of activity in amongst the forest on both sides. As the forest opened out onto a small slow flowing river music burst out from concealed speakers in the trees. We looked around and saw a crowd had gathered on the river bank. As we walked over a woman swept across the water on a wire dressed as a swan followed by a burst of coloured lights. The music was Arcade Fire’s Rebellion (Lies) and as the song beat on, building and building, we were treated to an array of acrobatics all on the surface of the water. Huge Chinese lanterns were set off, drifting upwards into the early evening sky as it all came to an end. It was stunning. We were amazed at what we’d stumbled upon and hoped for more throughout the weekend. When we returned to the campsite the party had more than started and we went into it head first and sprinting. We consumed a lot of alcohol that night, and didn’t stop until the early hours. We met a lot of people, some we liked, some we despised but it seemed a good mix. Michael Cera seemed to have been told firmly that he would be having an early night by his other half. The teens behind us did their best to live up to their earlier warning, but seemed to peak too early. The Shiraz drinking families did a surprisingly good job of joining in with some of the obscure occurrences created when you infuse young people with alcohol. I for one was too inebriated for anyone to irritate me anyway.

When I awoke the next morning, I was hazy but more than ready for the day ahead. The tent was similar to an oven in the heat and so I got outside, lit a cigarette and looked out across the campsite. Everyone seemed to be in a state similar to mine, and I was quite content to sit back and let the morning happen to me. Michael Cera was snapped at by his girlfriend as she sneered ‘I would be having soup right now, if you hadn’t lost the tin opener!’ He could only apologise. They talked as if they had long been unhappily married. After an hour or so, the first of the teens awoke behind us and shouted loudly to his campsite that they should all get drunk again. He may have said it like an utter tosser but he made a good point. As my friends got up one by one, we cracked a new beer and made a plan for the day.

The line-up at Latitude cannot be faulted. Particularly 2013, had such a broad selection of brilliant music. On the Friday, we caught I Am Kloot and Stornoway who were both pleasant folk bands to listen to as we lay in the sun. As the crowds grew throughout the day the heat became more intense and the air incredibly dry. If you joined a crowd at one of the outdoor stages the dancing would kick up a huge amount of dust which you would breathe in for the duration. It wasn’t comfortable, but it didn’t ruin it.

That night The Maccabees supported Bloc Party on the mainstage. This was always going to be the highlight for me. Two of my favourite bands one after the other, it doesn’t happen often. Both indie bands from London their styles contrast but there are certainly crossovers. The Maccabees have developed from tight, fast indie pop, to beautifully produced expansive soundscapes and everything in between. Bloc Party have been through similar areas but have come out sounding incredibly raw and rock heavy on their latest album, Four. On that Friday night, unsurprisingly, they were both brilliant, sounding as good as I’d ever heard them. They both played set lists that seemed tailored for me with The Maccabees ending with their glorious album ending Grew Up At Midnight from Given to the Wild and Bloc Party opening with the epic So Here We Are. Bloc Party were and still are in a bad way, with arguments between musicians tearing the band apart. There is talk that the set at Latitude could be one of their last gigs. However, that night, admittedly with a replacement drummer, they put differences aside and played with immense energy. For those few hours, I was completely in a world of my own. I loved every second. Saturday, we were treated to a huge range of music, comedy and poetry as we really tried to get around and see as much as possible. Latitude is certainly full of things to do. It is a very good idea just to wander around aimlessly at such a diverse festival as you come across many hidden gems. Keith Allen’s Anti-Establishment Club on the Literary Stage was one such gem. A series of intelligent speakers getting things off their chest, promoting creativity and diversity. Another example being Andrew O’Neill the transvestite black metal stand-up comedian who is far from what you might expect, if you could possibly have any expectations from that description. It is beyond eclectic and you will be amazed what you can find if you look around.

Something that I noticed on the Saturday was how annoyingly reserved the crowds were. With some of the more raucous music you want to be in a crowd that will move about. I often found myself in a very static crowd who simply watched the band at the front. Maybe this is some people’s preference when watching live music, but I certainly prefer to be in an active crowd that jump, dance and sing along.

This was perfectly represented when we went to see Alt-J who were by far the most disappointing band we saw that weekend. Their album, An Awesome Wave, is a unique and interesting mix of technical indie and dance with a hugely diverse range of influences and samples. It is a very well-crafted album, but, unfortunately their live show gives nothing more. They may as well have just pressed play and left as they had very little presence on stage. The crowd reflected this, with posh teenagers staring blankly at the front with little movement other than the odd singalong part. As we were leaving I could hear them all saying how amazing it was and wondered if we’d been at the same gig. On the Sunday morning, I was sitting outside the tent again in the sun with a cup of tea. Michael Cera was opposite me reading Game of Thrones, quietly enjoying the sun. His future wife’s voice emanated out from within the tent ‘Would you stop reading those stupid fantasy novels and come and help me find some clothes!’ He proceeded to close his book, look up at me and sigh. Then he disappeared into the tent. I couldn’t quite believe what I had seen. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I went for laughter as I thought that it was probably the Shiraz drinkers that had raised such a girl. That was the last I saw of Michael Cera.

The now familiar voice from behind the tent echoed round the campsite. He had recently declared himself the Ketamine King and more than anything I wanted his reign to end. Perhaps it was just bad luck with where we had camped because we met plenty of very approachable and easy-going people throughout the weekend, but Latitude is full of arseholes. The group behind our tent encapsulated the general mood of that age group at that festival, and it wasn’t the mood I’d come to expect at a festival. They were obviously quite privileged kids and they had discovered expensive and popular narcotics which they were very proud of and made it very well known. It became immensely irritating to the point where we went to other people’s campsites just to get away from them. Unfortunately, that personality seemed all too common at Latitude.

The last band I saw that weekend was Foals. Before the festival my interest in them had started to slip but seeing them live brought me right back to them. Another band that has evolved in a similar way to The Maccabees becoming more electronic as they have advanced. For the last act of the weekend, the crowds began to move, people started to dance and for two hours thousands of people got hugely grubby in a storm of dirt and sweat. If this isn’t your thing, don’t go to a proper music festival. Foals played a massively impressive set and were a perfect close to the weekend and the party went on long into the night.

I guess the true test of a festival is whether I’d go again. The truth is I would if the line-up was as good. But looking at the 2014 line up, I think we may have got our timing right. I can’t see them topping 2013 in terms of acts for quite a while. However, it’s important to understand that the line-up isn’t everything and of course, really, the weekend is what you make it. Perhaps I am too easily irritated by people, but, unfortunately, the personality that Latitude attracts is hugely unattractive to me.

0 notes