#this is dark penetrating theatre

[howardvince]

dancehall places - howard/vince

[rationaliity]

reunion | dr ratio x gn. reader ( 18+ )

this is !! actually kinda cute !! best friends to lovers ! literally its not obvious that they want each other until two paragraphs before the sex, so.. sorry about that, teehee. but i just thought that the bickering was cute and i left subtle clues that they wanted each other. tags : finger-fucking, penetration, pretty vanilla sex, reader's intimate area is only described as a ' hole ', best friends to lovers, mutual pining, loving sex, missionary position. ratio is kind of ooc here but who cares its cute. word count : 3700 on the dot.

everyone has their natural opposite, someone that they involuntarily gravitate towards even though they're so very different. and for dr. ratio, that person who was his natural opposite, his twin flame, was you. you were his best friend, his closest companion, even though you could be.. unique sometimes. everyone within the intelligentsia guild knew your schedule by now, and that you would come down once every three months to spend a week with the guild and veritas, and, for those weeks, veritas would be the most alive that anyone would see him.

" veritas ! " you yelled, running down the ship runway towards the entrance of the intelligentsia guild ship, your luggage in your hands rolling behind you. " dear veritas ratio, i am here ! "

veritas arched an eyebrow, barely surprised at your enthusiastic greeting. he always wanted to maintain an air of indifference, but here he was, waiting for you at the end of the dock anyway. " always the dramatic one, " he says, feigning exasperation as he called out to you, " how delightful it is to see you again, despite the chaos you bring with you. "

you dropped your suitcase mid run as you bolted up to him, wrapping your arms around him and laughing, quite literally running into his arms. " how is my best friend ? how has the guild been treating you ? ah, these last three months have been quite the storm ! we simply must catch up soon, the moment i put my things away in my room ! also... me ? dramatic ? are you sure we're talking about the same person ? i have never been known to be dramatic in the slightest. "

you feigned hurt as you pulled away from him, dramatically clutching your chest as you overdramatized your words, " my dear veritas, you wound me with your accusations. i have never been known to dabble in theatre. i am always and will always be a very serious and put together individual. "

veritas suppressed a sigh, his hand instinctually coming to grab the small of your back as you pulled away from him, keeping you in his hold for a moment longer, although he looked away, pretending to be offended by unable to hide the warmth in his eyes. " you're not dramatic ? perhaps i have to reevaluate my accusations, " he chuckles lightly, meeting your gaze. " your room awaits you as always. "

your free hand reached up to his face, taking his chin in your hand as you tilted his head, examining him thoroughly. " you haven't been sleeping well, " you pointed out, your tone a mix between disappointment and worry. " has the guild been overworking you ? do you need me to have a word with your seniors ? you mustn't neglect your health, you know. you have dark circles under your eyes, and your eyeliner is smudged slightly. "

veritas paused, caught off guard with your concern for him, but ultimately brushing it off as inconsequential. after all, he was taking care of himself, just a little overworked right now. " thank you for your concern, but i assure you, i do not require coddling. however, i suppose i should pay attention to my appearance, for your sake. "

" perhaps you should ! definitely for my sake ! i would simply combust on the spot if i found out my dear veritas was being overworked ! what would i do if you had no energy to enduring my yapping ? what would i do if you could no longer ground me, and allowed me to run amok with all of my terribly genius ideas ? " you pulled away from him while you talked, reaching for your luggage that you had left behind, your mouth running pretty constantly now that you were in his presence again. " why, the world would be turned into a chaotic mess ! there would be no order, only me running around with enough glitter and balloons to send you into a heart attack !"

" as you can see, if you're tired, this is surely the future that will come true. you must keep yourself healthy, for the sake of the world, you see ! " you laughed as you walked with him inside of the intelligentsia guild, your voice echoing in the otherwise quiet hallways.

" i'm certain the world would crumble without me, " veritas agreed, unable to maintain his stoic demeanor amidst your infectious laughter, " an apocalypse brought by your hand.. quite the disastrous scenario. " he shook his head at your antics, subtly grabbing your suitcase from your fingers, although his gesture did not go unnoticed by you. " the universe needs me to prevent such a fate. "

as you walked, a few people nodded to the two of you, each one getting an excited wave from you, as if you were a puppy excited to see so many people you knew within the same area. a member greeted the two of them, breaking the unspoken rule, and unprepared for it. " ah, you're back within the guild ! " he greeted warmly, stopping the two of you in your tracks.

you smiled at him, your hands behind your back as you spoke. " yes ! i absolutely must bring some color to this monotonous guild ! it's a pleasure to be back, as always. however, at the moment, i'm spending some quality time with my dearest veritas, so i will have to cause mayhem around the guild another time. " your words stung, no matter how gently you spoke them. you always prioritized spending time with veritas above all else, even if that meant turning other people's attention down. after all, you only got to see him once every three months, you had to make this time count.

" o-oh ! my apologies, i'm sorry for the interruption, " the man sulked off, embarrassment coloring his cheeks as he left the two of you alone. veritas didn't say anything, already well aware of where your loyalties lay, although it didn't stop him from holding an air of pride within him.

" perhaps we can find a balance between your chaos and my order during his trip, " veritas suggested as you walked, giving you a playful nudge. he opened the door of your room for you, letting you walk in first. as you settled into the room, you collapsed onto the bed dramatically. this room had became your home away from home, a place that you felt truly comfortable in. meanwhile, veritas settled into a chair, crossing his legs, watching you with a discerning gaze.

" ah, it's so good to be home ! " you whined, pulling a pillow from the bed into your arms, snuggling with it against your chest. " i have been running around like a dog ! world after world, to every corner of the universe, it seems ! " you looked over to veritas, unable to hide your smile, although you were trying to act depressed. " but i suppose i can't be too mad at it, since i enjoy it. what about you, my dearest ? how are your students treating you ? have you been letting more than 3% graduate this year, or is your strictness the focus of the class still ? "

with your attention on him, he feigned sympathy for you, listening intently. his lips twitched into a smile at your dramatization, unable to resist poking fun at you. " oh, the hardships of exploring the universe. truly, a terrible fate, " he deadpans, his voice holding no hint of amusement, although you had gotten used to his dry humor by now. he leaned back, his voice holding a hint of his usual demeanor.

" my students always struggle to meet my expectations. however, a diligent student shall always prosper under my guidance. "

" ah ! perhaps i should take a visit during one of your lectures ? i could whip the students into shape, you never know ! " you teased, rolling onto your tummy, your arms folding underneath your head as you looked up at him, kicking your feet.

he chuckled, raising an eyebrow at your suggestion. " i fear your interference might only worsen matters. they wouldn't stand a chance against you, " he seemed to miss the spark in your eyes until it was too late. your hand reached out, gently grabbing his from his spot in his chair, pulling him until he stood up and got closer to the bed.

" sit, veritas, " you commanded gently, patting the bed with your free hand next to you. " you are far too away. " you picked yourself up to face him properly, on your knees on the edge of the bed as you pulled him into a brief hug, which he reciprocated almost immediately after a moment's hesitation. " i missed you, veritas. these last three months have made it feel like forever since i was back in the intelligentsia guild. "

veritas relaxed into your embrace, his arms curling around you, the tension in his body easing. " indeed, the last three months have dragged on without you. your absence is palpable in my life. i'm.. glad to have you back, even if only for a little while. " he pulled away from your hold, his eyes searching yours, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable.

you couldn't help but laugh a little bit, your gaze soft as you admired your best friend. " ah, the great veritas ratio, renowned doctor and scholar of the cosmos, and yet, his best friend is not a scholar, nor a doctor, and i have only graduated once, unlike my dear veritas who's graduated over eight times. we are so different, and yet, he can't ever seem to shake me off of his tail. a pity, really, or is it ? i think i keep things interesting here. you would get bored if i wasn't here to occupy you, surely. "

" indeed, i find myself eternally cursed with your companionship, " veritas quipped, a note of fondness in the jest as his hand moved from your back to your cheek, gently caressing it with his thumb as he held the side of your face. you nuzzled into his touch almost immediately, your eyes closed. " a fate worse than death, no doubt. yet somehow, i survive. "

this is always how it goes: you make it back, and within the hour, the two of you trap yourselves in the bedroom to share in each other's presence to alleviate the stress of being away from one another for so long. both of you yield to the familiar routine, your bodies responding instinctively to the invitation. your world shrinks to the confines of the bedroom, to his arms, and to this moment.

you hesitated, your gaze flickering down to his lips as you looked at him, but you quickly looked back into his eyes, your words soft as you laughed. " ah ! consider me your own personal devil, keeping you forever by my side. "

you were just friends, right ?

so why were his lips on yours before you could recognize what was happening ? and why were you melting into the kiss, your arms keeping his body close to yours, your kiss deepening, his hands finding purchase on your hips, anchoring you to him. you reveled in the fire ignited by your passion, causing you to gently moan against his lips.

" ver-veritas- " you moaned out against his lips, your eyes fluttering closed as you allowed him to kiss you like this, a kiss that started off smooth and gentle, but got rougher as it progressed, more needy, more desperate. until your lips were sloppily smashed together, your hands grabbing at his vest, hands bunching up in the fabric. his robe slipped off of his shoulders and now hung lazily at his waist, just waiting for him to take his belt off so he could take it all off.

veritas took this time to grab you and push you onto your back on the bed, your legs spread willingly, inviting him closer. his assertiveness surprises you, but you welcome it wholeheartedly, the change in situations so swift that it threw you for a loop. had he seen you look at his lips so briefly ? what was getting into this man ? you did not take veritas for the kind of man to lose his control, and yet here he was, hovering on top of you, his body trapping yours.

he calls your name, his voice thick with emotion, betraying his usual persona. he gazes at you, his eyes mirroring his actions, the want in his eyes obvious. " i'm.. unable to escape you, indeed. but it's a gravitational pull that i find myself willingly falling into. you drive me mad. in ways i'm sure you find delightful. " his fingers trail down your sides, lingering on your hips, holding you firmly, his fingers digging into your body slightly. " let me have you. please. "

everything froze for you, and yet, you relented power to him, more than a little glad to be under his command. you were used to being the one in control during your day to day life - you're loud, commanding, and you have a million opinions that you need to voice. you were a chatterbox, and had a penchant for the love of doing stuff a little on the wild side.

there was only one person who could ever properly control you, properly tame you. he was veritas ratio, your best friend. you trusted him with your life, so you knew you were safe in his command. " mm- veritas, " you whispered softly, your fingers working on his vest, pulling it off of his body, your hands now roaming his naked torso, admiring the muscles underneath your fingertips. " you sure do know how to make a person want you, you know that ? " you teased, picking your head up from the pillow to trail kisses down his neck, " or perhaps, it's just me ? "

veritas' breath hitches, a hint of satisfaction coloring his tone. " its you, " he admitted, his hands working to undo his belt, letting his robes completely fall off of his body, the fabric being thrown onto the floor below you, before he started to work on your clothes, peeling off each layer with a haste that left you breathless. his hands roamed freely now, mapping your body with reverence.

" for tonight, you are mine, " veritas whispered, his proclamation of your body left in the air. " in every sense of the word. i want you, i want to lose myself in you. " he leaned down, each word punctuated by a kiss on your collarbone. " just as i've lost myself in countless debates and lectures, you are my focus. my obsession. "

you may be navigating new waters together, but it felt like a natural progression, the passion filling both of you up completely, pushing you past the brink. amidst the laughter and subtle flirtation, neither of you were even aware of the desires building up between the two of you until it spilled over. each touch, each whispered word, carried the weight of your connection. he pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder, relishing in the feel of your skin under his lips. " shall we proceed, or do you wish to draw this out further ? "

the two of you were completely naked now, your clothing long forgotten. you were reveling in the rushed, needy connection the two of you shared. you pulled him closer into another kiss, your hips bucking up into his hand as it hovered over your vulnerable hole. " you're the only one i want to do with with, veritas. please, you can.. take me, if you would like. please, touch me. " you pleaded, your voice cracking, showcasing the needy, desperate person underneath all of your confidence. now that you were done with the theatrics, your need for him was on display. you were striped bare, both physically and emotionally.

" please, " you whimpered, your hips bucking up again to meet his hand, hoping for just a little friction. " i need you to fuck me, veritas. i need to feel you inside of me. "

" how could i deny you ? " veritas whispered back, his breath hitched at your plea. he dipped a single digit into your warm and willing hole, his finger moving slowly at first, testing your readiness for him. then, he picked up the pace gradually, adding a second digit as he began a rhythm. you moaned, throwing your head back in pleasure as he finally gave you a taste of what you so desperately craved.

" please, " you urged once more, your pleas falling on receptive ears, although you weren't sure what you were asking for this time. yet, there's no rush in his movements, every caress of his calculated to heighten your desire further. your walls contracted around his fingers, so tight that it was hard for him to even thrust his finger inside of you, your body warm and inviting.

" your reactions make me.. greedy for more, " he admitted, his fingers deep inside of you, drawing another round of moans from you as you felt the familiar coil build up within your tummy. your heart pounds, synching with his rhythmic thrusts as he fucked your hole with his fingers. " you're ready for me, aren't you ? " veritas asked, his voice laced with expectation as you nodded helplessly.

you spread your legs for him willingly, pulling your knees up to your chest, giving him the perfect access to your body. " please, fuck me, veritas. " you begged, giving him enthusiastic consent to continue and pleasure you both, hissing as he withdrew his fingers. he positioned himself properly in between your legs, his gaze fixed on your face, as he guided himself into your hole.

you whimpered, your eyes rolling back as he entered you inch by inch, slowly penetrating you. his cock was so much bigger than your fingers, and it stretched you out as far as you could take it, your walls constricting around him, as if to milk his orgasm out of him immediately. " fuck..! fuck, you feel so good inside of me, veritas ! " you cried out.

veritas holds still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, fighting the urge to thrust wildly. " relax, darling, " he instructs, his voice firm but gentle, " let me ease into you properly. "

as he finally sheathes himself inside of you completely, you couldn't help but grab at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. " f-fuck- " you cried out, as his hips began a slow roll, each movement calculated, as if he were afraid of hurting you.

" control, veritas, " he whispered to himself as if he needed a reminder, his breath ragged, " don't lose control yet. "

your eyes followed the path of his body as his cock disappeared into you, and then resurfaced. veritas struggled to maintain control, his fingers digging into your thighs, keeping them pressed against your chest and spread for him. " our bodies were made for each other, " veritas' possession of you was clear, and you didn't argue with him, knowing he was right.

each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body as you writhed underneath him, " you fill me up so, so nicely, veritas, " you gasped as he fucked you gently. you knew he was trying hard to control himself, desperate not to lose himself in you, but you had already long gave up control, and you wanted him to as well. " i-i want you to fuck me so hard i'm seeing stars, veritas. please, " you begged, moans slipping from your lips with every thrust of his.

veritas' breathing becomes erratic, your pleas for roughness seeping into his mind, breaking down his barriers. " oh, fuck- " he groans, his voice low and gruff, " what have you done to me ? " without warning, his hips piston faster, his movements becoming more forceful. you asked to be fucked stupid, and he's all too eager to oblige.

" fu-fuck..! just like that, veritas ! " you cried out, your body responding to his new pace, his thrusts becoming sharper. with each thrust inside of you, your moans grew louder, fueling your mutual desires. you felt the coil build up again, threatening to spill over at any moment. your entire body tensed at the prospect of an orgasm, your mind going hazy as you lost yourself in his body.

" does this satisfy you ? " he breaths against your skin, his voice laden with lust, as you nod eagerly, unable to manage a coherent sentence, " i'm almost there, please. just hold on a bit longer. " he could feel you nearing the precipice. your bodies move in sync, your connection electric as you adjusted to each other's needs, learning each other's bodies like you knew each other's minds.

" ready for me, darling ? " veritas leaned forward, spreading your legs further apart so he had access to your face, his lips pressing against yours in a sloppy kiss. " i'm so close- fuck- "

your body responded eagerly, your back arching towards him, and you whimpered against his lips, your mouth open to let him kiss you, drooling slightly. " i- i am too, veri- fill me up, make me yours..! " you couldn't hold on anymore, your orgasm exploding inside of you, causing you to moan helplessly against him, your bodies becoming one entirely. he couldn't control himself anymore, his hips meeting yours as his eyes shut for a moment, his jaw clenching, wanting to prolong this for as long as possible, but he couldn't hold it back anymore.

" i- fuck, " he growled, pulling out of you, his hand dropping from your thigh to his cock, stroking himself for a moment as he milked his orgasm out of himself, his cum splattering all over your stomach and chest, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, both of you finally coming back down from the high of being with each other in such an intimate way.

" ve-veri.. " you whispered a little, your legs dropping down, hurting from where they had been bent so far for so long. you both knew what this meant, and for the first time in a really long time, you were at a loss for words. you had no idea what to say to him, how to even approach the conversation that the two of you were going to undoubtedly need.

but somehow, you weren't worried. this was veritas, this felt natural. he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss on your cheek. " let's discuss it after our bath, no ? i believe we have a lot to talk about. "

sure. you could handle a bath with veritas.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Marie Doro (Lost and Won)—I had never heard of this woman before the prelims a couple of weeks ago, but oh my GOD I have not been able to stop thinking about her since. Look at her!! She was often typecast as delicate, fragile types on stage and screen, but in real life she was "intelligent, an expert on Shakespeare and Elizabethan poetry, and possessed a penetrating humor and a sometimes acid wit"(!!!!) and known for bringing vibrancy and intelligence to all of her roles. Unfortunately most of her films have been lost, but she was considered a highly sought-after lead actress through the '20s, at which point she retired from acting. In her later years, she went back to school, taking university courses in theology, physics, metaphysics, and philosophy. She was also reportedly close friends with Maude Adams and Mercedes de Acosta, both known for their lesbian relationships, which has led some (me) (but also others) to speculate that she may have been lesbian or bi herself. She has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame! She was Charlie Chaplin's first love! She was so beautiful??? I want her to recite poetry for me while we picnic in the park.

Pina Menichelli (The Fire, Padrone delle Ferriere)—ITALIAN SILENT MOVIE STAR!!! SHES HOT!!!

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman. (remember that our poll era starts in 1910, so please don't use propaganda from before that date.)

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Marie Doro:

Unfortunately nearly all of Marie Doro’s movies are lost, and I don’t know a lot about her, but as soon as I came across Marie for the first time, I fell in love with her. The early Edwardian era is my favourite decade for fashion, and Marie wears it all so well! In every photo she looks like an angel made out of porcelain, too perfect to be real. She was Charlie Chaplin’s first love, and he remained in love with her for years after their first encounter, and let’s be honest, who can blame him? He said about her in his biography:

‘She was so devastatingly beautiful that I resented her. I resented her delicate, pouting lips, her regular white teeth, her adorable chin, her raven hair and dark brown eyes. But, oh God, she was beautiful! It was love at first sight. At the theatre I would time the moment that she left her dressing room so as to meet her on the stairs and gulp 'good-evening.' When I met Marie Doro again, it was like the second act of a romantic play. After we were introduced I said: 'But we've met before. You broke my heart. I was silently in love with you.' Marie, looking as beautiful as ever, said: “How thrilling”.

Doro retired from filmmaking in the 1920s and became very reclusive after that, so unfortunately there’s hardly any footage of her to watch. I feel sad that more people don’t know who Marie Doro is, because she’s very important to me.

Linked gifset to see Marie in action

Pina Menicelli:

[mydearzero]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖈𝖍 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕬𝖇𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖍 | 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐄.𝐌. 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

MASTERLIST

Summary: Eddie's new campaign is brutal. But what happens when you get sucked into the game of D&D, Jumanji style, and encounter Eddie under the mind-control of a vicious beast?

Warnings: dark!Eddie (noncon, dubcon, mind-control, telepathy, degradation, humiliation, blood, dacryphilia) smut (penetrative sex (f rec), oral (f and m receiving) creampie, overstimulation, forced orgasm, rough sex, outdoor sex) angst, predator/prey dynamics.

THIS WORK IS 18+ MINORS DO NOT READ OR INTERACT

This also won't make a whole lotta sense D&D wise, but I tried lol. I don't know what else to say about this one y'all.

4.2K words

beta read by @mypoisonedvine

Eddie's latest campaign was taking over your life. He had been preparing it for weeks beforehand, ensuring it would be the longest and most gruelling campaign to date. The research had been brutal. Eddie wanted your help but didn't want to let you in on too many details. 

When the time finally came to play, it was nearing the end of summer. Mr Clarke had indulged and given one (1) universal key to the school to the Hellfire Club. How he'd trusted the bunch of you with it was beyond your comprehension. Damn Henderson and his inability to be disliked. 

So here you were, in the theatre room, blocking the windows with trash bags and tape to obstruct any light. The new campaign had something to do with an amphibian creature, which was already more info than Eddie had been willing to divulge. 

The rest of Hellfire would arrive shortly, so you and Eddie rushed to finish the last details. You noticed a couple of books stacked by Eddie's chair, mainly ones to help him with the campaign. Scribbled on the top of his notes was the name of the campaign. 

"The Search for the Aboleth" 

That was all the club had been allowed to know about the campaign. They knew of Aboleths, but with Eddie as Dungeon Master, you could never be sure how the creature would be implemented. Whether the search would be one for a friend or a foe. You'd have to play his game and hope you survive. 

When the others finally arrived, they crowded around the table, observing what they could of what they would be up against. Eddie sat on his throne, a proud smirk dancing on his lips as he watched the club members. 

The excited chatter died down as Eddie's demeanour changed. It was game time. Silence overtook the room as everybody took their place around the table, glancing at Eddie in suspense. 

He started telling the tale of the Aboleth, a wicked creature of the sea with the ability to breathe on land and covered in thick, grey mucus. Similar to Mind Flayers in ability but older, more fearsome and highly intelligent. With their racial memory, they inherited the memories of all their ancestors. 

Long story short, this was not a friend you were to search for. It was a vile enemy, one with psionic abilities and capable of some critical damage. 

The Aboleth you were looking for had enslaved a party member, making him their loyal servant. Your objective was to find the Aboleth, slay it and free your party member. 

Hours were spent that evening debating, rolling dice and screaming in despair when member after member perished from their injuries. Your gaze fell upon Lucas, the only remaining member besides Gareth, still fighting by your side. His look was one of sorrow. There was no coming back from this. 

Eddie cut the campaign short, then. It was getting late, and Hawkins was under a permanent curfew. Time to go home and sleep off the post-d&d jitters before letting them fall back into place the following afternoon. 

The boys tailed out of the classroom, leaving you with Eddie to clean up and rearrange the table. Everything to be able to continue where you'd left off. You heard Eddie shuffle after you'd cleaned up the figurines and dice, catching his gaze as he blew out the last candle, leaving you in total darkness. 

You heard a dark chuckle from the abyss. It sounded like Eddie. It had to be him, right? Who else could be here? A deep chill settled in your bones as you walked backwards, stepping away from the table. 

You tripped over seemingly nothing, perhaps your own feet, sending you toppling. You expected to hit the floor, but the direction of gravity appeared to change. Suddenly, you were falling forward. Your hands shot out to catch yourself, but you were surprised when your back eventually hit the floor, knocking all air out of your lungs. 

Head spinning with disorientation, Eddie seemed to finally have turned on the lights in the classroom. Your chest rose rapidly, trying to catch your breath as your eyes adjusted to the brightness. Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowed as you took in your surroundings, still on the floor. 

This wasn't a classroom. 

Where you were, exactly, you couldn't say. It was too dark yet too bright at the same time. It was then you felt a pain shoot from your leg up to your thigh. Looking down, you noticed the surface you'd fallen on. A combination of rocks, dirt, sticks and other things you'd find in nature. The ground was moist. One particularly large, sharp rock had lodged its way into your calf, leaving a gnarly wound, oozing blood. That would explain the pain. 

"Wanna roll on your luck, babe? Maybe it'll heal, maybe it won't." Your head whipped around. Eddie? 

He was holding a vial containing red, glistening liquid. A Potion of Healing? When had he managed to make such a convincing prop? He tossed you a D20, eyebrows raised in expectation. Was he seriously expecting you to roll for your possibility of taking the potion when you were bleeding? 

You grabbed it and glanced at Eddie before rolling it into the dirt. Eddie gazed at the number facing up, tutting at the outcome. "Seems like it's just out of reach. How unfortunate."

You knew he must've been joking. The potion was probably cherry-flavoured Kool-Aid. So why were you filled with feelings of anguish at your inadequate roll? Why was he still not helping you stop the bleeding, stop the pain? 

Another dark chuckle, the same as you'd heard before. You observed Eddie, helpless as he laughed. He met your eyes, an unsettling feeling developing in your gut. His eyes were clouded, distant. You attempted to get a read of his feelings, maybe his thoughts. But nothing. He was a shell. 

You tried to pull yourself from the ground, groaning as you felt the sting of the rock lodged in your skin. You pulled it out with a pained yelp and tossed it aside, scanning the wound. It wasn't too bad. The blood made it look worse than it really was. Though that was a comforting thought, the uneasy feeling in your stomach remained. 

You pushed yourself onto your feet, holding onto Eddie's bicep as you steadied yourself. Another sharp pain shot up your spine, but you had no choice but to ignore it. You had to figure out where you were, how you got here and what the hell was going on with Eddie. 

You took in your surroundings, baffled by the fact that it had been a theatre classroom a few minutes ago. No chairs, tables or even windows were in sight. You weren't even inside a building. You craned your neck to gander at the sky, the moon closer to Earth than you'd ever seen. If this even was Earth. The atmosphere looked like one of the drawings from Eddie's books. 

Something was definitely very wrong. 

Your hand was still resting on Eddie's arm, but he was cold to the touch. He must've been here for some time, longer than you, seeing as you were still warm. He inhaled deeply through his nose, closing his eyes before turning to you. "Wanna go for a swim?" 

You looked confused at the question. Swim? At a time like this? He grabbed your shoulders and turned you to the giant lake behind you. A monstrous beast was writhing among the smaller fish. Its eel-like stature was an eerie sea-green colour. Three red eyes on the top of its head were watching your every move. You turned slowly to look at Eddie, not daring to make any sudden movement. 

"The Aboleth... Isn't it beautiful?" 

A red sheen covered Eddie's eyes— you knew he was gone. You ripped yourself free from his grip and ran as fast as your legs would carry you. Your bleeding calf was screaming at you to stop, but the sound didn't overpower Eddie's taunting laughs as he followed you unhurriedly. 

It was clear now the party member enslaved by the Aboleth was him. You didn't know where you were going, but you knew you had to get away from the creature, get away from Eddie. You hid behind what looked like a tree in an attempt to catch your breath. The mysterious noises emerging from your surroundings didn't take away from the suspense, adding a soundtrack of howling critters and winds to your despair. 

Your mind wandered to the campaign. Was this some sick joke? An immersive experience Eddie had prepared? You wanted out. Your mind flashed back to when Eddie had introduced the creature. 

"Aboleths are fish-like amphibians of immense size. They are both extremely cruel and highly intelligent. They have the ability to change creatures' consciousness to that of a mindless servant. This allows Aboleths to keep slaves, known as Aboleth Servitors, which they dominated and kept captive through their mind."

The heaving of your chest diminished along with the fast pace of your heartbeat. You listened for Eddie's footsteps, but it was in vain. You wouldn't have been able to hear them over the sound of the forest. 

You examined your leg but were stumped to see the wound had slowly closed in on itself, only the remnants of blood left behind. It no longer hurt. Relief washed over you. Maybe you'd be able to do this. Perhaps, you'd be able to run. 

An icy breeze blew through your hair, a quiet gasp escaping you. You slammed your hand over your mouth to cover the sound, but the hand running through your hair and down your neck told you enough. He'd found you. 

He took a strand between his fingers and brought it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. Your eyes were squeezed shut, wishing for this nightmare to end. To wake up, whether it be in the classroom or your bed. For Eddie to be the sweet, caring person you knew he was. Not this... this carcass possessed by a monster. 

"That healing ability of yours won't save you, sweetheart." He whispered in your ear. Goosebumps raised at his words, covering your body as a chill went down your spine. You took in his words and looked back down at your leg. 

Your D&D character had healing abilities. The Aboleth was part of Eddie's campaign. Was this The Search for the Aboleth? Because if so, you'd found it, alright. You needed real Eddie's guidance on what to do. Give you your options. Let you roll to see the damage you'd do. Be your Dungeon Master. If this genuinely was Eddie's campaign, there had to be a chance to win. 

"I can hear the cogs turning in your head, sweetheart. There's no use." It was Eddie's voice, but it wasn't his words. This wasn't Eddie. You had to remind yourself that it was the Aboleth. 

You tried thinking through your options. Which other powers did your D&D character have? If your healing ability was somehow working, others must too, right? 

You searched for eye contact with Eddie. Maybe if you could communicate with the part of him that was still in there, you'd be able to free him of the Aboleth's control. You shouted his name as loud as you could without the use of your vocal cords. His smile turned sinister, mocking. A voice echoed in your head. 

'If a creature communicates telepathically with the Aboleth, the Aboleth learns the creature's greatest desires.'  It was the memory of real Eddie describing the Aboleth's abilities. He had explained it earlier when Mike had tried the same thing on one of the other Aboleth servitors. You should've known not to try. 

A searing, white pain shot through your head as Eddie placed his palms to your temples. He was digging through every crevice of your brain, using the Aboleth's abilities to explore everything you desired most in life. His eyebrows raised in surprise, a disbelieving scoff leaving his lips. 

"It seems the thing you desire most... is me."

His hand covered your mouth before the pleading gasp wanting to escape could do so. His other hand found your waist, holding you as you clawed at his arm. You struggled to breathe as he pulled you to a clearing. He finally let up as he pushed you to the ground harshly. 

"Eddie... Please..." You begged as he towered over you. He had to be in there somewhere. You weren't sure what his next move was, but every bone in your body knew it couldn't be anything good. 

He bent down and grabbed your ankles, tugging you to him. The skin on your arms scraped as he dragged you over the stone ground. A metallic scent hit your nose. Undoubtedly, you were bleeding again. 

"We're just giving you a taste of what you want. It can all be yours if you come willingly." Eddie mumbled as he got on your level, rubbing up your thigh. You tried to scoot back, away from his touch, but the grip on your ankle was relentless. 

"Unwillingly, it seems. It's not like you have a choice." He grumbled as he ripped your bottoms in one go. 

"Eddie, stop!" You shrieked and struggled and tugged to pull your ankle from his grasp. He ignored your pleas with a menacing laugh as he continued undressing you. You tried to cover yourself to the best of your ability, but it was useless. Whatever had taken over Eddie's body had given him the strength of a dozen men. 

"You're all the same, you humans." Eddie moaned as he palmed himself through the fabric of his jeans. "Getting worked up over nothing, desiring nothing but other humans. This one is just like you. Desiring you. Wanting you most out of anything any world has to offer. Pathetic, breeding folk." 

He grabbed your breast hungrily, bending down to take your nipple in his mouth. He took it between his teeth, tugging at it painfully. He slapped your thigh— hard. A warning to not make any more noise. You hadn't been aware you'd been pleading with him to stop continuously. That was going to leave a bruise. Or it wouldn't, depending on whether you'd dreamt up the healing abilities. 

"Even this body. It can't resist. It really has a mind of its own when presented with an object of its desire. Ridiculous."

He took his time with your tits and nipples, sucking, pinching, kneading, anything that pleased him. It wasn't like you had the strength to stop him. Subdued cries repeatedly left your mouth, but your struggle diminished as your body betrayed you. 

Eddie grabbed your ankles and pulled them apart, spreading you open for him to see you on display. A tear rolled over your temple. At this point, it wasn’t out of pain or desperation. It was out of embarrassment. Embarrassment at the heat in your abdomen, the glistening of your cunt. Eddie saw it. You knew he did. 

He sought eye contact, the glint in his eyes knowing. It was almost like regular Eddie when he knew something you didn't. Almost. 

"You're such a disgusting whore. Already fucking wet?" You felt defeated. You wanted to fight, but the powers granted to Eddie saw right through you. They saw what you liked. What would get you soaked in seconds— even when you least wanted it. 

Both his hands ran up your thighs as he sat on his knees. His thumbs ran over your folds, spreading them so he could get a proper view of your pussy. You pleaded once more. He could still stop. He could still salvage this. He didn't let up, plunging the tip of his thumb inside, feeling the rim of your entrance, tugging at it and stretching it painfully. 

A quiet sob left you when you knew this was really happening. You'd imagined sleeping with Eddie. Sucking him off, taking his fingers, bouncing on his cock. You'd imagined it all. But this? This had never been amongst the possibilities your mind had fabricated. 

Eddie bent down, keeping his hands on your knees as he inhaled the scent of your arousal. "Haven't smelled anything that delicious in decades, maybe even centuries." He licked between your fold gingerly, groaning as he did so. You felt the vibrations of his voice reverberate against your clit. You clenched your lips shut along with your eyes, not wanting to give in to the sensation. 

His mouth closed around your clit, sucking and tonguing at it, gauging your reaction. Your hand slapped over your mouth. You refused to enjoy this. This wasn't Eddie. It might look and sound like Eddie, but it wasn't him. 

"Oh, but it is me. I've just been... enlightened."

Eddie's eyes closed in bliss as his tongue dipped inside. His thumb circled your clit rapidly. Whines built up inside your chest, but you didn't dare let them out. This shouldn't feel good. Your fist clenched as he watched you like a hawk, relentlessly pushing you closer and closer to the edge. 

"Please, Eddie!" You yelled out as the hand covering your mouth slapped the floor, searching for any leverage. The worst part was that you weren't sure what you were pleading for. You wanted him to stop. But you didn't, couldn't have him stop now. 

"Come for me. Come on my tongue like the desperate bitch you are." The pressure on your clit and in your abdomen increased. You tried to hold it. You couldn't give this monster the satisfaction. Eddie smirked as he noticed your struggle but knew you wouldn't be able to resist much longer. 

When his mouth diverted its attention back to your clit, three fingers slipped inside roughly, curling them just right. You cried out as you clenched your teeth. You had to hold it. You had to. 

But you couldn't. 

The repeated come-hither motion combined with the attention to your clit sent you over the edge with a loud scream. You saw white as your chest heaved, but your breaths were short-lived when you were picked up by your shoulders and pushed down on your knees punitively. You heard Eddie unbuckle his belt, taking off his jeans but leaving his shirt. 

His hand came up to your chin, pushing your cheeks with his fingers. Your mouth opened of its own volition, giving him exactly what he wanted. "If I feel any teeth, you're dead. Got it?" He snarled viciously. You nodded as a tear fell down your face. You hadn't even noticed you'd begun crying. 

You felt vile as you sat with your knees in the dirt, proof of your orgasm dripping down your thighs. You heard Eddie gurgle before bringing your face close, spitting in your mouth. He took his cock in hand and brushed it over your lips, gathering the spit that hadn't made it inside before pushing past your lips. 

He didn't give you room to breathe, holding the back of your head as he pushed until the tip hit your throat. His other hand found yours, bringing it up to cup his balls. "Leave it there, play with them." He grunted as he increased speed. He smirked when he felt you gag, pushing just that tiny bit harder to feel it again. 

"You're even prettier when you cry for me. With those big, fat cry-baby tears rolling down those adorable cheeks?" He laughed as he wiped them away. Your eyes were almost as red as Eddie's were under the control of the Aboleth. 

You felt more tears escape your eyes when you realized that despite all this, gagging and being unable to breathe around his dick, a low simmer of heat once again developed in your nethers. Your free hand itched to relieve the tension, but you placed it on his thigh instead, steadying yourself against his quick thrusts. 

Eddie's hips stuttered before they stilled, releasing inside your mouth with a loud moan. He remained still for a second before pulling out, tapping your cheek with the palm of his hand. "C'mon, open up. Show me."

Your face was one of misery as you slowly opened your mouth, letting him observe the mess he'd made. "Good girl... See? Isn't this exactly where you're supposed to be? What you're supposed to do? On your knees, serving your master?" The smile on his face was filled with pride and insult. 

He pushed your shoulder, sending you collapsing back to the floor. You cried as your head hit the cold stone. You felt dizzy as Eddie towered over you, pushing your legs open and positioning himself between them. "Please, Eddie. No more. Please."

Your begs went unanswered as Eddie placed his hands on your knees, lining himself up before brutally pushing inside. The stretch was painful, but you'd already come once. The slick from your previous orgasm was enough lubrication for him to slide in and out at a gruelling pace smoothly. Your pleas slowly diminished into small whines and moans, no longer being capable of holding them back. 

Eddie bent down as he continued thrusting, licking a stripe up your neck before nibbling on your earlobe. "I know you're loving this. You don't want to, but you can't help it. I know you want me to destroy you. Whether it be this version or the one you're comparing me to. As long as I look like Eddie Munson, you're gonna come for me. Cream all over my cock when I pump you full of my cum."

His voice was a mere whisper, but you knew he was right. As long as it was Eddie, in any shape or form, you'd come undone. His hair tickled your neck as he hung above you. He changed the angle of his hips abruptly, along with his pace. You moaned loudly at the unexpected abuse of your most sensitive spot. 

"See?" He groaned as he placed a kiss on your neck. Now that the dam of your moans had broken, you couldn't suppress them flowing out. The vulgar sound of his balls slapping against you combined with your broken moans echoed through the clearing. 

His hand left your knee to stroke your clit with ruthless pressure and pace. Mixed with his cock hitting the right spot over and over and Eddie sucking on your neck, it was too much. Your senses were overwhelmed. Your head was still spinning from hitting the floor, but now it was also reeling with pleasure. 

You didn't have time to feel disoriented as Eddie ravished your cunt. The sharp jabs of his hips pulled everything from you, moans, whines, pleas and cries. Your hands made their way to Eddie's back, scratching vigorously as a means to ground yourself as you neared your second orgasm. Your hips started meeting his pace, desperate for release, hopeless for this to be over.  

You panicked as you felt him speed up, seeking his release. You were so close, but he couldn't come inside. You'd give everything to come, but not if it meant being filled up in return. Tears welled and spilt at the realization, hips unable to stop. Your mind fought your body as Eddie continued drilling into you. 

He bit your shoulder when you felt he was close. You were right there with him. "Scream for me. Scream my name." Eddie groaned in your ear as he came, spilling inside you, filling you up. You felt so full. He continued thrusting, squelching sounds coming from your cunt as you squeezed around him. 

Your whines became high-pitched as your eyes squeezed shut, coming on his cock as he laughed manically. A scream of his name escaped your mouth as everything went dark. 

"Eddie!" 

Silence overtook you as you suddenly felt heavy. You felt around you as you opened your eyes. You were surrounded by darkness. Your fingers touched the hardwood floor. 

Lights flickered above you as Eddie looked at you questioningly from the other side of the classroom. You looked down on yourself. You were fully dressed, appearing to have tripped over a bag. 

"You okay?" He questioned with a concerned expression. You nodded wildly, though cautious. Had you just hit your head? Had Eddie been here all along? How long had you been gone? Out? 

Eddie noticed your perplexed face and offered his hand to help you up. You took it and rose to your feet. Eddie frowned as he grabbed your elbow to examine your arm. He took your other arm, both had been scraped up pretty badly. 

"How'd this happen?" He asked. It couldn't have happened due to a simple fall on a hardwood floor, could it? You shrugged as your knees weakened. Was this still all in your head? Was this still possessed Eddie? He tutted as he released you from his grip. He turned to the table and grabbed the D20. 

"Wanna roll on your luck, babe?"

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

request for yan!villain Eros: What happens that after the kiss in the garden, mc avoids him like a plague (I wouldn't do that he's hot)

Yandere! Villain x Regressor! AFAB! Villainess! Reader part 2

I'M MAKING THIS A PART 2 OF THE CANNON PLOT BECAUSE HELLO?? THIS IS GOOD (the ask, not my writing LMAOOO)

I'm gonna start answering the recent asks tomorrow after I made my draft for our Theatre play! So be patient please (´∩｡• ᵕ •｡∩`)

Pookie you wouldn't do that to him, would you?? He would literally cry like a baby then burn the whole empire down 🥲

Don't believe me??

:)

This is short, but I wrote everything I can.

Eros sat inside his luxury carriage.

He's in front of your chateau, waiting for you to come outside.

It's been a week since he kissed you, and ever since then, you avoided him like the plague.

At first, Eros thought you were only shy. Maybe heartbroken over the fact that your fiance cheated on you.

But no.

No no no no...

You've been avoiding him and leaving him hanging.

What's that called again back in earth?

"Ah... She fucking ghosted me." Eros whispered to himself, gripping his fist. Even the leather gloves wasn't able to withstand the sheer force of his grip that it slowly ripped, and ripped. And ripped.

His patience was running thin.

He's not playing.

"Ah..." He brushed back his hair. His eyebags dark and deep, he stared at the ceiling, wondering where it went wrong. Then, the waterworks came.

Tears started to slowly drip down his cheeks as his eyes stung. His vision blurry, he lets the tears flow down to his neck or drip to his expensive outfit. He doesn't care. All he feels is the longing he had for so long for you.

He wants to see you, hold you, and care for you.

The memories of you dying in front of his eyes as the bitch who shall not be named blasted her magic straight to your chest.

He remembered how your whole body shook with resistance due to suddenly being hit with an elemental magic that is the opposite of you. Golden veins creeping up to your neck. Your eyes turning white. Your hair frying in the ends. He remembered it all.

He remembered how he was actually the one who insisted on you greeting the fucker (prince) and the bitch (Elysia). He naively thought that a closure was in motion.

He remembered how the guards, along with the prince, ordered for your arrest as a dark magic user. Elysia, smirking under her fan, woed about how the prophecy told her of how dark magic users are evil.

He remembered how he immediately fled from inside, running to your side, and hugging your comatose body. He remembered injecting so much dark mana into you so that you'll live. He remembered encasing the both of you with a barrier that no one can penetrate, and declared war then and there.

He remembered how his company became the sanctuary for dark magic users. He remembered how the top floors are converted to a hospital just to house you.

He remembered the pain, the agonizing, torturous pain he went through in order to achieve revenge on your stead.

He remembered blood. So much blood.

He was not the same anymore.

He remembered burning down the empire to the ground, walking in their blood as he carried your body to the throne.

So much happened, yet it felt like it wasn't enough.

And when he killed your comatose body and himself, and woke up regressed, he knew he had to save you.

He remembered seeing you alive and kicking again. It felt like a dream, crying into his bed, relieved.

Now, he's crying once more.

It's because he remembers everything.

He loves you, so much.

He swore in his last life that this would be his last with you.

The life where you are happy. The life in which you're not dead.

A life where you're not constantly being trampled on. A life where you're lifted up rather than being pulled down.

A life in which you're loved.

He's always been kind of an emotional mess since this life. But can you blame the man? He's been through so much for you.

But he will do it once again.

Not to prove himself.

Absolutely not. He doesn't care about himself.

But if it's for you, he will.

You're his beloved employee.

His love is extreme. He always knew this.

But why wouldn't a man bring the whole world to his beloved's feet?

Are they insecure? Do they think their beloved is not worthy?

Mixed frustrations welled up inside him once more.

He wiped his tears and sighed.

He doesn't want to do this, but if he wants to take revenge for you and offer the world to you, he will.

Hid gaze suddenly turned sharp and cold as he saw the Imperial carriage speeding to your gates. It seems that your... Ex fiance is desperate to get you back.

He once loved this guy as his best friend, but he's your tormentor. And he doesn't forgive tormentors. Your tormentors.

Dark tendrils leaked from the bottom of his well polished shoes, threatening to spike up and kill the prince who was yelling for you in front of the gates. Murderous intent leaking from his body as he cracked his neck and planned for an earlier war.

Heroes can sacrifice their love for the world,

But villains will sacrifice the world for their love.

[the-lonelybarricade]

A Blaze in the Dark - (9/11)

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

Hope you're ready for things to get spicy 🌶️🌶️ Also if you notice the chapter count going up, no you don't 👀

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

“You said what to his highness?”

Elain covered her face with her hands, unable to endure the expression on Vassa’s face. “Was it truly that bad?”

Peeking through her fingers, Elain noticed Vassa was too quick to shake her head, waving her hands as she said, “No! No, princess, not at all.” The laughter in her voice was scarcely reassuring. “I admit it was more direct than most ladies would dare—“

There was an odd sort of approval in how Vassa was grinning at her. As if she found Elain’s behavior delightful—either because it was amusing to watch her lady flounder so spectacularly at the art of seduction, like her misfortune was the comedy of a riveting piece of theatre, or because Vassa genuinely appreciated the courage it had taken.

Ignoring Elain’s mortified groan, Vassa soothed, “It’s a perfectly ordinary thing for a wife to ask her husband. And it’s good that you will be consummating the marriage.” With a slight glance towards the door, wary that the guards posted outside might be able to hear, Vassa leaned closer. “Though Lucien is careful about who he employs, servants talk. I was worried it would only be a short time before the King discovered that Lucien was not visiting your quarters.”

What would the King have done if he discovered such a thing? Elain decided it was something to worry about later. Lucien would be visiting her quarters, which was a much more pressing issue.

“Are you… knowledgeable about the act?” Vassa straightened a bit, nervous the way any lady might become at such a question and the implications of its answer. Vassa nodded, and Elain took that to mean that Vassa trusted her a great deal. Face heating, Elain practically begged, “Is there anything I should know?”

This was something Elain never would have discussed with anyone besides Nesta. If Vassa hadn’t witnessed Elain part ways with Lucien after dinner, Elain would never have brought it up. But as it were, Vassa took one look at Lucien’s expression and hardly waited until they were in the privacy of Elain’s bedchamber before she demanded to know what happened. Yet—now that they were talking about it, and Vassa had been the one to broach the subject, Elain felt relieved to have an outlet for the jumble of nervous thoughts that had been tangling a knot in her stomach since dinner.

Do you understand how a woman finds herself with child?

Yes. No. Not really.

Elain thought she had a sense of it, based on what Nesta had explained and what she had done with her True Love the night before her wedding. But that evening had been reserved solely for pleasure. Elain was not certain if those acts, the kissing and touching and tasting, also needed to occur during childmaking.

Would it be passionless and methodical, like Nesta had described? A clinical insertion into her body, not meant to be enjoyed, simply endured? She couldn’t imagine Lucien deliberately making anything painful for her, but perhaps that was merely the nature of the act. Her True Love had alluded to pleasure, but they had been interrupted before there had been any penetration.

Vassa hid a smile as she stood up from the sofa. The tight curls of her hair bounced with the motion, blurring like the soft, flickering tips of flame in the hearth. “Lucien has taken lovers over the years,” she said offhandedly. Elain resisted the urge to demand who—when—as Vassa continued, “From the rumors, they’ve never had anything to complain about. I trust as his wife, he’d take extra care to ensure you are enjoying yourself.”

“So it can be pleasurable?”

The word came out strained. Elain cleared her throat, concentrating on the fire and not the way Vassa was rummaging through her collection of nightwear for the most sheer, provocative negligee she could find.

“It certainly can be,” she hummed. “And I trust his majesty will do his best to ensure that it is. Especially once he sees you in this.”

Vassa held up a pearl-colored nightgown. Elain knew, having held that nightgown to her chest the first time she’d discovered it, that it fell much closer to her hips than her knees. She would have believed it was made for a child if the lacy bodice wasn’t designed to fit the breasts and curves of an adult woman.

A knock at the door severed Elain from her musings of what was considered appropriate attire for childmaking. The knock was gentle, though Elain felt it pierce through the door, flying straight into her chest where she could feel each rap against her sternum. There was no more time left to decide what to wear.

With a sly smile, Vassa laid the gown on the bed. “I’ll leave this here and let his majesty know you need a few minutes. Please change at your leisure and take some time to collect yourself.”

Elain nodded. She would express her gratitude to Vassa later, when she wasn’t worried she would stumble over the words. The door opened then shut, followed by a murmur of voices—Vassa’s feminine hum and one much lower, filling her with heat from just the indiscernible rumble. It was far too distracting to think of Lucien waiting on the other side of that door. Was he nervous, too? Maybe he was pacing like she was, while she tried to convince herself to cross the bedroom floor and actually dress herself in that tiny slip of clothing.

Elain shut her eyes, thinking momentarily of her sisters and the advice that they would lend. Nesta, cool and methodical, reminding Elain that the longer she delayed, the more severe her anxiety would become. Feyre, with a gleam in her eyes, goading Elain to try his patience. Test how long he was willing to wait. If she locked the door, would she find him asleep in the hall in the morning?

She elected to take the middle ground, as perhaps she always would—ever the balance between her eldest and youngest sisters. Elain embraced a little of each of them: Nesta’s iron will, steadying her footsteps as they carried Elain toward the bed; Feyre’s boldness, convincing her not to trade the nightgown for something more sensible. And then, there was the small voice in the back of her mind, whispering to her, you want this.

That was something that was uniquely hers. Her own heart, and its capacity for honesty. For knowing itself. She was nervous, but also certain that every beaconing beat of her heart guided her toward this. Towards Lucien.

The nightgown that Vassa selected opened at the front, allowing Elain to easily slide her arms into each side. She needed to tie the sides of the gown together using the thin, satin ribbons, which would have been a tedious process even if her hands weren’t trembling.

By the time she was done, Elain needed to stop in the bathing room to hurriedly wipe the sweat off her palms—and dab her skin with some floral-scented water—before she decided she was ready to present herself to Lucien.

When she opened the heavy mahogany door, she caught him mid-step through pacing the hallway. Thankfully, there was no one else in the hall to see how she was dressed, which also meant there was no one to witness Lucien coming to a complete standstill at the sight of her.

“Elain.”

He sounded stunned, though this was her room, and he had been explicitly waiting for her.

“Lucien.”

She may have sounded a bit stunned, too. That this was happening at all when he’d been so clear about his intentions and desires in this marriage, in such opposition to her own.

His mouth had dropped open, like he intended to say more, and was searching for the correct words. Elain glanced warily down the hall, uncertain if he had explicitly requested privacy or if she needed to be concerned that someone could round the corner at any moment.

She opened the door wider. “I don’t suppose you intend to stand out here all night?” she asked lightly. “I do hope I make better company than the corridor.”

“If it were anyone else, I would point out that the floors are polished well enough to see my reflection. And what company is better than my own?”

Elain offered him a small smile just for his attempt at lightening the simmering tension between them. “Anyone else, but not me?”

His eyes swept her over. “How could I deny that you are much finer company? “

Though the words were complimentary, his gaze lingered like he was refraining from speaking the full extent of his mind. Elain coached herself not to fidget beneath his scrutiny, even as her mind ran circles around how his expression shifted and how his mechanical eye spun and refocused.

Ordinarily, Elain likened her husband’s attention to a warm blanket. Elain always felt warmer, more settled, when Lucien’s eyes were upon her. She supposed it was no different now, except that singular blanket had been replaced by a hundred, a thousand. Now, her skin was uncomfortably hot as the weight settled over her, smothering her alongside the guesswork of whether her husband enjoyed what he saw.

Reading her expression, Lucien asked softly, “Are you certain you want to do this tonight?”

Was it with hope that he asked? Or dread?

Elain snagged the side of her nightgown, rubbing her thumb over the fabric. Was it possible that the negligee was too provocative? The last thing Elain wanted was to dampen his opinion of her, and now she wondered if her forwardness was working against that goal.

Fearing that she was rapidly losing her nerve, Elain nodded. Once. Twice. She crumpled the fabric into her fist and added, “I’m certain, Lucien… So long as you are.”

It sounded far more like a question than she had hoped.

Lucien took two long strides towards her. She should have retreated into the room to give him the proper space to enter, but her feet were cemented to the threshold, overburdened by all of those many, many blankets. His hand closed over the hand picking nervously at her nightgown, gently prying it away from the material. Elain held still, hardly breathing, as she allowed him to raise her hand to the left side of his chest and press her palm flat.

“Do you feel how fast my heart’s beating?” He whispered.

Indeed, she could feel it rising to her fingers, thundering like the water droplets that used to fall against the clay roofing tiles outside her bedroom window in Carterhaugh. She used to crack her window open on nights when it rained, willing to risk the water blowing inside if it meant she could inhale the scent.

That was how it felt to be standing so close to Lucien. Their hearts, the pattering rain. Her shortening breath, the tumultuous wind. And his smell, the woodsmoke and cinnamon, so unlike the moistened earth but invigorating in the same way. The same girl who used to perch at the windowsill now begged her to lean closer, to let the storm inside.

“Yes,” she whispered. Her fingers tightened, pulling against the soft linen of his shirt. “Does that mean you’re nervous?”

His hand, resting over her own, departed to grasp her chin. His heartbeat still thrummed beneath her fingers, echoed like thunder between her ears. He tilted her face up, pulling her focus away from his chest. Their eyes met, and he smiled. “Yes. But I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

With a hand at her hip, he gently walked her back. One step, then another, until they were far enough inside to shut the door. With those smoldering gold and russet eyes staring at her, Elain knew that Lucien was no gentle patter of warm spring rain. No—his touch at her hip was searing. He’d never be a cooling kiss against her skin, a breath of fresh air.

Lucien was something else entirely, a force she had never been prepared to seek out. Rain could cleanse and restore, but fire—fire devoured. Consumed. Razed, so something new could emerge from the ashes. The girl who used to welcome rainstorms wanted to know what would happen if she welcomed this, too.

She searched his eyes, steadying herself to weather the blazing fire within them. “What happens now?”

“Now,” he leaned closer until their lips were a breath apart, “I’m going to kiss you.”

Elain already felt dizzy. “That’s all?”

“No,” he said with a small smile. “But that’s how childmaking typically starts. Unless you prefer I refrain—”

“No,” she interrupted, fisting his shirt in an effort to close the rest of the distance between them. She could feel his breath dancing across her lower lip, and she could not stand the thought of spending another day not kissing her own husband. “No, Lucien, please—”

He kissed her before she could continue begging him to do so.

Kissed her, less like he was obliging her and more like some control within him had finally snapped. Lucien gathered her against his body, leaning so she was completely enveloped in his large frame as his hand slid into her hair and his lips parted over hers.

This was not at all like the kiss she had imagined. When Elain suggested having a child, she anticipated Lucien would comply solely out of duty. That his kisses would be slow and a tad rigid, delicate as the fragile line they balanced in introducing such intimacy into their otherwise platonic marriage.

She gasped under the urgency of his lips, and he used the opportunity to slide his tongue into her open mouth. Lucien groaned—a throaty, gratified sound that vibrated against her lips. He wanted this, she realized with a touch of wonder. Wanted her. That was all the encouragement she needed to grab at his shirt, yanking him closer with the same desperation he was using to touch her everywhere he could—her shoulders, her sides, her hips, her rear.

Eventually, he must have tired of leaning over because he lowered his hands to hoist her up, carrying her weight beneath her thighs so that their hips were level. Elain threw her arms over his shoulders, pressing her palms into his upper back to keep their bodies flush. She was the one who had to lean over now if she wanted to continue kissing him. But Lucien broke away to trail open-mouth kisses down her throat and across her neckline, his lips firm and sweet and lingering at each place he stopped.

Her head fell back, and she arched her body into him, winding her legs around his waist. It felt like she’d had several glasses of wine at dinner, warming and loosening her body, though in reality, she had been too nervous to eat or drink much of anything. Maybe that’s why her head was spinning, from the lack of supper and not from the intoxicating feeling of his lips and tongue.

His tongue. Gods, his tongue. He flicked it teasingly over her pulse, and she wondered if he could feel her heart flutter beneath. It was pounding in her throat, leaping like the flame that spread over her skin, pooling heat at her center until she felt drunk and reckless with desire. Elain could feel that he had hardened in his trousers, and his erection was pressing so deliciously between her thighs. She remembered the relief she’d felt, grinding against her True Love when she’d been perched in his lap, and she knew all it would take was a small roll of her hips—

“Gods, Elain,” Lucien gasped, breaking away from where he’d latched his mouth to her throat. She did it again and felt his fingers tighten where they were secured beneath her upper thighs. He bowed his head, resting his forehead against her sternum as he took several shallow breaths. His lips tickled, moving softly against her nightgown, like he was whispering a prayer too quiet for her to hear.

Then he lifted his head, and her mouth went utterly dry at the look in his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, glazed as he sent her a playful grin before placing his next kiss directly over one of the nipples poking through her nightgown. She cried out as his tongue laved over the silk, his teeth grazing just enough to make her squirm, to send her hips moving against his again. And again.

He swore. “Keep that up, and I fear we won’t be having a baby anytime soon.”

Elain stilled her hips. Her brows merged together, trying to decipher his meaning. There was something she wasn’t quite understanding about the mechanics if grinding against him would impede their ability to conceive. Was he trying to say that he didn’t enjoy the feeling?

Her husband laughed and shook his head, chasing away her worries with another open-mouthed kiss, this one slower and less frantic than the others. It warmed her body in a different way, and like thread spun to gold, all at once her lust became more refined, ravaging through her body under a different name.

Love, she thought.

This was what the novelists meant when they spoke of it. A golden light was growing in her chest, and she didn’t know when she had felt the first spark of it. Maybe on their wedding day, when they had first laid eyes on one another in that garden. Or maybe it was later, when he had stayed at her bedside for days, devotedly nursing her back to health. Whenever it had started, as he kissed her then, so sweetly she could almost trace it to an affection beyond primal desire, she could feel the light expanding in her chest until there was no denying it.

She was in love with her husband.

And now she would need to endure this intimacy with him, this lifetime with him, knowing he did not feel the same.

-

Lucien was going to die from his wanting.

Elain was so soft. Her skin flushed all the loveliest shades of pink while she gasped against him like music. Her hips would surely drive him to madness, but only if the little noises she was making didn’t achieve it first.

His wife. His beautiful wife. Nothing felt so right as being able to finally hold her like this, to touch and kiss her and—gods, feel how wet she was becoming against his trousers. Even if she had only asked for this because she ultimately wanted a child, there was no denying that she was enjoying herself. And he had scarcely even begun the honor of pleasuring her.

“Elain,” he said again.

He couldn’t help saying it, her name like a drug, or perhaps a symptom of one. Her lips were the more likely culprit, drawing him in again and again in the makings of a lifelong addiction. How did other men stand it, he wondered? He’d hardly been able to tolerate four days without her, and that was before she’d invited him to his bedroom. Now, he was convinced no one could ever draw him out of this room again, let alone convince him to leave the palace.

He groaned as he walked them blindly towards the bed, unable to pull his mouth away to properly watch where he stepped. He’d wanted to kiss her again ever since their wedding day, when his teary-eyed, reluctant bride had unexpectedly deepened their kiss at the ceremony. Elain had made the same quiet moan in the back of her throat that she was making now, and he never wanted her to stop making that sound. He was such a fool back then, deciding to go through with their arrangement, thinking there was a world where he could possibly live a life separate from hers and be fulfilled.

True love be damned.

His knees hit the edge of the bed, and he lowered her slowly upon it. He leaned over, bracing one hand above her head. The other trailed curiously over the ribbons that tied her nightgown in place. How fitting that she was wrapped in bows like a gift. He appreciated the ceremony of being able to unwrap her, this beautiful present that fate had delivered to him, his wife. Lucien could hardly believe that he was married to someone like her.

With near-reverent diligence, he tugged at that first bow at the top of her nightgown, promising to himself as the ribbon came loose that this would be the first of many days where he would do everything in his power to make his wife happy.

And perhaps, one day, she would love him back as desperately as he loved her.

Elain’s lips were kiss-bruised, and he had to resist sucking her lower lip into his mouth when he watched her bite it gently. “What comes next?” she whispered.

The ribbon came free, and the top of her nightgown fell open, exposing her collarbone. He ducked to press his lips along the delicate line, murmuring against her skin, “Now, Elain, I’m going to kiss down every inch of your body.”

His fingers snagged the next ribbon. Pulled.

“I’m going to make you come on my tongue. Then my fingers.”

Did she even know what that meant? She made a soft sound in the back of her throat as though in agreement, and he glanced up at her face to measure her reaction. Those big, brown eyes had gone so wide.

“And then…”

“And then?” she asked, so breathless that he needed to take a moment to reign himself in, remember why he was there in the first place.

Lucien swallowed before speaking, though he was well aware there was nothing he could do to prevent the roughness in his voice. “Then, I have the honor of fucking a baby into my wife.”

He saw—and felt—the way her body trembled. Was the word ringing through her, too? Baby. His wife wanted a baby. With him. With anyone, he supposed, but it would be their child. Her beautiful features mixed with some combination of his own. Lucien had been so convinced he had no interest in having any heirs. He’d felt no motivation to continue the Vanserra line, but now it was Elain’s line, too.

One day, this palace would be filled with the sounds of scampering feet, darting past with what he hoped would be heads of honey-brown hair, mischievous brown eyes. He hoped they’d smile like Elain, genuine and unrestrained and so utterly beautiful it made his chest ache. She would be radiant as a mother. And he hoped he would see that smile more. Every day, every hour.

He kept that thought in mind as he slowly climbed down her body, untying ribbon after ribbon. She arched her back as he nipped and kissed the tops of her breasts, noting with satisfaction that there were splotches of heat blooming across her chest. If that didn’t give away how flustered his wife was becoming under his attention, then it was evidenced by how she shifted, almost shyly, as he parted the nightgown wide enough to reveal her breasts.

Mother save him. She was breathtaking.

Lucien thought she ought to know how beautiful she was, but he didn’t know how to explain it to her without being crude. Her breasts fit perfectly into his hands, enticingly soft and smooth. He felt a dangerous temptation to leave them mottled with love bites, but for now he would be gentle. Let her adjust to having her body touched—worshiped. And maybe one day, she’d be comfortable enough to leave bruises on his skin, too.

She gasped as his mouth closed around one of her peaked nipples. He savored the sound, letting it sink through his body as his tongue laved against the delicate tip. He pulled away when she started to squirm, though part of him was enticed by the idea of teasing her all night just to discover what sort of creature emerged. Would she keep being so sweet and pliant, or would that wicked temper finally come out to play?

“Elain,” he said, more like a groan as he entertained the idea of his wife unabashedly taking what she wanted. Holding him down while she rode his face, his cock, his stomach— “Cauldron, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she whispered in a voice so much breathier than her usual way of speaking.

“Precisely.” He pushed up from her chest and took hold of her hand, guiding it hesitantly to the bulge in his trousers so she could feel how hard he was. Even the gentle friction of her curious hand through the thick fabric had him clenching his stomach and reminding himself to breathe. His words were practically gravel. “You’ve done nothing but lay there as pretty as you are, and I am already devotedly at your feet. What power you wield without trying. I am helpless, so thoroughly bewitched—”

“Are you accusing me of magic?”

Lucien laughed, hearing the strain in her voice and recalling the horror she’d expressed when discovering he could use magic. “Never, lady.” He moved down, letting her arm fall back to the bed as he leaned to kiss her again, his mouth lavishing the soft plush of her stomach, the curve of her hip. “Mind you, if this is a spell of your doing, I’m quite happily enthralled.”

“No spells,” she said. “I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“No?” He paused at the edge of the bed, nestled between her exquisite thighs, and offered her a devilish smile as he slipped the last few ribbons free, leaving her nightgown completely open. “Wearing something like that, I’d wager you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I-I—” her face was becoming nearly as red as his hair, though she didn’t move to cover herself. “I didn’t pick it out.”

A very distant, far-away part of his mind made a note to give Vassa a raise. Or an admonishment. It was unclear if the scrap of white lace had been chosen to torture or delight him, and he was too fixated on the pretty sight of the small wet patch dampening the fabric to care much about who selected it or why.

“Then pick one out for me next time,” he said. “Or better yet, pick out what you would like to wear.”

“Next time?”

Gods, did she think a baby would take after one night together? Later, he would explain to her how it worked, and hoped to convince her to let them try this every night so he might have an excuse to never leave her bed.

For now, with single-minded focus, Lucien began tracing his lips down the elegant slant of Elain’s hipbone to the seam of her underthings. Her hips bucked in what he marked as nervousness, and he gently pressed a hand on her lower abdomen to keep her still. He dared a gentle kiss atop the growing wetness at her center, relishing in the gasp that tore from her lips.

What had he been saying again?

It didn’t matter. He went in for another kiss, opening his mouth to lick her through the fabric. It was difficult to tell who he was teasing more by not simply ripping the thing down her legs and putting his mouth on her in earnest.

“Will—” she cut herself off with a sharp intake of breath. “Will we be doing this next time, too?”

Lucien would gladly do this every time, childmaking or not. He’d love nothing more than to spend every morning between his wife’s legs.

“Is that what you want?” His fingers hooked over the hem of the delicate lace. A savage part of him wanted to rip it clean off. But Elain was raised a lady, and he didn’t want to frighten her, so he slid the wet fabric politely down her legs.

“Lucien,” she whispered.

Gods. Fuck. The low light of the gas lamp glistened against her arousal, dripping from her swollen, pink cunt. It had spread onto her thighs, and he took the opportunity to swipe two fingers over the slickness there.

She watched, her lips parted in shock, as he immediately brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking as though they were coated in honey.

It was the hunger in her eyes, more so than her pleasant taste, that caused him to groan. His entire body was aching, particularly in his trousers, which were becoming far too tight.

“I asked you a question,” he said, lowering his face slowly towards that pink little bud at the apex of her thighs. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, Elain? My wife wants me to lick her pretty cunt? You say the word, and it’s done. Anytime, anywhere”

Her thighs started closing, but he caught them, pushed them wider.

“Don’t be crude,” she said, more huffy, a bit demanding.

Lucien hid a smile. There it was, the making of that temper. “I mean it,” he said, intentionally ghosting his breath against her wet skin. She squirmed a bit, and he had to bite his cheek to keep from fidgeting, too, thrusting his hips into the open, empty air. She had no idea how much she was torturing him, doing nothing but laying there so sweetly. “I don’t care where we are, what we’re doing. I’ll bend you over my desk. Or sneak beneath your skirts in the garden.”

“People might see us.”

He laughed. “Even better.”

His pride stirred at the way her hips shifted, trying to push closer to his mouth. She knew, he thought with a trace of allure. She knew it would feel good, which caused him to wonder precisely what experience Elain had with pleasure.

Did she touch herself at night?

Another time, he’d ask her. Might even beg her to show him.

Now, he offered her an obliging flick of his tongue, ever so soft. She whimpered.

Pulling away, he added, “Most princes brag about their wealth and accolades. Let me brag about how beautiful my wife looks coming on my tongue.”

“You haven’t made me come yet.”

Oh?

He offered a slow grin. “Forgive me, then. For getting ahead of myself.”

Without further preamble, he ducked his head to press a filthy, open-mouth kiss to her cunt. Her fingers immediately clawed at the sheets, and he barely had half a mind to grab her hand, placing it in his hair instead. He wanted to feel everything he was doing to her, wanted his scalp to sting with her pleasure.

A soft upwards lick against her clit had her breath hitching, her back arching, and he repeated that motion again and again, listening intently to every sound she made. He could get lost in the sensation of her—the way she tasted, and moaned, and ever-so-shyly began grinding her hips—for eternity.

He didn’t mind that it was messy. That the legs she tightened around his head were still slick with her arousal, smearing it against his cheeks. He wanted to be covered in her. And when her body began to tremor around him, he gently pushed her thighs wider, spreading them so he could chase her orgasm with steady, encouraging strokes of his tongue. His groans were lost in the way his face was buried in cunt, but hers—hers were perfectly clear, exhilarating.

“Lucien,” she gasped.

Yes, he thought, shutting his eyes. She was panting it now, her fingers tugging at his hair, pulling it from their neat leather tie. He didn’t care so long as she kept saying his name like that.

“Lucien, Lucien—”

Every instinct in him was chanting, Yes. Yes. Tell me who’s making you feel this way. Tell me who you belong to, who belongs to you.

“Please.”

Elain’s body contracted, and she gave a small cry as she shuddered around him. He continued working his tongue against her, even as she started twitching, pushing at his head.

“Lucien, please.”

He pulled his lips away just long enough to say, “I told you what would be happening next.”

Her response was disjointed, a broken combination of panting and pleading, though for more or less, he couldn’t quite decipher. When his finger dipped at her entrance, she made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, and he paused.

“If you want to stop now, Elain, I can come back—”

“No,” she said, yanking him forward by his hair. He grunted, and her grip softened. “Sorry. I mean please. Please keep going. If you want to.”

If he wants to. He could have laughed at how greatly his wife misunderstood his desires. Instead, he lowered her legs from his shoulders and drew away.

Elain made a sound of complaint, but it died in her throat as she watched him lift his body over her much smaller frame.

“Three things,” he said, stopping intermittently in his ascent to leave kisses anywhere that caught his eye. Her hip, her stomach, her collarbone. “Firstly, sorry has no place in this bedroom. In fact, I implore you to dispel that word from your lexicon. As a princess—as my wife,” he corrected. “It is your right to demand what you need. To take it, especially from me.”

She blinked like she was listening to the murmurings of a madman. Maybe she was.

“Secondly.” He leaned down for a kiss, hoping she wouldn’t be put off by the arousal coating his lips and chin. Part of him wanted her to notice it, to recognize how badly her body had been craving his touch. She kissed him back ardently, but he broke for air before he could forget the words lashing at his mind. He needed to say them lest she spend another second questioning whether he desired her. “It is safe to assume I will always want you, Elain. It is a burning, living thing in my chest, this wanting. I have been unable to douse it since the moment I met you. I expect it will drive me to madness one day.”

Elain’s lips parted like she intended to say something, but he cut her off before he could lose his nerve, afraid that she would remind him that he was here to fulfill an obligation, not for sentiment.

On the tail of a long exhale, he said, “Finally—”

Elain, who must have had enough of his talking, began tearing at the buttons of his shirt.

“What are you doing?” he asked, though it was clear enough.

“Taking what I want, like you said.” She was making quick work of it, too, half his shirt already unbuttoned and now hanging off his shoulders. He didn’t miss how her eyes raked over his now exposed chest. He hoped she finished undressing him quickly so she could explore with her hands instead.

Half choked, he said, “And what do you want?”

“You already know.”

Right. Right. Yes. Elain wanted a baby. And though there were other things he wished his wife desired from him outside of procreation, he could still oblige her. Happily.

He let her push his shirt to the floor before he urged her back down to the bed, once again slipping a hand between her legs.

“Tell me,” he coaxed, gliding his fingers teasingly through her arousal.

“I want to have a baby,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. Her fingers had long fisted into the coverlets.

He couldn’t resist asking, “A baby with who?”

“You.”

There it was. The word that would drive his undoing.

“That’s right,” he said. He slowly slid a finger inside her, watching her expression carefully for any sign of discomfort. She was tight, which he had anticipated, and he took his time in letting her adjust to the sensation. It helped that she was already so gods damned wet. From him. From what he had done to her.

A soft sigh parted her lips. He took that as permission to add a second finger, gently stretching her as he began to move them. All the while, he watched her face, her eyes fluttered shut as she focused on how he pleasured her. He relished in her noises—sharp, ragged breaths and soft whimpers. Her flush climbed all the way to her temples, and with her tangled hair splayed out behind her, he was reminded for a moment of how she’d looked at the peak of her fever.

And then, another memory tumbled through his mind, unbidden.

I feel… Flushed. Like I have a fever.

Feverish for me, hmm?

His rhythm faltered. Perhaps he’d made a noise, because Elain’s eyes snapped open, and her brows merged.

“What’s wrong?”

Have I done something wrong?

Thick, oily betrayal oozed into his veins. He didn’t want to be thinking of another woman. Not now. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her, especially now? With his wife’s arousal still fresh on his tongue?

His True Love had tasted just as sweet. Not too long ago, he’d ducked between her legs and sworn then that he’d never touch another so ardently. But that was before Elain. And before his True Love had, for whatever reason, decided not to meet him in the Carterhaugh Gardens. He’d sworn her off for good, he reminded himself.

Elain was his wife. His future. And he knew with certainty that he did love her. Loved her with every ounce of his splintered, unfaithful heart.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, praying she would blame the strain in his voice on lust. “Nothing has ever been more right, in fact.”

Deciding she was prepared as she’d ever be, Lucien went back on his promise to make her come on his fingers. Just as he’d gone back on his promise to have no relationship with his wife. And back on his promise—

Lucien used the excuse of removing his trousers to pull away from Elain, taking his time with the laces as he attempted to collect himself. He couldn’t unravel like this. He owed it to Elain to be present in this moment.

Despite the memories plaguing him, Lucien knew he didn’t regret his choice, not for one second. Elain was the woman he loved. That was all he wanted to focus on.

It helped that she’d sat up to watch him undress. Her eyes were damn-near predatory as his clothes dropped to the floor, and his erection sprang proudly into the open space.

She bit her lip, glancing shyly between his legs. “I didn’t… realize it was so big.”

Lucien knew it was ridiculous to feel pleased with her reaction when she had no other male to compare him to, but he was flooded with satisfaction regardless. It helped to ground him, remembering that this was likely the first time Elain had seen a man fully naked. And from the way her eyes darkened, he thought she enjoyed what she saw.

“It won’t be painful,” he promised. “We’ll can go slo—”

“I trust you.”

She held his eyes, surprisingly steadfast. Just as she had been that first day he encountered her in the garden of her family’s manor, when she had said in all of her steel civility that she pitied his future wife. He hadn’t been able to look away from her since.

He’d been promised someone meek. Docile. Beautiful.

They’d gotten one of those things correct, he supposed. But as he stepped towards her, met with every ounce of those burning, molten brown eyes, he thought about how many things they’d gotten wrong. His bemusing, indignant, wonderful wife. No one on this earth could match her for honesty, nor the fierceness of her compassion.

Though, if he had to pick a trait they’d gotten the most wrong, it was her courage. To be married against her will, to be moved to a different kingdom, and to face it all—face him—with so much grace and patience and openness. She was perhaps the bravest person he’d ever known.

Even now, she was not hiding anything from him. Lucien could tell that she was nervous. When his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he placed his hand on her upper thigh, he could feel that she was trembling. But she smiled, like she always did, in the face of all of the uncertainty of what came next. She opened her arms to him.

Nothing had ever felt so right, so predestined as falling into that embrace.

He knew in his bones that regardless of what any magic butterfly had to say for it, Elain was the woman his soul called to. She was his. And he was hers. Nothing had ever felt more simple, more certain, than that.

There was so much he wanted to say to her. One day, perhaps, he would be brave enough to tell her the whole truth. For now, it was enough to savor the feeling of her warm, soft skin pressed flush against his as he settled his body between her legs. He ran his hand along the curve of her waist, her hip, before he stopped at her mid-thigh. He lifted, and that was all the encouragement Elain needed to hook her legs around his waist.

“My beautiful wife,” he whispered, well aware that the reverence dripping in his voice practically said what he was too much of a coward to speak aloud—I love you.

Maybe she heard the affection in his voice, or saw it plainly in his eyes, because she gave a soft, contented sigh. Like this all felt perfectly right to her, too. He kissed her at the same moment he entered her, as slow and deliberate as the descent of his hips.

She was tight. It wasn’t helped by the way her body tensed around him, and he cooed softly into this kiss, stilling his hips to give her a moment to adjust. He slipped a hand between their bodies so he could gently rub her clit. Eventually, she relaxed and signaled him to keep going with a small tug on his hair.

It took several shallow, slow thrusts to work himself comfortably inside her. He paused once their hips were flush, this time because he needed to adjust, to catch his breath and reign back his urge to drive his hips forward. He was teetering on the edge of a wild desire that begged for him to take, to give, to fuck her senselessly until a child took.

Their kisses became more urgent, more demanding.

Elain broke away to mumble, “More.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “It feels good,” she said, moving her hips against him. Lucien fought a groan. “It feels… right.”

“Yeah?” Lucien was hardly paying attention to what he was saying. All he could picture was Elain, hands resting on her pregnant stomach while she beamed at him with all of the love he felt writhing in his chest.

Slowly, he began rolling his hips. “And this is what you want, hmm? My pretty wife wants a baby?”

Her entire body clenched at the question, nearly punching the air out of Lucien’s lungs. His next thrust was a bit harder than it should have been, but Elain only gave a small, encouraging cry in response.

“I’ll give you a baby, Elain,” he grunted, snapping his hips for each lovely sound that she made. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Lucien,” she whispered. The pitch in her voice crested and fell in rhythm with his hips. He thought his name had never sounded better.

And he laughed, completely delirious. “You already have that.”

Elain nodded, like she was agreeing, or maybe just encouraging him to keep moving. She was now raising her hips to meet his, and he rewarded her the effort by rolling his thumb against her clit. Mostly because he wanted to hear the warbled, high-pitched moan that sent her mouth into the prettiest ‘O’ shape.

He’d do filthy things to those lips another day. For now, he just admired her, the way she came undone beneath his touch, how her fingers gripped his hair so tightly that his scalp would likely be sore tomorrow. He hoped it would. He wanted any evidence he could retain of this moment.

“L-Lucien,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “I feel—”

“I know,” he said. She was tightening around him, and he knew she must be close, “I know, sweetheart. You’re doing so well. Are you going to come for me?”

Her nodding became frantic, and he leaned in for a kiss, needing to be wrapped around her in every conceivable way. He could feel his own release building, tightening like a golden band coiling around his spine, his ribs, his chest. For a moment, as he kissed her, he swore he could feel it thudding. Like a pulse. A shared heartbeat. A string, being pulled from one end.

Then Elain shattered beneath him, crying her release against his mouth. He thought she might have bit his lip, but he didn’t care because she was so maddeningly tight around him. He continued his pace, fucking her through her release as the tension began cresting inside him, and only a moment later, he followed, spilling his release inside her.

He stilled. For a moment, it was all shallow breathing, coming down from their ecstasies. Her grip on his hair loosened, though he wished she would continue holding on. He never wanted to unwrap himself from her, though he supposed this was the part where they said goodnight.

Lucien brushed any stray locks of hair away from her flushed, damp face. She was smiling at him, a bit bashful, though her eyes were shining.

“How did that feel?”

“Amazing,” she said, her chest still rising and falling unevenly beneath his own. Her face fell slightly, and she asked, “What happens now?”

He was still inside her, though softening rapidly. Lucien considered making up some lie, a fiction about how staying the night would improve their chances of conceiving. But he’d vowed he would be honest, so he begrudgingly pulled out and resisted the urge to watch his release spill from her, or worse yet push it back in with his fingers.

But if he was completely honest with himself, he hoped she wouldn’t get pregnant for a while yet. He wanted a long, happy trial of lovemaking.

“First, I’ll help you get cleaned up. And then…” He shrugged. “That’s up to you, I suppose.”

Elain pursed her lips, eying his naked form, then the discarded clothing on the floor. “It’s a long way to the Eastern Wing,” she said. “And I think I ripped some of those buttons when I undressed you.”

He grinned. “Then perhaps, for the sake of propriety, I should stay the night until a servant can bring me a change of clothes.”

“That would be the honorable thing to do,” she said with a decided nod.

Holding in a laugh, Lucien decided he would count himself lucky that she wanted him to spend the night. And perhaps, if he felt like testing his luck, he would see if she wanted to try to make a baby again in the morning.

“I’ll go grab a wet cloth,” he said, kissing her forehead before he regrettably retreated from the comfort of her arms, across the wooden floorboards to the cool, tiled bathing room.

He strode to the sink and opened the small cabinet beneath the porcelain basin in search of a soft handcloth. It was filled with an assortment of toiletries. Tonics and oils for the bath, soaps and spare candles, and, at last, a neat stack of clean washcloths. Beside them was a fabric drawstring bag that he might have otherwise ignored if not for a strange tug he felt in his chest. Lucien lifted the bag, finding it strangely featherweight despite its full appearance.

Curious, Lucien tugged the bag loose to peek inside.

It was as if the cool touch of the ceramic tiles seeped into his skin, turning his entire body to rigid stone. He blinked, hoping he might find this was some strange, post-sex haze of his mind. But the bag’s contents remained unchanged, no matter how long he stared.

Butterfly wings.

[angelsleepinggurl]

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓: 𝘕𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪 𝘒𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

'𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩.' '𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬.'

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𝙄𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙮𝙚𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙚𝙧, 𝙉𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙞 𝙆𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙤.

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0- 𝙋𝙄𝙇𝙊𝙏

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What a sinful sight intercourse is.

The two bodies pleasurebaly roll against each other. Their exposed and bare bodies emitting the heat and tension felt as the two work toghter to create a symphony. No matter how many times one attempts to deny it, the gratifying cries that filled the room, like an opera singer in a vast and endless theatre, were like music to ones ears.

Their skilled bodies would work in ways, that made the rush and feeling of this intimate ecstasy feel addicting, like sucking the sugar of one another lips.

Desperation; though it truly is compulsive.

In a dim, dark setting is where they find themselves. Her smaller figure repetitively lifting  up and falling back down again at a faster rate, as her hand rests on the man's large and broad shoulders, for support.

He penetrates deep inside her, pumping her and filling up a hole she never knew needed to be. She would roll her hips, and aggressively snap the back before whining breathy whines. Her moans would drag out as she would drop her head into his shoulder; no strength left within. All she could do was slide her hands down her faintly sweaty body and rub her overly sensitive clit that throbbed needingly.

Without and hesitation, the man would pick her up, sliding his dick in and out of her slippery pussy.

The amount of dependency the two have on one another, the vast amount of rhythm and synchronisation the sinners have within them should be applauded. Many should marvel at the ability they have to make others around crave for the intese feeling that builds up deep within them, the  high that they have to chase.

Is it really that gruesome?

The idea of it being looked down  upon, almost forbidden to engage with activities of someone higher up and of authority. The simple concept alone is enough to increase the tempo, and the vocal dynamics of the two. Its enough to cause legs to tremble and breathing shudder. Its enough to make them reach pure bliss.

Not shortly after, do the fnaikar ropes of tainted innocence, come leaking out if their stimulated sex organs. They coated each other in this sticky warm substance and painted the decorated sheet beneath.

No feeing in the world will ever compare to the overwhelming sensation of an orgasm taking over their bodies. At the end of it all, the sinners stay close, loving ach other in the aftermath.

It's a truly sensational act.

DISCLAIMER: this chapter's writing style was inspired by stqrlverr and their book 'sinful watchers' on wattpad. the words are my own, everything else is my own it's just the style of writing i wanted to recreate. thanks.

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟏

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[𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . .]

Name:Y/N L/N

Age: 23 Job: Personal Assistant Role: Main Character

Name: Naaila Khalsa Age: 22 Job: Social Media Influencer Role: Best friend

Name: Nanami Kento Age: 25 Job: Business Owner Role: Main Love Interest

and more characters .  .   .

Welcome to PERSONAL ASSISTANT

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ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ i do not own jujutsu kaisen, nor the characters! i only own the plot, and my OC Naaila Khalsa, Darios and Annalise.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ Strong language

Sexual Scenes

Started on 21/05/22 Kento Nanami x Reader ©All Rights Reserved

[danoneone]

My previous Batman rant was cringe, here's another one.

Thinking about Batman some more.

Gotham is a city of grime and misery. The air of suffering and crime hangs heavy above it, like a cloud blotting out the Sun. From Old Gotham, home of the wealthy and corrupt, to the Bowery, where violence and drug use run rampant. That is the worst one. Red stains the streets there.

Inside the Bowery, the worst is Park Row. Run-down buildings and boarded up businesses, a sort of luxury that used to be shines through the decay. I think it used to be nicer. Before it happened.

The Wayne family is an old and powerful one, with a history of philanthropy. They live in an estate outside the city, unmarred by its misery. They use their power for good, where so many would only make Gotham worse. In Batman Begins(2005) in the midst of devastating economic recession, they almost bankrrupted themselves to keep the city alive. Lot of good it did them.

They went to the theatre in Park Row to watch one of their son's favourite classic movies, The Mark Of Zorro(1940). Some say they went to watch some other movie, and that their son got scared halfway. Either way, they left the theatre eventually.

This is why Park Row is known as Crime Alley.

Their car is just beyond the alleyway. Gotham's main streets are dangerous at night anyway. Just one alleyway and they can get home and be safe from this penetrating, opressive misery. They do not make it home.

You can picture it: an unremarkable thug in a ski mask demanding their valuables. Martha's pearl necklace, Thomas' watch. The robber does this because poverty and desperation drove him to it, the fear that Gotham would swallow him whole. He probably doesn't even realize who he's mugging, and he gets impatient when they're not fast enough. Time slows down as he pulls the trigger. The remains of Martha's necklace rain down on the floor. Thomas lies dead on the pavement. The robber gets away. The darkness eats him whole.

Bruce Wayne was eight years old when he saw his parents die.

In the immediate aftermath, Gotham reels. The Waynes had been untouchable. The Waynes had been good. They had been symbols of hope and reform  for this city. Still the wheels keep turning. Every news outlet wanted the story of their murder. They point and crowd around him, they  talk and ask and they want something from this boy who has just lived through the worst day of his life. They want to eat him, too.

They don't understand.

They could never understand.

The wheels keep turning. The media dies down. Crime Alley is abandoned. You cannot stop the rot. It is an infection. It spreads.

Bruce is alone.

This city will not have him.

Gotham gets worse still.

Fine.

It has been years since his parents' death, yet the wound in him does not heal. He will not let it.

He will show them. They will all learn.

The criminals of Gotham will learn what it is to be scared of the dark.

Above all, he makes a solemn vow:

Never again.

[mrhyde-mrseek]

SCIENCE MOST SINISTER: VOLUME II - PART ONE

The sharp December chill needled at Hyde’s hands and neck through the protective layer of his cloak. He pulled it tighter around his shoulders, shivering. The thin layer of snow that frosted the streets of London crunched beneath his boots as he trudged through the shadows. Even the moon, shining and white through a hole in the clouds, was cold.

Nowadays, seeing him in the city was a rare sight; dead men generally didn’t wander the street, after all—and anyways, he made a point not to be seen. Oh, he would go for a drink, and the occasional show if he was feeling daring, but he never showed his face in the same bar or theatre twice. It was easier that way. Less of a chance of running into someone he and Jekyll knew.

He took his hand out of his pocket and rolled back his sleeve to uncover his watch. It was nearing three o’clock in the morning. It was probably time to make his way back to the House. But perhaps there was still time for one more drink to warm him . . .

As he crossed the street, he noticed a figure several meters away. He—at least, they looked like a man from that distance—stood just beyond the glow of a street lamp, leaning nonchalantly against the wall of a restaurant behind him. He seemed to be looking his way.

Hyde slowed almost to a halt, peering suspiciously at the man from beneath the brim of his top hat. He seemed somehow familiar, but the infuriating shadows obscured his features.

Then he shifted to the left, into the edge of the circle of light cast by the gas lamp. Grey-speckled hair, dark skin, and a pair of silver spectacles were thrown into relief.

Wait a minute. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. It was an entirely improbable notion.

No. Nonononono.

Utterson.

Hyde broke into a run, hardly caring now if he was spotted. He needed to get away from that neighborhood, needed to get back to the House, needed to hide.

What were the chances he would stumble into Utterson’s path that night? Even worse, his stance indicated that he had been waiting for someone. Just as he had been the night they first crossed paths.

He swung around a corner into a narrow side street, half-concealed between the close-set, towering buildings that lined either side. Sparing a hasty glance over his shoulder, he glimpsed with a spike of panic a shadow arching into view at the head of the street.

His foot slipped on a patch of ice, and he went sprawling to the ground. His cane flew from his grasp, skidding across the flagstones before rolling to a halt next to the polished toe of a shoe.

Hyde’s gaze climbed slowly up the square-toed boots and fawn spats, the dark trousers, the tailcoat draped neatly around a large, towering frame, and finally to a pair of steel grey eyes—eyes that, in all their penetrating, sphinxlike glory, he could swear he had seen elsewhere, yet was unable to remember where.

Coming to his senses, he scrambled to his hands and knees and made a grab for the cane. The man glanced down at it, as though just realizing it was there. He placed his foot firmly down upon it as Utterson’s voice rang out from behind: “Stay your hand, Mr. Hyde. We wish to speak with you.”

“Like hell you will,” Hyde spat, leaping to his feet. His eyes flashed between his two interrogators, then to the buildings trapping him between them. For an instant, he had the mad notion of attempting to scale them, before Utterson spoke again.

“Henry. Please, listen to me.”

Hyde was momentarily taken aback by the sudden, rare softness of his voice. Then a smug grin crossed his face, a toothy Cheshire smile that gleamed in the shadows. “I knew you would read our note,” he said. “Well, London knows that we died over a year ago, so any attempts you may make to convict me of Carew’s murder would be in vain. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he continued, turning to the other man, “I would like my cane back.”

The man made no motion save for a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I think you will have to wait a few moments longer,” he said. (Even his voice had a familiar inflection. . . .)

“It is not justice we want from you,” Utterson said, still annoyingly vague.

“Then why the devil did you follow me?” Hyde snapped. He was becoming anxious. He didn’t like being trapped between them.

“If you would come with us, we would be happy to explain,” the other man replied. “It will do none of us any good standing around in the snow, chattering like a flock of birds.”

Hyde scoffed. He rose to his feet and crossed his arms. “Absolutely not.”

Utterson sighed. “I did hope it would not come to this.” He nodded at his companion.

Hyde, already tense, was prepared for an attack. He whirled around as the unnamed man picked up his cane and swung it at him. He ducked just in time, and the cane collided with his hat and sent it flying off to the left.

Then something struck the back of his head. Lights flashed before his eyes, like thousands of stars sparking in the night. He swayed, then stumbled, and then he felt himself falling sideways as his vision went dark.

~•~

The very first thing Hyde noticed upon regaining consciousness was that the temperature had risen considerably. He groaned, one hand groping at his side for his cane—which was still gone. Reaching down, he felt a Persian carpet beneath his fingers.

Confused, he sat up. Somehow, he had traveled from the snow-covered street to the sofa of a sitting room he did not recognize. Though not notably decorated, everything, from the paintings on the walls to the stacks of papers on the low table in front of him, was meticulously spaced and organized. The heavy drapes were shut, and a fire blazed merrily in the fireplace. He felt at once very out of place, as though this sitting room, so perfectly exact, were mocking his asymmetry.

A floorboard creaked, and his head whipped around to the door. Utterson leaned against the doorframe, holding both Hyde’s cane and hat. He was examining the cane with an indecipherable expression. “I recall this used to belong to me,” he remarked. “Why did Henry never return it?”

“After my first one broke, I needed a replacement,” Hyde answered blandly. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he added, “It also assists me in balancing as I walk, so I would like it back.”

He held out his hand expectantly, and Utterson handed it over. “Now then,” he said, standing, “where have you brought me? And why am I here?”

Utterson opened his mouth to explain; but a voice from the door spoke first. “You, Mr. Hyde, are in my rooms at Pall Mall.” Utterson’s companion from the street entered, hands folded behind his back. He regarded Hyde distrustfully.

Utterson gestured to him. “Allow me to introduce Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft Holmes. Hyde blinked. Now it all made sense. His eyes, his voice, his hawklike nose—those were all traits Holmes shared with him. That was why he seemed so familiar.

Utterson was speaking again, though this time it was not to Hyde. “Have all of the others arrived yet?” he asked Mycroft.

“Everyone is waiting in the dining room,” Mycroft said.

“Perfect.” Utterson turned back to Hyde. “I understand you must be extremely confused about the situation, and I know you do not trust me, but please come with me. I promise, we will explain everything to you,” he said.

Hyde crossed his arms defiantly. Then he felt a sharp pressure at his temple and suppressed a wince. Stop being stubborn! Jekyll hissed. His voice was hardly more than an echoing whisper in the back of his mind, but the veritable shove forward was understood well enough. Hyde sighed. “Alright. I doubt I will be permitted to leave if I don’t cooperate, anyways.”

“You doubt correctly.” Looking back over his shoulder to be sure he really was coming, Utterson led him out of the sitting room after Mycroft.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Thank you so much for this question - and for resending when I lost it!

*leans back in chair, cracks knuckles, grateful for the chance to expound*

This is an AU based on a live performance that Benedict did in front of a band (the gig was mainly theirs), circa early 2011. It came while he was on the rise to stardom, and while Sherlock and his award-winning dual performance in the National Theatre's Frankenstein were still on the horizon. I don't know if audio is still online, but he recited a passage from Shakespeare (or something similar) that had been selected to match the music.

Well, one look at him in a tumblr gif set...

...and I couldn't help myself! Benedict became a Poet (and working Actor) whose recitations of classic poetry, interspersed with his own works, were the buzz of London night life. And of course being me, there had to be an OFC--Rosalind (named for Shakespeare's leading lady in As You Like It)--and Romance.

He entered from the narrow wing of the stage with no ceremony at all—not even an introduction—with a maroon folder tucked under his arm, and carrying a small tray lined with several shots and a bottle of water, which he set upon the stool. He grabbed the cordless microphone left on the stool for him, and then moved downstage center.

Rosalind hadn’t given thought as to what he might look like. Moira, Kelly, and Eileen had raved about him; his voice, his movement, his stage presence. His poetry, which Moira had promised Roz would fall in love with. Rigggggght. Still, Rosalind thought the man with the confusingly complicated name, defied any preconceived notion.

Tall and slender, straight-backed and long-limbed, he moved with an astonishing balletic grace, clearly comfortable in his skin. He was fair-skinned, with a nest of rather unkempt dark curls as his crown (he probably aims to look casually mussed, she thought, but the effect is quite…compelling). He wore a light gray tee beneath a scuffed, black leather jacket, a grayish-purple cashmere scarf artfully wrapped around his neck, and faded jeans frayed at the hems, atop a well-worn pair of black keds. Nonchalantly put together, he seemed, yet lithe and quietly elegant, with a controlled tension in every line of his body which was evocative of an arrow in the bow before the archer let it fly. Poet he might be, Roz reckoned, but in physical form, an unexpected bit of poetry himself.

(and because I'm So Very Extra, here's a fuller taste below the cut😄)

The guy’s voice was golden; a rich, deep baritone that seemed to penetrate Rosalind’s mind and body swiftly, decisively, and without a touch of pretense.  Whatever else he was, this man knew how to wield his god given gift with rare skill, and even the timing of his breathing reinforced the picture that his words painted.  And there was a helluva lot of heart coming through in his recitation—as though Antipholus lived within his skin, and this man…this Actor…was connected intimately, soul to soul, with the character.

The last word of his oration lingered on the air, the audience suspended in awe for several seconds before applause began to build.  Yet the actor remained in character; he bowed his head again, the character still—but when he looked up to acknowledge the resounding acclimation of the crowd, he had become himself again, smiling diffidently, the slight crookedness of it absolutely natural and indelibly endearing.  He’s not doing this for the  applause, Roz told herself, recognizing something kindred to her spirit, in his own; it’s the work that fulfills him, gives him satisfaction.  Whatever Muse he serves, Rosalind understood the gratification of it—though her own attempts at poetry fell too often short of such success.

Still grinning, he bowed at the waist, bobbing his head a bit in reply to the crowd before straightening.  He turned and downed a shot (eliciting scattered bursts of amiable laughter throughout the audience), and followed that with several swigs of water.  His eyes, bright with amusement, raked across the patrons seated near the stage, and for a couple of heartbeats, Rosalind felt fixed in their beautiful regard.

“Beautiful regard”?  Well, there’s some poetry right there, she realized; I could use that line sometime, if I write it down right now.  But Rosalind couldn’t do that at the moment; she couldn’t rifle through her bag for her notepad and pen; she couldn’t even break from his bold gaze, overcome with the ridiculous notion that this beautiful stranger saw her—and somehow—oh somehow!–understood her sorrows and her failed aspirations in a single, anonymous glance.  This is too much…too soon, she thought; and please, don’t look at me that way, she begged him silently; no one gets to look at me that way…and goddammit…it hurts…

His pale skin was now flushed, likely more from his performance and the crowd’s enthusiastic reception, than from the heat of the stage lights.  The remarkable geography of his face–the well-defined cheekbones, the peerless arch of his brows, his perfect mouth (which struck Roz as being made in equal measure for long, deep kisses as for the art he had embraced)—put her in mind of a Bernini sculpture. But no work of marble had the vibrancy and warmth of his sincere smile; no statue, such poise when he was still–or such kinetic elegance as he moved.

“Thank you,” he grinned, covering his heart with his hand, touched by the reception of the crowd, “Thank you!”  His voice was far less formal, though clearly trained–a silken pleasure for the ears.  “I’m Benedict, and in case you didn’t guess already, that was just a bit of the Bard—and one of my favorites.”

His next piece—though unfamiliar to Roz—was humorous and deftly delivered; the man displayed exceptional comic timing (surely the Actor in him, she mused), his manner clearly inviting the audience in for the full effect of the joke.  He had an appealing ease about him, as he played with the sound of the words, his facial expressions exaggerated and reinforcing the comic beats.  Pausing for another quick shot, he followed that poem with Ae Fond Kiss by Robert Burns, conveyed in a flawless Scottish brogue, while he ranged dramatically across the stage, playing directly to the closest tables.  Somehow, once again, his eyes met Roz’s—and she had only a moment to read their warmth and mirth, before he winked.  At her.  Winked at her, a pleasant enough surprise to make her cheeks flush and her heart speed its beat.  This time she wished he wouldn’t turn away–though of course he moved along, even as he finished the verse, returning to center stage, briefly acknowledging the applause, before closing his eyes and composing himself for the next poem.

I mean, whose knees wouldn't go weak from even just a moments fixed in his beautiful regard!

So, this WIP is six chapters in (with some yummy smut in the latter few) and I've about three-four more to go. One of these days...FINGERS CROSSED! Thank you so much for asking, especially as Real Person Fiction (RPF) is very frowned upon in some quarters. Though I suppose with the advent of the MCU Multiverse it's easier now to say 'hey, it's just an alternate reality!'.

[blondrichclosetwitch]

And I know and we know I f they found me out

You keep a lot of secrets and I keep none

I’m exactly like you Valentine just come outside and leave with me 

And who will be her lover

He’s all dressed in black

The burdens that you carry now

Well they're not of your creation

A theatre of war the frame

Inner conflicts now reign

Their intent: division till there is no side to take

You feel betrayed

I feel played

And we both can hear the writing on the wall

Jeremy spoke in class today 

damn your lies

Break the silence, damn the dark

As it subjugates you now, as it pins you

To the ground like a tethered animal

As it drags you by the hips and it forces you to this

They hit and run, plead sanctuary, makin the midnight connections, pleadin' immaculate conception (this is a reference to when I was told over and over in spring 2020 when I was in hiding that I was pregnant. I was told that 3/24/20, which would make my due date 12/24/20~~this of course was when doctors weren’t seeing anyone because of the pandemic; I even wrote a letter to jakk’s work telling him I was pregnant. This is how I ended up gaining 20 lbs, because they kept telling me I needed to eat for the baby. So yeah. I did finally get to the doctor when I was supposedly 4 months pregnant. That was a hard day. That’s when I finally stopped taking the pre-natal vitamins.)

And everybody's wrecked on Main Street from drinking unholy blood

(The next two songs timing is off because I had to reset it, but they said to include it)

Doing shit that I did seven years back

Going through a stage

But before they can grow up they on the front page

And they mommas is having a fit

Halfway dead, no respect and handcuffed to the bed; now the trauma starts (this is a reference to when I Was told J was chained to the bed for 12 days, and bleeding out internally from anal penetration with a knife and I was trying to figure out how to get him to the hospital for about 5 days. This was the thing that ultimately made my nervous system shut down, and when my analyst insisted I call him.)

Why don't you do right like some other men do?

Get out of here and get me some money too

I was the first to warn you

Sadness struck a thousand times or more

Play a song we used to sing

The one that brought you close to me

Think I'll drink myself into a coma

And I'll take every pill that I can find

Don't, don't don't

Our friends say we’re crazy

I can't believe it but it's here on the pages I'm reading

It's all I can do to conceal my feelings of jealousy

And then what did I see? I saw hips, I saw thighs, I saw secret positions that we never try

When your world’s in crisis of an impendin’ heartbreak

Now don’t you call James Bond or Secret Agent Man

Cause they can’t do it, like I can

Sense of Doubt

When you’ve nothing coming call my name

The game of life is changing

Man is about to awake

I know you don't believe that it's true

Take my time, not my life

Wait for signs, believe in lies

Learned my lesson way too long ago to be talkin' to you, belladonna

[the-consortium]

Mr. Herik.. have you ever wanted crest feather/hair hybrid on your head

Like the peacocks, and cardinals of old

Something large moves in the uppermost tiers of the vast atrium and claws scrape over stone. Dust particles trickle down and dance in the rays of light. The lower level is lit - the faint sun above Urum pours sepia light through the scratched yellow skylights and further down lumen globes float like bizarre deep-sea fish. But the upper tiers, which stretch upwards like the boxes of an ancient theatre over several floors, most of them used only by rat mutants, lie in gloom.

And now a shadow sits there on one of the crumbling railings and radiates displeasure.

Below, Duco stands. A datapad in his hand, looking up.

As is customary when someone stands around looking up at the sky (or in this case: atrium ceiling) for no apparent reason, someone soon finds themselves looking up as well.

In this case, Arrian steps next to the Night Lord, dries his hands on an oily rag and follows the gaze of the black eyes into the upper gallery. But unlike the Nostramo-born Apothecary, his colleague cannot see in darkness unless he has his helmet on. He makes a questioning sound and Duco lowers his gaze. Bares his sharply filed teeth in a grin. "Herik's admirer has written to him again!"

Arrian tilts his head, trying to read what's on the datapad. "And what's the problem?" - "Oh, he feels he's being made fun of."

Duco raises the datapad and begins to read aloud. But he gets no further than the first two words, then a shadow falls from the ceiling. With claws splayed, Herik lunges at his two colleagues, a wordless, angry birdcall on his lips. The broad wings sweep a couple of lumenglobes to the side and almost bring Arrian down. The World Eater feels the nails bite and yells " Bloody bird! What the fuck?!" as he catches himself and jams the emergency injection of his Nail Suppression Serum into his thigh.

Duco cackles like a murderous squirrel, ducks out of reach of Herik's claws and tosses the datapad aside to free his hands. He is neither equipped nor armed, which makes it difficult for him as Herik now has the advantage of mobility and sharp claws.

The Night Lord hurls a few choice insults in Nostraman in the direction of his angry colleague and leaps into the first floor gallery, climbing up quickly and deftly to retreat into the darkness that Herik's eyes cannot penetrate, but which is as bright as day to Duco. He reaches for the nearest parapet. His muscles bulge, catapulting him upwards. With sparing movements he rolls into the dusty darkness. Little stones crunch beneath him. Inside the atrium, Herik screams out his anger and his wings whip the air.

Duco waits three, four seconds. At Astartes' fighting speed, an eternity. Then he leaps onto the parapet and dashes into the vastness of space, straight at Herik. Crashes into the Emperor's Children. Herik flaps his wings frantically, trying to compensate for the extra weight as he swats at Duco's soft abdomen. The latter tears open his mouth, wider than he should be able to. His teeth are daggers. They tumble towards the ground, locked together and dogged. They hit the stone floor hard. A split second later, they strive apart, wanting to find their advantage. Herik is bleeding profusely from a wound between his neck and shoulder where Duco's teeth have torn out flesh, one wing hanging slightly to one side. Duco is panting, bent over - deep claw marks have torn his lab coat and almost opened the abdominal wall. They both tense up -...

...- and cry out at the same time as the steel threads of a large net wrap around them, tightening and pressing the two adversaries together. Wings vehemently intertwine with outstretched arms, Duco's head crashes against Herik's nose, breaking it with a soft crunch. The net is merciless and does not care about sensitivities.

When they finally manage to stop attacking each other and surrender to their fate, Arrian approaches. The large net thrower, with which he usually takes the bird mutants out of the sky, on his shoulder. He eyes his colleagues with forced calm. A muscle twitches under his left eye in a deep scar.

"So, shall I fetch the Chief Apothecary, or is it enough of this childishness?"

Offended hisses and mutterings are all he gets in reply.

If Herik had the feathered crest his unknown admirer had asked for, it would probably be standing up angrily now.

[deanwax]

A TALE OF TWO THEATRES

Two juxtaposing journal entries about theatre shows I've seen, and how art can upset you as well as make you feel alive.

***

9 June 2022

Very unpleasant experience at theatre last night. I didn't journal it - I didn't even put a set snap on Instagram. I'd rather forget. It would have been a nice show, except it's hard to call it a show. Instead, it was a 50-minute endurance test of Man vs Sound. I can handle brief loud noises. I can handle many sustained loud noises. I cannot handle 50 consecutive minutes of absolutely BLARING, maximum bass, penetrating music with virtually no reprieve. It was. So. Loud. Ridiculous. It was all I could do [to] physically block my ears and try to suppress urges to tear out of there like a bat out of hell or yell at the sound technician. I could not focus at all. It got comical at points - like oh, good, there's a fucking tuba now. That was a hostile creative choice. But not for long. Then the discomfort set back in. It would have been much the same if the actors simply yelled in my face: YOU'RE AUTISTIC. YOU'RE AUTISTIC AND THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU AND EVERYONE IS GOING TO KNOW THAT SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH YOU. Awful. And I usually mask very easily because I was socialised as a girl.

I made a comment in the survey afterwards and I managed to keep it civil, but I am angry that I even had to divulge that I'm on the spectrum at all because of such a stupid production decision. I had to listen to Softy's Green River Stones meditation song he made on repeat the whole train ride home. I am very grateful for Tama's Discord server. They were sympathetic (especially Sunny who is autistic too) and helped me feel better. And I picked out a nice Italian restaurant for lunch on Saturday, so there's that to look forward to, too.

WALK - July 2022 - Blue Room Theatre

[scrawled in the top margin] (my hand in agony from writing fast due to excitement)

Absolute joy of the form! (Joy of the form! Joy of the form!) Oh! Another dance performance, completely and literally in the dark: I was as a newborn babe. Strobe lights blind us and we glimpse a lone figure in the doorway of a set filled with dark shapes. The lighting in this show was incredible: the lights danced just as much as the dancer. It was an incredible [symbiosis]. The figure tried to walk forward from the doorway but kept getting pulled back into the light. The music was alien and surreal.

[annotated in the margin] -> core memory: the shell of human ears against a writhing silhouette. fantastic.

It became almost primordial when the dancer crawled inside a misshapen swathe of fabric suspended from two wires. They writhed like a worm and then the fabric raised to reveal a great monstrosity of pleats, silks, ruffles and fringe bathed in green light. It moved as though two people were puppeting it, I was genuinely second-guessing myself that someone might have been hiding there since before the audience filed in but no: it was just ingenious costume (set?) design. A face and hands emerged from the beast and then the dancer too, walked away from that. They emerged in tin foil armour that eclipsed their vision, with a chest plate resembling a labia.They sat in a pyramid of light strips that rapidly oscillated bright colours. In a frenzy of techno they started to struggle, the armour twisting and turning backwards, the helmet eventually pulling free and levitating in the pyramid on a wire. Rave music starts to doof. We're all wired. The dancer pulls on a fringe coat (yes!) and a baseball cap with a full veil of fringe (YES!!) and they DANCE. They dance to the primordial gods. They dance as thought the helmet is their enemy. They dance until they drop.

Unclothed and amidst their fabrics, a spoken word poem plays. It speaks of hurt and defense mechanisms, of fear and armour. It's definitely rape trauma. And everything makes sense! But the poem also speaks of hope: a world that is gentle and and bright and shimmering. The dancer delicately gathers up their things, playfully exploring their set as though they see it from a new perspective. A sexy dress is held up against their body. They waltz with it and carry it backstage. They return and uncover a green wig in the corner. It briefly represents a new lover.  Then they don the wig themselves and a new, more colourful fringe jacket (YESS!!!). And then things get CAMP. We're talking a full werk and lip sync to an empowering pop song. In these moments I understand the cultural significance of drag. Proximity and empathy is required to fully enjoy it, which is why the distant commercialism of Ru Paul's Drag Race falls flat. I was giddy, laughing and clapping like a child. An absolute joy to behold.

***

Author's note: They are very passionate about inclusivity at Blue Room. Loud noises have been disclaimed in the show warnings ever since and earplugs are now available for shows with loud sounds.

[elpapaxyz]

Sinnerman Radio: The Illuminating Odyssey of Redemption and Revelation Sinnerman Radio is a revolutionary series, the brainchild of El Papa, inspired by deep meditations, spiritual awakenings, and the resonant, soul-stirring influence of Nina Simone. It is a transcendent journey through the cosmic theatre of sin and salvation, weaving narratives that meld the ancient and the avant-garde, the sacred and the secular, to awaken the slumbering souls of this digital age. The Divine Mission In the sanctified silence of deep meditation, guided by the haunting, transformative artistry of Nina Simone, El Papa received a mission of profound cosmic significance. This mission is to reveal the circulus virtuosus — a sacred cycle where the sinner, fleeing from God to the Devil through the maelstrom of Armageddon, ultimately finds redemption and enlightenment. The prime objective of Sinnerman Radio is to uncover this grand cycle, illuminating the universal truth that within every sinner resides the potential for awakening and salvation. This journey spans realms physical and metaphysical, bridging the abyss between light and darkness, faith and despair, driving a transformative message through the power of art, wisdom, and celestial music. Reimagining the Gospel At the heart of this odyssey lies a compelling reinterpretation of the old gospel, "Sinnerman." With every verse and chorus, El Papa reworks this timeless narrative, infusing it with contemporary resonance and urgency. The story of the sinner’s frantic flight — seeking refuge first in the divine embrace, then stumbling into the claws of infernal despair — serves as a metaphor for the human condition, a mirror reflecting society’s ceaseless quest for meaning amidst chaos. The Art Industry: A New Digital Enlightenment To ensure the widest possible dissemination of this vital message, Sinnerman Radio has harnessed the boundless reach of the internet, birthing the Art Industry — a confluence of creativity, technology, and spirituality. This innovative platform transcends traditional media, creating a vortex of influence that penetrates every corner of the digital world, awakening souls with its compelling blend of art, narrative, and sound. Through digital artistry, immersive experiences, and evocative storytelling, the Art Industry reaches into the very heart of society’s collective consciousness. Here, the transformative power of art serves not just as an aesthetic pursuit but a spiritual catalyst, ensuring maximum penetration and engagement across the global digital landscape. Targeting the Propaganda Sinnermen In a world increasingly marred by disinformation and deceit, Sinnerman Radio targets the radio moderators who consciously spread fake news and propaganda — the radio propaganda sinnermen. By exposing their manipulation and challenging the falsehoods they propagate, the series seeks to awaken these so - called "sinnermen" to the ethical duty they neglect. Through poignant narrative and the searing power of truth, Sinnerman Radio confronts these purveyors of falsehood, dismantling the illusions they so carefully construct. It calls upon them to confront their own inner turmoil, the conscience they have silenced, and to embark on a path of redemption. The mission is clear: to awaken the very souls who have become lost in the web of their own deceit, leading them from the shadows of misinformation into the light of integrity and truth. A Revolutionary Call to Awakening Sinnerman Radio is more than a series; it is a clarion call to all who are lost in the labyrinth of existence, particularly the radio propaganda sinnermen. With every episode, it brings a message of hope, a beacon for those wandering through the night of the soul. It aspires to wake up as many souls as possible, guiding them through the cyclical dance of sin and redemption towards an ultimate, collective awakening. Like a hymn that transcends time, Sinnerman Radio echoes through

the corridors of history and the vast expanse of the digital cosmos, calling every listener, including the manipulators of mass perception, to reconcile their own inner sinner with the divine spark within. Sinnerman Radio: Where the timeless spirit of Nina Simone's "Sinnerman" meets the boundless possibilities of the digital age. An odyssey of redemption, born from a meditation, transformed by art, and destined to awaken the world — starting with those who hold the microphone of influence.

[aarghhaaaarrrghhh]

A Summer in a Pioneer's Neckerchief/ Лето в пионерском галстуке - Chapter Four

Master post here

Chapter Four. Good night, kids!

Yura awoke from the memories and wiped a sad smile off his face. A painful yearning and nostalgia penetrated him to the depths of his soul, especially here, within these walls. Oh how he wanted to return here, only twenty years prior, so that he could again hear the music, the children’s laughter and Volodya’s firm voice. But Yura had to go further on, for that which he had come to Lastochka today.

He stood up from the creaky armchair, shook the dust from his trousers and once again giving a look to the stage, he went to the exit of the theatre.

Miraculously, the asphalt track remained intact and took him towards the children’s squad dorms. At one point beautiful, painted with bright colours and patterns, the dorms had resembled the little houses from Russian fairy tales, but now they looked pitiful: the majority lay in heaps of damp, rotten boards, on which the remnants of the old paint were still visible. All of two houses remained more or less intact (Yurka could no longer remember their numbers); the left wall and roof of one had fallen in, while the other remained almost undamaged, just a little sunken and lopsided. However, it was certainly not worth looking inside: the floor of the porch had collapsed, the entrance door had fallen in and the hallway yawned, a dark, intimidating abyss. It was always the younger squads that lodged in these dorms – further away from the disco and the cinema hall. Yura had also lived here during one of his first seasons.

Stepping past the children’s area, Yura shuddered from a dismal, metallic grinding noise – the wind was pushing a rusted carousel around, and, slowly rotating, it was though it were once again waiting for little kids, to bring them happiness. The only thing was that there had not been children here for a long time, and the area had become overgrown with long grass.

Yura had adored this place in the past. The little meadow around the carousel was covered with completely by a carpet of dandelions, one moment yellow-green, the next, white, and, strewn with fallen snowflakes, it became fluffy and soft. It was possible to pick and armful of flowers and, running around the camp, blow the fluff into hair of girls, who then would get so amusingly angry and start shrieking, and then chase after him to get even.

But in the present, the dandelions had long since withered and only in a few places did white bald caps stick out of the grass. Yura bent down, picked a flower, turned it around in his fingers and, laughing bitterly, blew on it. Only a few of the umbrella-leaves came away. They flew heavily and unwillingly for half a metre before, sodden with water, came to rest on the dark asphalt.

Crushing the flower underfoot, Yura made his way over to the carousel through the long, wet grass. Over the previous years it had, of course, rusted and gone to its grave, but it still stood firm. Not understanding why he did it, not even asking himself the question, Yura sat down on one of the horses and lightly pushed with his legs. The carousel, beginning to rotate, screeched exactly as it had back then, and he was sucked anew into the whirlpool of memories.

***

The dandelions in bloom on the playground shone as a vast, fuzzy field. Their fuzzy seeds spread out, floated on the air and tickled the nose. Yurka took a deep breath with his whole chest of the fresh evening air and turned onto the path that led to the younger troops’ dormitories.

It was quiet all around; the children were already asleep and there was no light on in the window of the troop leaders’ room. Yurka began to think, Volodya can’t be asleep, so where is he if they’ve already called for lights out? Could he have run off to the disco himself? He glanced around from side to side perplexedly, listening to the evening quiet, broken only by the rustling of the wind and the quiet chirruping of crickets. But if Volodya gets there without me, would the agreement with PUK be considered fulfilled? Would I be able to count on a kiss?

Suddenly, in the night-time rustlings, somebody’s quiet footsteps and the creak of floorboards could be heard. Yurka turned to the sound and noticed a little boy in rocket-print pyjamas stalking about on tiptoes. The plump boy stumbled to a halt on his way down the stairs of the fifth troop, swayed about, and cried out in surprise, and Yurka recognised the intruder as Sasha – that squirrely, injured boy that he had hauled with Volodya to the doctor’s the day before. Under his unchildlike weight, it was unsurprising that the floorboards and wooden steps squealed out in such anguish.

Yurka pressed himself to the wall of the neighbouring hut. Hidden in the darkness, he passed around the boy to appear behind him, then, drawing close up with a couple of steps, he carefully laid one hand on his shoulder and a second immediately clamped round his mouth, cutting short the frightened shriek.

“What are you doing, wandering about after lights-out, huh?” whispered Yurka thunderously in the boy’s ear.

Sasha drew his head to his shoulder and squeaked out something after dribbling on Yurka’s palm. The latter screwed his face up and said:

“Make sure you don’t scream if I let you go, otherwise I’ll drag you off to the forest and throw you into a pit of vipers!”

Sasha began to nod, and Yurka took his hand away from his dribbling mouth.

“I just … I just wanted some currants,” the little one began to babble. “I saw a couple of bushes by the doctor’s, and, well…”

“Hey, Sanya, Sanya!” Yurka barely kept back from bursting into laughter. “But why at night-time, exactly?”

Sasha, already calm again, turned to him and firmly declared:

“Because! What was I going to do, show everybody where I saw the currants? Aha, it’ll cost them!”

“Just between us, Sanya, Uncle Lenin did tell us to share!”

Sasha stuck out his lips and said nothing in response, only scowled sullenly.

“How did you get out of the dorm?” asked Yurka. “Were the doors not locked?”

“Volodya can’t make us sleep, so I escaped while he was talking with Kolka.”

“Oh, you!” Yurka imagined what kind of panic would grip Volodya minute by minute when he saw the empty bed. “Come on, let’s go back.”

He grabbed the squeaking Sanya by the ear and, despite the opposition, dragged the child to the hut.

When Yurka quietly opened the door to the bedroom, Volodya was standing with a dim nightlight over the empty bed and looking ahead of him with eyes wide with terror. All around, the kids where whispering excitedly with each other; they clearly had not managed to sleep.

“Is this the lost one you’re looking for?” asked Yurka softly as he drew Sanya into the room.

Volodya looked about perplexedly, then, as soon as he spotted the runaway, his face brightened up in a flash.

“And here I was already thinking that it was the end of me.” He sighed in relief and hissed at Sasha: “Come on, in bed, quickly! What were you doing, thinking of running away?”

Sasha silently climbed under the blanket and turned onto his side without responding.

“He wanted some currants,” Yurka offered him. He was about to add ‘the ones that are growing by the doctor’s’ but decided not to reveal the secret to all the kids in the fifth troop. “Listen, what are you doing here so late? It was lights out a long while ago.”

“I can’t get these blockheads to go to sleep! The girls were asleep in a flash, they’re probably on their tenth dream each by now, while with these ones, it’s like they’ve had caffeine slipped into their dinner.”

Yurka turned his head, inspecting the even rows of beds. The kids were no longer whispering. Everyone was fixedly and attentively listening, not to the grown-ups, but to Olezhka, the dishevelled lisper, as he led on in a grave voice:

“In a dawk, dawk thity, in a dawk, dawk house, there lived a dawk, dawk…”

“Cat!” cried Yurka. The kids started and burst out laughing. “Pff! That’s not at all interesting, or scary."

"I altho know one about a coffin on wheels. A howwow stowy fow all howwow stowies!”

“Well, that’s also not scary. Can you not tell them any good horror stories, eh, Volodya?”

“Uh-uh. It’th the oppothite, he getth told off, that we lithten to howwow stowies and don’t thleep. It’th only okay for uth to tell them if we keep it a thecret.”

“Do you think I don’t know about you?” the counsellor smiled. He wanted to say something more, but turned around, having noticed that the jokester Pcholkin was wriggling around under his blanket to a suspicious extent.

At the same time, Yurka was half-listening to Olezhka while he himself thought that Volodya needed to set him free and appear at that days disco with him. First of all, there was Ksyusha’s debt, a debt with a red payment; secondly, Yurka himself was ‘red’ that day: he was wearing his best – or rather, his only – jeans, and his favourite brown polo shirt that his uncle had brought him from the GDR.[1] But maybe he was getting all dressed up for nothing? What had Ksyusha called him – ‘an artiodactyl scarecrow’? Well then, all the more reason to go, let that little snake get a kiss from the scarecrow!

Olezhka began whispering about fingernails in the pie, while Volodya tore Pcholkin’s blanket from him, victoriously crying out:

“Aha! A slingshot! So, you’re the one who shot the lampshade!”

Yurka’s thoughts returned to the urgent: What should I do to get Volodya out of here? Send the kids to sleep. Send the kids to sleep how?

Not even a minute had passed before a decision was made.

“But do you all know why Volodya doesn’t tell horror stories? It’s so that you’ll sleep better. And it’s the right idea, after all, Volodya knows very well what happens to those who don’t go to sleep after lights out…”

“What?” Sanya’s eyes bugged out.

“Something bad?” said some curly-haired boy as he froze, half turned-over.

“Thomething thcawy?” Olezhka took fright.

“I won’t do it anymore,” moaned Pcholkin, “please, don’t take my slingshot away.”

“Mama!” a high, thin, girly voice was heard from behind the door.

Volodya threw himself over that way, towards the exit to catch the intruder and lead her back to the girls’ bedroom. From Pcholkin’s moaning, Yurka guessed that the strict counsellor had taken the slingshot with him.

Yurka took a seat on a free bed and worked up a serious mien:

“I’m going to reveal a big secret to you all now. Only, not a word to anybody – it is categorically forbidden to talk about this to Octoberists; you’re supposedly still too small. All that’s to say, they’ll clip my ears if they find out…” He was interrupted by a discordant chorus, all passionately swearing oaths not to tell on the storyteller. Yurka cleared his throat and lowered his voice to a frightening tone and began, “At night, a real ghost roams the camp! A long, long time ago, even before the Great October Revolution, a noble estate stood not far from here, and there lived a young count with his countess. It was said that they got along alright, even though it was an arranged marriage…”

“Yuwa, what doeth it mean to be awwanged?”

“Olezha, don’t interrupt. An arranged marriage is when the parents agree to have each other’s children get married, while the children are still very small, and they don’t even know each other. They did it to get more money,” Yurka explained as best he knew.

Volodya returned to the room. Content with himself, his eyes were even aglow, he sat next to Yura, who continued:

“And so, the count and the countess loved each for real. They had a big household, about a hundred peasants, and even more friends: counts and countesses, princes and princesses, even the Grand Prince, a relative of the Tsars, was something of a comrade to the count. But lo, the Russo-Japanese war broke out and the Grand Prince drafted the count to go together with him in the navy. The count could not refuse. He gave his countess this beautiful diamond brooch as a keepsake and left to go to war. But he didn’t come back…”

The kids had all fallen silent; as one, they were all laying under their blanket and staring with eyes blazing with curiosity. Volodya cleaned his glasses with edge of his shirt, and, squinting, gave a stern look at the children. Yurka, satisfied with the effect – the children were taking an interest – continued in a high whisper:

“It’s said that the cruiser he served on was sunk by the Japanese. The countess was told that her husband had died, but she loved him so much that she could not believe it, nor make her peace with it. The countess was childless and waited for him for years and years, completely alone. She no longer wore beautiful dresses and jewellery, she went about all in black, save for the diamond brooch – the last gift from her husband – which she always kept nearby, sometimes fastened to her chest, sometimes in her hair. Time passed, and the countess pined away and soon enough, she fell ill. She didn’t want to see anyone, even a doctor, and within a year, she died. It’s said that she was buried in the same black widow’s dress, but the brooch wasn’t placed in the grave. The brooch was lost! And ever since then, some kind of devilry began to set to work on the homestead. Now and then, furniture would move by itself, or a door would open. And then, when the Bolsheviks came to power and wanted to build a sanatorium there, people on the homestead began to die!”

In the half-darkness, someone let out a choked gasp, while on the neighbouring bed there was a burst of motion – it was Sasha scrambling to get his head under the blanket. Volodya elbowed Yurka in the side and whispered, barely audibly, in his ear:

“Yura, take it a little easier, they’re not going to sleep!”

But Yurka had already entered into a frenzy:

“It was calm there at night-time – other than that the doors of the cupboards opened by themselves, but there was no crashing or loud noises. But then in the morning, they found someone dead! And so, not a morning would go by that they didn’t find a dead person in bed. It was a frightful thing: the eyes bulging, the mouth frozen in a scream, the tongue sticking out and the cheeks … were dark blue! They searched for the culprit, searched and searched, but they didn’t find him. The sanatorium was abandoned. The countryfolk who lived nearby, in Goretovka, ransacked the estate: not a brick remains of that place – they were all pilfered by people to build their own homes. These days, there’s nothing in that place that would remind you of the count’s house that had once stood there, apart from one thing: in amongst the undergrowth of the crab cherry trees, to this day you can find a bas-relief, where the profile of the countess is carved and, on her dress, a diamond brooch is fastened. This legend was forgotten about by everybody long ago, but here our camp was built, and they remembered it!” Yurka lowered his voice as quiet as it would go, “I’m going to tell you a big secret now, only, not a word to anybody, okay?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” came the whispering from all sides.

“Really? On your Little Octoberists’ honour?”

“Yeth, yeth! Come on, tell alweady, Yuwa!”

“A victim was found even here! Right here, in the neighbouring troop! There was only one deceased here, because after his death, the pioneers found his diary and learnt everything. He wrote about all the strange things that happen here at night. This victim was a counsellor, still quite young, it was his first year at the camp…”

“Ahem…” Volodya coughed, sceptically raising an eyebrow.

Yurka glanced knowingly at him and nodded, as if to say, uh-huh, it’s about you, and continued:

“He worried terribly about his troop, while the children, to spite him, slept very badly at night. The counsellor didn’t sleep either, he was always going about, following things up, suffering. And so, one night, while everyone else was sleeping, the counsellor couldn’t manage to do the same – his sleep schedule was shot. He sat and wrote in his notebook, which was something of a diary for him, everything that had happened that day: where they’d gone with the kids and how it went, how they behaved and so on. And then, in the quiet, he heard a rustling, as though cloth was being dragged along the floor. The counsellor’s ears pricked up – it was a frightfully strange sound, after all – and he turned out the light and laid down in the darkness, frozen. At first, he couldn’t see anything, but as soon as his eyes grew used to the darkness, as soon as he could make out the outline of the wardrobe and the cupboard, he saw that the doors had swung open. By themselves, silently and abruptly, as though they hadn’t opened at all, but rather, been left open. The counsellor blinked once and looked – the wardrobe was closed, the doors, as they should be, were closed! He wondered if it was imagination and turned on the light to write everything down. The next night, the very same thing happened. Once again, he heard the rustle of cloth about the floor, and once again, silence fell, and once again, the doors began to open by themselves. It was empty in the room, neither shadows, nor noises! But when he blinked, one door would be open – blink again, and it would be closed while a different one was open! And all this took place in deathly silence!”

The same kind of silence as in Yurka’s story clung to the room. The children were listening and even tried to breathe more quietly and less frequently. Somewhere off to the side, teeth were chattering. Yurka chuckled to himself, Just as long as they don’t begin babbling.

“So then… The counsellor went to Goretovka and found out from some elderly people there the legend about the countess and the lost brooch. He guessed that the sound was the rustle of her black dress. He wanted to understand why the doors of the wardrobe kept opening and closing, but he never found out: the next morning, he was found dead. Strangled, with bulging eyes…”

“And blue cheeks?” Sanya choked out.

“With blue cheeks,” nodded Yurka. “The police questioned every inhabitant of the village. When the turn came for the same old man, he told them the same thing he’d told the counsellor. The policemen thought that  he’d gone mad with old age and didn’t believe his chattering about a countess, that she at first roamed about her home, and then, once her home was destroyed, around the camp, that even now she was out there, searching for the brooch that the count had given her, and when she doesn’t find it, she grows angry and strangles the first person she finds not sleeping, because she thinks that whoever isn’t sleeping is the thief who stole her brooch. After all, he’s the only one who’s conscience would weigh so heavily that he could not sleep.”

Yurka took a breath and Volodya cut into his story:

“That’s why you need to sleep after lights out, kids.”

“Yep,” Yurka joined in nodding, “lay down and be quiet, so that you, and your counsellor as well, are safe: otherwise, you’ll hear the rustle of the countess’s dress and see how she opens the doors to look for the brooch. Then she’ll catch you! And, just between us, your counsellor also doesn’t sleep at night – he worries about you, just like that counsellor that fell victim.”

The story made the strongest impression on the children: the boys had screwed their eyes up tight, neither making a sound, nor fidgeting; they lay with their blankets pulled up to their chins.

Volodya surveyed the room with Yurka. It would not be worth it now to leave the children, that was clear to both of them, and they sat down in the corners. They sat in silence: Volodya by the window and Yurka by the door, both bored.

With nothing else to do, Yurka looked over in the darkness at Volodya’s profile: his long, even nose, his tall forehead, feathery bangs, sharp chin. Hey, Volodya’s good-looking, the thought came to Yurka, if you look hard enough, if you think, well, probably…

He did not finish his thought, having decided he was repeating himself. But he was not repeating himself. When he saw Volodya for the first time at the line-up, Yurka had appraised his beauty objectively. If not for the glasses, Volodya might be called classically beautiful – that was unconditionally true, Yurka had recognised this and even felt a rush of envy – how else could he feel, when girls delighted in looking at him? But now, having taken a good look at him in the gloom, Yurka understood something new: he liked this face subjectively, and no kind of enmity or envy that he could not overcome. On the contrary, Yurka unexpectedly sensed a feeling, not entirely understood to him, of gratitude. Only, to whom, to fate or Volodya’s parents, he did not know. He was grateful that this somebody had given him this chance, to admire, to take joy. Looking upon beauty was always joyful, after all. Eh, if only he didn’t have those glasses…

In the silence, a strained whisper could be heard:

“Yuwa?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Ith the doow by you opening?”

“No.”

“What about you, Volodya?”

“No, everything’s alright, go to sleep.”

It was quiet for another five minutes, then the same voice, in a proper whisper, repeated:

“Yuwa, Vololya?”

“What?”

“Go to sleep, otherwithe thomeone will come and you’we thitting wight hewe.”

“You’re not still going to keep on blabbering, are you?” asked Volodya in a rather severe tone, as it seemed to Yurka.

The most convincing “no”s, “we’re already asleep”s, “yes”s and “Octoberist’s honour”s could be heard from various corners of the room in response.

Volodya stood up and nodded at Yurka, calling him to follow. When they were leaving, Sanya stuck a hand out from under his blanket and gripped Volodya by the shorts:

“I just want to ask. Volodya, could Yura come back to tell us more horror stories?”

“I’m not against it, but it would be better to ask him about it.”

“Yur?”

“On just one condition. If right now, you all fall asleep and nobody gets up anywhere during the night, then tomorrow I’ll come and tell you another. But if someone even squeaks, too bad for you, no horror stories, you’ll just have to be happy with your blue curtains.”

The boys muttered their promises and assurances, each in his own way, while Sasha gleefully nodded and bundled himself up to his eyebrows in his blanket.

“Do you think they’ll sleep now?” asked Yurka as they descended from the porch together.

But Volodya did not respond. He was silent as he stomped intently towards the carousels which stood on the same dandelion meadow directly opposite the bedroom windows. Carefully, so as not to make the carousel squeak, he sat down and began to drive the toe of his tennis shoe along the ground, raising waves of white fluff. Yura took a position next to him.

“Why are you so quiet?”

“I did ask you not to overdo it,” Volodya reproached him.

“How exactly did I overdo it?”

“Oh, what a question indeed!” he angrily jabbed his finger against the bridge of his nose. “In everything, Yura. Not only are they not going to sleep now, they’re going to wet the bed in fright!”

“Oi, come on! They’re so little that they can’t make it to the toilet?”

“Of course, they’re little! How are they going to go when you literally forbade them from opening their eyes?”

“Don’t exaggerate. If you ask me, they’re putting it on. Sanka’s the most impacted out of all of them and he was laying calmly. And if I really did frighten them, so what? Peace and quiet – these are plusses.”

“Let’s see what your “plusses” turn into by the morning.”

“What, what? That’s right, nothing! They liked it, they even asked me to tell some more tomorrow.”

In the distance, music was playing on the dancefloor, but the wind was blowing from the other way, so the sounds that reached them were indecipherable, and Yurka could not recognise the song. Together with the music, alluringly happy voices could also be heard.

In line with old habits from his time at music school, Yurka flexed his hands, stretched his fingers and cracked his knuckles. He was gripped by restlessness – he would rather have got going to the disco, and quickly. Here he had already drawn Volodya away from his troop, five minutes and they would be on the dancefloor, where Ksyusha was. Volodya, however, did not seem in a hurry to go anywhere, and Yurka, no longer able to hold back, rushed out:

“Wel, what are we sitting around for? Let’s go to the disco!”

“No.” The tone was categorical. Volodya nodded at the dark windows. “I let Lena go dancing; until she comes back, I’m not going anywhere. I can’t leave the children alone.”

“What an ambush! A shame…” drawled Yurka, dissatisfied.

“Why’s it a shame? Why’s it an ambush?” Volodya came to life. “What, were you counting on me?” But we didn’t agree anything, and I don’t like discos anyway. Wait a second…” he frowned and suddenly livened up, having remembered something. “I’ve already been invited today. Ulyana. Yes, that’s right, Ulyana, and now you. Tell me, what are you plotting?”

“Nothing. It’s just that the girls tearfully begged me to bring you there. They want to dance with you, that’s the whole business.”

“What’s with this ‘business’?” guffawed Volodya. “What kind of business could I have with them?”

“You yourself know what kind,” winked Yurka and flooded him with a swarm of questions: “What, don’t you like them? Not even one? Not at all? Or are you already going out with someone? Masha?”

“Where did you get that from? No, that’s not even the point! I’m a counsellor and they’re pioneers. There’s your “whole business”. And why are you still sitting here? You’ve got nothing to keep you, you could go, have fun.”

 Indeed, Yurka nodded thoughtfully to himself. The music is playing even without Volodya. This was the activity the most interesting, hoped-for and looked-forward-to by the pioneers and even Yurka was often no exception there. But right now, he was unexpectedly overcome by doubts. What would he do there? Watch the girls dance with each other while he sat on the sidelines, and for all his affected courage, be too afraid to invite someone to dance with him? And who would he ask? Last season, it had been Anyechka, this season, there was neither her, nor anybody else halfway attractive. He planned to cash in on his promised kiss from Ksyusha, but without down-payment, that is, Volodya, then there would be no reward. What does one do at the disco if not dance? Sit on the sidelines with Vanka and Mikha, carrying on boring conversations about boring topics? Or patrol along, across and down the diagonals of the dancefloor, either alone or with his cheerful, but boring comrades? Nothing and nobody jumped out to Yurka as reasons to go to the disco.

He might have tried to persuade Volodya for a little longer, but to tell the truth, Yurka did not want to go dancing even with him anymore – he would fulfil his part of the bargain next time, somehow. For today, it was perfectly alright for him at that spot there, beneath the clear sky, where not a single cloud obscured the bright light of the stars, or the subtle rays of the moon.

“You’re not going to sit here miserable all alone, are you?”  he thought to ask, so as not to sit in silence.

“I want to read the script, but the light is bad.” Volodya clapped himself on the pockets of his shorts and nodded towards the only light source – the dull little lamp over the porch. “Yes, it’s probably not going to be cheerful.”

“Then I’ll sit with you.”

“Sit, then,” replied Volodya indifferently.

“You’re not glad or what? But you said that it was boring…”

“I’m glad. Of course I’m glad,” affirmed Volodya, but, as it seemed to Yurka, forcedly.

The wind changed and brought the music with it. Pugacheva was singing in duet with Kuzmin about how “in the springtime sky fell two stars”. The stars – true, it was a summertime sky – really were falling. Yurka noticed several, but made no wish – firstly, he was not superstitious, and secondly, he knew that they were not stars at all, but meteors. As for real stars, the whole scattering was sparkling, the whole Milky Way. As he looked at the sky, Yurka thought about how this counsellor Volodya was a paradoxical figure. He said he was glad, but he was glad silently, without a single emotion on his face. At the same time, being silent with him was not boring, and neither was talking with him. Seemingly just like Vanka and Mikha said, a serious and intelligent four-eyes, but not a nerd at all.

The ‘not-at-all a nerd’ sitting nearby sighed and quietly mumbled, wonderfully falling into the notes: “Two stars, two bright stories”, but without finishing, he asked:

“By the way, Yur, is that estate far?”

“Which est–? Ah … that one. Truth be told, there is no estate,” having, with difficulty, made out the face drawn out in the twilight, Yurka was surprised. “You believed it, huh?”

“So, you made it all that up? About the Grand Prince, and the Russo-Japanese war as well? How detailed… Very talented! And it turns out, you’re nothing– I mean, not such a blockhead.”

“Who? Blockhead? I’m a blockhead?”

“No, I literally said you’re not.”

“What was that ‘it tu-u-urns out’ for, then?” Yurka facetiously drew out the ‘u’, mimicking Volodya. It turned out very similarly. “But the bas-relief with the lady really does exist. There, in the wild apple trees, down the river.”

“Is it far?”

“Thirty minutes by boat. So, what’s this about a blockhead?”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Is that why you’re always so high and mighty?”

“I’m not– Fine!” Volodya gave in. “You can’t expect much from slobs, is it not so?”

“I’m a slob as well?!” He affected indignation. It was somehow light-hearted and cheerful in spirit, and Yurka wanted to keep pushing Volodya on. He firmly decided that he would not give up until the other apologised. But Volodya was not about to apologise.

“It’s your own fault that you have such a reputation.”

“Not at all. It’s just that those stupid counsellors always tend to catch me at the most inappropriate moment, and then make their own conclusions without listening to me. Did you hear about the roof, for example?”

Volodya drew his sentence out stingily:

“Well… Someone said that last year, you…”

Yura, interrupting him, started to parody Olga Leonidovna’s squeaky voice:

“Konev has completely gone off the rails – jumping on the fragile roofing, breaking state property, and being a danger to his own health and with him, comrades, to our reputation as instructors. He’s a villain, this Konev, a vandal and a hooligan! Do you also think so, huh?”

“No way! I never rush to conclusions.”

“Well, well, well, your ‘not a blockhead’ believes you,” Yurka laughed. “But that’s not really how any of it was. In reality, I was helping, I was reaching for a frisbee. I’m walking, I see, Anyechka…” Yurka faltered, caught up with excessive tenderness in the thoughts that that name brought with it. “Anyway, a girl from my troop was sitting and crying. I asked her why. It turned out that her frisbee had flown up onto the roof and she’d already been asking the caretaker to get it down for her for two days, but he couldn’t give a damn. Her father had given her that frisbee and there was only one day left of the season! So really, he was a prick to her, it wasn’t just a frisbee.”

“Don’t swear,” warned Volodya, more out of habit than seriousness.

Yurka ignored him.

“Well, I climbed up there. The height was nothing to get in a twist over – one stretch and it was done, the business was over. That’s when they caught me.”

“But didn’t this girl tell them how it was?”

“She told them, but who was listening to her? We need to ask Aleksandr Aleksandrovich. She asked that Sanych…”

“So what all happened in the end?”

“I got her frisbee and returned it to her. Anyechka was all bright and grateful, but that Konev was still a rowdy hooligan.”

“Ok ay, you were in the right there. But what do you go creeping through the hole in the fence for?”

“For something to smoke,” Yurka did not even take time to think, he just blurted it out.

“You smoke as well?!” Volodya was dumbfounded.

“Me? No, not really. I like, tried it, but I don’t do it anymore!” he fibbed, and further changed the topic to get away from his sin. “But who told you about the hole? I thought nobody knew about the manhole!”

“Everybody knows. Not only do they know, but at this point, they’re stopping it up.”

Pfft… they can go and stop it up, like I don’t know other ways.”

Volodya flared up.

“There’s even more? Which, where?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Tell me, please! Yur, what if my troublemakers find out? You know they’d escape!”

“They won’t find out. What’s more, they won’t escape, it’s far away and they’re too small to make it there,” assured Yurka, but, having heard Volodya’s nervous wheezing, for his peace of mind, he added, “I swear, they won’t run off.”

“Yura, if something happens… I’ll get one hell of a beating!”

Yurka picked at a mosquito bite on his elbow pensively.

“You won’t tell anyone, alright? About the manhole. And about the smoking as well.”

“I won’t say, if you show me the manhole. I have to convince myself that there’s no way they could get through. And that it’s safe there.”

“It’s a ford,” Yurka gave up. “No need to panic. They’re not so crazy, those kids of yours, that they’d try and cross a river where the water is up to their cheeks.” Volodya hemmed vaguely and Yurka suddenly remembered. “It’d be better to tell me, what should I tell them tomorrow? To your children. I did promise them.”

“Think something up. You threw that story together so deftly, make up another.”

“That’s easy to say! With the brooch, I had a burst of inspiration, but that’s all gone bye-bye now. What else could I think up? Maybe a serial killer?”

“A serial killer? Where are we getting serial killers from?” Volodya burst into laughter.

“It was just a story, a thought,” shrugged Yurka.

“No, it needs something more realistic, and definitely a moral. Maybe we’d do better to develop the theme of the estate? Let’s say, for example … a treasure. Right, let’s do a treasure?”

“Hm… that’s an idea.” Yurka stroked his chin. “Is there somewhere to write this down.

Volodya rummaged in his pockets. From the left, he pulled out the slingshot and put it back. After a go in the right, he pulled out his hand and along with it, a notepad rolled up into a tube.

“Isn’t it too dark to write?” he asked as he held it out to Yurka.

“It’ll work! I have good handwriting.”

“Then come on, maestro, begin.”

“Right, then. The count and the countess were very rich. Before he left for the war, the count took a large part of his fortune, hid it in a chest and buried it somewhere…”

“And what did the countess live on?”

“I did say ‘a part’, he left the second part to her! Right, then. Under cover of the darkness of a moonless night, he carried off the chest and buried it somewhere, marking the location of the treasure on a map. But even with the help of this map, it was impossible to find the hoard without solving the count’s riddles… Or not. Maybe the treasure doesn’t belong to the count, but to the partisans. Exactly! Weapons!” On that evening, Yurka did not appear at the disco – almost until the early hours of the morning, he sat with Volodya on the carousel, making up horror stories for the kids and not at all noticing the passing of time.

[1] German Democratic Republic (Communist East Germany, 1949-1990)

[sourcherrymag]

three poems by jessica fanwong (she/her)

  The Dark Woods   you haven’t been through adversity you were crushed by it  you went into the dark woods like many others  and never made it out you had lost your way among the dense foliage  and thick canopy where light can’t penetrate  close-tangle of trees that gave the delusion of escape;  there your spirit lingers still among the crackling trunks and undergrowth,  what emerged is a soulless skeleton  whose ghost has been lost among the overgrowth  the woods eat away at you few have truly made it out without  being consumed by the woods 

    Uni-Verse   we live in a big world – no, we live in a small world an airtight enclosure that is shrinking every second   we live in a vast world – so wide and broad that stretches as far as  the left edge of our eyes to the right   we live in a world where oceans take seconds to cross borders a few clicks to pass the moon and sun are just a few snaps away   we live in a tiny world so tiny we don’t even notice  how big it actually is  how far the horizon expands how endless the rolling clouds on the skies how never ending the falling tides… to all these we are blind because they never come into our field of vision   we live in a big world – no we live in multiple small worlds spinning loose in the universe each unit, unique but don’t unite,  that occasionally collide but never eclipse     home                   and i wake again to the chirping birds          the distant zooming cars and rustling leaves –              i will miss them                    when i can no longer hear or see them anymore,           will i recollect these moments – or will they              become only vague memories?                     buried in the back of the dark storage closet where            old things rust and rot gathers dust in the graveyard of the dead               that refuse to rot away      Jessica Fanwong (she/her) is an emerging poet and theatre maker based in Melbourne (Wurunjduri Country) currently studying a Bachelor of Arts at The University of Melbourne majoring in English and creative writing. @jacaranda.swallow