#wide skylight ceiling

[marinelethellec]

Enclosed Kitchen Inspiration for a medium-sized modern single-wall kitchen remodel with flat-panel cabinets, medium-tone wood cabinets, quartz countertops, white backsplash, glass sheet backsplash, paneled appliances, and an island. The kitchen would also have a beige floor and a concrete floor.

#white glass backsplash #light wood cabinet front #medium wood book shelving #under cabinet lighting #vaulted ceiling loft #wide skylight ceiling

[abconcerns]

Kitchen San Francisco Inspiration for a large cottage u-shaped light wood floor and beige floor eat-in kitchen remodel with a farmhouse sink, recessed-panel cabinets, white cabinets, quartz countertops, cement tile backsplash, stainless steel appliances, an island and white countertops

#natural wood #ceiling skylight #knotted wood flooring #extra wide plank flooring #exposed wood beams

[silvergyus]

can't stop thinking about a 69 with soobin pleaseee

mirrored ceiling

pairing: soobin x fem!reader

summary: your boyfriend gets a reflective film put up over the skylight in his room. a handful of flirty texts later, and you're riding his face

warnings: oral (y/n & sb receiving), 69, reader sits on soobin's face, reader gags on soobin's dick once, a little bit of cum eating, hickeys (y/n receiving), flirty texts in the workplace, use of “baby” for soobin, use of "baby/ good girl" for y/n

word count: 3,400+

author's note: thank you so much ☁️ anon for the request!! this was the most difficult fic I've ever written lol. huge thank u to @nightlyawnzz and @https-yeonjun for being beta readers <3

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

The reflective film was new.

Soobin said the company had put it up to help keep the heating bill down since it had been abnormally cold this winter. You had no doubt it also acted as a temporary security bonus, keeping any potential peeping toms from seeing down the skylight. Either way, the silvery film was thin enough to let light in during the day, and, as you'd come to find out, shiny enough to reflect as a near-perfect mirror when the bedroom lights were on at night.

This was going to be fun.

You couldn't spend every night with Soobin, unfortunately. Work had asked you to come in early to set up before a big client came in, so you were forced to sleep in your own bed for once. You sighed, missing your space heater of a boyfriend. Normally you'd be resting your head on his chest so his warmth and the rhythm of his heartbeat could lull you to sleep.

You rolled over again and again, trying to get comfortable without the familiar shape of Soobin laying beside you. Defeated, you stared up at the ceiling through the darkness. From the bedside table, you heard the staccato buzzing of your phone.

Thankful for a distraction, you eagerly grabbed the glowing screen.

New message: 🩷 Soobie 🩷

You tapped the notification, opening your messaging app to two messages.

Miss you

[picture]

A strangled noise escaped your phone as you stared at the flirty image your boyfriend had sent. The photo was him, reflected in the new silver coating, arm out to your side of the bed.

Not fair, you texted back, wanna be snuggled right there 😓 You were tired and you missed sleeping beside him.

Come over

You know I can't tonight baby :(, you typed back. I'll see you tomorrow

:(

I can't wait

goodnite baby

sleep good

You smiled at his messages. I will🩷

can't wait to see u

You fell asleep, tiredness finally overtaking you, putting a pause on your thoughts of Soobin's new mirrored ceiling.

----

All through the next day at work you were a wreck. Halfway through your morning your phone buzzed with Soobin’s reply to your goodmorning! text. He sent back a simple good morning and another picture of him reflected in the silvery cover.

His hair was messy from sleep, sleep shirt pulled in the night to expose his collarbone, the faded purple mark you left there just barely visible. There was a lazy grin on his face as he reached up as if to wave.

Your eyes were wide as you scanned the image, taking everything in. Oh, he was teasing you now. And to think you thought his picture last night was innocent, just showing off the new feature of his room, as if "miss you" wasn't his go-to message when he wanted you in his bed for more than just cuddles.

Your tired brain must've skipped over any flirty undertones and your sweet boyfriend let it go, knowing you were sleepy. But he knew you were up now, and coming over in ten hours. You thanked the universe you had put on cute panties this morning.

The rest of the work day was you managing to get everything right despite the burning need that had settled over your skin once the puzzle pieces clicked into place. Soobin's messages had only gotten bolder as he sent you pictures of him sweaty in the dance room mirrors. You didn't dare sneak away for a photo to send back, only replying quickly before you were running off to the next task of the day.

----

Finally, your long day ended and you were on your way to Soobin's dorm. You sent him a quick text to let him know your eta.

He had food from your favorite takeout place waiting for you when you walked in, all but collapsing in his warm embrace as he greeted you at the door. "Missed you," he whispered into your hair.

You playfully slapped his arm, releasing yourself from the hug. "It was like a day and a half you goofball."

----

A few hours later, after eating and playing video games together, the two of you were curled up in Soobin's bed. The dim glow of the bedside lamp and the screen of Soobin's phone were the only sources of light. Your head rested on his shoulder, left leg resting on top of his right thigh, your arm crossing his chest so you could gently play with the hem of his sleeve as the video played.

You shifted your position slightly and felt the thick muscle in Soobin's thigh against your clothed core as you moved. A nearly inaudible whimper escaped your lips as you felt him against you, the want from the morning never fully dissipating.

Soobin stilled beneath you at your noise. The video continued to play, his eyes still focused on the screen. You held your breath, waiting to see how he would react. He had been the one to get you in this mood, but nothing had been brought up since the afternoon and you weren't sure if he was still feeling it.

Until you felt him flex the muscle in his thigh so that he brushed against you there again, your sharp intake of breath telling him that his texts had worked on you.

He paused the video, setting his phone down on the nightstand. "You know I really missed you last night."

"Mmmhmm," you hummed, face heating up. "You texted me, remember?"

"I remember," he whispered. "Look up there." He gestured to the ceiling.

You looked up to face your reflection, you and Soobin curled up together on his big white bed. "Keep your eyes up there and let me make you feel good."

He kissed you, breaking your view, a long, languid kiss. His tongue teased at the seam of your lips before exploring your mouth. The heat between your legs grew as he repositioned himself so that he hovered over you, cradling you tenderly beneath him. Your hands found their way to his head, tangling in his hair, the image reflected back to you in the reflection above.

The kiss broke with you whining for more as he trailed hot kisses down your throat. His fingers found their way to the buttons on your sleep shirt, undoing each one as his mouth continued against your throat. Once the final button had been undone, Soobin’s warm hands slipped underneath the fabric, slipping around to hold you, pushing the fabric aside as he did. Now bare, your nipples stiffened against the cool air. Soobin pulled away to admire your bare chest, groaning lightly as he did. “So pretty,” he whispered, sucking your nipple into his mouth and releasing with a wet pop. “Missed these.” You smiled to yourself; oh your silly boy, couldn’t go forty-eight hours without your boobs in his mouth.

He continued worshiping your breast, slowly kneading the other in his big hand, pinching and pulling at the nipple his mouth wasn’t attached to before pulling off and switching so that each side had the same attention. Your quiet moans filled the space; your fingers lightly scratching his scalp and pulling his hair the way you know he liked it.

“Must’ve missed me a lot, huh, baby?”

Soobin pulled off your chest, leaving your tits wet and open to the cool air. He nuzzled his reply into the skin of your belly as he pressed kisses down your body. “You don’t even know.” He kissed below your right breast. “Kept looking up and seeing everything reflected back.” A kiss just above your navel. “Thought about how good it would look seeing you cumming for me like that.” His lips hovered above the waistband of your panties. “Got so hard thinking about it.” He pressed a hot kiss to the lacy edge of your panties, grinding his hips against the bed as he did.

“Soobin,” you whispered, your voice whiny and full of breathless need. “Need you.”

He grinned up at you from where he was positioned- his face hovering over your pussy. “Need you to keep your eyes up there for me, okay baby? Need you to watch yourself cum for me.” You groaned at his words, complying with his request as you watched in the mirrored film. You watched him as he tugged off your panties, discarding them onto the floor. You watched him as he parted your thighs, giving him access to your needy core. You watched him as his dark head dipped down, licking a hot stripe through your folds.

After that, it became hard to keep watching.

----

Soobin’s plush lips wrapped around your clit, sucking gently. His tongue peaked forward as he did, running against the bundle of nerves. He had barely started and already you were arching your back, eyes closing as the sensations built.

His tongue worked against you, swirling against your clit, dipping down to run through your folds, teasing at your entrance. His mouth a wet, hot heat against your wet, hot core. His hands splayed out across your hips, holding you down when you instinctively bucked your hips, chasing the feeling of his plush lips against you.

He pulled off of you. “Are you keeping your eyes on the mirror?” His words caused a heat to creep over your skin. He registered your bashful response for what it is. “Need you to keep your eyes open baby, want you to see how good I can make you feel. Can you do that for me?”

You nodded. “I can do it.”

“That’s a good girl.” He returned his attention to eating you out, tongue giving flat, broad strokes to your core, swirling around your aching clit. You moaned his name, fighting to keep your gaze trained on the image above you. You on your back, nearly completely nude, your boyfriend between your thighs, the marks he sucked onto your chest blooming purple and blue. A particularly strong suck to your clit made you buck your hips, the image of yourself so desperate drawing another moan from your lips. 

You were already close, watching as you came undone causing you to unravel even faster. You clenched around nothing, craving that one final push to send you over the edge. As if he could read your mind, Soobin’s tongue nudged your entrance, slipping just barely inside. The feeling of his muscle there caused you to cry out, your thighs clamping together. Soobin hummed against you, grinding against the mattress as your enthusiastic response spurred him on further. The vibrations against your core, along with the bump of his nose against your clit sent you careening, your orgasm falling on you like a ton of bricks.

You followed Soobin’s instructions, watching as you writhed against the sheets. Watching as you bucked your hips. Watching as your hands dug into Soobin’s hair, pushing his face against you, desperate for more.

You watched as you rode out your orgasm on your boyfriend’s face, listened as he moaned against your pussy, lapping up the flood of wetness that you produced.

You tugged at his hair gently, pulling him off as you shied away from oversensitivity. He grinned up at you lazily, a dopey smile plastered to his face as your juices coated his skin. “Did you watch?”

Your chest heaved as you came down from your high. “Yes baby, watched the whole thing.”

He crawled up the bed to kiss you, the taste of yourself heavy on his tongue as it danced with yours. “Was it hot?”

“This’ll be hotter,” you replied, pushing Soobin against the bed.

His eyes were wide, unsure of what you were about to do. You kissed him, hands finding the hem of his shirt. You tugged it up over his head before slipping the rest of your open shirt off your shoulders and pressing your bare chest to his. He shivered when your skin touched, growing increasingly aware of how angry his erection was in his boxers.

You palmed him through the thin material, continuing to kiss him, humming against his lips when he whined. “Hmm, lay down flat for me baby. Gonna make you feel good now.”

He complied, shuffling down the bed so he was flat on his back. Slowly, you pulled off his boxers, a wet stain of precum showing just how ready he was for you.

His free cock slapped against his tummy, beads of silver dripping onto his skin. You grabbed it at the base, locking eyes as you asked “Do you want to try something? Could be fun for you with the mirrored ceiling and all.”

He agreed, not quite sure what you had in mind as you climbed up so that you were sat on his chest. You quickly explained your plan, growing warm as Soobin held onto each word, growing more visibly excited as you spoke.

“Can you keep your eyes up there for me?”

Soobin shook his head, laughing at you making him play his own game. “I'll try my best, baby. Anything for you.”

You giggled, moving so that your hips were over his head, your face hovering over his flushed cock. “Let me know if it’s too much, okay?”

“I will. But it won’t be.”

You kept your hips hovering over his face for a few moments, despite his hands gripping into your thighs. You loved to hear the sounds he makes when you first take him into your mouth.

“Fuuuck,” he cursed out slowly as you licked at his leaky tip, “so good.”

Your tongue teased at his slit before you dragged it down, tracing the vein that ran across the underside. You placed slow kisses along his length, hand massaging his balls as you did. His heavy breaths were loud in the quiet of the room as he fought to keep his voice down, always a bit louder when he was in your mouth. 

Wanting to put on a show for him before you truly sat on his face, you angled his cock towards his hip so you could take him at an angle that would reflect more than just the back of your head. Your lips wrapped around his tip, suckling him into your mouth. His sharp intake of breath made you smile around him, just the corners of your mouth turning up. You slowly dragged your lips down his length, causing him to whine.

Before you could do anything more, he pulled your ass down so that his lips could attach themselves to your clit once again. The motion caused you to pull off Soobin’s cock, your balance wobbling. You tipped forward, moaning with your face pressed against his balls. His hips chased the vibrations and you felt him groan against your core.

Your thighs were still wet and sticky from Soobin’s earlier endeavors as they closed around his head, your hips rutting forward, needing more of him. You tried your best to focus on Soobin, on making him feel good. This was your idea but already you were lightheaded and distracted with your own pleasure.

You took him into your mouth again, feeling his weight heavy on your tongue. Relaxing your throat, you took him as far as you could go. He was big- fat tip nudging at your soft palate as you tried to focus on breathing through your nose. Meanwhile, Soobin’s tongue teased at your entrance, darting inside as your nose brushed against his pelvis. His teasing caused you to twitch forward, gagging yourself slightly on his cock. You pulled off, gasping, air flooding into your lungs as a thick mix of drool and precum fell from your lips.

Without your lips wrapped around him, Soobin was more precise in his actions, driving you closer to your second high. His hands squeezed your thighs as he licked broad stripes up the length of your folds, rough, desperate squeezes that would leave marks in the morning. His lips and tongue were wet and hot against your clit, the slippery friction making you release a string of needy whines.

You gripped onto Soobin’s cock, hand slowly pumping him as you tried not to get lost in your own pleasure. You brought your face down to lick across his length, your spit adding to the mess pooling at the base. You gathered it in your hand, coating his length with the wetness while licking the head. His hips stuttered in response. You took him into your throat again, bobbing your head on what you could comfortably take.

The room was filled with the slick sounds of your shared pleasure. Soobin groaned softly beneath you as he ate you out, taking pleasure in the taste of you and what small glimpses he could get of the two of you in his new reflective ceiling.

You continued to bob on his cock, alternating with slick jerks of your wrist when he became too much.

The pressure building in your core was becoming overwhelming. You rocked back, putting your weight onto your hands as you ground your hips down onto Soobin’s face. Your boyfriend grunted underneath you, his tongue moving faster against you, reading the cues of your body, wanting you to cum on his face. His hands moved up from where they were holding your thighs to squeeze hard on your ass. Broken whimpers fell from your lips as Soobin’s swollen lips slipped against your clit, the slick friction of his lips and tongue sucking and licking was about to send you over the edge.

“There, there, right there,” you moaned into the skin at his hip. Your hips were moving on their own as you chased your high, cumming hard on Soobin’s tongue. You cried out, hips stuttering away as you bucked overstimulation, but his big hands held you back, keeping you on his tongue as he led you through your second orgasm.

Head heavy with your high, you reached for Soobin’s cock again, not wanting to leave him without your touch. Catching your breath, you adjusted yourself so that you weren’t sitting directly on Soobin’s face anymore. He groaned at the sight of your swollen pussy dripping down onto him, wet with your combined fluids and flushed from his attention.

You hummed as you pulled him back into your mouth, sucking at the head of his cock, flushed red with want. Your hand jerked the base, your quick movements bringing him closer to his own orgasm. He moaned beneath you, his breath hot against your sensitive pussy. Your motions sped up as your tongue flicked at his slit, your hand jerking him in quick motions. His hips stuttered beneath you, bucking up into your grip, chasing his high. “That’s it baby, cum for me. Make a mess.” You said, pulling off him as your hand moved the slick of your spit and his precum down the length of his cock, movements getting even more slippery. “Look up in the mirror,” you commanded, craning your neck as you moved your hips so you could make eye contact with him in the silvery film above.

The moan he let out when your eyes met in the reflection was loud, drowning out the wet sounds beneath your face. “Gonna cum, gonna cum baby.”

You smiled, turning your face back to his cock. “Let go baby- cum for me.” He choked out a strangled whine as he came, spurting ropes of cum across his tummy and thighs. Your open mouth caught some too, the taste of salt bursting on your tongue as you caught what you could, knowing Soobin liked it when you tasted like him. Your hand slowed as you continued pumping him, milking his cock until he tapped your thighs, signaling you to climb off.

----

He pulled you to his chest, cuddling you in his arms as you both caught your breath. Soobin’s face was a mess of slick and spit, his hair mussed up, standing on all ends. He looked sleepy and content, fully sated. You kissed him, tasting each other in the kiss. “Was that everything you were thinking of when you texted me yesterday?”

He smiled, dopey grin lighting up his face, “maybe not everything.” He kissed your nose. “Honestly, I couldn’t see that good with you in the way,” he teased, placing a light slap to your ass. You smacked him playfully on the chest. His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together. “But we can try the rest later. The film’s gonna be up for a while.”

author’s note: this is a work of fiction not meant to accurately represent the idol. please do not repost.

#txt smut #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #soobin smut #soobin hard hours #soobin hard thoughts #txt: soobin #ari writes #ari's mailbox 📬

[hometoursandotherstuff]

The way this house is built reminds me of the Bat Cave. How cool to drive up, press the remote and drive into your little lair. This house has peeling paint on the exterior, but the interior is almost perfect. It was built in 1981 in North Granby, CT. Has 3bds, 3ba, and only $299K.

See? The paint is peeling. Did they use the wrong kind? Note the cute little balconies above the door. Come and take a look inside.

Look at how nice this is. Open concept. Skylights, round windows, stone fireplace, sliders to a patio, and a mezzanine.

The nice large patio.

I love this house. The interior is pristine. Look at how dramatic it is.

It looks like there's a bar next to the fireplace.

Kitchen behind the fireplace. I hope they fixed whatever made the stains on the ceiling. I think that there are ovens in the stone wall. Just one lousy photograph of the kitchen.

Like that the spiral stairs are wide. Why the white carpet, though?

Nice guest powder room. Love the black fixtures.

Cedar closet at the top of the stairs and double arched doors to the primary bedroom.

I like the arches. A fireplace in the wall. And, look at the loft above. That must be the ladder for the loft, in the corner.

Built-in storage by the windows overlooking the main floor.

Very nice. Oh, shoot, are the windows leaking?

Large en-suite with a walk-in closet. Love the gray fixtures.

I think that this may be another room with stairs to another loft. It's hard to tell.

Cute room with a vaulted ceiling. Look at the lettering that says "Magic Door" in gold. Sweet.

These stairs lead up to another level.

Very cool little bonus space up here. What a cool house.

Convenient door if you want to go in thru the garage.

The driveway looks like a private road to the house.

Little path thru the garden.

This will be gorgeous after cleaning out the murky pool. There's a lot of property for the money, it's 2.04 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/52-Silver-St-North-Granby-CT-06060/57726900_zpid/?

#contemporary homes #mid century modern homes #MCM architecture #houses #house tours #home tour #homes under $300K

[interesting-interludes]

the comforts of creatures (6)

creature comforts:

↳ material/bodily comforts, such as food, warmth, or special accommodations, that contribute to physical ease and well-being

→ pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

→ genre: supernatural!au, soulmate!au, hurt + comfort + recovery, angst with a happy ending, fluff, eventual smut

→ word count: 4k

→ summary: you share a meal with your rescuers.

→ trigger/content warnings: PTSD (nightmares/flashbacks, mistrust), mentions of torture + forced sensory/sleep deprivation

→ a/n: a little comfort before more hurt

past part ← series masterlist → next part

part 6: the first breakfast

The last thing you want to do is sleep. Bad things always happen when you fall asleep.

You remember all the times you were strapped to the chair, headphones taped onto your ears, blindfold blocking out every bit of light, completely devoid of all outside stimuli. They would keep you there for hours, waiting until your head lolled or your body sagged, any indication that you weren’t wide awake.

Then came the electricity, flowing through your veins like liquid fire, shocking you awake. Again and again and again, until the mere thought of sleep made a jolt run through your body.

All the times they drugged your food, sinking you into a deep state of unconsciousness, then waking up with whip marks and bruises that felt bone-deep.

Then there was the nightmares. Unspeakable nightmares.

No, you can’t sleep. You don’t care how safe this place may seem, you still can’t let yourself slip.

You sit there in that massive bed for what feels like hours, feeling the strange sensation of a cushioned mattress and soft sheets. To feel warm and comfortable is still completely foreign to you.

You don’t dare lie down or rest your head on the plush pillows in case you fall asleep. Or worse, someone sees and punishes you for being on a bed and not on the floor where you belong.

The men here don’t seem bothered by it, but something deep in your mind tells you it’s all a lie. They’re only pretending to be so kind, so generous. It will all come crashing down soon enough.

So you shuffled off the bed and pressed your back to the wall, wrapping your arms around your legs with your knees tucked under your chin.

The strange feeling in your chest is back, and you don’t like it.

You watch as the moonlight seeps through the curtains and crawls across the walls, shifting with the changing hours. All throughout the night, the feeling in your chest blooms and dulls, like a pulsing radar that senses something random and unknown.

This whole thing is so strange. You haven’t decided what you’re going to do yet. Stay or leave, run or linger. There’s no guarantee that you’ll find someplace as accommodating as this one. There’s also no guarantee that the men here are exactly what they seem to be.

You don’t know how long you sit there, eyeing the smooth cool linen you were just surrounded by.

They didn’t show any sign that they were bothered by you using their bed, dirtying their sheets with your non-human skin. But you still don’t want to risk it.

Sleep tugs at your resolve, it makes your eyelids flutter and your mouth hang open. You have to fight it off, rapidly blinking your eyes back open and straitening your posture so you don’t go limp.

You can’t be asleep, you just can’t.

After the moonlight fades, you busy yourself inspecting the rest of the room, crawling on the ground so no one will hear you snooping around. Even the carpet is plush and pillowy. This place is so soft, it doesn’t make sense.

Almost the entirety of the room is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows covered by gauzy curtains. The ceiling too has a large skylight that shows the dark sky above.

You can’t remember the last time you were in a room as open and airy as this one.

There’s the massive bed with all its fluffy pillows and plushies, like the giant stuffed bear and cute yellow duck tucked in the corner. Along the edges of the bed are some little tables with softy-lit lamps and candles.

There’s a simple fireplace against the opposite wall, surrounded by two large bookshelves. Overhead is a projector mounted to the ceiling, pointing to the blank wall directly across from it.

By the time you’re done inspecting the room’s every nook and cranny, the first few rays of pale sunlight are starting to peek through the clouds.

You crawl over to the closest window and gently draw back the curtain.

Morning mist drapes over the dense forest and rolling hills. The sky behind it is gray and cloudy, showcasing the chill of the outside air.

It’s then that you decide to stay here another day. You’d rather take your chances here for just a bit longer than venture out into that wilderness. Because by the looks of it, this place isn’t near any obvious civilization.

Curiosity stirs within you. Your hand hovers over the latch to the window, asking a silent question you’re not sure you want answered.

A flick of your fingers, and the latch comes undone without protest. The window slides open with ease, and a gust of fresh wind hits your face.

You aren’t locked in. You aren’t trapped.

The wind is sharp and refreshing. There’s the faint smell of pine, then a brisk slightly floral scent that makes the breath in your chest hitch slightly.

It’s a luxury you’ve dearly missed.

You stay there for a while, just breathing in the outside air, until a deep growl from your stomach makes you realize that you haven’t actually digested a proper meal in a long time.

Then the empty glass and pitcher of water on one of the side tables catches your eye. Another luxury you haven’t known for a long while: clean water.

You grab the glass and shakily fill it to the top, tipping your head back to down the entire thing in a few gulps. The thought that it might be spiked does cross your mind, but you figure that if they wanted to drug you they would’ve done it by now. So you drink until the dry ache in your throat has subsided.

The door is still open a crack. Holding your breath, you push it open a little more and peer through the gap.

The hallway is empty. You poke your head out, cautiously looking around before stepping out of the room.

You don’t know where you’re going, but there’s an appetizing smell tugging you in the direction of the grand staircase.

Slowly placing your foot on each wooden step to make the least amount of noise, you enter the living room. It’s empty too, and also lit up by morning light from the tall windows lining the walls.

The smell draws you into the kitchen, where Jin is standing over the sizzling stove.

He doesn’t turn around when you enter the room, but he knows you’re there. His heightened hearing picked up on your soft footfalls from upstairs.

“Good morning,” he says warmly.

It startles you a bit, shocked that he noticed let alone acknowledged you.

Jin gives you a smile over his shoulder.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, his expression open and nonjudgmental as he waits for your answer.

You nod after a hesitant pause.

Jin’s chest lights up with pride at the fact that you’re starting to feel comfortable expressing your wants and needs.

You feel the shadow of it in your own chest, but to you it just feels like a strange dull ache. It’s confusing and slightly alarming, but you keep your face expressionless.

“Have a seat at the table if you want and I’ll get you something to eat,” he says, setting a large kettle on the stove and turning on the burner.

For a minute, you just stand there watching him, almost mesmerized. He has broad shoulders that add to his naturally commanding aura, but the way he moves is nothing but calm and steady. There’s a fluidity to everything he does, and a timeless grace that’s somehow just as firm as it is gentle. Maybe it’s because of his vampiric blood.

He’s dressed in slacks and a white button-down, polished black dress shoes on his feet. His hair is neatly styled, bangs pushed back from his forehead.

There’s no denying that he’s a very attractive man.

The feeling in your chest starts to burn again, and you hurriedly make your way to the large dining table before he notices your discomfort.

You shift your attention to the details of your environment.

The table occupies the open space between the kitchen and living area, so you can easily see into both rooms. Dried herbs and hanging plants drape from the kitchen ceiling, along with the modern yet elegant light fixtures.

You almost can’t fathom the sheer size and quality of this house. You suppose seven men would need a lot of space, but you can’t help but wonder how they maintain it all.

Because something deep in your memory tells you that you came from humble beginnings. You don’t belong in a house like this.

The next second, a small bowl is being set down in font of you. A scoop of vanilla yogurt, fresh blueberries, a sprinkle of granola, and a drizzle of honey.

“Let’s start with this,” Jin says. “And if you can keep it down I’ll get you some else, okay?”

You nod, briefly meeting his eyes before looking down at the table again.

He steps back into the kitchen as the kettle begins to whistle and release a swirling tower of steam into the air.

You bring a spoonful to your lips and swallow it down, pausing for a few minutes to see if it will crawl back up in a fit of nausea. After nothing bad happens, you quickly shovel the rest of it down. It’s sweet and juicy and smooth down your throat. 

Footsteps sound from the hallway. The man called Yoongi enters the room, looking half-asleep. His dark hair is tousled, eyelids drooping as he waddles over to the kitchen counter. He’s dressed in an oversized t-shirt and pajama pants. The clothes are so big they make the man seem small and even...cute. Despite the fact that he seemed so intimidating before.

Jin doesn’t look up at the sound of the younger man’s bare feet padding against the tile, but he does extend his arm to brush against Yoongi’s back as he walks past him.

“Go sit down, love. I’ll make the coffee,” Jin says, carefully spooning dark powder into a stovetop espresso pot.

The dark-haired man blinks sleepily, looking like he wants to protest, but he eventually stumbles over to the table and sinks down across from you.

Jin knows that Yoongi is probably still drained from the effort it took to break through the wards of the facility. A spell of that magnitude takes an immense amount of strength, especially for a single caster.

Under any other circumstances, Yoongi would’ve stayed in bed to rest, but he felt the same twinge in his heartstrings that Jin felt when you responded to his offer for food. He dragged himself out of bed to see how you were doing.

He doesn’t doubt that the others felt it too, they’ll probably be joining them any minute now. 

Yoongi tries to give you a warm glance, but all your attention is directed down at the table.

By the time Jin sets the freshly packed espresso pot on the stove, you’ve practically licked the bowl clean.

He’s quick to notice, at your side the moment you set down your spoon.

“Ready for more?” he asks with another calming smile.

He thought of simply bringing you more food, but he didn’t want you to think that they expected you to finish everything they put in front of you. He wants you to know that you have choices here, and hopefully it will make you more comfortable expressing yourself.

You nod, and both Jin and Yoongi feel their chests swell.

Jin glides back into the kitchen to grab the still-sizzling pan and steaming kettle from the stove. He pours the boiling water into a large white teapot on the table, already prepped with tea bags, and slides the cooked meat onto a large tray.

It’s then that you notice that the table is set with enough plates, glasses, and mugs for eight people. There’s a pot of fresh rice in the center of the table, along with a platter of cut-up fruit and a plate stacked with some kind of fluffy pastry.

The next moment, two more sets of footsteps sound from the stairs. It’s the fair-haired man, Jimin, and the muscular one. Both of their faces are puffy, their eyes half-closed as they stagger down the stairs. Jimin’s form is dwarfed by an oversized hoodie, while the muscular one is wearing a white tank top and sweatpants that hang low on his hips.

Usually Jungkook would forgo the shirt and sometimes the pants, walking around the house in just his boxer-briefs. But then he remembered that even though you’ve seen his body thousands of times, you’re essentially a stranger to them now.

Jimin looks at you from under his hood with sleepy eyes, through the tufts of fluffy hair, and waves with a smile.

The chest-feeling is getting more distracting.

He sinks down beside Yoongi, who is sat directly across from you, and Jungkook moves to sit next to you on the other side of the table, but chickens out at the last second and sits in the chair one space over.

“Did you sleep well?” Jimin asks, tearing open one of the pastries and spreading jam onto the flaky layers.

A beat of silence passes before you realize that he’s talking to you.

Looking, they’re all looking at you. Lungs hitching, you fix your gaze on the wood of the table and clench your teeth.

You didn’t sleep at all, but you’re not about to tell them that.

You probably couldn’t get your voice to work if you wanted it to, so you sit in the awkward silence, praying that their eyes fall on anything but you.

“I slept pretty well. You, hyung?” Jimin replies to his own question nonchalantly, quick to dissolve the tension.  

“Like a drunk rock,” the older man answers just as casually.

Jin glides back into the room, placing the now steaming espresso pot in front of Yoongi and adding more cooked meat to the tray in the center of the table.

“Like a tranquilized rock. I could hear you snoring from across the hall,” Jin quips before practically floating back to the kitchen. His steps barely even make noise as he walks.

They all know that Yoongi only snores when he’s in the deepest of sleeps. People of Yoongi’s kind don’t technically need sleep, but after the effort it took to break down those wards, he definitely needed it.

“I think it’s going to rain today,” Jungkook says as he plucks pieces of fruit from the platter and pops them in his mouth.

It’s a pretty obvious statement. It’s early spring, so it rains almost every day here. They can all see the dark clouds and brisk, cutting wind through the windows, but it’s an attempt at small talk. Because JK can hardly stand how uncomfortable you look. It makes him want to snatch you up and hide you in his room and smother you in all the affection you missed out on while you were gone.

But he knows he can’t, and it makes his heart sag as you shift uneasily in your seat, eyes downcast.

Because you can’t help but wonder how can they just sit there rattling off pleasantries when you’re a stranger in their beautiful house.

You’re an outsider, a charity case. You can’t even tell them your name, and they’ve let you invade their peace without so much as a unfriendly glance. 

Just as a burning question starts to crawl up your throat, another set of footsteps enters the room.

Hoseok, the lean dark-haired man, shuffles to the table. His eyes are barely open and his lips are puffed up in a groggy pout.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice tinged deep and thick but still cheerful.

Jimin pulls him into the seat next to him, playfully ruffling his already messy hair.

Namjoon is right on his heels, sauntering into the room with his nose in his notebook. He’s already dressed in a gray suit, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, pen twirling in his right hand.

He takes a seat at the left end of the table, looking up to give you small smile. You would’ve missed it if his presence wasn’t so demanding of your attention.

“Lovely sight first thing in the morning,” his husky voice calls, and it seems to send warm sparks of...something throughout your chest cavity.

Jin appears again, coffee pot in hand, circling around the table and filling everyone’s mugs. He then takes a seat at the right end of the table, so him and Namjoon can survey the rest of them.

They’ve all started loading their plates, sweetening their coffee with milk and sugar and caramel drizzles.

Jin pours himself a cup of tea from the large white teapot, spooning an almost ridiculous amount of honey into the amber liquid. But the honey suits him. Warm-tinged, naturally sweet, heavy on your tongue. He seems to leave a trail of it wherever he goes, along with the tangy scent of citrus.

Namjoon looks up from his notebook, scanning the table.

“Where’s—” He’s answered a second later when the curly-haired man descends down the staircase. He looks just as sleepy as the rest of them. Well, maybe not Jin and Namjoon, but his eyes are dark-rimmed and his mouth is set in the same half-awake pout.

But all of that seems to flicker away in an instant when he catches sight of you. It’s like your face is a bucketful of ice water, chilling him into a strange sense of alertness.

He surveys the table, noticing that the only open seat is the one directly next to you.

You look away before you can see the realization play out on his face. Reading people isn’t exactly your expertise, but you can tell when someone looks at you with disdain. Of course you do, it’s all your scattered memory can recall. And you know that Taehyung doesn’t like you.

He ducks his head as he reluctantly sits down at the table, stiff in the limbs.

If the others notice, they don’t show it.

Jin is busy making a plate for you: seared meat on a bed of rice, a side of sliced fruit, and a pastry smothered in butter.

He places it in front of you with that same nonchalance. It says eat what you want, no one here is going to judge you.

It’s a little surprising how easily you believe him.

You hesitantly pick up the fork beside your plate, eyeing the others to see if they react negatively. None of them do, there’s only slightly curious and attentive expressions thrown your way.

They’re trying hard not to stare, trying hard not to look hopeful as you survey the food.

You poke at the meat, mouth watering at its savory aroma.

You bring a forkful to your mouth. Just chewing the protein makes you feel more full than you have in months.

The boys try to contain their joy when you start to eagerly eat mouthful after mouthful.

Jin and Namjoon exchange a near ecstatic glance across the table. The others look at each other too, endeavoring to suppress their excitement.

You don't know it, but this is a significant moment. Breakfast has always been important to all of you. Jin and Namjoon leave for work early in the morning. The rest of them are freelancers, but they wake up early so you can all eat together at least once a day, in case Jin and Joon aren't home in time for dinner.

This is the first time you've all been together to share a meal like this since your disappearance.

A comfortable hush falls over the room as everyone eats and sips at their coffee, with the occasional comment or question tossed into the air.

You barely hear it, too focused on the food. It's all so luxurious, the well-seasoned meat, the fresh fruit. You can't remember, no matter how hard you try, the last time you had a meal like this.

Your mind starts to clear once your plate is licked clean, and thank heavens it seems to be staying down.

The men, they're talking about the weather. Here you are, a stranger, a nuisance, at their table. And they're talking about the weather, treating you like you're one of them, when everything inside is screaming that you are anything but.

The slam of silverware, and everyone looks up in slight shock. It's only after a few seconds that you realize it was you who made the noise.

Everyone's eyes on you, but you don't care. The questions itch too bad.

"What now?" you say, voice shaking despite your best efforts.

They all look at each other.

"What do you mean, love?" Jin replies, his expression calm.

You scan each of their faces, trying to answer the indefinable question floating in your mind. They're all looking at you with something heavy and strange in their eyes.

"What happens now?" you say, trying to keep your hands from shaking.

"Well, you're still getting used to things. I'd say the next step is a brain scan, to see if there's any more damage, and maybe if we can recover some of your memories," Jin answers.

You want to ask how he knew that you were missing your memories, but Yoongi interrupts the thought.

"Today we can show you around the house, maybe you can meet the pets if you'd like," he says.

They'd kept the animals separate from you, knowing that they'd all rush to jump all over you after your absence, especially the dogs.

You look down at the table.

"What other questions do you have?" Jin asks kindly.

You can still feel their eyes on you, but your gaze is fixed down at your empty plate.

"Why were you there?" you ask in a voice barely above a whisper.

A pause, and you look up to find a mixture of confusion and hesitation on their faces.

"At the facility. Why were you there?"

You remember them busting down the walls, mowing down guards, Jin cradling you in his arms like you were a long lost lover.

"The F&F has a reputation for taking atypical prisoners. We were hoping to rescue them," Namjoon says. It's not a lie, they did free all the other atypicals in the building, but he left out the fact that they were there looking for you.

"Why?" you ask. There's a heavy sensation in your chest.

"Because the F&F deserves to rot in hell for what they've done," Taehyung blurts out before he can help it. Jungkook puts a hand on shoulder, a gentle warning not to scare you.

Namjoon sighs when confusion clouds your features.

"Because we look out for people like us," he says.

You don't know what to say to that. A moment of silence falls upon the room.

"Well," Jin says, wiping the side of his mouth with a napkin and getting up out of his seat. "I think it's high time we show you around."

[hgejfmw-hgejhsf]

Six Sentence Sunday

Greeting and happy Sunday, all. Val has been Busy with a capital B lately, but the other day, while at work, I sat down and was able to write almost 4,000 words, and I'm so grateful for my muse being inspired, because I needed something to get me through another long week at work, and writing more of At the end of a bar was just the thing. So in honor of me being able to write more in one day than I've written so far in the new year, I'm gifting the timeline with 8 sentences today, behind the cut for a touch of NSFW content.

Mere hours before, Alex was neck deep in paperwork, drowning in a sea of red tape and bureaucratic bullshit. And as frustrating and heartbreaking as it can be to churn his legs even a fraction of an inch forward for his clients, he’s always felt at home in a courtroom, fighting for those whose voices have been silenced. But now. Now, he’s three fingers deep inside Henry, drowning in heavy-lidded blue eyes and intoxicated by every sweet sound that escapes his lips, and he isn’t sure he’s ever felt more at home in his life. It should scare him - this thing with a perfect stranger. The way it feels like he’ll die if he has to walk out of this apartment under the cover of darkness or in the dim haze of the mid-morning light, never to lay eyes on the person currently writhing beneath his every touch. But it doesn’t. In fact, what scares him even more is the thought that this could be the first and the last time that Henry cries his name and it reaches up to the ceiling, through the glass of the skylight, and into the heavens stretching far and wide above them.

Going to gently send some no-pressure tags out and into the world for some of my lovelies, but if you're reading this, and you have something to share, please do, and PLEASE tag me. I want to see what we're all up to!

@affectionatelyrs @agame-writes @anincompletelist @barbiediaz @bigassbowlingballhead @cha-melodius @cricketnationrise @daisymae-12 @duchessdepolignaca03 @firenati0n @gayrootvegetable @getmehighonmagic @guillermosfamiliar @happiness-of-the-pursuit @heybuddy-drabbles @indomitable-love @indestructibleheart @inexplicablymine @itsmaybitheway @junebugclaremontdiaz @kiwiana-writes @leaves-of-laurelin @leojfitz @littlemisskittentoes @lizzie-bennetdarcy @magicandarchery @msmarvelouswinchester @mulderscully @ninzied @notspecialbabe @onthewaytosomewhere @priincebutt @rockyroadkylers @ships-to-sail @songliili @sophie1973 @sparklepocalypse @ssmtskw @stereopticons @suseagull04 @theprinceandagcd @thinkof-england @tintagel-or-cockleshells @typicalopposite @user-anakin @vanillahigh00 @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @whimsymanaged @wordsofhoneydew @zwiazdziarka

#six sentence sunday #rwrb fic #rwrb fanfic #rwrb fanfiction #my fics #my wips #my writing

[welcomingdisaster]

revenant

maedhros & nerdanel | t | ao3

The first sound he remembers is a woman’s voice. It is soft—there is sadness in it, at first, before it is overshadowed by an artist’s precision, sentiment giving way to craft.

“Yes,” she says, “quite right, for the shade of his hair; only it has been finer, and curled less. He was not quite so tall—his memory betrays you there. I would have him brought down perhaps half an inch. His eyes—”

The first touch he remembers is a calloused hand on the side of his face, a caress along his cheek. Fingers gently pulling back his eyelid. A glimpse of a marbled ceiling, columns decorated with sculpted stone flowers, all white. He can feel her lean over him. Can see her hair. Fine and brown, very slightly curled. Almost red.

“The shape is right,” she says, “and the eyelashes. But I do not remember them so pale.”

The first scent he remembers is hyacinths, and then rock dust. Wind tickles his skin. He turns his head and sees her, bending over him. Her face is unwrinkled, her lips pale, cheeks a little pudgy, eyebrows and eyelashes a chestnut brown.

“Are you awake, Maitimo?” she asks.

He nods.

Some cloud flits over her features at that, some grief, some doubt. Old hurts hang in the air between them. Then she quashes it. Speaks, now, to him. “Say something.”

“Something,” he echoes.

She smiles. Her voice carries the same dispassionate notes of a craftsman. “He would answer me so,” she says, “yes, quite right on the sense of humor. But his voice had not been so raspy.”

He swallows. Reaches to feel at his own throat. “I smoke,” he says, “it’s a bad habit.”

The woman turns away from him. He cannot see whom she speaks to. “I do not remember him smoking,” she says.

They change his height, and the texture and curl of his hair, and the glint of his eye. But itch for tobacco never leaves him.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The woman is his mother. It is not usual, he is told, that she had been there at his rebirth. But he had not been able himself to speak for any adjustments that need be made to his body, for he does not remember what it had been like before

He walks with her through the white city, made of marble clean as bone. Low domed cathedrals, tall gleaming towers—statues, all white, of elves and not-elves.  Here is one of an elvish woman hewing stone; here is another, of a star-crowned king. The inhabitants of the city are a stark contrast to the buildings, dressed in silks so bright in color they seem to be distilled light. To his eyes there is something a little comical to them.

A child’s drawing, he thinks. The background left untended to, but the principal characters colored in.

(It swims before his vision then, briefly; dark inch lines drawn onto parchment, sketches of lairs and fortresses, filled in by a child’s hand with cheerful watercolor. He leans towards the memory, but cannot touch it.)

“You made me too tall,” he tells his mother, half-laughing, “look, no one is as tall as I am. Everyone is staring.”

“None of that,” she tells him, “you are just how you were meant to be, Maitimo.”

He does not feel made-right, made-well. He feels huge, ungainly, his limbs too long and his shoulders too wide.

They walk along the dirt road. Grass begins to cover it, here and there. Plainly horses and carts rarely come this way; only single sets of footprints, so light they barely leave behind a path. 

His mother’s house is carved out of the side side of a hill some ways away from the city. One big room in the center, tall domed ceiling, skylight carved into the very top of it, where the peak of the hill must be. Under that light there is a block of white marble, chipped in four places but indistinct. A chisel lays atop it.

Little coal-stove, in the corner. Scattered dishes, clean but disorderly. Half loaf of bread and a little jam, black currant. Hard cheese.

One wall unfinished. Three walls of wood, and one of dirt.

Seven chests in the corner by the dirt wall, stacked atop each other. Seals on the latches of the chests, like eight-pointed stars with one point broken off.

Two rooms branching off, dug-out and reinforced with oak-wood. They are dark, and he cannot tell what they are without stepping inside. 

“This is yours,” his mother tells him, of the right. He hesitates a moment, then goes. Sees the bed in the corner, wide and soft, hanging tapestries. There are four robes for him, in same bright silks everyone else had worn. Green as the first leaves of spring. Lilac, shimmering slightly even in the darkness. Bright, pretty coral-pink, decorated with embroidered leaves in yellow and purple, slightly raised and pleasant to the touch. Sky-blue, with patchwork clouds.

“They were yours once,” his mother tells him. “Long ago.”

His own robes, he notices, are a mottled grey. The color of a spider-web, he thinks, of dust. “How long?” he asks.

His mother shuts her eyes, as though counting. “Seven thousand years.”

He has some vague notion that in the damp clothes spoil, especially in so long a time. That moths eat holes in sleeves. That seams come apart. But when he asks she looks at him oddly.

“Nothing spoils, here,” she says, “do not be silly.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They eat. There is one chair at the wooden table in the corner, so his mother brings a stool from the workshop to sit on. The jam is sweet and sour, just how he likes it. The bread is perfectly soft.

“Why do I not remember this?” he asks, pulling at the sleeve of his new, blue robe. “Why do I not remember you?”

His mother hesitates.

“You burned,” she says, “you burned and there was not enough left of you to put such memories together. You’re right handed, dear.”

He switches his knife to his right hand.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

She leaves him to rest and to gather himself. He wishes for smoke. Walks around the perimeter of the bedroom she’s given him and looks over every item.

A writing desk, prettily carved from dark oak, scratched with use. Pleasant, beneath his fingers. Familiar. Atop it—

A crystal ball, cold and heavy in his hand. A little light trapped within it, iridescent purple-red. He brings it up to his face and blows hot breath onto its surface. Sees age-old fingerprints on the smooth surface, there and then gone again.

Parchment, most of it blank. A few notes, scattered here or there on the papers, in beautiful, looping script, though he can make no sense of them. A snatch of a poem, rhyming turning eyes with burning skies, a note to procure radish-seed. Starred, and underlined—write to Elemmíre, Káno cannot play at the lilac-bloom festival—exile. A half-written apology, unaddressed, for a slight he cannot even begin to guess at.

He picks up the quill, and dips it into the inkwell. Feels scratch of the parchment under his touch as he writes:

Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play.

Three lines, neatly underneath the first. His hand is nothing like the hand of the first writer, his letters sharp and distinct and lonely where they ought to touch, ought to loop, ought to overlap. Maybe this is his mother’s writing, he thinks.

Though she had not seemed one for poetry, nor for ambling, awkward apologies.

Shelves. Books on history, on poetry. He runs his fingers along the spines and knows he has read them—can summon even the memories of the opening stanzas and chapter-headings. How odd, to remember these but not his mother. A flute, silver and black. Candles.

The bed is certainly his, for it is over-long. There is one blanket on it, a light thing of shimmering purple silk, and—he laughs to see it, then thinks he might weep—a little stuffed lamb, with cotton sewn onto its back to make fluff. He lifts it to his face, and breathes deeply.

It smells of sleep, of rose-soap, of tears. Its name dances somewhere just out of reach. It is not mine, he thinks, I gave it to…

But he cannot finish the thought. He sits, holding the little sheep in his lap. His fingers twitch.

Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He does not mean to sleep. He is not sure he does, truly. Only that he is waking. With his left hand he is holding the little sheep to his chest. His right hand is bound, above his head. His shoulders are stiff and ache.

He sinks his fingers spasmodically into the lamb’s fur. Shakes.

Yanks his hand down, expecting to feel the chain bite at his wrist. There is nothing, because his hand is gone, because—

Because.

Sits. Stares at two hands, clenched around the stuffed lamb. Too tight. Strangling it, poor thing. Poor thing.

He breathes in deeply, smelling again the rose-soap, the tears. Outgrew it, he thinks. Gave it away, gave it to—

There is a longing in his chest, like half of him missing. The burned half, he thinks. He shuts his eyes and tries to picture it, but nothing comes. Somewhere in the other room he can hear a faint clinking, a shuffling, steps. An image swims in his mind, an elf; dark-eyed, dark-braided, pouring liquor, mixing herbs and honey.

For some while he lies and holds the lamb, listening to the movements outside. Then the soft light of the crystal ball becomes oppressive, and he rolls out of bed. Feels the cool wooden floor under his feet. Slips outside.

If he is disappointed to see his mother in the main room, standing by the little oak table and mixing tea, he knows better than to show it.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They breakfast outside. Pomegranate, a day past ripe and a little soft with it. Honey. Crumbling cottage cheese.

He notices for the first time how far they are from the city through which they had passed. There is a dirt road, half-covered in grass and little-tread. No one passes by them.

In the light of day he can see how their blood runs together. The sun freckles them the same. Bleaches his mother’s hair into a shade resembling his. He sees the square angles of his body in her big, calloused hands, in the set of her shoulders. But that is to be expected, he supposes. She made him. Shaped him, out of whatever he had been before this.

He expects she might speak of who he had been, but she does not. She sits and eats, sits and watches him. He cannot think of something to say, and follows her example.

“You want something to do,” she says, as they stack their plates.

“Yes,” he says. In that she knows him. Already he feels too idle, too stagnant, caught without a purpose.

She takes his plates. She gives him a shovel. A hammer. A chisel. She brings him back inside, and bids him dig.

“Here?” he asks, running his fingers over the dirt wall.

“Yes,” she says, “there is a lot of work to do, Maitimo. We will have a hall, and five more rooms. The hill ought fit them.”

He drives his spade into the dirt. Mostly clay, he thinks. It’ll hold well.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They work in shifts; first he digs and his mother takes the pile of dirt and carries it out. Then she digs, and he lugs dirt.

After some time his shoulders begin to ache, new muscles responding to unfamiliar work. It is a pleasant ache, the shape of it familiar. It is almost odder, he thinks, for his back not to hurt.

The work is mediative. They do not talk during it, beyond the exchanges necessary to the work—“give me that” and “rock, I think,” and “steer leftwards.”

When the sun falls pink-orange through the skylight they cease their work. She hands him a broom to sweep the last of the dirt off the wooden floor. Gathers up the spade and the chisel, and washes them.

They walk together out of the hill, and bathe in the river. The water is warm. When it sprays out onto his face he opens his lips and tastes it, almost sweet with its clarity. When he dives it whips his braid around his face.

They return.

She goes to ship at the square of marble. He goes to his room. Shoves down the ever-present craving for tobacco. Sits at the desk. Reads by the light of the crystal ball, old books of poetry.

He is not surprised he knows every line.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Neither of them sleeps. In the morning they resume they work again, digging the tunnel. He starts to leave the door open, when he goes to empty the pile of dirt, knowing he shall return to it soon. She closes it, each time. He does not ask why.

The rhythmic movement of the shovel becomes second nature. Around it all thoughts cease. All that is left is the motion, the sound, the heft. He does not notice at first he is putting words to it.

Thumpthump. Thump-thump. Thumpthump.

Káno can-not play. Káno can-not play. Káno can-not play.

It is odd. He has read better poetry.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

On the fourth night he sleeps again, and dreams of the scent of burning tree-sap and screams, of dark soot staining his hands, of a woman that falls and screams, and screams, and screams. Wakes clutching the lamb to him and calls out for a name he cannot recall again.

For breakfast she poaches eggs. Cracks them each onto upturned plates with suns painted on. Swirls the water around the pot to as twisters turned inside out. Clink of the teaspoon against the black edge of the pot. Then the eggs go on, one by one, and turn around.

“Your father used to do this,” she says, “I never cooked. Only the bread.”

He holds out a hand. “Let me,” he says, and she steps aside. He picks up the spoon. Swirls eggs.

“Good eggs,” she says later, when they sit and breakfast on the grass.

He tears off a chunk of his bread-crust with his teeth. Chews. “Good bread,” he says.

The patterns of leaves dance over her arm. Shadows, in the sun.

“Right hand, Maitimo,” she reminds him.

He moves his fork. Takes a bite of egg, and feels the yolk on his tongue. “Are you angry with me?”

“I do not mean to be,” she says, which is answer enough. She must see it on his face, because she puts down her fork and looks at him. “It was all very long ago.”

He nods.

She reaches over to lay a hand on the side of his face. She has not touched him, since the first day, and now she strokes his cheekbone. “I wanted you,” she says, “I begged for you.”

He shuts his eyes. There is soot on his hands. The ocean is angry, horribly angry with him. “Did I burn,” he says, “aboard a ship?”

She stares at him.

“I cannot say,” she says. Then, more forcefully: “my Maitimo might have, I think.”

He leans into her touch. It does not last long.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He expects the summer to pass, but it never does. The sun rises at the same time each day, and does not go down for a long time time. They eat sliced peaches and flaky pastries and spinach-wraps and perfect fall apples, goat milk and sour bread, carrot stew, eggs made in a startling variety of ways, candied flowers. He learns where the food comes from; once every twelve days a young elven girl comes, carrying covered baskets on her head, and his mother takes them from her and tucks them into the dug-out place beneath the hill, where the earth and the ground-water keep them cool.

(He wonders why it matters. Nothings seems to spoil here. She could leave them in the heat, he thinks, and they would be fine.)

Sometimes the girl brings them letters. Some seem formal, rolled into official-looking tubes and sealed with wax. Others are clearly hastily written, scrawled on one scrap of parchment or another, sometimes with sketches on the back.

Usually she will open them at the table, and name the relation who had written to her but not the contents. “My sister in law,” she will say, or sometimes, “my father,” or, once or twice, “your cousins.” Sometimes it is a patron in Tirion that writes.

One morning a letter arrives sealed with dark blue wax, an address scrawled along the edge she reads but does not voice aloud. She tucks it into her inside pocket and does not speak its sender, ignoring his curious eyes.

They dig.

As they go further they must pull up more and more rocks, must navigate around sandy areas that fall when touched. His shoulders no longer ache with the work. Indeed he grows so used to it that it is odd not to do it, that it begins to pull at him to spend time idle.

During the nights she chisels away at the marble slab, working by moonlight, and he reads, or else goes to swim in the river. At first she is wary to let him go alone, but after the third time he returns unwavering at dawn she stops tracking him.

The marble begins to take shape. An animal, he thinks. A four-legged thing, bent low to the ground.

“Did you make the statues in the white city?” he asks her. It is night, then, or perhaps the first note of morning. The moonlight is gone. He has stopped reading, but she has not finished her carving.

“Only the good ones,” she says, half-laughing. It is not a joke.

He picks up the pan. Stokes the fire, to make breakfast. Picks up the knife, unthinking, with his right hand. In the faint light his own hand is pale as marble. Carefully carved.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

After some time he begins to call the little lamb Káno. The odd nights when he comes to sleep he holds it to his chest. Through his nightmares the scent of rose soap never fades from its cotton sewn fur, and he begins to tell reality apart by it.

There are the snatches of his dreams, the screams, the song, the slow grinding of war-axes and the rattling of fortress doors. There is the icy forest, the kind that doesn’t truly exist in real life because winter does not exist, and snow does not exist, and one does not dash madly between ice-covered pines chasing the prints of bare-footed children.  Then there is the smell of rose soap, and the softness of the cotton under his cheek.

(Sometimes he thinks Káno is in the next room, clinking around, humming under his breath. But that is an odd thought, because Káno is a stuffed lamb.)   

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“We are done digging, for now,” she says. The state of done digging should naturally follow the state of digging, but he has somehow failed to realize it is possible. But there it is, the tunnel. Five rooms branching off. “We must now go for wood.”

She gives him an axe. He looks down at it, and sees the dusting of red clay on the head first as blood, then as rust.

(Nothing rusts, he reminds himself. Rust is an idea in his mind with no real-world equivalent, like rot and ice and decapitation.)

They walk together along the overgrown dirt road, pulling an ass-drawn cart behind them. Not towards the city, this time, but away from it. The path fades, and fades, and fades, until there is nothing left but her intuition.

The wood is ancient, and untouched, pines tall and dark, their trunks many times the width of their shoulders. He reaches out and lays his hands on the bark, feeling its dark, deep ridges.

“The tree will bleed,” he says, “when we cut it down.”

“Yes,” she says, “so it will.”

She takes his hand, and draws it up to touch the deep green needles on a lower branch. When she begins to pray he knows the words, and echoes her. Together they ask for leave from Yavanna; together they promise to take no more than their due, and to pry the seeds from the pinecones of the fallen tree and plant them.

Then she makes the mark, and he begins to chop.

Some part of him expects soft yielding flesh under the axe-swing, expects gore, expects blood spray over his upturned face. Instead his axe hits hard wood, and only yellowish pine sap springs up around the cut.

It is long work, to reduce a living thing into material. First the tree must fall. Then it is cut again, to be rid of the thin branches for which they have no use; then again, to fit on the cart. Then they collect pinecones and twist them open, shake the seeds out and bury them in the dark soil, beneath the layers of dry pine-needles. Carry water from the river to drown them.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

It is dark when they make their return. His body aches in new ways with new work. Pine-sap clings sticky to his hands, his green robes. He wants to chase the dew gathering in his lungs away with smoke. 

“The river,” his mother says, and he nods. But the water cannot wash the sap from him, and he goes to bed with his hands still stained.

He will not touch the stuffed lamb, except with the back of his wrist, to knock it from the bed. It stares at him plaintively from the floor, and he pities it.

“I am sorry, Káno,” he says, “but if I touch you you will be ruined. You are made of soft things, and shall not be washed clean.”

In his dreams there is a little boy, bright eyed and loud. He plays the flute, the same silver flute on the shelves, and laughs, high and bird-like, twirls in pretty mother-of-pearl court robes. When he reaches out to touch this child he sees his hands are covered in blood, that he has stained everything; the boy and the flute and the mother-of-pearl, and nothing is merry.

Then he stirs, half-wakes. Slips back down into his dreams. Now there is a figure above him, amber-eyed, more fair than any elf he can remember laying his eyes on. He has an axe in his hand, stained with red clay, and he raises it and hews off his right hand.

Oh, he says, unbothered, well, don't worry about it. I've still got my left. 

But tree-sap keeps pouring out of the cut on his wrist, spewing in messy, sticky arcs, staining the other elf’s gold-beaded hair and his cheeks and his lips and his eyelashes, and he will drown, he will drown.

When he wakes there is no smell of rose-soap to cling to. He curls up on himself and thinks he must have come from a different world, a worse world; that he is a stained and broken thing forced into a clean body. He does not belong here, he knows.

He wonders what it would be, to go back. Wonders if he’s scared of it.

Then he slips outside, and bids his mother good morning, and sits trying to clean his hands. Chops spinach into fine little slivers; beats it with cheese and with eggs, pours it into the pan to cook. Watches the edges crisp up, fine bubbles forming on the surface.

His mother stirs sugar into tea. He misses someone so fiercely he feels his chest a hollow, empty thing. They slip outside to breakfast. The sun greets them, cheerful and warm. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They chop the wood into boards, long to accommodate the hallway, wide. His mother has a better hand for it, at first, but he is quick to learn. The first days they speak of nothing but craft.

When they sit polishing the wood the sap has nearly come off his hands. Perhaps he has grown new skin, and the sap has flaked off with the old.

“Who will live there,” he says, “in the new rooms?”

She looks up at him. Her sleeves are hiked up, the board in front of her gleaming bright in the sun. “Your brothers.”

He has thought so, though he could not have voiced it.

“There are five,” he says, and knows it to be a question. He thinks she nods. “Who is next, after me?”

For a moment she hesitates. “Tyelkormo,” she says, “if he is granted to me.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He touches the edges of the eight-pointed star on the sealed chest. The broken point. She sits behind him and reads one of her letters. He can see another still-sealed underneath, the one she had not announced to him.

I have five brothers, he thinks. I am one of six.

It does not fit. Shoes too small in the toe, pinching uncomfortably.

For the first time he can remember he feels angry, truly and properly. Kicks at the lowest of the chests, then yelps in pain at his foot. Tyelkormo, he thinks, Tyelkormo, Tyelkormo. Who can need you? Who can want you?

The woman who is not his mother looks up from her carving, but says nothing. He will tell her, he thinks, when their work is done.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

But he breaks. The secret is too heavy on him; he cannot take it. They sit, and polish boards. It is an endless task.

“Maitimo,” the woman who is not his mother says, “hand me the sponge.”

He hands her the sponge. “I am not he,” he says, quite casually, “they brought the wrong soul back, and put it in your son’s body. I am another creature, and I think an evil one.”

“Oh,” she says, “and why is that?”

“There are evil things,” he says, “in my mind. I know not this land, but another. I dream of ice and bloodied hands and scared children.”

For some time she turns from him. He is sure she weeps. He would touch her, but it is not his right. He looks down at the board, working his brush in random patterns.

“Against the grain, Maitimo,” she says.

He turns his brush against the grain. They do not speak of it again.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He likes to run his hands along the polished wood. Likes to press wood-braces into the soil. Likes the neat sharpness that they give the tunnel, the way it begins to take the shape of the house.

“Did you do the same for me?” he asks, as they hang up curtain-doors.

“Yes,” she says.

“There was a different home,” he says, “where the chest is from. The bed is from. K—the lamb.”

“Yes,” she says.

For some time they work in silence. He braces the doorframe, and she hammers in the nails. Then they switch.

“What are you carving?” he asks. “I thought it a sheep.”

“No,” she says, “only an elf hiding under the wool.”

He nods. She nudges him, to step aside. There is a little window on the other side of the room, the sloping end of the hollow hill. She measures it, for a frame. Writes numbers on the inside of her arm in charcoal.

She taps him on the elbow as she passes him, beckoning him to follow. Outside they trim the wood into shapes to fit. He holds, she saws. Then she has them switch, so he may get the practice.

“I have gown too used to solitude,” she says, as they brace the corners of the window-frame with metal. “I have no words left. I thought it would be easier, to speak to you.”

He looks up. For the first he sees the weight of her own neurosis on her, the weight of her pain, her fear, her loneliness. For the first time he thinks she might touch him, if she remembered how.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Six thousand years,” she says. “You spend dead nearly twice the time you spent living. But I lost you sooner, of course.”

They carry the window frame inside. They fit it.

It will have a good sill, he thinks. Perhaps Tyelkormo will like to sit on it, and watch the birds.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

It looks like a proper house, with the last of the boards fitted to the floor, to the walls. The woman who could be his mother tells him that there is not so much left to do; only to make make the bed frames and the shelves, fitted to each of them. Only to open the chests and lay out what she had saved, of them.

“Saved from what?” he asks.

She looks up at him, as though surprised he does not know. “The building was torn down,” she says, “the king’s body was inside.”

She makes a gesture with her hands, first twisted together then falling. Tower. Splat.

Do people die here, he wonders, or had the king been simply waiting to be born?

“Tyelkormo will want hounds,” she says, “on his bed frame. Likely in the house, too.”

So he sits, and whittles hounds. They turn out crooked, their noses too long. She has him try again, and that is better.

Káno cannot play, he thinks, the repetition of a song stuck in his head, Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“I cannot tell,” he says, setting a book of insect sketches next to a fox-skull on his brother’s shelves, “if I know him.”

His maybe-mother turns to look at him. Her face is drawn.

He touches the bone. It is familiar, at least. Smooth. Oddly delicate, for what it is. In places the smooth surface has peeled off, and it is porous. He could hold it in his hands and squeeze the barest bit and watch it crumble.

“Sometimes I think I am your son,” he says, “but that something wrong has clung to me, as the tree sap has. Some other world I saw, in death, that lingers upon waking.”

She takes his hands. Holds, around the fox skull. Her fingers do not touch the bone.

“Do not leave me,” she says, “do not go there. Promise me, Maitimo.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He tosses dumplings into broth, one after the other. She sits across the table from him. Her eyes follow their fall.

“I have not told you everything,” she says.

You haven’t told me anything, he thinks. But that is unjust. She has told him how to chisel stone and chop wood, how to polish floorboards, how to whittle hunting-hounds, how poach eggs.

She reaches past him, across the table. Picks up the parchment sealed with blue wax.

“I didn’t want to give you this,” she says. For a moment she holds it close to her chest, so that he cannot help but suppose the ending of the sentence will be so I won’t. Then she holds it out to him. “It is for you. You were betrothed.”

“Oh.” He reaches for the paper. He cannot tell if that seems right. If it is true of him. “Perhaps I was.”

“I am not sure,” she says, “how serious you were about it.”

An old instinct almost calls him to argue. To cry, I will, I will, after—

But after what?

He breaks the blue seal. Twirls open the paper.

The handwriting hits him with a note of such intense familiarity he cannot see the meaning of the words. His head swims.

The first time he remembers weeping is in the kitchen, holding a piece of parchment to his chest, and it is over the slopes of his lover’s letters. Behind him the fire crackles. He feels his chest cave in.

Maedhros, his lover writes, I grow tired of waiting for you to call to me. If you have gotten it into your head that it is your righteous duty to crawl into a ditch and die, speaking to none, we shall have words... 

Maedhros does not make it past that opening line. He shakes with the clarity of the voice in his mind, its low, musical quality, its sardonic lilt. How well he can sense the desperation behind it. I know you, he thinks, I love you.

The woman in the room with him steps closer. She looks at the letter, but her eyes do not move to read the words.

“I never learned it,” she says, “some last defiance of your father. As though if I did not speak it it could not touch me.” There her voice breaks, her pale face flushing. "What do you think of that, Maitimo? Me lobbing one last insult at a long-dead man, and hurting myself by it?" 

Of course, Maedhros thinks. It is Sindarin. He knows it, though he cannot say how. He’s thought in it, now and then, without noticing. Perhaps if he had spoken more he would have used it.

He lowers the letter, and looks at the woman who had once been his mother. In the shadows here she seems as white as marble. How odd, to think of her, all alone, beating the shape of sheep’s wool out of stone with a chisel. To think of her hollowing out the hill to make room for him. To think of her clawing him back from the dead. To think of her carving herself out of loneliness and defiance and love and anger.

Well-made, she called him.

#my fic #maedhros #nerdanel

[parselmouthedmelinae]

Locker Room

Part 3 of my M!Hufflepuff Readerx Sebastian Sallow Smut

Part 1 Part 2

You are ever so excited to support your Slytherin during a game of Quidditch. Only problem is, it's Slytherin vs Hufflepuff and Lenora has some feelings about you being a turn cloak.

Sebastian makes you feel better.

M/M 18+ 4.6k TW: Mild Homophobia

You woke up easily, having had dreams of Sebastian most of the night, all of them being him kissing your knuckles, or looking down at you; all of them wonderful. You looked up at the ceiling of your dorm, the gentle sunlight streaming from the skylight waking you further. Noticing all of your dorm mates had already gone off to breakfast, you let yourself smile, thoughts racing to Sebastian once again despite yourself. 

He had really chosen you. Out of all the beautiful witches at Hogwarts, and even all the handsome wizards, he had chosen YOU. Your face becoming pink with happiness, you kicked your feet, letting out a soft sigh. Were you a bit lovesick? Perhaps. But it was also the happiest you had been since transferring to Hogwarts, and you were going to allow yourself to drink in all the warm emotions. 

After basking in the feeling of Sebastian's afterglow effect he always had on you, you finally got up and began to dress. Grabbing your favorite jumper and button down, you walked over to one of your dorm mate's desk, looking down at a large golden flag that read ‘Badgers Eat Snakes!’. You pulled on your trousers and let out a small gasp. 

It was the Slytherin vs. Hufflepuff quidditch game today. THAT'S what Sebastian had meant when he said ‘tomorrow’, he wanted you to go and watch him. You brought your hands to your face, which was warm and pink, a soft noise of happiness leaving you. 

The common room was full of happy, chittering Hufflepuffs, some of them patting the quidditch players on the backs as they left for breakfast, then would more than like head down to the pitch. Your eyes looked around and noticed all of the Hufflepuff pride flags, megaphones, and buttons. Not ever having been one to enjoy the sport that much, preferring to spend your free time reading or painting, you only smiled as your eyes landed on who you were searching for. 

“Good morning Poppy. Can I ask you a favor?” 

—————————

It was a very sunny November afternoon, not nearly as cold as it had been recently, which you were immensely grateful for. Pulling your jacket closer about your neck, you and Poppy found your way to the stands, looking down at the pitch excitedly. 

“At least he will be able to see us easier when we wave and cheer!” Poppy said happily, her green-dyed Badger on the scarf she wore about her neck flapping behind her as you walked. You looked down at your own scarf, a wide smile appearing at Poppy’s quick thinking. 

“I hope so! If not, this will have to do.” You said as you held up the moving emerald sign that read, ‘Slytherins Do Them In’, in bold silver letters. Poppy beamed at her handiwork as you both found seats in the very front of the Hufflepuff stands. 

As the stadium started to fill up, you saw Sebastian and the rest of his team walk out onto the field, having to squint from the sunlight bouncing off of the metal on the players' brooms. He looked up at you, and the brightest smile you have ever seen on his face lit up the field. You felt your heart swell and you waved animatedly, receiving a small wave in return as he had to return his focus on whatever the captain was saying. 

“Are you serious right now?” 

The voice behind you pulled you from your Sallow-filled euphoria, turning to see who the person was talking to. Lenora was standing there, fully dressed in gold and holding an obnoxious yellow megaphone. 

“I’m sorry?” You said softly, turning a bit more to look at her, now realizing it was you who she was talking to. 

“Didn’t realize you could switch houses this late. Why are you even on our side?” Lenora sneered, motioning to all of the other Hufflepuffs, most of whom were avoiding eye contact with the three of you, just wanting to watch the game in peace and not caring in the slightest. 

“Lenora I’m still in Hufflepuff I ju-“

“You do know they’re playing against YOUR house then, right? Don’t you have any pride? Slytherins always look down on us, and here you are supporting them.” Lenora's voice was getting louder, having to yell a bit to be heard over the announcer talking about the game that was happening before them. 

You had hardly even noticed the game had started, a slightly annoyed look finding your usually calm and quiet demeanor. 

“My friend is in Slytherin and I just wanted t-“ You started, Poppy’s small hand finding your shoulder in comfort. 

“Lenora, please stop, it's not that serious…” Adelaide said as she tugged on Lenora’s jacket, her round face pink with cold as she shot you an apologetic look. 

Lenora shook her hand away and glared at you. “Then go sit on the Slytherin side, they’re all a bunch of prats anyways.” 

Your anger flared, standing as you glared back at Lenora. “Shut up! No, they aren’t!” Poppy stood as well, but you hardly noticed, all of your attention on Lenora, your fists clenching at your sides. 

She stared at you and laughed. “You only think that because you follow that Sallow boy around like a lost puppy, you poof.”

Your heart sank, your anger immediately turning into anxiety as you shrank away from her. What if a rumor started going around that Sebastian was hanging out with… well, someone like you. What if he started getting called things, or getting looks in the hallways, or, Merlin forbid, he heard the rumors from a friend. 

Lost in your turmoil, you hardly had time to process that Poppy had shot past you, and Lenora was suddenly on the ground. You panicked, your hands going up to your mouth as you saw blood trailing from her nose. “Poppy!” You whispered into your hands. 

“Don’t EVER talk about him like that!” Poppy yelled, her small stature not hindering her ability to be intimidating in the slightest. Lenora quickly gathered herself off of the ground and wiped her nose, looking down at the red on her sleeve. In an instant, Lenora had grabbed for her wand, and so did Poppy. You grabbed Poppy's arms, holding her back, and almost hoisting her off the ground. She was a lot stronger than she looked as she struggled against your restraints.

Adelaide had barely wrapped her arms around Lenora quick enough to stop her, the surrounding Hufflepuffs were now scrambling to get away from the fight, one of them calling a professor over. 

The fight was quelled by Hufflepuff's head of house Professor Garlick, and both Lenora and Poppy were sent to Headmaster Black's office. You were left at the entrance to the pitch, watching them walk back to the castle with a pit in your stomach, your emerald-dyed scarf swirling about your frame from the wind. 

Slytherin had won the match shortly after the fight was over, and the two teams' captains were shaking hands now, the players getting ready to change. You turned back to the pitch, leaning against the rounded entrance, watching Sebastian talk to one of his teammates. You smiled, seeing his freckled face light up with laughter at a joke, getting patted on the back, his curls sticking to his face. He suddenly caught your gaze, and you looked down at your feet, embarrassed and slightly ashamed, not sure what to tell him. 

Suddenly, he was jogging over to you, broom still in hand, his uniform framing his waist perfectly. You mustered a smile for him and he looked at you curiously. 

“Hey… everything alright? You look a bit down-“ he looked at your attire and smiled again, however. “I like you in green.” Sebastian's lips curled at the corners and his cheeks flushed a bit, to your amazement. You looked down at the scarf and blushed as well. 

“I uhm… Poppy helped me dye them for the game. We weren’t able to get a hold of authentic ones before the match so we used a color-changing charm.” You said softly, dropping the scarf you were playing with and looking back up at Sebastian. 

“No need. You can have one of mine.” He said confidently, a wider smile on his face now, gorgeous as ever. You shrank away from the affection, worry filling you. Sebastian cocked his head to the side, his smile falling. “Puff, what’s wrong?” He asked, hand finding yours. 

You pulled away and looked around to see if anyone had seen, which it didn't seem they had, and you ran a hand through your hair. “Sebastian I need to tell you something…” you started, looking down at your feet again, your boots covered in dirt from Care of Magical Beasts and Herbology. Sebastian shuffled and grabbed at your jacket collar, making you look up at him. 

“Come on, I need to get changed. Walk and talk.” He said as he looked down at you, motioning towards the changing rooms. You sighed and shrugged, knowing he wouldn't listen otherwise. As the two of you walked, you noticed a large group of Slytherin players exiting the changing room, all brightly smiling and cheering in their normal clothing. One of them spotted Sebastian and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Let’s go Sallow! Party in the common rooms tonight, and make sure Gaunt doesn’t make a fuss about it, yeah?” 

Sebastian smiled back at them and nodded. “Yeah alright, let me get changed and I'll be right up.” He said as he tugged on his dirty uniform, the players shrugging and leaving the pitch, all of them apparently not even having noticed you at all. 

Entering the changing room, it was covered in emerald and silver drapings, bags, and uniforms scattered about haphazardly. You assumed house elves would come and clean up shortly, and shrugged it off. You leaned against a wall and waited for Sebastian to gather his clothing and go and change, but he didn’t. He sat down on a nearby bench and looked up at you, dirt on his nose. 

“Right then. What's wrong?” Sebastian asked quietly, his big brown eyes looking up at you with concern, and your stomach flipped. 

You brought your hands up to your face, rubbing it and sighing. “Sebastian… Poppy and Lenora got into a fight, and are in the Headmaster's office right now… all because of me.” You said pathetically, guilt washing over you. Sebastian stared up at you, a somewhat shocked expression on his face. “But, why?” He asked, a crease between his brow. 

“Lenora was mad about-“ You held up your scarf dramatically. “This. And a sign I had and just… she…” The words caught in your throat, even though you weren’t looking at Sebastian, you almost couldn’t bring yourself to say it. “I’m worried she’s going to start rumors about you, Sebastian.” You spit it out, your fists clenching. 

Sebastian looked even more confused when you finally caught his gaze again, his shoulders shrugging a bit. “About…?” He urged, motioning with his hand. 

You sighed in annoyance. “She called me a poof, Sebastian. Said I follow you around and… I don't think we should be seen together.” It broke your heart to even say, but you cared more about Sebastian's reputation than your own. People could say whatever they wanted about you, but never about him. You would make sure of it. 

Looking like you had just sprouted antlers, Sebastian's eyes were wide with shock, his face unreadable. 

“I… did she really say that?” He asked after a bout of silence. 

You just nodded, mind flashing back to the scene. You were incredibly grateful to have a friend as good as Poppy, knowing she would stick up for you like that made you warm inside; however, the fight only made your suspicions of Lenora going around telling everyone every mean thing about you that she could. Which didn’t bother you, but when it concerned him… you looked down at Sebastian, and the guilt consumed you again. 

“You don’t think I care about that, do you?” Sebastian said as he stood, looking down at you now. You looked up at him, stunned. “You… don’t?” The question came from your lips very quietly. 

“My uncle hates me already, and my best friend Ominis is also solely interested in Wizards… I have nothing to lose.” Sebastian caught both of your hands in his and brought them up to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently. “Let the birds talk, let them chitter. Ominis is the biggest gossip of them all, he will put a stop to any bad rumors, I can promise you that.” 

The reassuring tone he was taking with you made your heart break, and the vulnerability he was showing made you feel like you weren’t able to take in enough oxygen. “But-“ 

Any protest you were going to put up was silenced by Sebastian’s lips, salty and grounding. He smelled like sunshine and grass, like outside, and it was more than welcome. He broke away from you then, his lips barely touching yours as he spoke. 

“If you want to keep this between us, I’m okay with that. But I want you. Only you.” He whispered, and your face caught a blaze. “We don’t have to be open with it, we can keep it between us.” He reiterated. 

“Between us.” You whispered back, and slung your arms around Sebastian’s neck, dragging him down a few inches to crash your lips against his. You felt Sebastian smile against the kiss as he slid his hands under your button-down and jumper, warm and rough. 

All thoughts of Lenora, Poppy, and rumors were extinguished from your mind as you felt his hands run over your stomach, their warmth radiating through you. A similar feeling to that morning washed over you, thoughts of Sebastian only wanting you leaving you breathless and love-struck. Not only was Sebastian the only wizard you had fallen this hard for, but he was also the only one to declare for you so openly, so intensely. Your head was spinning, and before you knew it, you were tugging at Sebastian's uniform, his shirt off and your fingertips running over his bare chest and back. 

You let your eyes linger on his frame for just a moment, freckles absolutely covering his torso. This was the first time you had seen him shirtless, the majority of them spilling over his shoulders and collarbones. You leaned down and placed a kiss on his right shoulder, then peppered them down to his collarbone, as if you were trying to count the freckles with your lips. Sebastian hummed pleasantly, his head tilting to allow you more space. 

“You're getting braver-“ He breathed into your ear, soft and low, his own hands tracing down your spine and receiving a shiver from you. Not answering, you bite down on Sebastian's collarbone, his taunting ceasing immediately and a half-concealed moan barely escaping his mouth. “Easy, ‘Puff.” He purred, but the way his hip jerked up to meet your thigh gave him away. You smiled against his chest, a flush of embarrassment and pride filling you before you bit again, all the way down until you were on your knees in front of him. 

As you looked up at him, you suddenly felt like you were going to puke again. Sebastian looked gorgeous, his chest rising and falling with lust-labored breaths, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. Your hands trailed up his thighs cautiously, as if you still needed permission; all the permission you needed was in the way Sebastian was looking at you, his lips parting in encouragement and brows upturned. 

“Please don't keep me waiting.” He whispered, hand finding the side of your face and tracing a thumb over your lips. “As much as I love looking at you like this, fuck-“Sebastian's voice cracked as you placed a kiss on him through his trousers, a jolt of arousal going straight to your core at the sound, so you did it again. And again. Sebastian's hand left the side of your face and found the back of your head, restraining himself from pushing you down with every fiber of his being. 

Finally unlacing and taking him out of his pants, you let your tongue loll out of your mouth, barely touching the tip of his cock. Sebastian clenched his jaw above you, big brown eyes dark with lust. You felt yourself twitch in your own trousers at the sight and knew there was nothing you wanted more than to make him satisfied. You ran your free hand that was previously gripping Sebastian's upper thigh through your hair, pushing it away from falling into your eyes and blocking your view of the gorgeous face above you. 

Sebastian's fingers laced their way into your hair, and you began to feel him tug lightly, obviously trying to restrain himself. 

“Is this your first time doing this?” He whispered, his freckled lips parted in pleasure as you sucked the tip of his cock, just barely taking the head fully into your mouth. You nodded, eyes locked on Sebastians. The movement of your head made the boy above you curse, his fingers clenching in your hair. “Could’ve fooled me.” He practically moaned, head falling back as he rocked his hips forward into your mouth. 

You were able to keep him from going too far back as your palms were on his thighs, but you knew you would have to give him more soon or he was like to start begging. That thought did not help the problem in your pants, the image of Sebastian's lust-filled face above you contorted into a begging plea made you shift, the lacing on your trousers becoming uncomfortable. 

After Sebastian's cock twitched in your mouth again, you decided to try and take the entire length, wanting to give him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Taking a deep breath through your nose, you took him as far as you could. You gagged, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. Sebastian let out a long groan of pleasure, and you froze. If you could hear that again, you would gladly let him gag you a few more times. 

And so, you did. Every time you leaned down and let him hit the back of your throat, Sebastian's thighs would shudder and the most intoxicating noises would fall from his lips. Because your eyes were filled with tears at this point, you didn't know if he was still looking at you, however, his fingers were now tugging at your hair rather forcefully, almost guiding your head down and holding it there. As you gagged around him once more, Sebastian held you there, his large hand pulling your hair hard now, and you tried your best to stay put. Thankfully, it seemed the Slytherin wanted you alive because he released you, air returning to you in a rush. 

Looking up at Sebastian with tears in your eyes, you could’ve came. He looked like something out of a dream, curls falling into his face, cheeks scarlet, and lips parted. Suddenly, you couldn’t stand it anymore, the feeling of need becoming too much to ignore. You stood, and the look on Sebastian's face almost made you smile, that is if you weren't so hard you couldn’t think properly. You brought your hands up to Sebastian’s chest, finding broad, freckle-covered shoulders, and gently guided him down in a sitting position to the bench directly behind him. 

“‘Puff, if you don't finish I think I-“

But you never got to hear what Sebastian thought, because as soon as he was sat, you quickly slid off your trousers and straddled him. “Merlin-“ he gasped, feeling your ass against his painfully hard cock being almost too much of a relief. You couldn’t help but smile, even if this was one of the boldest things you had ever done in your life. Not only were you straddling a boy, but you were also straddling a, very handsome, boy in a locker room, where anyone could walk in. The thought seemed to cross Sebastian’s mind as well, because his cock twitched against your ass, and yours against his stomach. 

Sebastian's hands found your hips, his thumbs tracing your hip bones as he absentmindedly rocked his own hips up, rutting against you. His cock, wet with your spit, made your mind go blank, wanting nothing else than to give him exactly what you knew he wanted. And so, you did. Reaching between your legs, you found him and positioned yourself above, eyes locked on Sebastian's brown ones. His face was entranced, looking at you like you were the only thing he ever wanted, he ever cared about; and when you finally pushed him inside, his head fell forward between your neck and shoulder, a low moan leaving him. 

“Fuck-“Sebastian's hands tightened on your hips, but you didn’t move. You were still getting used to the feeling of him filling you completely, his cock hitting the spot it did that night in the hidden Herbology corridor. Sebastian went to move, but your hands found the collar of his uniform, nonverbally telling him to wait. You wiggled down on him, pushing him even farther inside, a whimper escaping your lips. Not being able to obey your commands, Sebastian licked your neck and moved your hips with his hands, rocking you down on his cock. 

You let out a little cry of pleasure, the subtle size difference between you meaning he could easily pick you up if he so desired, including moving you on his cock with ease. “Fuck, Sebastian- please-“ you barely managed between gasps as he brought you down on his cock over, and over again. Each time hitting that spot deep within you that made your thighs shake. Your own cock was tapping against Sebastian's stomach every time you came down, and to your embarrassment, was starting to leak precum on his stomach. “Shit, Sebastian- im-“

But you didn't have the chance to apologize, Sebastian was abusing your neck again, to your absolute delight. You had grown to crave the feeling of his teeth in your flesh over your past two meetings, and this was no exception. Your mouth fell open as you leaned into the bite, and you must’ve squeezed around him because he hummed gratefully against your neck. 

He was relentless, and you didn't even have to move, Sebastian doing all the work for you. You let your arms drop around his neck as he pounded into you, your own cock rutting against the smooth skin of his torso with every jolt of his hips. You were starting to see stars, and before you could stop yourself, you came. Pleasure wracked through your entire body as you spilt all over his stomach, painting his freckled stomach white. Of course, that didn't stop him, and he continued to bring you down on his cock until you were whimpering, stuttering his name in broken praises and pleas. 

Suddenly, you felt his fingers tighten and his hips falter, a moan being breathed into your ear as he filled you. Your cock hardened at the feeling, and you did him the favor of rocking your own hips down on him as he rode out his high. Sebastian let out a hurried string of curses as you did so, almost stuttering as he said your name softly. Cum began to pool between his thighs, spilling out of you as he had finished. Finally bringing his face away from your neck, you were able to look down at him. 

Sebastian looked wrecked. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his eyebrows upturned, cheeks blazing. You couldn’t help but let yourself drink in the sight, relishing in the fact that you had brought him to this, that you had made him this way. He glanced down then, and so did you. To your embarrassment, you had become hard at the feeling of him cumming in you, and the sight of his face. You covered your face with your hands and laughed softly. “Sorry- it's fine, I'm good…” You whispered, but felt the tip of his finger graze against the tip. 

Letting out a soft gasp, you peeked out from the slits in your fingers and watched as he smeared the cum still leaking from your cock over the head with his thumb. You cursed, body shaking with overstimulation, but not daring to stop him. And he knew you wouldn't, because he just lazily started to move his fingers over you, slowly. So slowly it made you want to hit him, but instead, your mouth was open in a pathetic moan, your hips jerking up as his hand started to pump your cock. 

“Oh fuck- please, Merlin- please please-“ you started to beg, not realizing Sebastian was smirking until you completely removed your hands from your face and they found his hair. He looked up at you, shaking on top of him, eyes lidded and a satisfied grin on his lips. “You're so cute.” He whispered, and stopped stroking your cock, and instead drug his fingers over the tip again, causing you to break. 

Once again, you painted the already splattered freckles, your head tilting back as you restrained your moans as much as you could, which was not a lot. “Wow, twice.” He teased, and you could hear the smile still on his lips as you collapsed against his shoulder, your breathing labored and body shaking with the pleasure of him still inside of you and his fingers lingering. 

After a few minutes of you both catching your breath, you sat up and gently got off of him. Your legs shook as you stood, and Sebastian noticed, a wide smile appearing on his face again. “Hush.” You scolded, grabbing your trousers from the floor and tugging them on. “You're going to need your scarf too.” Sebastian said as he handed the green-dyed scarf to you, which had apparently fallen off sometime during your… activity. You wrapped it around your neck, the pleasant pain radiating from the area becoming a memory of Sebastian that, if you had it your way, would be there all the time. 

It didn't take long for Sebastian to change and soon after the two of you were back outside in the crisp November air. You shivered, having become used to the warmth of the locker room. 

“Are you going to come to the party with me tonight?” Sebastian asked as you left the pitch, the castle slowly growing closer. 

“Do you want me to?” You asked, remembering what had happened just an hour prior, your stomach tightening. “I’m not sure I should…”

Sebastian sighed, shaking his head. “Please?” He asked again. You felt your cheeks heat up, even after what had just happened, still feeling like a schoolgirl around him. 

“Well… alright.” You gave, not being able to deny Sallow anything, ever. And it seemed he knew that, because he smiled and wrapped an arm around you, to your dismay. “I thought you said we were going to keep this betw-“

“Yes, ‘Puff. Between us. I promise. No one is going to question me having an arm around my mate, alright? Calm down.” He reassured you, and you could’ve melted into his touch. 

“If you say so.”

“And I do. Trust me.” The authoritative tone he took made you believe every word he said, and as you entered the castle, you wondered what the Slytherin common room would look like that night, filled with people and full of celebration. 

#sebastian sallow #my writing #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow x reader #fanfic #Sebastian Sallow Smut #Hogwarts Legacy Smut #Hogwarts Legacy Fanfiction #homophobia

[dollywheeler]

October 4th, 1996

Dear diary,

We survived the night!

At first, when Mike opened the door for us, it was as awkward and uncomfortable as I’d feared. Mike was clearly nervous, which I found stranger than mom responding in kind, seemingly clutching to basic courtesy and manners as they landed on polite chatter about the weather. As if it’s ever anything other than dreadful in the beginning of fall.

I understand why mom was nervous, knew she wanted tonight to go well, but Mike was the one in control - he shouldn’t have been just as anxious, worrying about mom’s opinion. He’d already proven that he is capable of burning every bridge if he has to.

I stayed quiet as we crossed the threshold; I didn’t want to fall into the same pretense of everything being normal, and wouldn't have known what to say even if I did. Instead, I distracted myself by looking at the decor as Mike lead us further into the house. I’d never known there to be any developments in the neighborhood, but the house had clearly been a newer built than I’d expected. If I’d have to guess, I’d say late seventies, judging by the wide spaces and high ceilings. There was no divide between the entrance hall and the living room to the left, a set of stairs against the right wall climbing up to a second floor landing that overlooked the space beneath. The ceiling above the entrance and living room was made up of glass, as was visible from the street, the skylight tilting up until it meets the roof above the second floor. I had to admit it must look lovely during the day - or with the lights out at night - though I wouldn't want to be the one cleaning them.

The floor-to-ceiling windows facing the streets were partially covered by shrubbery and had tasteful white curtains that were left open for now, the glass reflecting the scene back to them and somehow making the lighting appear more cosy.

The furniture was minimalistic - clean wooden lines and modern sofas fitting the style of the house itself - and though the space was clean now, I could tell it's usually covered in clutter. The strip of wall that somewhat separated the hallway from the lounge was covered in picture frames, some holding snapshots of Mike’s time in Chicago, others showcasing Will’s artwork. I even spotted some old drawings above the fireplace that surely had to be from when they were kids. The outside wall was taken up by massive wooden shelves, covered in books and knick-knacks. It seemed empty now, but I’m pretty sure that’s due to the recent move, free surfaces they intended to fill up over the years to come.

The lounge, where Will met us with drinks and told us to sit down, was in the same room as the dining table, and in the back I could see a corner that led to the kitchen. though the kitchen itself was out of sight, I could see a small breakfast nook in the corner. Just like everything else, it was surprisingly cosy and intimate.

It seriously makes me wonder how long they intend to live there. It seemed surprisingly put together for a bachelor pad. Then again, not everything is like the movies, so I might just have to readjust my assumptions.

I didn't really tune in for most of the conversation, which was as awkward and stilted as I'd expected. Mom kept asking questions, and Mike kept answering almost reluctantly, as if he was seriously struggling to respond to to the most basic of inquiries about he and Will had been up to in Chicago. Honestly, one should rethink ever giving him an English diploma if he has this much trouble stringing a sentence together.

Will cut in a few times with updates on his family, which was a lot less awkward because mom had been keeping up with Mrs. Byers and thus could more easily contribute to the conversation. It was quite strange, even as we actually sat down at the table and they started directing more questions at me.

Surprisingly, Mike had actually cooked himself. Mom was quick to reassure him the food was good and the house was nice and all of that but it felt... weird, somehow. I didn't feel natural, even though she definitely wasn't lying, like she was afraid to say anything less. Meanwhile, Mike just looked more tense with every comment, as if he could sense it too. Will seemed to be the only one even the slightest bit relaxed, being quick to pick up conversation when either Mike or mom got stuck, trying to smoothe over the awkwardness to the best of his abilities. They kept bringing the conversation back to me, asking about school and friends and hobbies, but whenever mom and I tried to ask about them, it got weird again, dodging questions and dancing around the subject.

By the time we finished the main course I needed a break - couldn't stomach the weird energy anymore. So when Will and Mike started clearing the table, I got up and started wandering around. There were French doors made of dark wood near the kitchen that lead into a sun room, clearly used as a more informal living room. there were couches set up in the corner facing the giant floor-to-ceiling windows, tilted skylights similar to the ones at the front of the house allowing natural light to fill the space.

I would have bought the house just for this room alone - Will had set up an easel in the corner where two glass-lined walls met. In the corner away from the windows, a desk was set up cluttered with papers, and folders with white corners haphazardly sticking out, a typewriter stored on the floor next to it.

More so than the rest of the house, I could imagine them living here, sharing the space on lazy Saturdays or late Sunday mornings. Hell, I could take the images from when I was five, of Mike and his party set out around the coffee table in the basement, and implant them into this room, loud and boisterous and warm.

At least in this room the smell of teen-boy could be more easily aired out.

The one thing out of a place, which both surprised and excited me to see, was a shiny acoustic guitar standing next to the couch. It was new, clearly no more than a year or two old. I picked it up and it definitely felt smoother and more expensive than the one the Stevenson's had, and more importantly, it was actually tuned correctly.

"Do you play?" Mike asked, stepping into the room right as I had tried the first few chords, making me jump. He looked amused, though there was an edge of surprise or confusion on his face.

"Do you?" I fired back, because honestly I wouldn't have thought in a million years that Mike could play as much as the triangle, if anything. I wouldn't even have thought him capable of fine motor functions in general.

"Yeah, sort of," Mike shrugged, stepping further into the room and sinking down on the sofa. He held out his hand and I reluctantly handed the guitar to him.

He started playing, and it took me a moment to recognise it as Hey Jude from The Beatles. I raised my eyebrow at him, because as much as the song was a bit of a cliché choice, he was good. He stopped after the first chorus, and held the guitar out for me. I would have thought it a challenge, but instead he just looked genuinely curious to see me try.

I caved and sat down next to him, trying not to be nervous because last time I'd only managed to get to the first verse without making any mistakes. I was quite pleased with myself once I was done, and Mike's look was thoughtful even as he was smiling.

"I know that song, but-"

"Pixies," Will said from the doorway, and we both turned to look at him in surprise. "See, Mike, why am I not surprised your little sister has better taste in music than you?"

I couldn’t help but preen at the praise - I know it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t. Music is an opinion, and Will’s shouldn’t matter to me at all, and yet it felt nice to be complimented on it, as if I’d passed some kind of test. Interestingly, Mike didn't argue, just squinting his eyes at Will and sticking his tongue out like a child.

"To be fair, I've also been influenced by Jonathan," I reasoned, and told them about how Jonathan always makes me a Mixtape when Nancy and him visit. Where is my mind? was on the last one he brought when they visited in June, and just yesterday mom had picked up the new Oasis tape that Jonathan had pre-ordered for me as a late birthday present.

Will was immediately interested, coming over to sit next to Mike as he asked about my favorite song, so I let myself gush about how much I love Champagne Supernova - seriously, it's ridiculous. I've been listening to it on repeat ever since I got my hands on it.

I told Will I'd make a copy for him if he wanted, which he eagerly agreed to, but the conversation was interrupted as something moved in my peripheral vision, making me jump. It was just a cat, however, jumping onto the coffee table next to me. Startled, I ran a hand over her soft coat in awe, her big blue eyes uninterested even as she pushed into my touch.

Will, to my surprise, rolled his eyes when I asked for her name, but there was a smile on his face as he glanced towards Mike. “Her name is Cat.”

“You named your cat, “Cat”?” I asked, incredulous - because, seriously? - and Will shrugged and told me to blame Mike, who immediately gawked in affront.

“It’s short for ‘Catherine’!” Mike insisted as if that was a vital piece of information that somehow made it better.

“Mike sucks at naming things,” Will sighed as he reached out a hand to run over Cat's - Catherine's, because Cat is just too stupid - back, eyes cutting to Mike as if there was an older joke there, and to my surprise mom laughed. I hadn't noticed her come in, but she was sitting on the edge of the couch right next to the door, leaning back against the wall as she watched us with an adoring tilt of her head.

“He does,” mom agreed, fond smile curling at her lips, “what did you name Nancy’s stuffed horse again?”

Mike shrunk into himself, clearly embarrassed. “Neigh-nay is a perfectly acceptable name. As is Catherine!”

As if agreeing with him, Catherine jumped away from my petting and crossed the space into Mike's lap as he started scratching behind her ears. Mom laughed again, loud and deep and happy, and the sight made me smile as well.

“Honey, for someone that like those fantasy games so much you sure lacked creativity at times.”

That made Will snort, eyes filled with glee as he nudged Mike's shoulder, getting Mike to relax into a smile as well. “He was really good at coming up with the stories, though.”

Mom then went on to ramble in agreement, telling story after story about Mike’s imagination running wild from an early age. I was content to sit and listen and try not to die of boredom as we migrated back to the table for dessert. It was mostly things I already knew, Mom’s regurgitations of her favourite memories of Mike nothing new to me, but Will seemed to enjoy himself, and Mike was flustered but didn’t seem to mind either, chiming in to offer more context or correcting her at times when he remembered things differently.

The night was surprisingly pleasant after that, the initial frost finally broken as everyone got to enjoy themselves. They even relaxed enough to finish their glasses of wine and refill them, stories coming more easily after that. Mike and Will more freely talked about the classes they'd taken at UC and Northwestern respectively, and the apartment they'd shared after spending their first two years in the dorm.

There was still always that air of trepidation, of care hidden beneath each word, but it was easier to not fixate on it as we were all busy laughing at their crazy roommates and high-strung RAs. And by the end of the night I almost regretted having to go.

It was nice to have dinner like this - a proper dinner. Where the edges of the room fade away the further you're carried into the night, the deeper you sink into the conversation, when all focus shifts to the table at it's center and the people surrounding it, candlelight illuminating the sparks of joy in everyone's eyes. Everything suddenly seemed easier, the future shinier and more perfect, as if everything outside of the glow of the overhead lighting had ceased to exist.

And then we came home to a dark house, to dad asleep in his chair, and I realized none of my questions were answered.

Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it's only the first step. I have to admit I don't want to go back, don't want to give this up. Even if it makes me feel guilty, even if I feel bad for leaving dad on his own.

Maybe I can take it one step at a time.

I'll think about it out tomorrow.

Love, Holly

#Sorry for the delay #shifted from writing into reading mode for a while and spent the last two weeks unable to tear myself away from the written word #the third wheeler #holly wheeler #mike wheeler #stranger things #fanfic #byler #karen wheeler #ttw #will byers

[let-them-read-fics]

Jealousy, Jealousy

Pairing: Siyeon x Fem!Reader

AU: Non-Idol

Warnings / Misc. -- Smut, Jealous Siyeon ;)

Word Count: 3,348

Summary: With your three year anniversary imminent and the need for a get-away pressing, Siyeon organizes a romantic weekend trip for the two of you to enjoy together. Everything goes according to plan in the beginning, but when a night of clubbing breathes new life into her passion for you, things get a bit derailed.

Disclaimer: This writing is a work of fiction, and no disrespect is meant for those mentioned herein.

A/N: Hello again, my lovely readers! Just stopping by to drop off this Singnie fic :) Jiu's story is next, so look forward to it! Hope you like this in the meantime 💖

◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚ ▸◂ ❚ ⊱ꕥ⊰ ❚

Moonlight Bar & Lounge, 11:42 PM

As the two of you peered up at the establishment’s buzzing, neon lights, Siyeon had to make a conscious effort to prevent her hand from dropping too low on your ass. 

She’d made a promise to you – back at the hotel and in her post-orgasm haze – that she would be on her best behavior while you were out celebrating as a way of repaying you. 

You, in return, vowed to let her do anything she wanted to you once you were back in private, so long as she kept things tame and didn’t go back on her word in the meantime. 

And, for what it was worth, she was really giving it her all.

But you looked absolutely divine in your formal outfit – radiant with a sultry undertone, capable of leaving her transfixed. It drove her crazy to know that hidden away beneath it, tucked out of view from prying eyes, your skin was painted with all of her marks. Splashes of color, hues of red and purple growing darker with time – her own personal claims on you. With how hard it had been for her to keep her mouth off of you earlier, she was surprised you had any skin left unmarked at all. 

“Two more hours, Singnie. Think you can handle it?” You asked, glancing at her as you both approached the door. 

She opened it, sending you a confident look all the while. “Of course I can.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “We’ll see about that.” 

When you passed her, a smirk pulled at the corner of your lips. Her gaze had fallen to your ass, again, watching its every move in silent admiration as she trailed behind you like a puppy. 

—

The reviews you’d read, though stellar, had failed to prepare you for just how nice the place was. Its intimate ambience beckoned you in at once, extending an easy-going hand, inviting you to look around and see for yourself everything that it had to offer. 

Things were darkened inside, creating an aura of sensuality and mystery despite the openness of the layout. Hues of black and blue accented the furniture and decorations, in line with the established theme of intrigue. Large skylights were centered in the ceiling, allowing plenty of moonlight in to do as it so pleased. 

A dance floor called from the far side of the room, comfortably crowded and taking up about half of the venue. Couches and chairs were situated around tables on the other side, strategically dotting the available area so as to award parties their privacy. 

The bar was large, stretching out far and wide as it stood ready to greet you upon your arrival. A busy bartender met Siyeon’s eye when he glanced up, vigorously shaking a drink. 

“Welcome, ladies!” He smiled warmly. “It’s great to have you tonight.”

You thanked him with a smile as well, and Siyeon extended the same courtesy. Her arm fell to your waist again mindlessly – completely out of habit as she turned to survey everything. 

“How about we get a table first?” She suggested, subtly motioning towards them with her head. “Then we can dance for a bit, if you’d like.”

“Sure, babe. That sounds perfect.”

-

One Hour Later

Put simply, Siyeon seemed to be out to get you. 

Though she was your girlfriend, the love of your life, your protector – something truly sadistic shined in her dark eyes as she peered at you from the other side of the table, smirking around the rim of her glass. 

She watched you squirm in your seat a little, feigning oblivion as her foot traveled up your calf, teasing. 

Somewhere between her first and second rounds of wine she had undone the top few buttons of her blouse, and the seductive way she pressed closer to the table, arms crossed just below her chest, put her cleavage on full display. The edge of her bra was visible, too, but that was a detail likely only perceptible to you, considering your proximity and inability to focus on anything else. 

Every bit of her prior innocence was gone without a trace, eclipsed by the desire she felt, which was becoming harder and harder to maintain a grip on. 

The alcohol in your system was weakening your inhibitions, too; coaxing them to vanish as her charm worked its magic, promising release for you the second you asked for it. It showed in her eyes – which shamelessly drank in the sight of you – and the subtle bite of her lip. She appeared collected, but you knew that in reality she was far from it.

You downed your last bit of wine in an effort to distract yourself. 

As you lowered your glass, the ring on your finger shimmered, catching the attention of one of the club’s cycling lights. Siyeon looked at it proudly; it was the promise ring that she had given you this morning.

Wordlessly she reached forward, palm upturned. 

The musing, pleased smile on her lips would be your demise. You were sure of it. 

But even still, you extended your hand and placed it in hers, following her unspoken request. She held it close, rubbing her thumb across the back of it in soothing, easy strokes. 

Nothing made her happier than knowing you were hers.

“Ready to dance?” She asked, trying not to sound too eager. The thought of having your body against hers was ruining her in all the best kinds of ways. 

She was fiending for it.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for what was to come. She knew that asking was unnecessary, but she took pleasure in seeing you squirm. 

“Sure.” You swallowed. 

Happily, she finished off her wine. 

Leaving behind your empty glasses and appetizer plates, she stood up and led you to the dance floor.  

-

30 Minutes Until Promise Is Completed

The DJ was a true professional at his craft, and you decided at once that he deserved the biggest raise imaginable.

…do DJs get raises?

Regardless, he was owed one. 

His choices of song, paired with the seamless transitions and mixes that he conducted, set the mood of the lounge and kept everyone's energy high. A strong bassline carried throughout the place, thrumming consistently and so powerfully you felt it in your very being. 

Like an undercurrent, it flowed around you. Pushing and pulling, leading you out just to lure you back in again.

Siyeon moved in time with you, hanging onto the rhythm as you let loose. She kissed you occasionally, swept up in the heat of the moment and unable to resist your beauty. Her hands wandered, impossible to control as they made it their mission to tempt you. 

The couples around you all shared that sentiment as well – turning the air thick with sexual tension. 

Some grinded. Others groped. It was a plethora of positions and strides, all writhing and searching for relief – a statement piece on the human condition, plucked straight from a movie scene. From your place within it, amongst the welcome chaos, you could only imagine what a sight it was to behold from an outside perspective. 

A sudden buzzing tethered you back down to Earth, garnering your attention. It came from Siyeon’s front pocket, which was conveniently nestled right between your thighs. 

The contact made you tense at first, not expecting it, but it felt good. More than good, even. And far better than you cared to admit, considering you wanted to hold onto some of your pride. 

She felt it, too, but she didn’t pull away at first. Enjoying the show, she pressed it against you a little harder, coaxing your hips to gyrate, both to the rhythm of the song and in search of the vibrations. 

But once the phone rang a fourth time, you pushed her away with a dismissing laugh, telling her to go answer it. 

Your cheeks were flushed, and your heart was racing wildly within your chest. You covered your forehead with your palm, taking a deep breath as the people around you filled in the open space that her exit provided. 

The loss of contact with her allowed you to sober up the tiniest bit and get your head on straight. She was just like a drug.

Get a grip, you scolded yourself, shaking your head. This was ridiculous. Was going more than a few hours without fucking her really this impossible? You wanted it more than anything, but you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of calling off your deal. It was made to prove a point, and you intended to keep it instated for that very reason.

You stole a glance at your watch. 

Only fifteen minutes left. That was doable, no?

Siyeon rolled her eyes as she slid up on the green button at the bottom of her screen. She had to fight the urge to just let it go unanswered.

Had it been anyone other than her boss, she likely would’ve. 

“Hello?”

“Ah, Siyeon,” he greeted from the other end, a smile evident in his gravelly voice. “I’m glad I could reach you.”

She pressed her back to an open portion of the far wall, away from the more rowdy parts of the crowd. 

“Of course, sir,” she sighed, withholding the attitude that she wished to lace into it. 

She looked up at you, watching you sway gently in time with the music. The light of the room painted you beautifully – every shimmer and shadow fighting for its chance to cast across your skin. She couldn't help but admire you from afar.

"...yes, sir. I turned that report in to your assistant two days ago." She answered distantly, clearly not entirely focused on their conversation. 

He launched into a response, but Siyeon suddenly tensed and stood up straighter – intrigued for a completely different reason.

A woman was making her way over to you.

Like a shark circling its prey. 

The blonde danced along to the beat with a drink in her hand, sipping on it as she closed the remaining distance between you. Siyeon could only watch as she leaned down, smiling prettily as she introduced herself. 

You laughed at something she said and nodded lightheartedly, amused. 

“Siyeon? Are you there?”

Her lips pressed tightly into a line. “Yes, sir. Continue.”

He did, but again she couldn’t pay much attention. She was too focused on the two of you standing far too close for her liking, and the nonchalant way that the woman invited you to join her for a dance. 

To Siyeon’s annoyance, you agreed and stepped forward. 

She drew you in and briefly settled a hand on your hip as the two of you got accustomed to the new song that the DJ started playing. You followed her lead, allowing her to sway with you. 

She was attractive, and the sight of you together stoked the fire of jealousy within Siyeon.

For what it was worth, though, you didn’t attach any deeper meaning to the exchange. You were simply dancing, after all, and you'd made it a point to flash your ring a few times to avoid any misunderstandings.

But Siyeon was in a different state entirely. 

Her blood boiled, and her grip on her phone tightened audibly. The poor thing groaned and squeaked from the pressure, pleading for her to ease up.

The woman locked eyes with her over your shoulder, practically taunting her as she dipped you down. The angle provided Siyeon an achingly beautiful view of your body, tempting her to admire the lines and curves that you created; but she was sobered up by the fact that it wasn’t exclusive to her. 

In that moment, anyone – including that woman – could see you looking so gorgeously spread out. 

That was her final straw.

She abruptly excused herself from the call, assuring her boss that she’d dial him up again at the first chance she got, before hanging up without another thought.

Bitterness radiated from her with every step that she marched closer to you, practically fuming. She moved people aside along the way, providing an opening for herself to return to you. 

You were uprighted by the woman at once and subsequently seized by Siyeon, who loomed angrily behind you. You were oblivious to the situation until you felt her presence as she entered your personal space. 

She emitted tension, and the sensation made you tremble; the territorial look she gave deterred the blonde, who raised her hands in a show of innocence before smiling knowingly and ambling to another part of the dance floor. 

Hesitantly, you went to turn around and face Siyeon. But her sudden grip on your hips prevented that, keeping you as you were.

Something firm pressed against your ass as she pulled you in, rutting with a restrained sort of gentleness that seemed difficult to maintain. It caught you off guard at first, but the swell of it, straining against the fabric of her pants, was something you'd recognize anywhere. 

It was your favorite toy. She had secretly put it on before you left the hotel earlier. Cheeky. 

How had you not noticed it before?

She ground against you again, aiming to give you a better feel for it, but made sure to remain somewhat inconspicuous to the people around you. Her hands caressed your sides, tentatively working their way downwards as she attempted to gauge your reaction. 

Her lips brushed the shell of your flushed ear, upturning the slightest bit in triumph when she felt your breath hitch. Your head turned to the side and your chin tilted ever-so-slightly, granting her full access.

“Do you feel that?" She asked lowly, clenching her jaw. “What you do to me?”

She couldn’t have cared less about the promise in that moment even if she had wanted to. With you looking as good as you did and flaunting yourself like that… behaving really was no longer an option. 

You nodded fervently, lacking the gift of speech. 

“You’re going to take care of that for me. Right now,” she emphasized, taking a hold of your wrist. 

Chest heaving, you turned around to face her. She shoved your hand between her legs, making you cup the toy as she pressed a harsh kiss to your lips. You melted into it, weak within her strong embrace. Obediently, you groped her again, making the other side of it rub up against her clit. You swallowed up the encouraging moan that she let out at the action.

She begrudgingly pulled away after a moment, but only enough to take your hand again and impatiently drag you towards the front door. Her movements weren’t the most graceful – seeing as that she bumped the two of you into other guests and nearly fumbled over her own feet along the way – but they were endearing. She wanted you so badly that appearing composed no longer mattered to her. 

And that feeling was beyond mutual.

- The Parking Lot -

Although they gave it their all to be seen, the city’s bright lights were muted by the thick fog that covered the windows of Siyeon’s car; they were mere blurs in the distance, becoming increasingly dulled with time. 

The steam served as an immediate tell of what was happening inside, just in case any particularly dimwitted onlookers failed to put two and two together after observing the rocking of the car. 

Part of you was afraid the entire thing would fall apart at any moment, based on how roughly Siyeon was taking you. 

Her body clung desperately to yours, only parting long enough for her to draw the toy out of you and drill it back in as she took you from behind. Her skin met yours repeatedly, filling the cabin of the car with filthy noises that made you wetter than you thought possible. 

“Fuck, baby,” she cursed, pressing your head further down into the seat as the snap of her hips grew messier and more erratic. Her fingers tightened in your hair, making your eyes water the slightest bit.

You smiled triumphantly, feeling the cool leather soothe your heated cheek. 

The decorative beads hanging from the rear view mirror clacked together, consistently colliding with the back of it.

Rhythmically, the press of your hips fell in time with her thrusts; you met in the middle, getting the most out of each and every move. Your muscles ached something wild, but you were beyond caring at that point; all that mattered was Siyeon, and ensuring that she got what she wanted. 

“Does it feel good?” You panted.

“So good, jagi,” she groaned, voice raspy, as she lolled her head to the side. 

Her hazy eyes landed on the hickies that she had left at the small of your back earlier, which she brought her free hand up to caress. Beneath her fingertips, your muscles flexed from the impact that she inflicted; they strained with the desperate, searching rutt of your hips as well, never stopping for a second. 

You were such a whore for her; she loved it.

"I wish you could see yourself like this," she mused through heavy breaths, palming your skin. "Taking me so well. God, you're so perfect." 

Her harsh thrusts mellowed into long, sensual ones as she focused on grinding against you. The ridges of the toy slid across your velvety walls as she humped, stimulating you further. She watched the length of it disappear inside of you repeatedly, only to reappear glistening more and more each time. 

You reached a shaky hand out to brace yourself, aware that she was getting close by the tremble of her legs.

All of the friction her clit was receiving was pushing her closer and closer to the edge. The other end of the toy moved inside of her as well, heightening the effect of even your most subtle motions. 

When your head fell forward and came to rest against your extended arm, she leaned down, seizing the opportunity to kiss your exposed neck. The way her body aligned with yours, completely bare and heated, made you moan. 

She left new marks everywhere she liked, taking her time.

A soft, pleased grunt resounded in her throat when you lifted your hips and grinded back into her, languidly working yourself along the toy. She stilled her movements and let you continue for a bit, reveling in the intimate feeling. 

"Head up, angel." She instructed, grazing her teeth across your pulsepoint. 

You obeyed and raised it, fighting exhaustion. 

Her lips found yours, and you immediately surrendered control of the kiss over to her. Despite knowing you'd grant it without hesitation, she still asked for permission by licking your bottom lip. 

You opened up, sighing as her tongue met yours. 

Instinctively, your walls fluttered at the feeling; she deepened the kiss, doing as she wanted.  

She snaked a hand down your body and pressed her fingertips to your clit, toying with it. She spread your slick around, proud of the mess of it that coated your thighs and pussy. It dripped down your legs, only turning her on more. 

Needing air, you broke the kiss. She clearly felt like showing a little mercy, as she allowed you the chance to catch your breath and kissed your shoulder in the meantime. 

When the toy hit your g-spot again following a particularly sensual roll of her hips, you whined pathetically at the feeling.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Siyeon,” you exhaled shakily.

“And who's the only one that gets to fuck you like this?” She pressed, voice commanding. 

You moaned, forgoing pride. “You.”

“That’s right, Y/N/N,” she grinned evilly, pushing herself back up. Her hands went to the small of your back again, applying a tantalizing pressure as you obediently arched for her, already knowing what she wanted. 

She wasn’t even close to being done with you yet. 

“Now, start counting. If you make it to twenty, I might just let you cum.”

The sound of her hand slapping your ass filled the car at once, intoxicating you in an entirely new way. 

“...one.”

#siyeon #lee siyeon #siyeon x reader #lee siyeon x reader #singnie #lee siyeon x fem reader #siyeon x fem reader #dreamcatcher x reader #dreamcatcher #dreamcatcher kpop #dreamcatcher smut #siyeon smut #dreamcatcher imagines #dreamcatcher one shots #dreamcatcher scenarios #let-them-read-fics #kpop smut #kpop gg #kpop gg oneshot #kpop oneshot #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #jealousy

[have-a-treato]

Distraction

Gale/female sorcerer Tav

Content: Smut, short, one-shot, porn with feelings, power play, grinding, penis in vagina sex, desk sex, cunnilingus, bratting, modern AU (sort of), married, post-canon, mage hand spell, detect thoughts spell, restraint

Word count: 3.8k

The desk was long and wide, with plenty of surface space left to display a few of his many academic, societal, and guild awards, carefully contained within small crystal display domes. It was an alter to his mind and magic.  She had a particular plan to worship upon that altar very soon.

I'm truly very normal about my draconic sorcerer Tasha and Gale. You didn't ask but they have a playlist. If you read Credentials you know these two, though she was just Tav at the time.

Fic List, AO3

Tasha had been building Gale’s ire all day.  

She could not help herself. Gale’s anger was too delicious, and she had a craving.  

Throughout his day in his study, he worked painstakingly to translate a collection of old spell scrolls from Celestial to Common as a joint effort between Blackstaff Tower and the Watchful Order. He had been in his study for several days, working in long stints to meet his self-imposed deadline. Neither organization offered him hard limits on a timeline, he simply enjoyed the task so much that he worked tirelessly and neglected the other aspects of his life. Tasha was one of those aspects, much to her irritation. He’d barely spoken to her since he began this project, and she and Tara had to force him to eat and sleep. His proclivity for extreme focus on these projects was a work in progress between her and Tara. She understood that it was in his nature, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun with it. It also didn’t mean that she didn’t miss him when he was like this. 

Much of the time, he acquiesced to the two of them without incident. Still, she couldn’t resist using these special instances to needle him into a frenzy. Gale did not have a temper, not really, but the rare times she worked him up into overwhelming annoyance sparked a flame inside her that she could not extinguish, and now she sought it out when he was hidden away in his work like this. Her game came with the bonus of helping him break his hyperfocus. A win-win. 

She waltzed into the circular central room of Gale’s giant study in their home in Waterdeep for the tenth time that day, her black pumps clicking on the dark wood floor. Gale was seated, as he had been each time she entered, at his ornate rosewood desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he scrutinized his computer screen. Oblivious to her entry, he perched his chin in his hand as he clicked through several different windows of Celestial language references.  

Tasha continued walking along the edge of the room, the walls lined with bookshelves that conformed to their unusual curve. The ceiling was high, and natural light spilled through the skylight carved in the center, flooding the room with late afternoon peachy hues. Gale's desk sat directly underneath the skylight. The sunlight brought out the blonde colors in the woodgrain, making it appear brighter, and spilled over his graying dark brown hair. Dust motes wavered in and out of the beams, as if peeking over his shoulders, pondering his notes. His laptop sat atop a matching rosewood stand, the large sleek monitor tucked to one corner so he could spread out his papers and paraphernalia. A crystal scrying orb sat on the other side, pens and pencils scattered about, stacks of overflowing file folders, and all the notes he had been hand writing front and center. The desk was long and wide, with plenty of surface space left to display a few of his many academic, societal, and guild awards, carefully contained within small crystal display domes. It was an alter to his mind and magic. 

She had a particular plan to worship upon that altar very soon. 

Tasha strode at a leisurely pace along the shelves, stopping occasionally to remove a book and idly flip through the pages before returning it. She pretended she was looking for something, arranging and rearranging a few collections of scrolls, scrutinizing the display cases of their artifacts collected from their foray of saving the world.  

 She hemmed and hawed as she went, waiting to see how long it would take before he finally asked what she wanted. Unfortunately for her, she made several circuits around the room without him taking notice. On her fifth pass by the marble bust of the Blackstaff, she crossed her arms and huffed at his back. As she tapped her foot, she considered being more obvious, but ultimately, she knew she would have to be aggressive. That was fine by her.  

Smoothing a few flyaway hairs from her long, slick, dark braid, she kicked off her pumps and strode around to the front of his desk. Time to get what she wanted. She leaned on the desktop, making sure the angle was right for him to see the small swell of her breasts through the gap in her cream-colored chiffon blouse, hoping to tease him with a glimpse of her umber decolletage.   

Now that she was directly in front of him at his desk, Gale looked up from his monitor at her with a mild smile, his eyes peering at her over his reading glasses, “What can I do for you this time, my love?” 

He’s so cute, she thought. She cleared her throat, “I suspect you have ideas, based on your tone.” 

“Well, it is not lost on me that you have come in here multiple times today,” He chuckled, folding his hands underneath his chin. “While I am always pleased by your presence, I think we both know you want something other than references on the diet of mephits, discussion on the mating habits of ogres, or... What was it you were here for at noon?” 

“Dragon liches. But that was genuine!” She grumbled, “Related to my research.”  

“Indeed,” he grinned, looking up at her expectantly.  

She huffed, stood straight, and rounded the desk to his chair. She pressed into his space, the front of her thighs pressed against the plastic arms, attempting to loom over him as she defended herself. 

“I have reason to believe my ancestor has become a lich, and I’d like to ask a favor, so I’m looking into it. But,” she emphasized at the intrigued look that bloomed across his face, “That’s neither here nor there. I was looking for Professor Dekarios, and I found him,” she purred, trailing a finger across the back of his chair, “But the Professor has been very busy lately. So busy he’s neglecting a poor student.” 

Gale set his glasses down and ran a hand down his face, rubbing his tired eyes, groaning at her playacting.  

“Tasha, please.” 

“Please, what?” she mocked. 

He looked up at her imploringly, eyes widened for a moment, showing off the deep brown pools. But then his eyebrows lowered, his face changing entirely as he caught on to her game. Quicksilver sparked across his eyes, and his award-winning smile graced her with an appearance. A moment there was Gale, and another there was the Wizard of Waterdeep. This man seemed to have a plan Tasha may or may not like.  

It thrilled her. 

As he held her eyes a hand snaked around to the small of her back. He pulled her down onto his lap, facing the desk, deliberately positioning her to straddle his thigh. Mage hands held her elbows and wrists together making her lean forward and balance precariously.  

He pulled her backward by her long braid, leaning forward to meet her ear, “Is this the sort of attention you were after?” 

She nodded, grinning like the cat that got the cream. 

“Very well. You are going to use my thigh while I finish my work. If you do as I ask, and behave, perhaps I’ll humor you after.” 

Her breath hitched in excitement, her chin tucking down with her submission. 

“Begin.” 

She obeyed, rocking her hips along his thigh, the rustle of the fabric of his trousers as she moved the only sound left in the room. Gale turned back to his notes, writing with one hand and hovering the other over the small of her back. He completely ignored her, focused on the details of his writing. She snuck a peek as she rocked; something about the context of a phrase that would lend different translations if not considered. Her eyes blurred with the tedium of it while she worked herself. He was writing slowly as well, taking his time to form the letters neatly, pausing to consider a sentence, crossing things out on occasion. It drove her mad. It wasn’t enough for her to come, but the friction of her grinding was a perfect tease. She was growing ever wetter, and she hoped he would feel it soon. 

She pressed down a little harder and tried a little moan for him, to get his attention.  

“Silence,” he quietly admonished her, still not even pausing to look up from his notes. 

The spectral hands at her wrists and elbows tightened their grip incrementally. Pressure and tightness added deliciously to the sensation of her grinding on his thigh, causing a genuine whimper at the back of her throat. Her pace picked up, her back arching in a C shape as she bore down, so close now. 

But Gale had other ideas. He pulled her back toward him by her braid again, halting her movements. 

“You are not behaving as I requested.” 

She growled, her frustration reaching its peak. 

Enough was enough; she wanted to come and so she would. 

Her magic flared to life, dispelling his mage hands and conjuring her own. She stood from his thigh, turned, and pressed a finger to his lips before he could argue. His eyes widened in indignation with the realization that she’d silenced him. Her mage hands took his wrists, his pen discarded onto his notes, and bound them to the arm rests of his wheeled desk chair. Smug, Tasha pushed his chair back with a foot placed between his legs. She surveyed him with a smile, biting her lip when she saw the wet mark she left on his slacks.  

“My patience ran out,” she said playfully. Gale only shook his head, looking delightfully incensed. He clenched his fists, his jaw, and her favorite little crease deepened between his brows.  

She reached out to smooth it, “Don’t worry my love. You’ll get your fill.”  

She hopped up on the desktop, propping her feet on the edge and flipping her flowing red pleated skirt over her knees, all for Gale to see. She reveled in how his pupils dilated once he realized she was bare. Oh yes, she had quickly discarded her lace panties before entering his study, fully intending on having him restrained in that chair and unable to do anything but watch.  

Leaning back on one elbow, she trailed her fingers to each button of her blouse, parting the material to show him the black lace bustier underneath. They continued their journey down her umber midriff, through the wet curls between her legs, and finally parting the folds of her eager cunt. She dipped two fingers inside herself, slickening them and circling around her clit. She sighed at the relief, circling faster, adding pressure, giving herself what she had been wanting. Her head tipped back for a moment as she reveled in her pleasure.  

Gale sat still in his chair, seemingly content to watch, but she knew by the look in his eyes that he wanted much more. She slowed her fingers, sliding them back and forth through her folds, parting them for him, circling her entrance, teasing him visually. He leaned forward slightly, watching with growing interest, but still sitting prim like the good boy he was.  

“Will you taste me, Gale?” she asked huskily.  

He looked up at her, gracing her with his wonderous smirk, nodding slightly.  

She grinned back at him and reached out with her hand, pulling his chair back toward the desk with magical force. His hands would remain bound, but his mouth was free to do what he did best.  

He locked eyes with her as he leaned forward, parting his lips, ghosting his breath across her. She bit her lip in anticipation, but he did not indulge her. He continued blow air across her wet pussy, causing shivers to break out from the base of her spine up to the crown of her scalp, raising the fine hairs along her arms and the back of her neck.  

She threw her head back in frustration, “You still tease me?” She whined. 

“You’ve taught me well, my love.” 

He took pity on her and latched, swirling his tongue around her clit as he sucked. Her body responded instantly, her hips grinding into his face as her pleasure barreled toward that edge she desperately wanted to be thrown over. Her hands fisted his hair, her hips bucked, her muscles tensed, and then... cold.  

Gale had freed his hands easily once he had determined they were needed. Those hands, those wicked hands, had then chilled her clit with the lightest touch, halting her orgasm. 

She growled and yanked his hair, “I loathe when you use my own element against me, especially when you use it like that.” 

“Hmm, it tastes like you rather liked it,” He rumbled, licking at her entrance greedily for her bittersweet taste. His hands gripped her ass, kneading in an apology. “You seemed to enjoy the last few times as well.” 

“I think you take denial too literally,” she sighed, already beginning to melt to him, ever the fire to her ice. But he’s not wrong, she thought, I do like it, maybe too much.  

“Shall I do it again since you like it so much?” He sneered. 

Tasha gasped, “Did you read my thoughts?” 

“Mmm,” He answered between a lick through her center. “Forgive me.” 

“Well, if you’re going to be in my head let’s make good use of it, shall we?” She shook her head at him in mock admonishment, a smirk across her face until Gale sucked at her clit again. 

He could read her thoughts until they were not thoughts at all, only spikes of feeling. It could be rather disorienting, attempting to take direction from someone caught in lust’s haze. Gale was not one to back down from a challenge such as this, however. Tasha collapsed back onto the desktop, her arms limp beside her head. Her hips writhed into his face, as good a signal as any that what he was doing was well received. He felt her need to be filled and provided two fingers; he felt her need pressure and pressed down with the flat of his tongue; he felt her pleasure and drove her higher and higher, his fingers crooking inside her and pushing in and out with the rhythm of his tongue on her clit. Her thighs found their way onto his shoulders, and as he thrust her into a powerful orgasm they squeezed around his head, her toes curling and her cry echoing off the rounded walls of his study. It was sweet music, perfectly paired with the scent and taste of her like this, flooded with her release.  

As she went limp, he withdrew his fingers and gently placed her thighs back down, kissing the tender skin on the inside and brushing his beard there. She whimpered with oversensitivity, her chest heaving to catch her breath.  

Now he had her where he wanted her, and the picture of her disheveled and spread out over his desk, displacing his achievements and artifacts of his hard work, all his things askew as if she claimed the place for herself, drove him feral.  

He sat her up with gentle hand at her back, tucking stray flyaway hairs back behind her ears. She gave him a drunken smile and he erased it with his kiss, biting and commanding. He parted her legs and tugged her to his groin, her chest flush with his. 

“I do not much enjoy being made the fool,” he growled in her ear, referring to when she had him restrained in his desk chair. 

“It appears you’ve enjoyed it well enough,” Tasha sneered, lifting her hips to feel the firmness in his trousers. She hummed, now sex drunk, but still craving Gale like a sinful treat, “You gave me a reward. What shall my punishment be, archmage?” 

Gale grabbed her face over her mouth to silence her, firmly but gently pushing her back on the desk and looming over her. He fumbled with his belt, whispering in her ear angrily, “I'm going to fuck you the way I want and you’re going to be quiet about it.” 

A manic giggle burst from her throat, and he hurriedly whipped himself out and pushed inside her. Her giggles cut off on a moan that brought a fiendish grin to his lips. He rose again and yanked her to the edge of the desk, nearly knocking his laptop off. A few of his paper notes were crumpling beneath her but he was the farthest away from caring. He held her thighs tight and wide as he hammered into her in quick, angry thrusts, making the desk lurch slightly each time. Gods, her cunt was like home. No matter how irrational she made him, it was always made up for when he was being gripped by her.  

Without his hand stifling her she started moaning in earnest, arching her back and throwing her hands above her head to give him a show of her breasts bouncing with his thrusts, “Finally!” 

“I distinctly remember telling you to be quiet,” he chided half-heartedly. He truly enjoyed any praise from her, even if she was breaking his rules.  

Tasha giggled again, sat up slowly between his thrusts and pulled him closer by his dark sweater, whispering, “I’ll make you a deal. Fuck me how I want, and I’ll quietly let you know just how much I like it.” 

Despite having indulged her quite recently, he could not resist her. He groaned long and low, the way she commanded him lighting fire in his veins, “Tell me.” 

She bit his lip and giggled again, “Turn me around and lean over me. I’m starving for you Gale, fuck me hard. Tell me how good it is to be in my pussy again.”  

His hips stuttered at her instructions, a small moan leaving his chest. He quickly pulled out and did as she asked, pulling her off the desk, turning her around by her hips, and bending her over it.  

Tasha moaned as her chest hit the desktop and she felt his cock slam back into her, “Oh, gods, yes,” she hissed.  

He rested his weight over her, pressing his forehead against her temple, the thin scales there tickling his skin. His panting breaths ruffled her black hair as he spoke, “I didn’t realize how much I missed this cunt until you let me taste it. I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I?” 

Tasha whimpered, arching her back and widening her stance to have him even deeper. He spoke with such dignity and grace, to hear him say things like that stoked her fire even higher. 

“What a fool I am to abstain from this. Your words sharp as blades but your pussy sweet as honey.” He grinned as he thrust deep inside her and stilled, teasing her yet again. To add to her despair, he whispered, “I reach godhood within you.” 

Her whine at his teasing broke off into giggles, “Divine my pussy may be, but you belong nowhere near godhood Gale Dekarios.” 

“You are right, as always,” He chuckled with her. His hand snaked down between the desk and her sex, his fingers circling her clit as his thrusts continued and quickened. He whispered, “I belong with you.”  

No more words were passed between them as they lost themselves to each other. Gale rutted into her as she moaned and whimpered without care, sliding forward on the desk as he fucked her. His free hand caught hers that gripped the desk, lacing their fingers together. His mouth alternated between gracing her neck with open-mouthed kisses and panting in her ear as he rested his forehead against her temple.  

“I missed you,” Tasha gasped. 

Her confession had him bursting, wholly unexpected and sweet. A deep groan ripped from his chest as his muscles seized, spilling seemingly endlessly inside her, his cock throbbing in time with the flutter of her cunt. She squeezed him as if to milk him, her arm reaching back to grip his ass through his slacks. She hummed with satisfaction as he nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck while he caught his breath, taking small tastes of her sweat there.  

When he could think beyond the feel of her cunt enveloping him, he stood up and gently guided her to do the same. He sat her back on the desk and began buttoning her blouse for her after tucking himself away and straightening his sweater. Each button put to rights was concluded with peck on her cheek there, her neck there, and her nose here. Once he finished with the penultimate button, he took her face in his hands, brushing his thumbs across the opalescent scales adorning them.  

“I’m sorry,” he murmured solemnly.  

Tasha barked a short laugh in surprise, “Whatever for, Gale?” 

“For getting so absorbed by this project. I realize I’ve been become somewhat of a hermit in here while you’ve been left to fend for yourself.” 

“Oh Gale, I know you love your work. Your mind is only one of the reasons I fell in love with you. I wouldn’t change it for anything.” 

Tasha’s hands held his wrists reverently as she melted to his touch. Her icy blue eyes fell into his brown pools. The sunlight through the roof had deepened to red and peach, the rays catching in his irises and revealing the gold and crimson within. Warring aspects of himself that battled endlessly: the golden child, the treasured husband, the honored academic; the formidable battle mage, the power-hungry man, the vainglorious prodigy. She loved them all, even if she didn’t like them all.   

“I love you,” she whispered onto his lips, as true now as the first time she said it. “And I love teasing you,” she grinned.  

“It is quite astonishing how you manage to bring out the best and worst in me.” 

At that she nipped his lip, “No, Gale. There is no worst or best. There is only you, and I love you.” 

He sighed, resting his forehead on hers in defeat, having had this conversation many times before. “I know, I know...” his fingers trailed down to her arms, rubbing gently, “Hmm. Someday I may just be worthy of you.” 

He shushed her impeding reply with a finger at her lips, “Yes, yes, but enough of that. I think my wife requires a bath and a feast.” 

Tasha smiled with the light of Lathander himself, always getting a tiny flutter of butterflies whenever he called her wife. “You wife agrees. To the bath, if you please.” 

Gale obliged quickly, wrapping her legs around his waist and hoisting her up to his chest. He placed an affectionate kiss at her chin, looking up at her with all the love in the world as he walked them both down the hall to their bedroom. 

----

Merry Chrysler fellow Galemancers! Thank you for reading! I sincerely hope you enjoyed it

#i keep forgetting to add things shit #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #gale dekarios x tav #gale dekarios romance #gale dekarios smut #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #gale x f!tav #gale/tav

[crimson-calligraphyx]

Noah

Through hooded eyes, I watched the dimly lit red numbers on the bedside clock fade in and out for God only knows how long. 2:43 AM. I should be sleeping, yet here I was, wide awake and exhausted at the same time.

Sighing, I pushed myself into a sitting position, careful not to disturb Olivia as she snoozed next to me. From the moonlight streaming in from the skylight, I could see that her cheeks were still tinted a light pink and her eyes were puffy from all the crying she had done earlier in the night. There was a strand of hair falling into her mouth, shifting with each breath that she took. I chuckled sadly to myself, remembering that very first night where she fell asleep on my lap in the same condition, and delicately brushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. She was beautiful then and is still just as beautiful now.

I had been lying in bed for hours, unable to sleep after the events from earlier. Every time I shut my eyes, all I could see was the despair on her face as she cried in my arms, and all I could hear was the pain in her voice when she asked if I loved her. Each time my heart would plummet; the guilt I felt was unbearable. How could I be so careless, so stupid?

I saw it when she would give me the cold shoulder or scolded me when I forgot plan after plan. I saw it when she started to distance herself and spent way too much time at the bakery, leaving me to wake up in an empty bed. I saw it when she relapsed after 3 years. I saw it all, and yet I selfishly kept fucking up. She was right; I was putting too much time and energy into the new album and not enough into our marriage, and she was hurting because of it. She had been calling out to me, and I didn't notice until it was becoming too late.

Liv inhales deeply all of a sudden, stirring in her sleep. I watched her for a moment as she blindly threw her arm out, draping it over my lap, and pulled herself close. I lazily ran a hand through her hair while she settled back into her slumber, nuzzling her face in the space between the mattress and my leg. I smiled softly to myself, cherishing her affection while I could—even if she wasn't conscious.

Olivia was the light of my life, and I'll be damned if that light flickers out because of my foolishness.

-

I’m startled awake by the sound of coughing, followed by a rush of something hitting water, then more coughing. The bathroom door was left ajar, a ribbon of light shining from the floor and to the ceiling. I knew immediately that it was Olivia, getting sick once again from how much she had to drink last night. I frowned, throwing the blankets off me, and made my way in to see how she was doing.

Her arms were folded over the toilet seat, her forehead pressed against them as she sniffled and let out a few harsh breaths. I made my way over, grabbing a hair tie off the vanity before kneeling behind her and gathering her hair in my hands. I gently combed through her locks with my fingers, separating the strands and started to weave them into a braid from her hairline. She hums and mumbles a quiet ‘thank you’, sniffling and letting out an exasperated sigh.

When I finished tying off the French braid, I gave her a kiss on the back of her head and shuffled to her side, sitting on my feet. She remained in the same position as I rubbed slow circles into her back, and I could see that her cheeks were stained with fresh tears—she always cried whenever she threw up.

“Are you okay, love?” I asked her softly, continuing to smooth my hand over her back. She takes a choppy breath in, nodding against her arms. “Yeah,” she groans, pulling one arm away from the toilet seat and searched for the lever blindly. She eventually flushes the toilet and drops her arm down to her side in what seemed to be exhaustion. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up and back to bed,” I tell her, pressing my lips to her head again. She sniffles and nods once more but doesn’t move.

I stand up to grab a face cloth, running it under the faucet before returning to my original position beside her. I ran a hand down the back of her head, hoping to coax her into sitting up. She sighs and picks her head up, slowly facing me, remorse heavy in her features—brows raised and knitted together, eyes dull and swollen, cheeks and nose reddened, all while her lips trembled. I felt my heart sink at the sight, absolutely hating seeing her like this.

I delicately tip her head up by her chin, bringing the damp cloth to her cheeks first so I could wipe the tear stains away. I dabbed around her mouth, clearing the dribble of saliva and vomit that remained there. I could feel her lips quivering as I went over them; I knew she was embarrassed, even before she apologized for vomiting.

I tossed the face cloth into the laundry basket and stood, holding my hands out to help her up. She takes my hands in hers, and I lift her to her feet while placing her arms around my midsection, promptly wrapping mine around her. I embraced her tightly for a moment or two, gently swaying her back and forth before letting go, guiding her back to bed.

I laid her down, and she looked up at me with a saddened smile curling at the corner of her lips, holding my hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, closing her eyes and shaking her head. I squeezed her hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, too. I fucked up, Olivia.” I watched her face contort, tears beading up in the inner corner of her eyes. “I fucked up, too,” she chokes out, her lips continuing to tremble as the tears rolled down her face. I used my free hand to wipe them away, hushing her when she started to let out tiny cries. God, I hated seeing her like this, and it was all my fucking fault.

“I know you think I don’t love you anymore,” I start to tell her with a quivering voice, my chest tightening just thinking those words, “but I want you to know that that is the furthest thing from the truth, Olivia.” My throat begins to burn from suppressing the cry that was forming, the dreadful emotions from last night creeping back inside of me as I hear her words in my head again.

You don’t even love me anymore, do you?

I cleared my throat and tried to swallow down the pain, giving her another firm squeeze to her hand. “I know that I’ve been selfish, that I’ve been spending an ungodly amount of time recording, but I swear it wasn’t my intent to hurt you. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, all I know is that I love you a-and I’m scared—” My voice cracks, that sob finally slipping past my lips. “I’m scared you’re going to leave, and I don’t want that to happen. I can’t have that happen.”

It was her turn to wipe away the tears that I tried so hard to hold back, but they still found their way down my face. She sat up and ran her fingers under my eyes before palming my cheek, turning my head towards her. "No," she whispers and presses her lips to mine delicately. "I'm not leaving," she mumbles against my lips, "and I'm sorry for what I said, making you think that." I closed my eyes briefly and let out a sigh of relief, readjusting on the bed so I could lie down and pull her against me. She hooks her leg over my hip, shifting until she was lying on top of me, and nuzzles her head in the crook of my neck.

"I'm so fucking sorry for everything, Liv," I whispered, kneading my fingers through her hair, disregarding the braid while my other arm secures her body to mine. She let out a whimper, her breath warm against my neck, and I could feel her tears settling into the curve of my collarbone. "I promise I'll fix this, if it's the last thing that I do. I'll cancel the goddamn tour if I have to, so long as you never question the love that I have for you." "No," she shakes her head and kisses my neck lightly before picking her head up to look at me, still teary-eyed. "You can't do that. You've worked so hard to get where you are now. I've been overreacting—" "Shh, no, you haven't been overreacting. You have every right to feel the way that you feel, and I don't want you to feel that way," I bring a hand to her face, tracing the apple of her cheek with my thumb. "I can't have you feeling that way because of me. Please let me fix this." She shakes her head 'no' again, "You can't cancel the tour because of me, Noah." "Then... Then come with me," I blurted out without so much as thinking about how that would play out.

She remains silent after taking a quick breath in, her lips parting ever-so-slightly as she pondered my words. The longer I sat here searching her eyes for an answer, the harder my heart pounded from apprehension of whether she would accept my offer or not.

"I can't with the bakery, Noah, you know that," she says dejectedly, and my heart sank from the rejection. I sighed, racking my brain for any possible way of allowing this to happen. "What if for only a couple shows?" I pleaded. "Who's gonna run the bakery while I'm gone? There's orders that need to be made, the money needs to be situated, a shipment comes in once a week—" "Hold on, slow your brain for a second," I chuckled. "We'll figure something out. You have an assistant manager, right?" She quirks an eyebrow and tilts her head to the side with a little bob, possibly considering it. "Well, there is Juliana," she concurs with a huff. "She knows most of the operations, I guess... I'll discuss it with her, see how confident she feels about it." I flashed her a smile, giving her a little squeeze from the joy that buzzed through me.

-

Liv had reasonably called out of work for the day, still not feeling well when she finally got up to start her day. She claimed physically, but deep down I knew that a good part of it was mentally.

I helped her the best that I could; I made her a light breakfast of toast with peanut butter, knowing that would be all she could stomach, and made sure she was drinking enough water before allowing her the coffee she kept whining about. She looked like a kid on Christmas morning when I handed her the mug, and I couldn't help but laugh from her excitement.

"How do you feel about a walk?" I asked later in the afternoon while we watched a rerun of Avatar: The Last Airbender, huddled under a blanket together. She gives a short hum, lifting her arms over her head with a deep inhale as she sat up. "Getting some fresh air would probably do me some good," she chuckles. I grinned and stood up, pressing a kiss to her temple before making my way to the bedroom. She gives me a questioning look when I returned holding a backpack. "Where are we going?" I shrugged, now headed into the kitchen. "Not sure," I fibbed with a smirk spreading across my face, "so I thought snacks would be a good idea in case we get lost." She snorts. "Well, I do like snacks," she then mumbles, trailing after me to help pick out what to munch on. We settled on pretzels and a few leftover oatmeal raisin cookies that she baked a couple days ago before heading out the door.

It was only about a 20-minute walk to the beach from our home, so I thought it would be a good idea to relax there for a little while and catch the sunset. Liv and I would do this from time to time; lay out a blanket on the shore an hour or so before the sunset and watch the waves crash down while we talked about everything and nothing. We'd lie down as the sun slipped behind the horizon, enjoying the remaining warmth from the sand, and eventually wrap ourselves together as the air began to chill.

It didn't take her long to realize where we were going, the added bounce in her step telling me she was eager to arrive at the beach. She kicked off her shoes, letting go of my hand to pick them up and trotted down the walkway once we got there. My heart nearly melted at the sight, hearing the giggles emanate from her as she continued to put distance between us. "Hey, wait for me!" I shook my head in amusement and kicked off my own shoes before jogging after her.

When I cleared the walkway, Olivia was standing about 40, maybe 50 feet out, stopped dead in her tracks, just gazing at the tide. She was completely entranced by the ocean, but here I was, completely entranced by her. The way the wind danced through her mahogany hair, the way the golden hour's glow cascaded over her and complimented her complexion perfectly, the way her smile only seemed to grow...which was probably just from me walking closer to her, but still.

I closed the gap between us and hugged her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder. She hums contently and places her hands over mine with a light squeeze. We stood like this for a few minutes, hypnotized by the waves gently crawling up the shoreline before pulling back and returning to the depths in which they came from.

“C’mon, let’s get comfy,” I tell her, loosening my hold on her so I could slip the backpack off. I placed our snacks onto the sand and dug out the blanket that I shoved in there prior, fanning it out before moving the food onto it. I plopped down and held my hand out to her; she instinctively took it with a smile and sat beside me.

She rested her head on my shoulder as we munched on our cookies and pretzels, just enjoying each other’s company as the sun started to slip lower as the time passed. I placed a hand on her knee and aimlessly rubbed her with my thumb while she snaked her arm between mine and my side, clinging onto me. I glanced down at her and couldn’t help the smile on my face when I saw how happy she was, a welcoming buzz spreading through me from the sight. I pressed a kiss to her head before turning my attention back to the ocean.

“You know why I love watching the sunrise or sunset?” she asks just as the sky started to shift into a deep orange, the turquoise waters spreading into cobalt. “Why’s that?” She squeezes my arm a little tighter. “Because it reminds me of the night you told me that you loved me. Then you woke me up at a godawful hour to take me to watch the sunrise,” she let out a quiet laugh, and I felt my own chuckle start to form in my throat, remembering how grumpy she was originally. “And even though I did not want to get up, it was so worth it. I’ve never seen something so beautiful in my life, and it was all thanks to you, Noah. You gave me the ability to witness this with all the love you made me feel for you, and I’ll forever cherish that moment.”

She picked her head up from my shoulder and I could just catch the remnants of blue glimmering in her eyes as she smiled at me. As I gazed into them with her words cycling in my head, it made me realize how important the little things are. The sunrise or sunset filled her with joy for the same reason that blue is my favorite color—it’s the color of her eyes, the color I never want to lose the ability to see, the color that made me realize I had fallen in love with her. It made me realize that I would do anything to continue to witness it, so long as I have her by my side, and that I really needed to smarten up it I wanted to keep it that way.

I cupped her cheek and brought my lips to hers, feeling the grin still plastered on her face as I relished the way our mouths fit perfectly together. Her lips were so soft, so full against mine; I suddenly felt starved of her, and I swear she felt the same of me. I couldn’t let go, I couldn’t pull back from her—instead we’d separate just enough for us to gather an ample amount of air before reconnecting.

I could taste the sweetness of cinnamon sugar as she parted her lips, our tongues meeting with slow and unhurried movements. Warmth blossomed in my chest, our breathing picking up as the heat continued to rise within us. She clings onto my hoodie as she lies down, bringing me with her. We moved a little too quickly, our teeth clacking together, and she giggles underneath me. I took the time to pull away, catching the crinkle in her nose that I adored when she laughed, and smiled down at her.

“I love you,” I whispered to her and ran my hand down her face delicately, enjoying the feeling of her supple skin against my fingertips. The sun was mostly gone now, but I could still see her eyes shining as I gazed at her with adoration. She reached up and placed her hand against my cheek, and I swear her eyes were illuminating while she grinned at me. “I love you too, Noah,” she whispers back and kisses me gently. “More than anything,” she then mumbled against my lips.

My heart could’ve exploded right then and there; it seemed like forever since she actually said she loved me. All I could do was smile against her, feeling like I was soaring, and I couldn’t let this feeling fade away.

Ever.  

|Chapter 8|

#fanfic #fan fiction #noah sebastian #bad omens #bad omens band #fanfic writing #romance #sequel #quandary

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Idyll - Mal de Mer

Silco and Mel unwinding from their duties...

Mal de Mer on AO3

Snippet:

They've passed a week in the Ionian villa, with its cliffside perch and sun-soaked beaches. Their wing is the most secluded. Its decor is the traditional Ionian style: rich earth tones of rust and umber, offset by the cool blues of the sea through the wide slatted doors, which frame the private courtyard garden, brimful with violets.

The floors, of marble and granite, are streaked with the golden veins. The walls, too, are gold-flecked: a warm, burnished amber, that in dawn's slanting rays, casts a glow like fire. The lamps and fixtures are wrought from a metal like gold, but softer, with a mellow patina of age. The furnishings themselves, of teak and wrought brass, are simple: a canopied bedstead with voile drapes, a long low table, a dresser with a tall ornate mirror, and an antique armoire for their clothes.

An archway, at the courtyard's far end, opens onto a private bathing suite: a deep blue pool, fed from an underground spring, set with stone benches carved into the contours of shells, and mosaic tiles depicting sirens from ancient lore. The ceiling, high and vaulted, is crowned by a stained-glass skylight: admitting the afternoon sun in a multicolored aurora. Beyond the garden's walls, the faint blue smear of the sea glitters, with a private berth where their yawl bobs, anchored in the shallows.

Since they've arrived, a routine of decadent idleness has crept in. Day by day, their public selves—their most polished selves—are carved off. Only the private ones remain: the quieter, subtler terrain upon which marriage truly rests.

And within it, blossoming, the fragile buds of intimacy.   

Transitioning from day to night, they wake to the golden cadence of the late-afternoon waves. A brunch of local-baked bread, smoked salmon, and ripe tropical fruits, is fetched up by the staff. They sup together beneath a trellis of flowering plumeria, to the low buzz of the cicadas and the soft lapping of the surf: Mel, in a pale handwoven tunic, Silco, in a loose linen day-suit. 

After, they stroll along the secluded shore: Mel, her bare feet dusted with sand; Silco, his jacket slung over his shoulders, a cigarette dangling between his lips.  The tides dictate their meander: one moment ambling side-by-side, their hands loosely clasped. The next, he's slipped from her grasp, to dip his toes into the water, followed by the rest of him.

Each time, she waits, perched on a half-buried boulder, until the waves bring him back.

Sometimes he returns with a gift—a prickly-spined urchin; a spiraling conch shell; a vivid cobalt crab. Other times, he'll surface empty-handed, and drag her, shrieking, into the shallows: the spray of the seasalt in her hair, the span of his hands at her waist and the taste of his mouth on hers.

She's not afraid of the tide taking her.

He's capable of holding her afloat.

Afterward, their clothes are left to the dry sand. Beneath the spreading branches of the palm trees, she'll lays out a blanket: a patchwork quilt, bought from the local bazaar. Together, they sprawl across the soft cottony swathes, and trade bites from a wicker basket stuffed with local delicacies: crisp salted flatbread, a round clay jar of spiced honey, and a selection of dried fruits and cured meats, wrapped in wax paper.

They speak less, on these lazy days. Less of politics, less of policy.  Instead, their talk is like the tide: an ebb and flow that laps at the edges of honesty, without breaking into full disclosure. She asks him, delicately, about his days as a smuggler in the Black Lanes. He asks her, wryly, about the foibles of the Noxian nobility.

Their questions are posed as harmless banter. But the answers, she knows, are a test.

What will you think, they each wonder, when you hear my truth?

Will you recoil? Will you judge?

Or will you understand?

They are still learning the shape of each other's pasts. Still trying to fit it, piece-by-piece, into the gaps of their present: the new, raw, tenuous thing that binds them. It is an imperfect fit, the shards not quite aligned. But the gaps are narrowing. Each day, something slots into place.

Something real.

Something theirs.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane mel #mel medarda #mal de mer #silco x mel #melco

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I'd forgotten about this 2003 home in Pittsburgh, PA, but I came it across again today and it's been taken off the market for awhile, b/c it didn't sell. It has 3bds, 2.5ba, and was priced about $625K. I think that buyers may have been turned off by the decor. Check this out.

Here we are in the living room, that has a modern fireplace, sliders to a terrace, and a bar. Perfect for entertaining. Note the chandelier.

This is the formal living room. I just noticed that they have that fancy casket sofa. There's a fireplace in here, and sliders.

The kitchen is quite big, has lots of cabinets, nice granite counters, and a skylight. There's even a fireplace in the pony wall.

The dining room has a vaulted ceiling. This home is decorated in maximalism on speed. Buyers need to look past all the stuff.

We're now going to the 2nd level. The hall just has some framed art, nothing crazy.

This is one nice big deck on the upper floor.

And this is the deck on the lower tier, which is also large.

The primary bedroom is more long than wide, but it's a nice room.

The en-suite isn't terribly large, either, but it's nice.

The 2nd bedroom is being used as an office. I guess if buyers don't like the wallpaper, there's a lot of it and it would be costly to strip and and redo.

The 3rd bd. Interesting choice of color for the chandelier.

All 3 houses share the same driveway.

Garages are under the houses and there're no back yards.

According to the description, this is an 8 car garage.

https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/M4750855937

#houses #house tours #home tour #contemporary homes #other stuff

[chenle-dressed-in-black]

Hi ! Are you open for requests ? If so, could you do something like Mafia!NCT Dream (or whatever unit) reaction to you saving them ? (As a stranger) Please 😊?

✰ 𝕞𝕒𝕗𝕚𝕒!𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 ✰ | you, a stranger, save his life

m.list

     I’m back with another dream mafia reaction, because they’re so much fun to write! I’ve been feeling very inspired to write recently and I’m making the most it. Thank you all for your patience as I work through your long-awaited requests. My mafia writings contain depictions of violence, death, weapons, language, and things of that nature, although none in excess! Chenle’s is hella suggestive btw. These are fairly long, so enjoy~

Mark

     It’s just past lunch time at what could perhaps be called the most beautiful cafe in all the city, but you haven’t found time to grab food yet—business needs to be settled first. You’re lying on your stomach on the roof, watching the people below through a skylight. Sitting behind the counter are all three of your targets, perfectly oblivious to your presence and your partner, Haechan, who is wiring the explosives in the break room this instant. 

     As you scan the cafe’s patrons, one catches your eye. He’s wearing round glasses and headphones, bumping to music only he can hear. He scribbles small lines of words onto a napkin with a blue pen, black hair too short to fall into his eyes. You wonder if it’s poetry or music. Even from this far away, you know he smells good. You frown, pitying him for what’s to come.

     Then you see Haechan peek out of the break room—which is your signal. You know what you’re going to do. Before you shatter the glass of the skylight with the handle of your favorite knife, you double check your line. It’s secure. In the flash of an eye, you’re descending from the ceiling and landing gracefully on the floor of the cafe. Another colleague is firing  rubber bullets to break all the perfectly polished floor-to-ceiling windows. Screams erupt. Under the protection of chaos, you throw a knife into the hearts of each of your targets. They’re your special knives, with your group’s logo engraved in the center. You want to take all the credit for this operation.

     The boy hasn’t even noticed what’s happening, his music is so loud. You walk over to him, realizing that you’re dressed like a Matrix character, and tap his shoulder. He looks up, eyes going wide. 

     “Hey,” you say nonchalantly. “How are you doing today?”

     He makes a face. “Fine? What the hell is going on?”

     “That’s wonderful,” you say, checking your wristwatch. “Look, there’s gonna be in a explosion in about two minutes, so unless you’re prepared to meet whatever god you believe in, you might wanna take that back exit on your left over there, . . .”

     “Mark.” He gathers his belongings with haste. “It’s Mark.”

     You guide him to the back hallway, steering him away from the corpses of your enemies, and removing a card from your pocket. You put it in his hand. “Y/N. That’s my number. Call me about any damages you incurred today for compensation or if you just wanna, you know, talk.” 

     “Right,” he says with furrowed brows. “Thanks, I guess.”

     You open the back door for him, grinning. “Yeah, yeah. No problem. Talk to you later then, I hope?” 

     “Umm, sure. I’m gonna go, you know, so I don’t die. You should, too.”

Renjun

     “Hey, duck!”

     The boy in the beanie turns your way, giving you a puzzled expression. “What did you say?”

     “Didn’t you hear me?” You’re yelling across the mall now as you run towards him. So much for not drawing attention to yourself. Luckily, it’s so loud you aren’t sure anyone really notices—or cares. “Fucking duck, dumbass.”

     While his expression doesn’t change from one of sheer bewilderment, he does kneel down enough that only the wind from the throwing star brushes his head. Standing back up reluctantly, he watches as the target runs away, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. 

     You watch her flee with a smug grin. That should send a message, you think.

     “Excuse me?” the boy says. “Can I stand normally now?”

     As you approach him, your eyes narrow and a fire lights in you. “What’s wrong with you? The second someone tells you to duck, you fucking do it. No questions asked. You’re lucky you still have that shiny hair.”

     “What just happened?” he asks. “Did you have something to do with it?”

     You roll your eyes. “The whole throwing star act? Personally, I prefer a simple bullet.” 

     “We need to call the police. Somebody just tried to kill that woman!”

     “Don’t be ridiculous,” you say through a laugh that abruptly fades before your next words. “You need to come with me, though, so you can sign the NDA.”

     “That can’t be legal.” 

     “Oh, no,” you agree, guiding him toward an exit. He tentatively walks with you. “It won’t hold up in court for a second, but if you break it, you know . . .”

     As you move your thumb across your neck in one line, poking your tongue out for dramatic effect, he freezes in place, but seems rather resigned to his fate. “This is so fucked up.”

     “Right? I hate it, too. It’s so bureaucratic! Like, we’re the kind of people who attack enemies in malls, not the kind who make people sign documents.” Throwing an arm around his shoulder, you start walking again. “But if you don’t go, I’ll have to gag you, put you in my backseat, then hold you somewhere until you agree to sign it. And, honestly, I’m kind of hungry so I want to finish this quickly. Are you hungry? We could pick up some food on the way.”

      “Fuck you,” he whispers, packing venom into each syllable. “How long is this gonna take?”

     “Okay, there’s no need to be rude. I did just save your life, babe.”

     He glares at you. “Don’t call me that.”

Jeno

     One second Jeno is walking down the street on his way to a convenience store, then you’re pulling on his arm. He stops walking, taking you in. You’re wearing black from head-to-toe. 

     “Hi,” he says. “You pulled?”

     You let go. “Sorry, my name is Y/N. Can you trust me for a sec?”

     “I don’t really know you, but I’m Jeno. Trust you about what?”

     When a gunshot sounds down the street, you reach for his hand and lace your fingers together. You take off so quickly that he almost trips. Then you’re running together. 

     “My friends are looking for someone with pink hair!” you say, urging him to run faster with your hand. “You don’t want to get mixed up with them.”

     You love the humor in his voice. “Do you have a lot of friends with guns?” 

     “Just the normal amount.” After another gunshot that is alarmingly close, you pull him into an alley and push him against a brick wall next to a dumpster. “Can you trust me?”

     “Okay,” he says as you step close to him. Really close. He wonders for an instant if you’re going to kiss him. Then you remove your cap and place it over his head, tucking in the ends of his bright hair. “What are you doing?”

     “Y/N, where the hell did you go this time?” 

     “My friends,” you say. “If they think you’re our guy, they won’t ask questions. Look, I’m sorry, but there’s one thing I have a reputation for that will let their guards down.”

     “And that is?”

     “This.” You put your lips on his, giving this everything that you’ve got because it needs to be convincing. The fierceness with which he kisses you back brings a gasp to your lips. Five minutes ago, you two didn’t even know each other and now you’re . . . doing this. And it’s really good. You don’t even have to pretend anymore as one of your colleagues enters the corner of your vision. 

     “Fucking hell,” she says. “You’re so easily distracted. Come on, we’ve got find him before he gets away. Y/N! I am officially cockblocking you, so come on.”

     You pull away from Jeno, giving her a death stare. “I’ll catch up in a minute. Go.”

     She mutters something underneath her breath then returns to the main street. Turning back to Jeno, you offer him a victory smile filled with mischief. Caught up in the absurdity of it all, he laughs. “I just made out with a stranger. Easily distracted—do you do this often?”

     “Occasionally.” You turn to go. “Thank you for your service, Jeno. I’d wear a hat tomorrow if I were you.”

     “Wait,” he says. “Where can I find you?”

     “I’ll find you. My friends and I are good at that, too. See you around, Jeno.”

Haechan

     “Excuse me, sir,” you say, coming behind a young man dressed in expensive clothes standing next to a very expensive car. “Were you about to check into this hotel?”

     He looks you up and down, half impatient and half amused. “Yeah, why?”

     “You’re very handsome and I’d feel bad if anything happened to you there, so take a word of advice and try the Hilton across the street. It’ll save you some money, too, not that it looks like you’re running short on it.”

     “Who are you?” he asks, closing the door of his car. “And that sounded a lot like a threat. If you want money, I can give you some. How much?”

     You rest a hand on your hip. “I have plenty of money, thank you. I’m trying to warn you, not threaten you. I won’t beg you not to be an idiot. The choice is yours. You’re welcome.”

     “You didn’t tell me who you are!” he calls as you walk away. 

     “No one.”

     “Is the J.W. Marriott a dangerous place for me, too, then? I’d prefer that over a Hilton.”

     You grin at him. “Plenty safe, rich boy. Be careful, though, because the gelato is to die for.”

     “Come get some with me,” he says. “My guardian angel. To say thank you for protecting me.”

Jaemin

     Approximately five minutes after your groups sends an assassin into the safehouse of an adversary, you’re informed by your de facto boss that the assassin has entered the wrong apartment. She doesn’t even have to explain for you to know that you’re expected to remedy the situation—you’re the best damage control in the game. 

     “Any information on whose apartment he did go in, then?” you ask, tying your hair back to get it away from your face. You tighten your shoelaces and put a hand on the belt at your waist, making sure your weapons are still there.

     Your boss frowns at her tablet. “It’s a 21 year-old guy called Na Jaemin.”

     “Is he cute?” When she sends you a disapproving glance, you wave it away. “Kidding. Hopefully he’s alone, or just has a one-night stand in his bed. Hoping he didn’t throw a rager and let everyone he knows crash there. Wish me luck.”

     The lock has already been picked by the hitman, so you open the door quietly and examine your surroundings: no wasted twenty-somethings lying around. It’s perfectly silent without a hint of the assassin anywhere. But he’s here. If he’s in the bedroom, which there only appears to be one of, you’re running out of time. You pick up the pace, risking a floorboard creak or two. 

     He’s hovering over a sleeping man. So Na Jaemin has spent his Friday evening all by himself, then. Because speaking may wake him up, you come up behind the assassin and twist his arms behind his back, trying to pull him from the room silently so you can explain the clumsy mix-up. The sooner he’s in the right place, the better. 

     Catching you by surprise, he spins from your grasp and hits you across the face. It’s loud enough that Jaemin stirs as you stumble back. The hitman moves towards him, grasping a knife. 

     “Damn it,” you whisper, unfolding a metal baton from your belt. “Wrong house, dude. It’s the building over.”

     Jaemin jumps out of bed, reaching for his bedside lamp and raising it like a baseball bat. He’s shirtless. “Who the hell are you? Get out of my house.”

     It’s as if the assassin didn’t even hear you, because he starts to launch the knife at Jaemin. You make the reckless mistake of getting in the way. As the knife cuts into your abdomen, your entire body clenches in pain. 

     The shock stuns the man for a split second—long enough that you hit him across the throat with the baton, knocking him to the ground as he claws at his neck for breath. You can feel the knife inside of you, but you know better than to remove it now. 

     “I said, this is the wrong house.” For good measure, you smack him across the head. He goes all the way down. Clutching the knife handle, you turn to Jaemin breathlessly. “Sorry about that. Wrong address.”

     He’s by your side, having thrown the lamp aside. He looks down at your wound. “I’ll call an ambulance. Here, sit down.”

     “Don’t!” you say. “There’s a trained medic outside. I just need to—“ You double over when a wave of agony hits you, grunting. “—get outside. Please help me.”

     The room starts to spin, but you feel his arms around you. Is he holding you? Then everything fades into darkness. When you awaken, you’re in a bed in your group’s headquarters. Jaemin is staring at you nervously.

     You try to sit up, then groan. He’s by your side in a second. “Don’t try to sit up. You’re okay. I talked to some of your . . . colleagues. You risked your life to save mine, even though I’m a stranger. If you need anything, I’ll be here for you as you recover.”

     “Recover from what? It was just a little . . . oh my God.”

     You both examine the bandages that have mummified your torso. “You had three surgeries. The knife hit your intestines. Let me bring you some water.”

Chenle

     Tonight, Chenle is breaking into the main facility of your group in search for a stolen artifact that a posh historical society desperately wants returned—the reward is blinding. He’s made it in deep, near the heart of everything, with little trouble. That is, until you spot him. 

     All of the sudden, the lights go out and he’s swallowed by complete darkness. He stiffens at the sound of someone around him, but he can’t position where. 

     Your mouth is close enough to his ear that it makes him shiver. “You’re the one I like. I spend a lot of time watching you and your friends. If anyone else found you first but me, your head would be going on a podium next to that old vase you’re here for.”

     “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor of knowing you the way you know me, though never fear—I’m already starting to reciprocate your endearing admiration.”

     One of your hands finds its way to his tense shoulder. “Call me Y/N.”

     “Lovely to meet you,” he says, carefully clipping his tone. “What will you do with me now?”

     You click your tongue, still merely inches away from him. “There are so many options. I could take some of your fingers off or we could spend some more time in the dark—in a more comfortable setting, of course. Or I could give you to my friends.”

     “You’re making me blush, Y/N.” There’s undeniable amusement in his tone, whether it’s a farce or not. “You’ll enjoy our time together much more if I’m allowed to keep my fingers, darling.” 

     He lets you pull him down the hallway, which is still dark. “I can arrange that. Maybe I’ll keep you for myself for a little while. I won’t let the others touch that pretty head of yours. How does that sound?”

     “I’m all yours.”

     Maybe Chenle should be more opposed to the idea of being a hostage, but you paint a compelling picture. He knows he’ll be out of here eventually. The next few weeks will not be boring, to say the least. Whatever he’s in for with you, he’s ready. He just hopes you look half as attractive as the sound of your voice against his ear.

Jisung

     One every three months, a few of you get together and terrorize the streets of a neighborhood, but it’s all in good fun. You pocket some cash, steal some nice watches, and bruise a few egos. No one takes it too far. 

     You’ve just swiped the pearl necklace of a sour woman when you hear the sound of someone whose robbery is definitely being taken too far. The snaps, cries, and echoes can only be the sound of someone getting beaten. Tucking the pearls into your bag, you approach the scene. 

     “If it isn’t my least favorite person in the entire world breaking our unspoken rule not to kill someone on our nights out,” you say, catching sight of a particularly unbearable member of the group kicking a tall boy with white hair on the ground. “Knock it off.”

     Hardly sparing you a glance, he packs in another kick. The boy cries out. His mouth is bloody. 

     “Come on, leave him alone. You’ve already robbed the poor guy of everything—surely there’s a limit to how much you can harass and beat him. Have some mercy.”

     “Get lost, bitch.”

     You stand your ground. “Are we really going to do this right now? I’ll kick your ass, prick.”

     “Whatever,” he says, getting one final blow in before stepping away. “I’ll just go find someone else. Asshole.”

     “Fucking douche.” Slowly, you come to the boy. He gives you a desperate look of pleading. “It’s gonna be fine. I’ll stay here with you until an ambulance comes, but you have to promise not to rat me out.”

     He nods frantically. “Don’t—don’t go. Please don’t leave me.”

     “I’ll stay,” you say, smoothing his hair back from his forehead to soothe him. You dial for an ambulance. “I’ll stay with you.”

     “Thank—thank you.”

#nct #nct dream #nct reaction #nct dream reaction #nct mafia #nct mafia reaction #nct dream mafia reaction #mark lee #huang renjun #lee jeno #haechan #lee donghyuck #na jaemin #zhong chenle #park jisung #kpop #kpop reaction

[maddys-nerd-blog]

Here’s another snippet of my AU, Familia: Gone in a Flash!! This one’s the angsty piece that I drew up a few weeks ago, so be prepared, there’s tons of whump 😅😂

Heart lurching into her windpipe faster than a runaway train, Katie suddenly lost the ability to breathe. “Oh my God!” She almost dropped her gun in her panic, shoving past Traximus immediately as she broke into a sprint. “MY BOYS!”

She tried the door. No dice; it had been locked. Trying to pry the latch of the handle she pushed against it with all her bare strength, grunting and growling with the strain. The muscles in her neck and biceps popped, her blood was racing, adrenaline kicking into overdrive to keep her moving.

“Stand back!“ Traximus moved her aside, bracing his hands into the steel bar and wrenching it upwards, metal groaning under his clutches. The Triceraton wasted no time in ripping the latch off with a terrible scream of titanium being shredded apart, the sound rattling her skull with a vengeance.

She slammed her shoulder into the decrepit door, smashing it wide open with an all-too loud crash. Metal hinges screeched in protest from the impact, rusty screws popping free and flying in random directions. Katie moved through the shadowy entrance with haste, heart palpitating, blood racing. Nothing was on her mind. She couldn’t think straight.

Nothing mattered except getting her boys home. Put the mission first. Put the kids first.

Get them home above all else.

Protect and Serve.

The mantra rooted itself into her core. No amount of time that passed would erase the fundamental purpose of what created her, drove her, gave her the means to keep fighting. The boys had changed her. Leo, Donnie, Raph, Jason… they’d given her what she’d been denied her entire life.

They had given her the chance to be a mom.

And they were depending on her to get them out of here. Now more than anything, she couldn’t let herself get tangled in that anger.

Katie clutched her pistol in an iron grip, white-knuckled, the trigger pressing down ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Moving through a disgustingly messy floor where debris and planks of wood were left scattered, the detective looked around with urgency, emerald eyes piercing the darkness. “BOYS!?”

Her voice bounced off the walls. Nothing.

“BOYS!” She bellowed again, voice cracking. “BOYS I’M HERE!”

Again, no response other than the echo of her cries taunting her.

Por favor, no. Don’t let them be dead. A terrible chill grabbed her shoulders and shook her like a rag-doll. Please don’t let them be dead. Please don’t let me be too late. Not again.

“DONATELLO!” Katie called desperately. “LEONARDO! RAPHAEL!” Swallowing a sob to repress the daunting horror threatening to eat her alive she cried out, “JASON! MIJO!”

Dead silence was her reply.

She advanced further into the warehouse, gun still clutched fiercely in two trembling hands. “BISHOP! COME OUT AND FUCKING FACE ME, YOU COWARD!”

Katie looked around the vacant space. It was cleared out, all remnants of shattered glass from the skylight windows or the concrete rubble pushed aside to create some kind of arena. Metal pipes blocked off an emergency fire exit, welded together to form a blockade that sealed the automatic doors shut from the inside. Something suspicious that caught her eye was a rigging system of some kind tethered to the far left side of the room, a pulley leading towards the ceiling.

Before she could investigate, Traximus shouted in pain from somewhere in the darkness behind her.

Red flags shot up in her the back of her head, hairs on her neck rising. Cocking the safety off her pistol she whirled around, gun raised and ready to fire. “TRAX?!“

“Unfortunately he can’t come to your aid, Detective.”

Katie’s body went stone cold, cementing her where she stood. Slinking into view in what little light there was coming from the holes in the threadbare roof, Bishop almost seemed to blend in with the shadows, his suit granting him complete secrecy. Sunglasses still hiding his sinister eyes, the agent dragged a prone Traximus with him on the floor, the Triceraton wrapped in thick cables that hummed with electric energy. The warrior still attempted to struggle against his bonds, snarling with anger as he desperately tried to fight back.

Bishop dropped the mighty gladiator to the dusty floor, stepping around the bulkier alien as he approached the woman who aimed a gun straight towards his skull. A callous smirk oozing with a sick sense of intrigue greeted her, his demeanor cocky and arrogant as though his presence was enough to put the fear of God into her. “I almost expected you not to turn up. But here you are! Punctual and with not a second to spare.”

Katie bared her teeth with a silent fury that was drowning her soul. Every fiber in her body roared, demanding blood, demanding retribution, craving the urge to rip this man to pieces for all he’d put her boys through. “Where are they?”

Bishop smirked. “The mutants are alive. Although I’m quite surprised that you didn’t locate them sooner.”

What? Katie leveled her gun to aim for Bishop’s chest, unwilling to take her gaze off him for even a moment, lest he try to attack. “I’m not here to play anymore games, asshole! What did you do to them!?”

The bastard actually started chuckling to himself. Reaching a slender hand to push his sunglasses up higher to rest on the bridge of his nose, the agent shook his head as if he were talking down to a child. “You know, you claim to be clever. But when the cards are down you’re no more than a fumbling buffoon who can’t keep a lid on her anger. It was so easy. All I had to do was take away the thing you held close and watch the fireworks. Humanity is fed by the need to control, to dominate, to learn what we cannot understand. But you, Detective, seem to abandon your human ways in order to protect creatures that only carry a fraction of our intelligence.” His gaze drifted towards her pistol. “The shaking of your firearm proves my point.”

“FUCK OFF!” Taking a step forward to disguise her weakness, Katie shouted at the bigot with a snarl. “Don’t press buttons you aren’t ready to push, coño! Tell me what you did to my boys or so help me—“

Lights flashed on. Out of nowhere there was suddenly blinding rays coming from fixtures in the ceiling, rendering the woman stunned as her world was filled with black spots that flooded around the edges of her vision. She stumbled, crying out with bewilderment, raising an arm to block the worst of the light.

But above her… she heard noise.

Voices. Garbled, incoherent, panicked… scared. Her head whipped up towards the source of the sounds—

And her mouth dropped open with horror.

Strung fifty feet in the air, dangling like ornaments on a Christmas tree, were her boys. The four of them were bound back to back, each of their cords meeting in the middle to connect to a hook that kept them suspended. Their arms were behind them, strands of rope wrapped around their chests keeping them immobile. Gags had been fixed between their teeth— that explained why she hadn’t been able to hear them.

She spotted Raph first. He was furiously kicking his legs, thrashing and bucking in his restraints like a crazed horse, yelling against his gag with protest as he tried to get loose. Mondo was next to him, sandwiched between Raph and Leon, who was also struggling but not as viciously as Raph. She caught the smallest glimpse of Donnie behind them, the youngest unable to see her, fearfully whimpering. Leon kept looking at the purple masked turtle with great empathy, mumbling what would have been words of comfort to a version of his brother he’d grown close to. It broke her heart.

Mondo’s face was slick with tears streaming down his cheeks— bulbous yellow eyes were bloodshot and puffy, like he’d been weeping for hours. His voice was somehow the loudest against the chorus of muffled noises in the group, little legs flailing around in blind panic as he shook and swayed against his ropes. Despite the gag she could still hear him crying out ‘Mom’ to the best of his ability.

Some kind of primal instinct was awakened at that moment. Feral in nature, rabid, wild, manic. An untapped emotion that had never made itself known until now. Baring her teeth she whirled towards Bishop— the mother fucker actually looked amused by the mayhem he’d caused, the genuine fear he’d put into her kids— and she cocked the gun towards his temple, expression contorted into one of malice. “LET THEM GO!”

“Don’t be so brash.” Bishop tutted. “You wouldn’t shoot me.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” She challenged through clenched teeth. “I kill you and the game’s over. You don’t get to destroy any more families.”

“Only I have access to the pulley keeping your precious ‘boys’ from turning into heaps of splattered brains and viscera,” Bishop caught the stunned silence from the woman, gesturing to the rigging system. “This building was constructed one hundred and seventeen years ago. The safety codes aren’t what they are currently to our standards. One little nudge— one misplaced bullet, perhaps— can shatter the pulley’s chain and send the mutants plummeting. Not even you can stop it.”

“Don’t fuck with me.” Katie cocked the pistol, disengaging the safety. “I got them away from you once.”

“And can you help them get away from certain death?” Bishop taunted, taking slow, calculated steps towards her while she fought to maintain her composure. “A fall from that high can kill a regular human being. Think about what kind of damage it could have on a turtle shell or a gecko cranium. I’m told terrapins don’t have spines, but… there’s only one way to find out now, isn’t it?”

Katie’s hands shook madly around the pistol. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Bishop dared. “Go on. Shoot me, Detective,” he approached casually, hands folded behind him until he was well within reaching distance. “You made such a farce, after all! Why should you have to wait any longer?” He leaned forward just a margin, allowing the barrel of her pistol to press into the center of his forehead. “By all means! Do it! Show your dear mutant children how much of a hero you are! But if your shot should slip and strike the pulley… that would be a waste.”

Her heart was beating madly in her ribs. One finger threatened to press the trigger, but her anxiety made her freeze. Bishop could have been bullshitting her. He was a manipulative bastard with the greatest silver tongue on the planet. He’d say anything to mess with her head to second guess herself. Katie’s eyes flickered upward to check on the kids, trying to gauge if the hook keeping them suspended was at risk of potential damage—

Taking her eyes off of Bishop was a mistake.

He moved so fast the human eye couldn’t catch the rush of movement, the sudden blur of black jolting her into shock as he reeled a fist back and made a devastating blow to the bottom of her jaw, knocking her off balance. The bone beneath the skin cracked upon impact, loosening several teeth. It struck the pistol out from her hands, the weapon flying far out of reach. Another hard kick to her gut threw the woman into a crate somewhere beyond the reaches of the spotlight. Sections of her spine crackled instantly.

“And here I thought you were smarter than that!” Bishop laughed at her expense. Picking herself upright she ground her jaw together, every fiber in her body urging her to bludgeon the bastard.

Ripping her cardigan off and discarding it to the wayside, she balled her hands into fists and bellowed at the top of her lungs. “TRY ME, MOTHER FUCKER!” She took a running start as she reeled a fist back to land as solid right hook to his left cheekbone, whipping his head to the side.

Bishop looked at her, fingers raising to touch the developing bruise on his face. A coy smirk rode up his lips. “All that bravado for one punch,” he scoffed, sending icy chills down her spine.

She went to hit him again, only to be blocked. Her swings and jabs were shoved aside as if she were just a kid flailing her arms. His timing was almost infallible; catching her blind spots faster than the human eye could process, calculating her punches and where she was going to land them. If she got lucky enough to hit an area that she suspected was weak, he brushed it off and doubled down with a harder blow. It made her question whether or not he was a robot.

Katie barely managed to maneuver herself up and out of the way of another incoming kick that shattered another crate where she’d been thrown into. Her eyes fluttered, blood oozing out of split lips and shredded skin, struggling to push herself up to her knees to get her bearings. In the clearing she could hear Traximus shouting for her to run, but overhead the boys were screaming.

“Come on, Detective,” Bishop used her title like a slur, spitting it out as though it were a rotten taste left on his tongue. He advanced, shadows cascading sharp features with harsh contours, razor-like against his thin frame. His sunglasses were off, tucked safely into a breast pocket in his jacket, beady orbs wickedly stunning through heavy gradients of black. “I thought you wanted to put me down. Here’s your opportunity!”

She scrambled to her feet— blood rushed to her head, dizziness colliding into her frontal lobe. Staggering, she blinked the spotty blur out of her vision with a fierce shake to snap herself out of it. Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall over goddamn it. Spitting out the coppery liquid that saturated her mouth Katie squinted through the pain, gritting aching teeth, clenching her fists to position herself to take a boxer’s stance. “Don’t… count me out… just yet…”

Bishop’s face twisted— gone was the arrogant charade he was putting on, in its place was a mask of ominous intent. Hardened. “You still persist in the face of defeat. You threw away humanity’s interest in favor of playing house with FREAKS. You shame your badge by sullying it with your sins.”

There was a thick silence that separated them as dense as fog. For a few minutes Katie hadn’t moved, didn’t speak, just… stared at him with brilliant emerald eyes. She hung her head, hair shading a bloody brow as her shoulders began to shake. Bishop pondered if she had started weeping…

But was left baffled when she started keening with laughter.

It was a creaky sound that ripped her throat, full-chested with purpose as the woman practically shrieked uproariously in the face of the sociopath. Bracing her hand against her diaphragm she doubled over, clutching at the skin as if trying to keep it at bay.

Finally, she found her voice. “You think… you think that shit means anything to me? That I give a flying fuck what YOU or other bigots believe? You sound just like my stepmother! Preaching what you don’t understand to simple minded assholes who think acting like animals to other sentient beings is the answer to all your problems! I’d give up my badge in a goddamn HEARTBEAT if it meant I can give those boys the life they deserve! I’ve lived my entire career defending those who couldn’t protect themselves. I’ve watched good cops get killed trying to serve their community. I’ve seen really shitty felons get off scot-free while the families they tore apart have to grieve the loss of a loved one who was butchered just for fun. My badge is my duty to everyone. ANYONE.”

Her fingers dug into the depths of her belt, keeping him talking. A few more inches. “Those boys are my purpose. They deserve to have a life.”

Bishop’s lips curled with disgust. “They’re MUTANTS—“

“They’re children!”

“You’re insane if you believe this rhetoric! Do you honestly think those abominations are capable of blending in to our society?!”

“YES!” Fingertips brushed against the hidden item lodged between her holster and belt. Just a little more. “Why are you so adamant that they can’t?!”

“THEY DO NOT BELONG!” Bishop exclaimed. “Mutants take and destroy all they touch! They’re ravenous! Once they infect one, they infest all! They can’t be allowed to roam this planet! Humans won’t be safe until every single one of them are purged from this soil!” His eyes narrowed ruefully. “And I’ll kill anyone who stands in my way.”

Katie’s lips drew back into a thin line, glaring daggers at the nutcase. “Huh. Well.” Her hand found purchase around the familiar wooden grip of her concealed weapon. “Not me.”

She pounced. She ripped her butterfly knife out of her belt, leaping forward like a spring having been wound too tight. Snapping the blade free with a flick of her wrist, Katie twirled it in her fingers as she tackled Bishop to the wall and, steeling her resolve, plunged it several inches deep into his bicep.

Incensed, Bishop grabbed her face, trying to push her away. Katie bit his fingers just as they attempted to go for her eyes. She drove her knee into his sternum to knock the air out of his lungs, throw him off balance, do something to hinder him from going after the kids. The more time he spent focusing on killing her, the safer the boys would be.

Bishop grabbed her hair, yanking her head back to rip her off of him, in doing so he tore several pieces of black strands free in his iron fist. When her throat was exposed he punched the weak spot where her windpipe was located. She choked, staggering, releasing the agent to try and retreat, but he was faster even with a knife stuck in his arm. He grappled her around the waist, using the momentum to drag her across the floor until he bodily rammed her into a steel beam near the pulley system, rattling both her bones and the support structure.

Katie coughed out blood through clenched teeth, stifling a scream. Two ribs cracked from within her chest. Her head whipped back from the blow and hit the beam, creating a terrible headache that shook her entire skull. The world started to tilt on its axis…

His hands grabbed both sides of her head. Fingers dragging into her scalp Bishop delivered a powerful head-butt to her forehead, crashing their foreheads together. That caused her senses to become nullified, rendering her stunned. He reeled her head back a second time to land devastating punches to her face, over and over, breaking her nose in the process, painting his knuckles with her blood. He seized her shoulders and threw her to the floor, kicking the woman in the abdomen to send her rolling across the ground and back into the clearing where everyone could see her.

“YOU DEPLORABLE BASTARD!” Traximus roared, fighting the electric cords that kept him pinned. “YOU HAVE NO HONOR! FIGHTING YOUR OPPONENT WHEN THEY’RE DEFENSELESS! YOU COWARD!”

“Coming from an alien whose entire race threatened to conquer Earth when humans were defenseless,” Bishop stepped into the center, slammed a foot deep into the depths of Katie’s abdomen and digging his heel in. She tried to reach up to grab at his leg, but he swatted it away. “Don’t worry. Your death will be painless, if you’re lucky.”

“My… life… means… nothing,” Katie rasped between shaky breaths. “Those kids… matter more… to… me.” She spat a mouthful of bright crimson onto his pristine leather loafers, lips cracking a wicked smirk at his expense. “More… than… a shit stain… like you… I bet… your dear old daddy… never loved you either… eh, fuck face?”

Bishop wasn’t impressed by the snide remarks. Instead, he knelt down close, heel sinking deeper into her gut, pressing her down into the floor. Leaning close he whispered in her ear. “Projecting your own problems onto me won’t save you. And those mutants are worth nothing.” He raised himself back up to straddle her, pinning the beaten detective as she writhed to break free. “It is adorable that your delusions tell you otherwise.”

He began to pummel her without a second thought.

Overhead the boys were still causing a ruckus, either shouting or screaming, thrashing wildly in a vain effort to get free. Raph was swinging back and forth, slamming into Leo, knocking him against Donnie as Mondo wept. The gecko made every attempt he could to wriggle loose, even if it meant certain doom by doing so, but he’d been bound so tight it was digging into his being with no mercy. Not once did he stop crying out for his ‘mom’.

Not even Leo was trying to hide the frantic terror that was etched in his features; having to turn his face away from the brutal beatings, flinching each time a bone popped or Katie yelped. Donnie was deathly silent throughout the sadistic process, internally grateful to not have to bare witness to the graphic display of casual violence. Raph was swearing at the top of his lungs, muffled death threats and curses blocked by the fabric cinched in his teeth, the ropes scratching his skin to the point of soreness and rubbing it raw.

The beating went on for fifteen minutes. It felt like a lifetime.

“Admit it!” Bishop punched the woman across the jaw. His pale knuckles were dripping with blood. “You failed these mutants the same way you failed your partner!”

“D-Don’t—“ Katie was cut off by a devastating punch to her cheekbone for a hundredth time.

“You failed your badge. Your rank. Your family.” Bishop grabbed her by the collar and hoisted her up halfway to meet his gaze, the motion of which made her queasy. “Those freaks.”

He dropped her back to the floor. “You’re a disgrace to those you claim you defend. You think you’re bettering yourself? Look in the mirror. All I see is a desperate cry for attention coming out of an alcoholic mess who pretends to play mother to a group of rejected monsters, thinking the entire time she’s doing the right thing.”

A hand snatched her by the hair, rag-dolling her across the floor. Her fingers dug themselves into the dirt stubbornly to try and root herself down, to stop this deranged lunatic from hauling her around. Colors blurred throughout her bloodied eyes, swirling into a cacophony of delirium that threatened to engulf her consciousness and devour her whole. The bones in her right arm were brittle. Her chest was battered, ribs most likely cracked or fractured. She didn’t even want to imagine what her face looked like…

Bishop continued monologuing as though she gave a minute shit as to what he was talking about. “I’ve dedicated hundreds of years to eliminating alien threats that put humanity at risk. I’ve devoted thousands of hours into my efforts to kill any unwanted creature who poses a threat. I’ve spent millions putting my plans into fruition. I’m a man with a purpose to destroy all who seek to stop my goals. Your death will be no different. Nobody shall grieve your loss when I fill your heart with premium lead! YOU’RE PATHETIC!”

He threw her into a table set off to the side, her body crashing down through the flimsy furniture. There was no energy to move, no last second surge of adrenaline. All her strength had been depleted. The ability to breathe became strenuous…

Her half-lidded gaze lifted back towards the boys, all of whom still fought like hell and screamed. Leo could no longer withstand the stress, weeping quietly. Donnie was still turned away from the chaos unfolding, but she could hear him crying for her. Raph somehow was getting louder, almost verbal beneath the gag as he shouted and began to beg, sounding desperate.

Mondo had gone quiet. His golden eyes were glued to her, bloodshot, unable to look away. Soft sniffles cut through the quiet that rung in her ears, deafening from afar. My baby, she wanted to comfort. Mijo…

This couldn’t be how it ended. She couldn’t allow this lunatic to take her boys. She couldn’t let him gleefully drag the kids to lord knows where to be experimented on like science class frogs.

Glassy orbs drifted to the left, aimless. A warm stream of red trickled along the bridge of her nose. I can’t die here. I can’t die. I can’t. I can’t… Tears would have shown themselves had her eyes not been so badly beaten. My boys…

Something glistened in the corner of her delirious vision. Numbly confused, Katie tilted her head enough to gauge what it was that had caught her attention.

Her heart thudded, fast pulses bashing her body like a bull in a caged-in fence.

The kids’ weapons. All discarded like trash in a garbage bag; Mondo’s darts, his skateboard, Leo’s ōdachi, Donnie’s bō and sound channeling headphones, Raph’s sai.

All within reach, unseen in the darkness by Bishop.

Fucking MORON.

She kept the blank expression of agony on her face as he drew near, his hands gripping her own pistol to deal the killing blow. He towered above the woman, a devilish grin of sick satisfaction crawling on a face only a mother could love. “Poor Kathrine. You spent your entire existence running from your problems, but you were too slow to avoid the outcome of your consequences. Rest assured that I’ll personally see to your tombstone.” He cocked the hammer of the gun. “‘Here lies Officer McAndrews! Wasted potential! A crossbreed discarded by her own father! Unloved! Unwanted!” He scoffed, leveling the gun to aim for her heart. “Unneeded.’”

A voice in the back of her head shrieked; MOVE.

Time slowed to a screeching halt.

There was an earth-shattering bang from the pistol. Donnie screamed.

Silence crept throughout the warehouse for eternity.

Bishop’s eyes were popping out of his head, jaw slack, his body rigid where he stood. Unable to scream from the shock of what had just transpired…

Because despite having been shot in the torso, Katie was clinging to him, digging one of Raph’s sai deep into the fragile tissue and muscle of his throat, blood spilling across his suit and her chest.

There was a savagery in her facial expression, canines bared like a lion, a madness in her eyes that blazed hotter than the sun itself. Against all the agony running through her broken body she lifted her other arm to properly grip the sai in both hands, shoving it farther into his throat to sever the windpipe. He choked, trying to push her away but finding himself trapped by her deathlike hold.

“You… won’t…” she slurred, twisting the sword breaker in her fists. “Touch… my… boys!”

She ripped it free. A waterfall of crimson gushed from the fatal injury, the agent coughing and gagging, clutching at his throat as though it would staunch the blood flow. His wild, manic eyes fell upon her, disdain in his snarl as he reached towards her, slipping to his knees until he ultimately collapsed to land on his back.

Katie wasted no time; adrenaline this rampant wouldn’t last long in her condition. She grabbed the garbage bag, stumbling towards Traximus, who was staring up at her with disbelief. Using the blood-soaked sai she snagged the electric cord under its prongs and broke his bonds free.

“Go…” she wheezed, the sai slipping out of her fingers, clattering uselessly at their feet. “Th’ kids…” she buckled dangerously to the side, eyelids fluttering as her feet fell from under her.

“NO!” Traximus caught her before she could slam into the concrete, her body too heavy in his arms as she continued to bleed. “Steady, Kathrine! You must hold on!”

“My boys…” she breathed, airy in tone as she fought the temptation to fall asleep. “Get… m’ boys…”

Traximus looked as though he wanted to protest, but one cautionary glance cast towards the bullet wound and he softened significantly. “… I shall have them free in moments.” He settled her against a small wooden crate, tender in his mannerisms to ease her pain. Then he was gone from her field of view, dashing to the pulley.

From there, a dull buzz filled her hearing. Katie’s body felt… strange. It was heavy, stiff, unwilling to respond. Weighed down by tremendous amounts of pressure leaning into her chest, feeling the sticky blood racing along the curves of her arm, her stomach, her gaping bullet wound. She was also unnaturally tired; sluggishness ebbed away at her senses, as if water was rushing in her ears to drown out all noise surrounding the immediate area.

As though the tidal wave of a grand tsunami has taken hold of her, gradually the world began to ripple into a series of black and white dots that spun around her vision, draining everything of it’s natural colors only to leave it in bland dreariness of monotone gray. Was death this calm? Was it always so bleak? So unsettling?

Katie’s heart was still pulsing to deliver blood to her organs, slower in rhythm, the body shutting down. What good would it do to a woman on death’s door?

Suddenly hands were on her arm, pulling, pleading, imploring. Her emerald orbs fell upon the bulbous eyes of Mondo, newly freed but opening sobbing. Bold, vivid eyes stood out in her world like a lighthouse trapped in a hurricane. Behind him limped Raph, whose biceps and wrists were scarlet and slightly bloody, vibrant in the gray background. He’d fought like a madman. There was a genuine horror that painted his brown irises…

“MOM!” Mondo wept, clutching her arm with all the strength he could muster as if willing her to stand. “MOM! Please, get up! Get up!”

“M’jo…” words were mumbled under her breath, too soft for anyone to catch.

Suddenly blue and purple came into the mix— Donnie’s face turned sickly, his mouth drawing shut, looking faint. Leo wasn’t faring much better, eyes pinned to the detective with a horrified expression; his hand was gripping a particularly gnarly gash on his shoulder she hadn’t spotted. Traximus was back, kneeling at her side. Now her field of vision became filled with orange and yellow and black, voices clamoring for dominance in her ears.

“— go to a hospital!”

“She doesn’t have that chance, her ribs—!”

“Mom please don’t die please please please I don’t wanna lose you—“

“What’re we gonna do?!”

“Do we have any backup spots?!”

“Kathrine stay with us!”

It became too much to listen to, eyes flickering between the young faces of her boys to Trax. I love you guys, she wanted to say. Don’t worry about me. Take care of each other.

A figure moved in the background. Behind Leo and Donnie, far in the dark where she’d shanked the fucker, Katie’s gaze caught onto the lumbering form of—

Her voice cracked, blood gurgling in her mouth as a strangled shout crawled its way out of her. “NO…!”

All five heads snapped up at her urgent tone. Slowly turning their eyes towards the source of her alarm, everyone present was left speechless as their hunter staggered into frame… alive.

Bishop was holding his throat, blood gushing through clenched fingers, huffing and puffing, sweat sticking to his brow. His teeth were bared, looking monstrous. Appearing as if he’d come right out of a slasher film, the sociopath stood with hatred in his eyes as he crooned in a voice not his own, “You… fucking… bitch…!”

Raph seized his sai, clutching them tight as he attempted to take up a fighter’s stance. Donnie dropped to his knees, too terrified to move. Mondo clung to Katie like a lifeline, the woman weakly draping her arm around his back to bring him close to shield him. Traximus became something of a hulking barrier, standing in front of the children and fallen woman with determination.

“You… all…” Bishop removed his hand from his throat, exposing a grizzly stab wound that was somehow stitching itself back together. Muscle, veins, skin started to form around the area where he’d been impaled as though nothing had occurred. “I’m going… to rip… each and every one of you to pieces…!”

The ramping tension finally shattered. At his breaking point, grabbing his ōdachi in a fit of desperation, Leonardo screamed at the top of his lungs with a voice that was heavy with despair. The boy had an ironclad hold of his sword, charging forward, ignoring the startled cries of his friends and wounded caretaker. Bishop smirked, crouching as if to pounce.

But Leo swung his sword. An electric blue magic fizzled in the air. It crackled like thunder ripping across a stormy sky as a vividly bright portal separated Bishop from the group.

Leo looked back towards the others and cried out. “GO!”

Nobody waited a second further.

Traximus gathered Katie into his arms and dashed for the portal, Mondo sprinting right behind him. Donnie seized the garbage bag filled with their weapons and made a break for it. Raph took the rear to protect the younger of the group. The red eared slider glared at the agent with a curdling fury, the sword in his hand twitching with potent energy that sparked at his fingertips. No words were spoken, but the defiant sneer on his face spoke for him; Don’t ever let me see you again.

It wasn’t until everyone was through that Leo himself fell into the exit, the madman’s scream of outrage following them as it faded without a trace.

I really hope you like this!! 🥹

@queen-with-the-quill @tending-the-hearth @lameboobah

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