#conical ceiling
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Sun Room Medium in Grand Rapids
Inspiration for a mid-sized timeless medium tone wood floor and brown floor sunroom remodel with no fireplace and a standard ceiling
#sunroom sitting area#conical ceiling#sunroom desk#turret sunroom#conical sunroom#vaulted ceiling sunroom#patterned sunroom sofa
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Large in Milwaukee
Sunroom - large traditional sunroom idea
#large traditional sunroom#white beams#conical ceiling#floor to ceiling windows#white paneled ceiling#round sunroom
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Traditional Sunroom - Medium
Inspiration for a medium-sized, traditional sunroom remodel with a standard ceiling, no fireplace, and medium-toned wood flooring.
#sun room#vaulted sunroom ceiling#traditional sunroom furniture#conical ceiling#conical sunroom#sunroom desk
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Freestanding Orange County
Example of a traditional study room with a large freestanding desk, brown walls, a fireplace, and tile fireplace.
#black leather office chair#conical style ceiling#medium wood cabinets#built in cabinets#glass panel cabinets#recessed lights#built in shelves
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Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.
TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)
eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you
fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, smut, fingering (v), p in v, praise kink, emotional sex, angst, hurt no comfort (there will be a happy ending!)
chapter seven : entombed (18k) | playlist | AO3 | next
🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the song for this chapter is #24.
From the day you arrived
I've remained by your side
In chains
Entombed
Entombed — Deftones
The bathroom countertop is solid white. The sink is recessed, and the faucet is modern and angular, reflected in the tall mirror mounted to the wall behind it. The mirror also reflects the shower behind you. It has a glass front, and the walls are comprised of large white and gray marblesque tiles. The fixtures— the rainfall showerhead, drain, shower knob, and handle— are all chrome to match the sink faucet and the modern, conical lights that frame the mirror.
It's bright inside the bathroom. The lightbulbs are LED, cool-toned, and the wall lights are joined by discs recessed into the ceiling. Even the smooth wooden vanity beneath the countertop is light birch, and on the lowest shelf near your ankle, two fluffy white hand towels are still folded, as yet unused. The bathroom is radiant and clean. Perfect for a beach location. Plenty of light for preparing for a fun night out.
No dark corners to hide in.
There's another, smaller mirror on the countertop. It's curved, meant to magnify and assist in the even application of makeup. A neat row of tiny bottles lines a narrow tray on the other side of the sink: hand lotion, shampoo, conditioner, then mouthwash. In another dish, a creamy bar of hand soap has already been revealed. Its discarded wrapper is in the small trashcan near the toilet.
The thin door is a buffer between yourself and the indistinct murmur of voices outside. The murmuring is audible, but the words are indiscernible. When that murmuring is buried underneath smooth R&B that begins playing on the other side of the door, you finally meet your gaze in the mirror.
Your cheeks glow with a healthy flush. The milk and honey of your satin dress hugs your curves, dipping low to reveal ample cleavage, slitted high to expose a supple thigh. The sweat from the club has dried now in the cool air of the room where you've been hiding.
You've examined every feature of this hotel bathroom to distract yourself from the overwhelming wave of mixed emotions you've been battling since the Uber ride back from the club. In the backseat, a khaki thigh pressing to yours; soft, broad fingers played in your hair. On his other side, a flash of orange and powdery soft giggles; arms intertwining, porcelain and tan. In front of you, an angular shoulder shifting with the car's turns, peeking beyond the passenger seat; a splay of dark curls against the white fabric. Just four tipsy friends sharing a ride back to their hotel room after a fun night out vacationing in a tropical city. Outside, your lips were curved in an idle smile. Inside, the tide of your emotions threatened to pull you under.
The intensity of the night's moments between you and Eddie— kissing him in the middle of the crowded dance floor, holding his gaze during the fireworks show— hadn't faded. You felt raw, like an exposed nerve; your green searched for him even with Steve's warm side brushing against yours. But the trepidation had returned, resurging as you'd imagined what your play tonight would look like. Because when you'd pictured Chrissy touching Eddie, you'd felt a sour pinch of jealousy, a hint of possessiveness you aren't entitled to. And because, when you'd pictured yourself kissing Steve, you'd felt a twinge of impatience. As if tonight he would be an obstacle keeping you from what you really want.
You've been oozing with thick, sticky guilt since you'd thought it.
You can't deny that your remaining guilt isn't the only reason you're still hiding in the bathroom. You're also hesitant to emerge and find yourself thrust into one of those scenarios you'd imagined, knowing that your green will tremble restlessly until it finds the light in brown eyes and the charcoal that nourish it. Still, when the murmurs muffling through the thin door finally subside into silence, and all you can hear is the smooth, rhythmic R&B beat left behind, you know you need to finally face the music, so to speak.
Tentative fingers push open the bathroom door from the inside, and your eyes are drawn automatically to movement on the bed furthest from the balcony— Chrissy and Eddie's bed. But Chrissy's soft porcelain doesn't glide against pale quartz; her blonde hair doesn't drag down an inky chest. Instead, her dainty fingers are tangled in disheveled waves, and her pink bow lips are being devoured by your boyfriend's hungry kisses. You note absently that their orange and khaki are gone, leaving their skin entirely bare. As you watch them for a moment, you note that Steve and Chrissy seem frenzied with hot insistence tonight, more so than usual. Maybe they got worked up dancing, too. The thought is almost entirely dispassionate.
You turn your gaze to the other bed, eyes finding beautiful brown so quickly it almost feels like instinct.
Eddie is sitting on the edge, elbows braced on his knees, legs splayed wide, feet planted on the floor. His hands hang in the space between. Just like you, he's still fully dressed aside from his shoes. The white of his shirt pulls taut across his shoulders, and his dark curls spill over one shoulder, still tied back to reveal the cords of his neck, the angular shadow of his jaw, and the glint of silver hanging from his earlobes. His face is blank aside from the intensity of his eyes, which follow you as you softly pad closer until you're standing before him.
Eddie's body doesn't move aside from a slight shifting of his hands to make room for you between his knees, but his face tilts up to continue watching as you approach, expression unreadable. There's a tension between you which is nearly unnerving as Eddie stares without reaching for you, without smiling, almost without reacting at all. But you don't feel rejected by his stoicism. Instead, you reach out first, running your fingertips over the edge of his cheekbone, feathering lightly down his cheek. When his face lists just slightly into your touch, it emboldens you, and you let your thumb drag against the plump pink of Eddie's bottom lip in a soft caress.
You feel it then— the first reaction you pull from him. It's the subtle pursing of his full lips, the press of a gentle kiss against the pad of your thumb. Poignant longing flutters low inside you; wings quiver along with the green of your leaves. You cup Eddie’s face more fully, and a tremulous sigh falls from your lips when you feel the rasp of his fingertips along the satin at the back of your thighs. His touch is slight, but his rough calluses catch on the fabric, which drags like liquid against your skin before falling as his hands leave your legs to skim your hips.
After a moment of exploration, his warm palms settle there, and Eddie applies light pressure so you'll step back and give him room to rise. He towers before you, predatory angles softened by the gentleness of his fingers as they feel for the tiny zipper at the back of your dress. Your eyes don't leave his as the fabric slowly parts along your spine down to the small of your back. You peel the thin straps down your arms, helping him remove milk and honey to reveal your bare breasts and the apex of your thighs covered by delicate lace.
You're content to let the fabric pool around your ankles, but as you step out of it, Eddie picks your dress up for you, laying it across the nearby dresser with a sense of care he never shows his own clothing. A fond smile tilts your lips as you unbutton his shirt, and Eddie helps you undress him down to his checkered boxers.
Eddie's body feels more rigid than usual as he guides you onto the bed. There's an intentness to his actions now as he settles on top of you, a latent power in the coil of his muscles. When your hands run lightly over his shoulders and biceps, you think he seems tense. It makes you wonder if something is bothering him, if maybe he's changed his mind or is thinking about something else. You're frowning a little worriedly by the time Eddie wedges his hand under the nape of your neck, cupping your head firmly; his face hovers over yours as your eyes dart unsurely between his. The hush, the tension remains as his gaze draws slowly over your face until you're nearly squirming with the need to know what he's thinking. The music filling the room is loud and unrelenting, but with Eddie's quiet voice so close to your lips, you hear every word when he finally speaks.
"I need you to know—" your brow pinches at the seriousness of his voice, "—that everything about you is so incredibly beautiful. And I can't get enough of you."
It steals your breath entirely. And then Eddie's lips capture yours.
You burst with wild flutters, nearly dizzy as your hands clutch his jaw, kissing him desperately back. You pour all of yourself into Eddie as his mouth opens against yours, and you feel his smoke flow down into you, filling you with rich and heady feeling as he holds you close. Seeking tongues, hot breath; needy whimpers fall as you taste each other, writhe against each other's bodies. You press up into his hardness as your legs cradle his hips, and he bears down on you in return, grinding into your softness. He trails scorching kisses down the side of your neck, intent on his path down to your chest. Eddie nips your skin on the way, teeth teasing as you gasp out your pleasure; your breath shudders as he mouths at the swell of your breast. Your fingers seek his curls, tucking in near his scalp as his tongue laves at your pert nipple before his lips close over it. He sucks firmly, eyes flicking to yours to watch as your lips fall open. The warm wet suction of his mouth sparks straight to your pussy, and your hips squirm beneath his weight as you begin to throb between your legs.
Eddie's hair looks sexy in a ponytail, but you miss the rugged beauty of his dark curls, the way they frame both of your faces when he kisses you, concealing you from the world. Carefully, you guide the elastic band from his hair, letting that wild mass fall free around his shoulders. You bury your fingers in his curls and tug at the root, wanting to make him hum against your breast. And he does— a low, delicious sound that stokes the cinders of your arousal.
When your hips press up seekingly again, Eddie draws his face slowly back, tugging your hardened nipple with him until it finally pops from his mouth. You gasp again at the feeling, the sound all feminine need, eyes still captured by his heated gaze; a corner of his lips quirks as he switches to your other breast, tongue lashing your flesh until you're flushed, whimpering, hips aching with the desire for him to touch you where you burn for it most. A whispered word, barely more than a breath as it leaves your lips: "Please—"
It's so quiet, your plea, but Eddie seems to hear it. Or maybe he just senses your desperation in how your hips are rolling against him, yearning for friction. Either way, ever so kind, Eddie obliges you.
You feel the rasp of his fingertips against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, low near your knee; the promise of his touch is enough to have you sighing with relief even before he's come close to your heat. You know he'll give you what you want— you know it with the certainty of spring, of new growth and awakening, of wings that emerge from a soft cocoon after a long period of metamorphosis. Sure enough, his hand travels up your leg, kneading the dough of your thigh as you wiggle down lower on the bed so that his face is above yours again. He drapes himself half over you, bracing some of his weight on one forearm. And as his fingers finally rub you over lace, you tilt your chin to join your lips again.
As you kiss him, you relish each detail of the way Eddie's body feels against yours— his warmth enveloping you, his smoke and apples scent in your nose, his belly pressing into yours, expanding with every breath. You drag your calf along the back of his, and you even relish the rasp of his sparse leg hair against your skin, rubbing slowly as you devote your affection to his upper lip. Eddie's kisses are just as intent as before but less frantic now as he pushes lace aside to find the honey at the center of you. You hum, brow pinching in pleasure as his ring and middle fingers sink eagerly into your pussy.
Eddie takes his time, fingering you thoroughly to ensure you're ready to take him. He repeats his process over and over, patiently working you up: pressing in, stroking, drawing out your slick, and circling your clit before dipping down again. The way Eddie stretches you open is not slow or hesitant, but his attentiveness has you enjoying it all, down to the sting of his fingers as they stretch you. Even then, that sting fades quickly, leaving behind a sweet swell of steadily building pleasure which grows hotter with each shift of his dextrous hand.
You hike your leg a little higher up his hip, nudging your nose against his as you communicate your increasing desire through more sweltering kisses. And the next time Eddie's fingers sink inside you, he keeps them deep. He ruts in, pinky and index jutting against the outside of your slick lips as he works that soft spot on your front wall until you're panting and squirming with want. A small flame is growing low in your belly— a burning need for him to press you to the mattress with his weight, to drive his cock as deep inside you as he can. A whisper of a whine builds in your throat until it comes out in a soft needy noise muffled into his mouth. When he hears it, Eddie breaks your kiss but doesn't retreat far.
"Eddie," you whimper against his lips, cheeks flushed, brow pinched, voice whiny and nearly pathetic. But you don't feel ashamed of your need when you see the richness of Eddie's brown eyes, how they're burnished to deep amber with his desire for you.
He husks a quiet question, breath a warm caress against your lips. "Are you ready for me?"
A thrill pulses through you at the anticipation of his cock inside you, and as you squeeze around his fingers, you watch Eddie's brows jump. There is no hesitation in your answer.
“Yes,” you tell him.
He pulls his fingers out, and his hand settles on the wideness of your hip. And when his wet fingers mould into your flesh, you expect him to encourage you down to the mattress so he can lay fully on top of you. But instead, he pulls you in, pulls you closer, tilting your pelvis and pressing his forward so that his hot length is sandwiched between you. His fingers drag to the small of your back, and the way he holds you against him isn't insistent. It's gentle. Tender.
Eddie asks you another question— inflection the same as the previous, neutral like a second check-in. "You want me?"
Though his voice is no different than it had been, the question gives you pause. And as your eyes flick between his searchingly, you see it— a hint of something approaching defenselessness. Something that, though his irises are still thoroughly amber brown, reminds you of delicate pink.
You swallow, throat suddenly thick; your body presses instinctually closer as you hold his gaze and answer him. "I want you, Eddie."
And with your quiet assurance, that something behind his eyes shifts. You can feel his voice, thick and heady like smoke, rumble through his chest and into yours. "And I want you, y/n."
The first stretch is always delicious, no matter how much Eddie has fingered you beforehand or how many times you experience it. That moment he presses his blunt head against your entrance and eases in, sliding hard and hot and so thick along your walls… it never fails to leave you quivering with its intensity. It's always incredible, but this time, when Eddie's weight covers you, and you bend your legs, holding him close as he presses steadily deeper until he's seated fully inside, there's something loaded about it. Because the bed you're in— it's motionless aside from the slow rocking of Eddie's hips into yours as he begins to move. It's quiet aside from the hush of Eddie's breath along your cheek, the sound of his little moans muffled against your neck when he buries his face there, moving so slowly inside you like he's savoring the moment. And you're savoring the moment, too, closing your eyes to focus on all the sensations: the whisper of Eddie's curls against your clavicle; his firm musculature under your hands as you run them over the planes of his back; the tender rasp of his calloused fingers as he draws them up your side, caressing your soft skin; the satisfied hum that rumbles against your throat when you move your hips in tandem with his slow, sensual rhythm. For the first time since that very first time— when Eddie went down on you on the big couch— Steve and Chrissy are having sex across the room instead of right beside you. And, frankly, they might as well be on a different planet entirely. Because whatever your boyfriend is doing? It hasn't crossed your mind since the moment you opened the bathroom door and met Eddie's beautiful brown eyes.
The slow drag of Eddie's thickness inside you keeps that small flame flickering, filling you with warmth as you sigh contentedly against his curls. He lifts his head when he hears you, and his hand finds your jaw to tip your head back so he can nibble just underneath your chin. "Mmm—" You drag your teeth against your bottom lip as his mouth sparks heat along your skin. It adds to your burn, and your hips press up into him a little harder, silently encouraging him to move faster.
But Eddie doesn't move faster, though he also doesn't ignore your coaxing; instead, he trails kisses up to the corner of your mouth, murmuring a hair's breadth from your lips when he gets there. "Will you do something for me?" he asks.
Your answer pops out in an automatic sigh. "Anything."
When you feel the little fond huff from Eddie's nose puff against your skin, your eyes flutter open, and you see those full pink lips pull into a small smile before he kisses you. You lean into it, chin angling to chase him when he pulls away; you’re nearly pouting as he withdraws from your lips. His thumb drags fondly against your jaw, mollifying you as you await his request. You said it— anything— and you meant it, but you aren't expecting what Eddie calmly asks of you as he holds your gaze.
“Touch yourself.”
You blink, eyes widening as your hips still beneath him in surprise and hesitance. This is the first time Eddie has ever suggested such a thing, and it isn't something you've ever done with Steve, either. You'd always had the impression that guys would think they weren't doing a good enough job getting you off if you did that while having sex with them. You can't help but blurt, "A-are you sure?" You nearly cringe at the tentativeness in your voice.
Eddie doesn't judge you— he never does— but you do read some incredulity in his expression as he strokes back your hair, smoothing his fingers along the strands that fan against the smooth sheets near your ear. "Of course, I'm sure," he replies. "I want you to feel good, sweetheart."
Your hesitance melts away with the earnestness of his reply, replaced by a low flutter as Eddie voices that he wants you to feel good. Of course, you know he does, but it's one thing to know it and quite another to hear him say it with that smoky voice, with his pretty face hovering so close, with his cock hot and hard inside you. You nod, eyes lighting as you see him smile broadly at your approval. "Gimme your hand," he says, and when you offer it to him, he sucks the tip of your index finger between his lips, tongue brushing like a hot flash before he's pulling away.
Your finger is slick with his spit as you reach between you, and Eddie braces on his forearms, lifting slightly to give you room to wedge your hand down near your heat. You maneuver together into a position that works— Eddie hovering over you, one of your legs hiked up on his hip and the other slack and bent against the mattress as you search for your clit until you find it. The back of your hand nudges against the nest of his dark curls as you begin to press circles into that squishy bead, pleasure sparking with each pass. "That's it," Eddie breathes, and then he's moving again.
The rhythm he resumes is less languid than before, hips rolling in time with your strokes against your clit. You aren’t sure if you're timing your movements with his, or he with yours— it's impossible to tell, but the effect is the same. You rock into him, brow pinching slightly as your head falls to the side, breathy moans falling loosely from your lips as the burn in your belly begins to increase with both of your efforts. He takes your bared throat as an opportunity, and his face fits there against the juncture of your neck as if it's always been meant to. Eddie's nose bobs against your throat as he starts to really fuck into you, hips impacting your thighs faster, harder, with fleshy slaps you can hear over the room's music. And as he does, you can feel the increase of his fervor, the evidence of his pleasure— his breath huffing against your skin, his little rumbling moans, always so vocal, sounds never truly suppressed. And then his fingers are lightly pinching the shell of your ear, drawing down to the lobe in a tender caress seemingly at odds with how he's fucking you.
It makes you flutter with tremulous wings. It makes you melt into a smoldering burn.
It makes your green quiver and bloom.
Eddie lifts his head to murmur against your cheek. "Does it feel good, pretty girl?"
You breathe in the smoke, pleasure licking higher. "Yes, it's—" you break off in a breathy moan, and Eddie nudges fondly against your cheek with his nose, lips trailing featherlight against your skin. "It's really good," you finish your sentence, voice shakier, huskier with desire.
You bite your lip as Eddie responds to your praise, one hand wedging again under the back of your neck so he can hold you closer, hips moving a little faster now. You find yourself focused on the feeling of his thick cock reaching deep as you adjust to his new pace. And as focused as you are, you don't notice that your hand slows, fingers stalling between your bodies.
Yet Eddie must notice because his face is now hovering over yours again, expression coaxing. "Keep rubbing your clit for me, sweetheart." Your fingers jolt immediately into action, pressing quick circles into your now-swollen bud, knuckles dragging against the wiry hair near the base of his cock. "That's it, good girl," Eddie husks, warm with approval. You want to keep hearing his voice— you want it just as much as you want him never to stop holding you as close as he is now, moving with you the way he's doing now.
"I like it when you talk to me," you tell him, voice high and needy with feminine hoarseness. His brown eyes burnish further, full pink lips quirking in a tilted grin, and you can't help but smile back when you see the light behind his gaze.
He touches your face, but where you expect the rasp of his callouses, you feel the smooth drag of his nails instead as he caresses your cheek with the back of his hand. "I know," Eddie murmurs. "I know you do, sweet girl."
You rub your clit as Eddie fucks you and tells you he knows what you like. "I like talking to you, too," you tell him, pink tongue darting out to swipe at his lips. You want him to know. "You feel so good inside me, Eddie."
He exhales harshly at that, brow twitching up as he stares down at you, gaze locked on your eyes. "Fuck." His voice is deeper, huskier now, and you feel a thrill at his reaction, one that jolts straight down to tighten in your belly. "You look so fuckin' gorgeous takin' my cock. Doin' so well."
Flutter, smolder, burn, bloom. Eddie's praise increases your pleasure, and that quiver inside tightens even further. You want to answer, but all that comes out is a gasp as he thrusts against a spot inside you that makes your toes suddenly curl. "Oh, mmm—" Your voice sounds tight and high, almost unlike you, as you hear it spill involuntarily from your lips.
Eddie is panting now, and your thighs tighten against his hips as you lift both legs, hand pressed tight between your pelvises as your fingers swipe back and forth. "You want it harder?" he asks, sounding determined, if not a little breathless. "You want me to fuck you harder?"
Anything to feel him hit that spot again. "Yes," you moan instantly, "yes, please—"
He groans as you beg, deepening his thrusts. But he doesn't just fuck you harder. Eddie adjusts you in his grip, and you feel his muscles tense as he leans over on one forearm to hook the other hand behind your knee and pull your leg up higher on his hip. It presses your hand tighter between you, but you don't care— you're rubbing with the flat of your fingers now, your other hand soothing across his flexed bicep, damp with sweat from his effort. He changes the angle of his hips minutely, and his thick length probes inside you as if searching, seeking for something—
A sudden flare of white-hot pleasure makes you gasp sharply; your back arches as your head tips back against the sheets. Eddie stops his searching, holding you firmly as he thrusts again at the same angle, breath huffing in a delighted chuckle when you whimper as pleasure flares bright for a second time. He sounds nearly ragged but entirely pleased when he asks you, "That's it, huh? That's the spot?"
You're so quick to assure him you're nearly babbling. "Yeah, don't— don't stop, please, don't stop, right there—" You hum desperately as he fucks into you again, fast and hard, intent now that he's found that sweet spot that makes you quiver with pleasure. And you are quivering— muscles shaking, heart pounding, breath shuddering as the flame of your arousal catches to a wildfire.
"Fuck yes," Eddie groans, tight with effort but oh, so satisfied. "That's it, sweetheart. I can feel you; you're gonna soak my dick." He's barely pulling out now, nothing more than an inch, just rutting in against that same spot over and over and over—
Your breath hitches, hiccuping in your chest; tears sting the corners of your eyes as the fire in your belly builds so quickly, tingly and aching and hot. It's that familiar feeling, but far more intense than it's ever been, almost frighteningly so.
"Eddie—?" your soft cry of his name sounds so helpless, wanting but nearly afraid.
"Hold onto me," he tells you hoarsely; his fingers tighten against the nape of your neck, cupping you supportively.
You wrap your free arm around his shoulders, clinging to him as he ruts into your wet heat, pounding you evenly despite the harshness of his breath and the trembling of his muscles that reveal his fatigue. But Eddie doesn't relent. He never stops, not when you wrench your other arm from between you to clutch at his shoulders with both hands, not even when you dig your nails into the meat of his back. You no longer care about rubbing your clit as your fire burns impossibly higher, as the pleasure spreads tingly and tight up to your navel. Because you know, with a certainty that you've never felt before having sex, that it doesn't matter whether or not you're touching yourself. You know that Eddie is going to get you there.
You whine pathetically, holding him tightly, following his instruction. "Eddie," you moan all wobbly, betraying the way you're teetering on the edge. "E-Eddie, I'm—"
You break off in a desperate whimper, that spreading, tingling ache so overwhelming that you can't move, can't think, can't really speak. But you can hear, and Eddie sounds nearly desperate himself as his cheek drags against yours, smoke voice rasping reassurance in your ear. "It's okay— It's okay, y/n, just let go. I've got you—"
“Eddie—!”
You gasp a dry sob and keen his name as you cum.
The feeling that breaks over you as Eddie makes you cum is one you've never experienced before. You've only ever brought yourself to completion with your fingers or a vibrator. You've never orgasmed while having sex with a partner— never been cradled in a full-bodied embrace as the tension snaps inside you, flooding you with sweet, euphoric release that races along your every nerve. You'd float away if Eddie wasn't pinning you to the bed with his reassuring weight, digging his nose into your cheek as he holds you close, panting raggedly in your ear as you go rigid beneath him, pussy pulsing tight around his thick cock. "Holy—" he whimpers, not unaffected as you begin to squirm and writhe with the force of your orgasm, as if your body is unsure whether it wants to escape the intensity of the feeling or crawl closer, begging for it to last forever. And throughout it all, Eddie's hips coax you through, moving slow and tender as your nails dig little half-moons into his skin, as your lips tremble with small choked sounds of pleasure, as that tingling fire rushes hot through your body until it leaves you a melty, quivering mess beneath him, gasping desperate breaths.
As the tension in your limbs finally eases, they slump bonelessly in relief. Your arms remain draped loosely over Eddie's shoulders, and your legs fall open as your pleasure subsides into a lingering warmth. You feel floaty in the best way. Not like before, when you felt you could drift up through the ceiling and be dashed away, untethered from the earth. More like wading into warm sea water, bobbing in gentle waves that swirl your hair soft against your cheeks. Trusting, knowing you'll be kept afloat. At peace.
You feel Eddie's plush lips at the corner of your eye as he turns his head, kissing you softly. And then, as he sighs your name, the movement of Eddie's hips— that steady, even rhythm he'd maintained throughout your orgasm— begins to slow.
At first, you think maybe he already came, but he's still stiff, still thick and unyielding inside you. A little wrinkle forms between your brows. You ask him softly, "Did you—?"
He stops moving, then. "Not yet," he answers just as softly. No disappointment in his voice— no expectation, nothing but tenderness. You flutter, green quivering as you push your hips into him, drawing him deeper inside you to keep him from retreating.
Eddie lifts his head, brows tugged up in concern. "You're not too sensitive?"
"No, no, keep going," you answer quickly, thick like honey at his concern. "I want you to cum, too." And to punctuate your point, you bury your fingers in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, cupping his skull with both hands as you pull him to your lips. You encourage him with deep, languid kisses, rolling your hips until he responds. He pushes into you carefully at first, but when you hum, pleased to feel him respond, he gradually increases his pace until he's fucking into you again.
You break from the kiss, panting against his jaw as you tug at his hair to tilt his head back, pulling a grunt from deep in his throat. You nip at his strong jaw, teeth and tongue and lips working at his skin, and he snaps his hips into you in response, flesh smacking again as he fucks you harder, faster. "Mmm—" you moan against his throat, wanting more of his fervor, wanting to give him the same thing he'd given you. You kitten-lick the salt of his neck, scratching at his scalp as you ease your grip on his hair. "Yeah, Eddie, fuck me 'til you cum," you whine quietly against his chin, gratified when he groans deep in his chest.
"Fuck, sweet girl—" He breaks off in a hoarse hum, and you loosen your grip further to let him tip his chin down to look at you. Your eyes rove eagerly over his face, taking him in: plush lips now swollen and flushed deep pink thanks to your kisses; eyes hazy and dark from desire, pupils blown wide, nearly swallowing the brown; pale quartz skin dewy from effort, flushed high on his cheekbones; ink-dark curls sweat-damp and wild and captivating as they stick to his forehead and sway around his face.
He's beautiful, you realize. Eddie is so beautiful.
"Where should I—?" he asks tightly, and the urgency of the question tells you he's close. "You want me on your stomach? On your tits?"
As soon as he asks, you know what you want.
"No, I—" You duck close and dig your nose into his throat, hesitating. "I wanna…" Though you know with absolute certainty what you want to say, your request sticks on your tongue, clinging stubbornly.
"Tell me," Eddie encourages you, and you swallow thickly, heart racing as you push the words out in a tremulous whisper.
"I… I wanna feel you again." You will him to understand despite your indirectness.
It takes a second, but you watch Eddie's eyes go wide, watch his brows flick, watch the way his face slackens with sudden clarity. "You want it—" His adam's apple bobs with a thick swallow before he ducks his head, lips against your ear. There's a pause before he mutters quietly, "I'm not supposed to."
He sounds halting. Regretful. Like he doesn't want to deny you, sure. But more than that. Because, though you both know what happened last time, Eddie sounds like he wants it, too. Like he wants it just as much as you do.
And you know it's breaking the rules, but frankly, in this moment, all you feel are those fluttering moth's wings and the stretch of your green, the way it's reaching up to twine its first tendrils around your ribs. You don't feel any trepidation, or fear, or oozing guilt. As the green spreads, small white flowers blooming in its wake, the words surge up from the bottom of you.
"I don't care," you hiccup, admission nearly a whimper. "I don't care, just— please, Eddie, I want your cum in me—"
"Jesus— fuck," Eddie yelps. His hips stutter, losing their even rhythm as his pace turns frenetic. And as you feel his cock twitch inside you, as you feel him start to approach his completion, that poignant yearning wells up in you again, quivering, fluttering with the knowledge of his pleasure, the pleasure you're giving him.
"Eddie," you sigh, tightening one arm around his shoulders and cupping the back of his head with your other hand. You press his face to your hair as he whimpers, panting hot against your skin; you hold him close as his hips rut into you, shuddering a breath as you feel him tense. "Give it to me, Eddie," you whisper, and as Eddie's cock jerks hard, you feel the moment he starts to cum inside you.
You feel everything.
It isn't like the first time when you were on top. This time, it isn't a surprise when Eddie's hips press tight to yours, when he starts to moan, tight and high, muffling the sound against your sticky neck. It isn't a surprise when you feel the warm flood of his seed fill you. And though you can't see Eddie's face, being able to hold him close while he tenses and shivers with his pleasure is just as good. It's wonderful in a different way.
When his shuddering finally subsides, you wrap your legs around the small of his back, encouraging him to lay on you. And Eddie must be exhausted because he does— he rests fully on you, letting you hold him as his heart beats wildly against your breast. He just lays there and breathes, great panting breaths of exertion and release that puff warm against your skin. It's hot, and damp, and you're sticking to him everywhere, but you couldn't care less. You run your hands softly over the planes of his back, humming when you feel him nuzzle you with his nose. You continue caressing him slowly as he recovers his energy, still buried inside you. As the moment stretches on, you find yourself wishing you could exist here forever— here, in this place where you're holding Eddie, and he's holding you, languid and spent, entirely at peace from the pleasure you've given each other.
Eventually, Eddie shifts on top of you, and you feel a flash of dismay that he's about to get off you. But he's just propping himself up on an elbow to hover over you again. You feel his thumb stroke featherlight along your cheekbone, and your eyes go soft at how Eddie kisses you so carefully. You melt into his kiss, into the light caress of his calloused fingers against your cheek and jaw as he smoothes your hair against the sheets again.
When he breaks the kiss, Eddie's brown eyes dart between yours. "Was that good for you?" He asks, and the earnestness in his voice, in his face…
You didn't know you could flutter and bloom more than you already have, but here you are.
"Yeah," you reply, voice tiny and nearly cracked with the strength of your emotion. "Yeah, so good, Eddie. Thank you." And all of a sudden, the sting at the corner of your eyes returns so insistently that before you know it, the first tear has fallen.
Your bottom lip quivers as you blink, another tear quickly following. Your brow crinkles with confusion, self-consciousness already beginning to tighten in your sternum. "I-I'm sorry," you stammer, shoulders pulling up towards your ears as Eddie watches you with those dark eyes. "I don't know why I'm crying—"
But Eddie shakes his head, smiling tenderly down at you. "Don't be sorry, y/n," he murmurs, smoke voice rich and heady and soothing as he repeats your words from the club back to him— what you'd told him when he apologized for breaking the first rule with you that night.
Don't be sorry. Don't be ashamed.
Those dark eyes are shining, bright with light that radiates from within him. There's a gentleness there, a gentleness that spreads over the tops of his cheeks. That hint of pink on black and white. And you don't know why you're crying, but you know you're not sad; and when you realize that Eddie knows it too, your self-consciousness eases, and you just relax and let your tears fall.
Eddie doesn't try to quiet you or tell you to stop. He doesn't tell you that you're okay and you don't need to cry. Instead, he wipes your tears patiently with calloused thumbs. He presses tender kisses to your lips and your wet cheeks. Eddie holds you as you cry. And as he does, your leaves soak in his light, roots coveting his rich charcoal. Your petals spread, opening their faces, unafraid of being perceived. And there's something more. As the tendrils anchor around your ribs, vining snug against that supportive trellis, small fruit begins to appear— tiny bunches of green, immature and firm, sprouting abundantly along your growth.
As your tears subside, you sniffle and cup Eddie's cheek, leaning up for a firm kiss. You pour into it, hoping it can convey some of the tenderness you feel for him. Because you want him to know. You want Eddie to know how much you—
The bed across the room creaks loudly then, and you startle, breaking from Eddie's lips as you realize the R&B music must have ended some time ago. The sound of a bed creaking— a bed that isn't the one you're laying on— sends you crashing back into reality. It strikes you suddenly where you are: in a hotel room in Miami, Florida, on vacation with your boyfriend, Steve, your friend, Chrissy, and your friend's boyfriend, Eddie, with whom you've just had the best sex of your life.
On some level, you can admit to yourself that it's not shocking the best sex you've ever had was with Eddie. But what is shocking is that you'd been so caught up in being with him that you'd entirely forgotten that Steve and Chrissy had been across the room the entire time, just a half-dozen feet away.
You're suddenly aware of them again, but your eyes haven't left Eddie's. And though he hasn't looked away either, you can see in the way he blinks and his vision seems to flicker that he's just gained the same awareness. He's still half-hard inside you, but his stiffness is flagging now; carefully, Eddie pulls out, saying quickly, "Wait there, I'll get you a towel."
You nod, and before he gets up, you feel his thumb drag fondly against your cheek one last time— a hasty little swipe, like he couldn't help but steal one more touch before he leaves you. You bend your legs, angling your hips to try to keep his cum from staining the sheets. You press the back of your hands against your warm cheeks, taking a slow breath and letting it out, gazing at the blank ceiling as you wait for Eddie to return. You hear his footsteps hastening out of the bathroom, heading for the side of your bed, but they halt when a crisp voice cuts suddenly through the silence.
"I got it," the voice says, smooth and even. "She needs you."
You lift your head, eyes darting to the two men near the foot of your bed. Both are naked. One is pale and hesitant as his gaze flicks restlessly between everyone else in the room. The other is tan, arms crossed as he stands between your bed and his friend. You watch Eddie swallow as his eyes meet Steve's even stare, and then he's moving toward the other bed, away from you. Steve watches him go, and you glance over at Eddie's destination to see Chrissy lounging against the rumpled sheets, waves of silky blonde hair splayed against her pillow, a dainty hand cupped against her lower stomach to prevent Steve's release from spilling before it can be cleared away.
You register a presence near your feet, eyes catching on hazel and touseled waves as Steve stares down at you impassively. With instant clarity, you can see yourself through his eyes— the juncture of your thighs sticky with Eddie's warm cum, your eyes wet with tears, your cheeks slowly flushing with the evidence of your thick, oozing guilt. And you feel something else: the thrum of deep shame, prickling like thousands of tiny needles, racing through your veins in time with your heart.
Suddenly, you can't breathe.
You have enough presence of mind to cup a hand over yourself to contain the mess as you scramble from the bed, dismounting near the sliding glass door opposite where Steve is standing. It brings you closer to your open suitcase— a small blessing, as you snatch an oversized t-shirt with your unoccupied hand before making a hasty retreat into the safety of the bathroom again.
You suck in a shaky breath, heart stuttering in your chest as you puff your cheeks and let it out slowly, leaning against the light wood of the closed bathroom door. Guilt, shame, trepidation— they all resurge stronger than ever as you realize what you and Eddie have done.
You'd broken the rules again, and this time, it hadn't been an accident. You'd chosen it. You'd wanted it. In the heat of the moment, you hadn't cared about the consequences, but now, as you wad up toilet paper and yank it from the roll, you feel the prickle of hot shame racing as you wipe the evidence of your betrayal from between your legs. You drop the ruined tissue into the toilet, yanking and wiping and yanking and wiping as if your guilt is a physical stain, and if you rub yourself raw, you can cleanse it from your flesh.
But your guilt is inside you, and so is your shame. Hot, prickling, thick, and oozy, shame and guilt coat your stomach, making you feel nearly ill as you consider your selfishness. You think of Steve's impassive face, knowing instinctively that it must have been a mask concealing how he truly felt. You think of what Chrissy will feel when she realizes that Eddie has cum inside you again, heart skipping and thudding at the sudden, horrifying thought that she may have overheard you asking for it. That she or Steve might know how much you wanted it.
How much you loved it.
Hot tears leak from your eyes, and you wipe them away silently as you flush the evidence of your betrayal. You're still swiping them from your blurred vision as you watch the water swirl.
You're dreading emerging from this oasis with its light wood cabinets and its marblesque tiles even more now than you were earlier tonight. You delay it as long as possible— pulling on your oversized t-shirt, washing your makeup away, brushing your teeth, wishing you had thought to grab a pair of underwear, though at least the shirt covers your ass with a couple of inches to spare. You feel exposed and vulnerable, and you know it has everything to do with the thought of facing Steve when you get out of here. You don't want to endure his reaction but feel selfish for even thinking that. However he responds to what I've done is what I deserve, and I need to accept that.
The bathroom door creaks open into peaceful silence. You peek carefully through the crack, eyeing Steve where he's reclining against the pillows lining the headboard, the side of his face illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp as he scrolls on his phone. As you emerge from the bathroom with tentative steps, Chrissy's hand finds the thin wood of the door, and you startle, nearly jumping as she appears suddenly in front of you.
"Done in there?" Her blue eyes are shiny and bright, and her voice sounds just as perky as it always does.
"Uh…" Your gaze darts from her to Eddie, who's hovering just behind her, brown eyes wide, full mouth pressed into a long line of bemusement as he stares back at you. "Um, yeah," you say, trying to fix your face into a neutral expression, though you fear it's probably all creased up with guilt and shame.
Chrissy doesn't seem to notice. "'Kay!" she says, flashing a bright grin at you as you sidestep so she can shimmy by you into the bathroom. When Eddie merely stands there, hands hanging limply at his sides as he stares at you, she glances back. "C'mon, Eddie," Chrissy says with a little playful whine, fingers closing around his wrist. "I'm cold, and I wanna go to bed!"
He moves forward to follow her almost automatically, and you watch him until the door clicks softly shut, separating you.
You blink at the white door until you hear a rustle break the hush. It's Steve, folding back the now-straightened sheets on your bed like an invitation. When you stare at him without moving, he glances up at you through his mussed bangs as he pats the mattress. No way to misconstrue that— it is undoubtedly an invitation for you to get in bed with him. And what's more, Steve doesn't appear angry or upset at all. In fact, he's currently shooting you a lopsided grin.
It feels like the fucking Twilight Zone.
Is it possible that Steve and Chrissy haven't fully realized what happened between you and Eddie? That they'd been so caught up in their own pleasure that the tension, the intimacy, the first real orgasm you’ve ever had with a partner had gone entirely unnoticed? It's nearly unbelievable. In fact, it is unbelievable. But the evidence to the contrary— Chrissy's usual powdery-soft smile and Steve's usual easy grin— cannot be ignored.
You're reeling, but amid your utter bafflement, you have enough presence of mind to realize that acting strange is not going to do you any favors and will only make the situation— whatever the situation is— worse. So you walk forward, slipping under the covers and turning as you feel Steve immediately click out the bedside light and shimmy over to spoon you. You force yourself to relax as his firm arms wrap around you, and his alkaline nose tucks against the juncture of your neck. You let Steve hold you— let him press his torso along your spine and fit his legs into the crook made by your bent legs, the entire length of his body snug against yours. He sighs deeply, a loud breathy sound of contentment that ruffles the hair at the nape of your neck.
"Shit," Steve says, and his crisp voice washes over you like a cool wave. "That was fun."
You've started to adapt to this situation, and that allows you to answer him the way you do. "Good," you say, and your voice is even and warm. "I'm glad you had fun."
Steve presses a chaste kiss to the side of your neck before settling his head back against his pillow. And you realize, as you stare at the empty bed across the room, that what you'd told him— that you're glad Steve had fun with Chrissy— is the truth. That you've reached the point where you really don't mind that your boyfriend fucked someone else tonight.
That, if you're brutally honest with yourself, you no longer care that Steve is fucking Chrissy at all.
And that should scare you. But despite this realization, the warmth of Steve's body coupled with the exhaustion of the day— both emotional and physical— has your lashes already fluttering with the effort it takes to resist the allure of sleep. You barely twitch as the bathroom door opens, and Eddie and Chrissy climb into their own bed.
And as you succumb to the promise of slumber, soft like a velvet shroud as it covers you until you sink down into unconsciousness, the last thing you see is the image of Chrissy's lithe arms wrapped like a vice around Eddie's back, her dainty fingers pressing into his pale quartz skin. You watch her nails grow, sharpening to points until they're pricking him. They begin to pierce through his flesh as she clutches him so tightly. And you think he must be in such pain; he must be shouting, but you don't hear a sound. You watch as wells of deep red blood flow from his wounds and seep into the sheets, staining them with a gash of crimson that will never wash away.
You don't actually see any of that. As it turns out, you're already asleep.
–
Butterflies live their lives basking in the sun. Moths don’t; they exist in the dark, lives illuminated only by the moon, that indirect refraction of true sun. So whenever they steal a glimpse of the light, they’re drawn to it. Recklessly, they chase it, fluttering around that brightness, unafraid or unaware of the consequences. And because they don’t see it all the time, they yearn for it in a way that butterflies never do.
Even if it destroys them.
–
Approximately twenty-six hours ago, you'd imagined yourself sitting on the hotel balcony, having a leisurely cup of morning coffee to revive you after a long night of partying at the club with your friends and boyfriend. Instead, you find yourself digging in your suitcase, searching for an athleisure outfit so you can accompany Chrissy to the spa.
As you'd awakened to light streaming through the gauzy curtains, eyes blinking open to the sight of dark curls gleaming in the shafts of brightness and Eddie's pale quartz back rising and falling with even breaths, the presence of Chrissy's dainty hand splayed across his spine had conjured a small shiver. But when you'd grasped for it, the reason for your unease slipped from your consciousness like a drop of ink or blood diffusing into water. You quickly attributed the feeling to your actions the previous night, to the vestiges of guilt and shame that still ticked at the edge of your senses despite the conspicuous lack of conflict and a good night's rest. You'd been preparing for the fallout as you sat up in bed, drawing restless fingers through your hair and rubbing the remnants of slumber from your eyes. But when Chrissy awoke, blue eyes bright and smile soft as she pulled herself cross-legged on the other side of Eddie and whisper-shouted to you her proposal for how to spend the morning before your return flight, you finally allowed yourself to accept that maybe things were okay after all.
As you search for an outfit, you're careful not to disturb Steve. He's still stretched out against the sheets, hair adorably disheveled, nose whistling slightly with each inhale. You watch him sleep for a moment, but when it conjures a whisper of feeling you don't want to confront right now, you redouble your efforts to find an outfit. Soon, you're adorned in a loose cropped t-shirt, high-waisted bike shorts, and flip-flops. After a quick visit to the bathroom to brush your teeth and fix your hair, the slight jangle of keys near the door tells you Chrissy is ready and waiting. You emerge to find her in a skin-tight black romper, topped with a loose button-up tied chicly at the waist to show off her athletic legs. Together, the pair of you set out for a morning filled with the promise of relaxation and revival.
The day spa Chrissy has chosen called Ciel reminds you of the bathroom in your hotel. It's all clean lines and light wood, crisp and pristine but scattered with lush greenery that echoes the tropical foliage outdoors. Trying to balance treating yourselves but also sticking to a budget, you and Chrissy had agreed to two spa activities, which would have you back to the hotel by ten o'clock to pack and eat a quick brunch with the guys before your one o'clock flight.
It smells of rich aromatherapy oil in the massage room where you're lying face-down on the table, face wedged in the opening, with nothing but a thin towel to preserve your modesty. You'd think that after having sex with three people at once, you'd be a little more comfortable with your own nudity. Yet you find yourself having to resist the sudden spike of self-consciousness that pierces you when you hear the door creak open underneath the ambient music and flowing water sounds. Still, Chrissy's presence on the table beside yours is soothing, and as the massage progresses, you find the precise and clinical rubbing does exactly what it's supposed to. It's like the masseuse's fingers are wringing all the tension from your body. As the hot stones rest heavily against your back, they release the ooze of your guilt and shame until you emerge from the room feeling cleansed.
After your massage, you suck down cold water as instructed, Chrissy at your side as you wait for your second activity: manicures. She sighs contentedly, porcelain skin shining pink and healthy from the heat, eyes sparkling even brighter. "That was so nice," she says. "I totally needed that."
"Yeah, me too," you say, exchanging a warm smile with her. "So, how was it dancing on stage last night?"
"Oh, my God, y/n, it was so cool!" she gushes, clasping your forearm as she starts to tell you all about it. And as you listen to Chrissy talk— as she shakes your arm around in her enthusiasm, and you fawn over her on-stage escapades, any lingering trepidation you felt at the thought of Chrissy being angry with you finally melts away. We're okay, you think, feeling a surge of fondness for Chrissy as you squeeze her fingers, and she smiles that soft charming smile that reveals her slightly crooked teeth.
An attendant guides you to the wall of nail colors, and you and Chrissy make your selections. You opt for squared tips and a pretty dove gray color. After some deliberation, Chrissy decides to get acrylics— not too long, but pointed, painted a bright siren red. Her acrylics will take longer than yours, but you don't mind; you've budgeted enough time for the indulgence, and the whole point of this trip is to relax and take it easy. No need to rush.
You sit side-by-side with Chrissy in the salon chair, resting your fingers lightly on the table as you wait for your nail technician to join you. She is an older woman with kindly-wrinkled eyes and shockingly smooth hands for her age. You greet her, and she returns your 'hello' with a smile, getting straight down to business by wiping off your bare nails with polish remover to ensure they're ready to be painted. Chrissy's technician comes second, flouncing into her seat across from your friend. She's younger, probably about your age, with a massive black bun piled atop her head to reveal an undercut.
"What's up?" she greets Chrissy, who smiles broadly. "We doing acrylics?"
"Yup," Chrissy answers, wiggling her fingers sassily. "You like?"
The technician slants a grin at her. "Hell yeah," she replies, earning one of Chrissy's giggles as she positions her hands atop the towel to begin working.
Your technician eyes her colleague with an air of motherly long-suffering but doesn't comment as she works. Despite the casualness of Chrissy's technician, which may, you suppose, bother some customers, you eagerly welcome the conversation that flows between you three. You learn that her name is Crystal, which you all have a bit of a laugh over as it sounds so close to Chrissy. Crystal's constant chatterboxing doesn't interfere with her ability to work; she seamlessly gossips with you while preparing Chrissy's nails with practiced ease. And your technician doesn't seem to mind being excluded from the conversation, appearing content to work in patient silence while manipulating your limp fingers as your eyes dart from Chrissy to Crystal and back again.
Eventually, as Crystal's most recent story subsides, Chrissy glances at you. And you can tell, as her blonde brows crinkle up and her teeth bite down on her lip to contain a smile, that she wants to say something.
"What?" you say, playfully bald, narrowing your eyes with faux suspicion. "What is it? Spit it out, Chris."
She purses her lips, glancing between you and Crystal as she speaks, sweet and powdery soft in her hesitance. "Well… I've been dying to tell you this, y/n. It's kind of why I wanted to do this without the guys. We're on vacation with our boyfriends," she explains to Crystal, who nods, looking intrigued.
You're also intrigued by the sparkle in Chrissy's eye and the sudden light flush on her cheeks. You can tell it's good news and that it must be something big. Your face goes slack, eyes wide with excitement, thinking that it might be about her yoga studio— the reason she's been taking all those night classes, working so hard. Is she done with her degree? Had she found a good deal on a location? You itch to reach for her, but you can't move your hands; you settle for expressing your eagerness through your face and voice. "What is it, babe?" you ask, warm and buoyant with rising glee as her smile breaks free, lighting her face so radiantly.
"I think Eddie's gonna propose to me!"
Crystal squeals, Chrissy giggles, and your face is still fixed in a bright, eager smile.
"Holy shit!" Crystal exclaims, leaning in, ignoring the pointed look your technician shoots her way.
"I know," Chrissy sighs, feet tip-tapping on the floor like she needs an outlet for her overwhelming giddiness. "I'm so excited. I mean, we were gonna wait until after I finished my classes and got my degree, but we've been dating for, like, five years now, so what's the point in delaying, you know?" She looks from Crystal to you as if seeking your approval. You tighten the sagging corners of your smile, cheeks already aching as you nod quickly. You don't trust yourself to speak. Thankfully, her eyes bounce back and forth between you and Crystal, continuing eagerly without seeking more of a response.
And as Chrissy tells you all the reasons she thinks Eddie is going to propose to her, a feeling like mortification slides hot down the back of your neck to the base of your spine. It's like mortification but heavier, thicker. More asphixiating. Like your friend had shoved a pillow over your face, and each rationale she gives for Eddie's imminent proposal presses it down harder and harder against your nose and lips until your chest heaves, fruitlessly sucking in fabric instead of air.
"We've been living together for a few months now," she's telling you and Crystal, "and it's been amazing. Like, I heard the transition can be kind of hard at first, moving in with someone, but it was so seamless. I was shocked! And it's so nice to come home to him every day. Well, you know," she chuckles, slanting a friendly, knowing look toward you. "You live with Steve, so you get it."
"All right, what's the best part?" Crystal asks conversationally, filing the acrylic of Chrissy's ring finger to a precise point.
"Hmm…" Chrissy bobs her head back and forth, pursing her lips as she thinks. "Probably sleeping with him." It takes every ounce of willpower you possess not to react.
Crystal guffaws. "Girl—"
Chrissy cuts her off. "No, no! Not like that," she clarifies with a charming giggle. "Eddie's like my personal heater. I'm always so cold, and he keeps me warm every night. And he's so attentive. Even when he's worked a really long shift and comes home super tired, he always wants to cuddle. He's really affectionate. And he's so reliable. I know he'd do anything for me."
You're still smiling, but you can't breathe.
"Aw," Crystal coos, brows tugging up in a simpering expression of admiration. "I'm happy for you, girl."
"Thank you," Chrissy replies, letting her head fall back as her eyes take on this far-away, dreamy look. You watch her as she hums contentedly before saying musingly, "Yeah. We'll get married, then I'll open the studio. And I think in a year or two, that'll probably be the right time to start trying." She slants a glance at you and Crystal, smiling conspiratorially as she shrugs. "Or sooner. You never know." She giggles and Crystal huffs amusedly through her nose. "Not sure I wanna wait that long to have my first baby."
There is no pillow; instead, Chrissy has sucked all the air from the room. Your lungs begin to ache.
"Honey," your technician says, all kind and quiet as your eyes dart to hers for the first time in a long while. She smiles reassuringly. "You're a little shaky. Did you eat this morning?"
You look down. She has your pinky in her grip, brush poised with dove gray polish above your nail. She's right. Your hands are trembling.
"N-no." You push the words out, voice creaky with disuse, so quiet that you aren't sure if she's heard you. You flex your fingers, jaw clenching as you focus on trying to keep them still. When she doesn't resume her painting, you glance up at her again. "I'm okay," you add, and when she nods, you turn your eyes back to your fingers, thinking of nothing but holding still and breathing evenly. Inhale slowly. Hold for three seconds. Out slowly. Wait for five. Repeat. Your fingers hold steady, and she manages to finish painting one hand before Chrissy addresses you directly.
"What do you think, y/n? Do you think they could be blue?"
You swallow against the lump that rises in your throat. "Hm?" You make a little questioning sound as you glance at your friend, looking into her face framed by supple strawberry-blonde waves, her bright blue eyes, her pink bow lips, her porcelain skin so radiant and beautiful.
"I was saying that I hope our baby has blue eyes, but Crystal said that brown eyes are, like, a dominant trait. So since Eddie has brown, he probably wouldn't."
"I mean, I wouldn't say I'm an authority," Crystal hedges, looking to you for your response.
You want to say, Chrissy, the thought of you having Eddie's baby makes me feel like I'm suffocating.
Instead, you squeeze out one single word. "He?"
"Oh, yeah." Chrissy looks a little sheepish, smiling softly as her shoulders squish up near her ears. "I kind of always say 'he' because I really want a boy. But Eddie wants a girl. I mean, honestly, I guess it doesn't matter what we have." Her face fills up with adoring affection. "He would be such an amazing girl dad. She'd be his little princess."
You'd do anything, give anything, not to hear another word.
The realization shifts something in you. It allows you to claw at the pillow Chrissy's inadvertently holding to your face, wrench it from your nose and mouth, and shred it until feathers rain around you in a cloud of soft down. By sheer force of will, you bury your emotions beneath the dark earth at the bottom of you until you can't feel them anymore.
"I think there's a chance the baby would have blue eyes," you say, straightening your spine, face perfectly pleasant. "It's not likely, but there's always a chance."
–
When Steve first proposed carpooling with Chrissy and Eddie to the airport, it seemed like a great idea. Now, it's agony.
When you'd returned to the hotel, Chrissy had asked the guys what they'd been up to while you were gone. "Oh, we just hung out," Steve replied easily, shooting her a lopsided grin as he wrapped his arm around you in greeting, dropping a kiss on the top of your head. Steve had acted entirely normal throughout your packing process, but you couldn't help but feel that Eddie seemed a little… off.
You didn't look at him often. Despite how you'd pushed your emotions down at the spa, it seemed the effect had been only temporary since the sight of Eddie's black and white caused you to ache deeply somewhere behind your ribs. Still, after so many evenings in his company, even the most fleeting glimpses of his brown eyes and pale face revealed a dullness that was obvious to you. He seemed harrowed. But he also seemed to be avoiding your gaze just as much as you were avoiding his, so you pushed your questions aside and focused your attention on returning home to normalcy.
You're sitting in the passenger seat of Steve's maroon BMW. He's driving with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lightly against the gearshift. In the back seat, Chrissy has opted for the middle spot, pressing close to her boyfriend as he leans tiredly against the car door. You're all pretty worn out from the flight, sitting in the quiet wooshing of the highway as you think dully about the Monday morning of work you'll be facing tomorrow. You're already planning on taking a long hot shower, wrapping yourself in your coziest pajamas, and gorging on pizza and some indulgent Netflix show to unwind before bed. You can't wait until you and Steve drop Chrissy and Eddie off. Chrissy seems to share your sentiment.
"I can't wait 'til we get home." Chrissy is murmuring quietly, but in the hush of the car, you can hear her just fine. It's the first time someone has broken the silence the whole car ride, and you find yourself glancing automatically back to see Chrissy's hand high on Eddie's thigh as she crosses her legs toward him, cocking her head. "I'm gonna get you right in the shower, big boy."
You hear Eddie huff a brief chuckle, and you swallow to wet your suddenly dry throat. You swell with foreboding; dread sinks heavy in your stomach as a brief flash of that hot mortification echoes inside you again.
"What do you wanna do to me tonight?" Chrissy murmurs, voice pitched low and sultry, still quiet but horribly clear. Please, no. Don't make me listen to this, you beg silently, eyes flicking toward the side window as you curl up on yourself in preparation.
Chrissy continues talking. "Do you wanna try fucking my face again? That was fun last time."
There's an extended pause and then Eddie's answer. "If you want." You feel some vindictive relief at the impassiveness of his voice. Hot, prickly shame rushes in to follow, and you rest your chin on your palm, leaning your temple against the cool glass of the window. You don't want to listen, but after Eddie's response, you can't deny that a small part of you is hoping to hear that lack of enthusiasm from him continue. You may not want to listen, but your ears are honed on the back seat now, attentive to each little sound and shift in tone.
Chrissy's voice is suddenly lower, more seductively teasing. "You know I love it when you get me all sloppy."
You don't dare to look; you keep perfectly still, waiting for Eddie's response. And you hear a subtle shifting of fabric, like one of them is moving to touch the other or fidgeting with their hands. Maybe Eddie is twisting his rings in that nervous habit of his.
Again, it heartens you, his lackluster response. And you know it's wrong to take pleasure in it, but you can't help yourself. Later, you can chastise yourself for your selfishness. Now, you're grasping it like a lifeline. You're reaching for anything that can relieve the oppressive suffocation you'd experienced in the nail salon. Because you know that ache can't be suppressed forever. You know it will return, and you'll latch on to anything that may alleviate at least some of it.
You hear Chrissy giggle suddenly. "Or…" She sounds even foxier now. "You could always…" She trails off pointedly, and you can hear the smile in her voice. You know what Eddie will do; it's clear what Chrissy wants.
"What?" he asks, obliging her.
"You know…" she murmurs, husky and low. There's a rustle and then the barest suggestion of words, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. You realize she must be whispering in Eddie's ear.
His sudden shocked huff nearly startles you; you hear the slight wet sound of him swallowing thickly. "Would you like that?" Chrissy asks, all smug and low with knowing pleasure.
Eddie chuckles disbelievingly. That smoke voice rasps low. "What kind of question is that? 'Would you like that?' Of course, I'd fuckin' like that—"
The slight relief twists violently into pain behind your ribs; the ache resurges, throbbing as you begin to suffocate again.
With trembling fingertips painted dove gray, you switch on the radio.
–
It's one o'clock in the morning, and your pain has finally subsided into hollowness. You'd worn your mask for the remainder of the day. You'd worn it while dropping Chrissy and Eddie off at their apartment. You'd worn it during the ride back to yours, where you wrote down all the groceries you needed for the week in your Notes app to be picked up after work tomorrow. You'd worn it while showering, while changing into your pajamas, while relaxing on the couch watching an indulgent Netflix show with your feet in Steve's lap. And now, Steve is asleep, so you no longer need to maintain your mask. It's somewhat of a relief, but it can't compensate for the whiplash of events that occurred on this vacation. On some level, you feel like everything has changed. But laying here, empty and hollow, you realize that, in reality, nothing has.
You hope your hollowness persists. Maybe, with hollowness in place of the ache, you can put this weekend behind you and pick back up right where you left off before you'd gone on this vacation.
The phone buzzes.
You blink, staring at the bright screen of your phone on your bedside table for a long moment, long enough for it to go black again. You know who the message is from because only one person texts you this late in the evening. You consider leaving it for tomorrow morning and just going to sleep instead. You're certainly tired enough.
You drag the phone underneath the covers with you.
You open the message, which includes a small block of text and, curiously, an mp3 file rather than a Spotify link. You dully pull out your earbuds automatically, fitting them in your ears before you read the message.
Eddie has written, 'Been working on this one for a while now. Finally finished recording it right before our trip and wanted to share it with you. Let me know what you think.'
Your heart stutters and thumps, and the feeling is not entirely pleasant. As you stare at the file waiting to be opened and played, you waver with indecision. You've never hesitated to listen to one of the songs Eddie has shared with you. But then, you'd never before broken the rules by kissing him. And he'd never before made you orgasm. And you've never before sat in a nail salon, listening to his girlfriend talk about becoming his wife and having his children.
In the end, what finally persuades you to make your decision is not any of those things. It's the memory of Eddie's bouncing knee, of his white knuckles as he glared at the sea, grappling with your kind words. Struggling to accept that you'd listened to his regret and shame and countered with all the parts of him you cherish.
As soon as you hear it, you pause on the chorus, stunned by Eddie's voice, how it's gritty and cracking with the force of his growl. ' Placed inside, safe and sound. Shades of colors are all I see. ' You listen to it once and then immediately play it again and again. You're fixated on it— the way Eddie sings about being 'safe and sound.' The way his voice sounds so raw. An odd image comes to you: a man's pale back pricked by sharp nails, flowing crimson onto sheets. It makes no sense, but it also makes you ill, so you push the image away and hit replay.
You listen to the song again and think about how Chrissy said she wants to have a boy, but Eddie wants a girl. It suddenly becomes so obvious: how they've discussed getting married and having kids, and you don't even know when Eddie's birthday is. You're thinking about how you've never been to their apartment. You're wondering what their apartment looks like. What their bed looks like. And then you're thinking about how Eddie keeps Chrissy warm in it every night. And once you think that, you can't stop the questions that tumble one after another.
Does he touch her like he touches you?
Does he fuck her like he fucks you?
Does he moan against her neck when he cums inside her?
Does he hold her while she cries?
Does he steal one last touch before he leaves the bed to wash up?
Does she get to see the gentleness in his eyes? Does that gentleness spread over his whole face? You know that it can. Your knowledge comes deep from the bottom of you, where your green sprouts forth. Does Eddie's gentleness spread for Chrissy that way? The way you've never gotten to see it?
The suffocating ache wells up. It leaks silently from your eyes. It's all too much. You feel too much.
For the first time, you don't answer Eddie's message.
#tkym#blueywrites#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fanfiction#steve harrington#chrissy cunningham
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Conical Lamp
Roman; Eastern Mediterranean, 275–300
This lamp was meant to be suspended from polykandela, or chandeliers, which hung from the ceiling. The early Byzantines, like the Romans before them, typically burned olive oil for light. Lamps made from glass such as this were more expensive than the numerous surviving terracotta examples, and they were likely used to light the most important part of a church, such as, the altar or the nave. Keeping the lamps lit was costly, and generous donors gave endowments to churches to literally keep the lights on. Emperor Constantine, for example, donated the revenue from seven large estates specifically for the maintenance of 174 lamps, polykandela, and candlesticks in the Basilica of Saint John Lateran in Rome.
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You stand over the open door. Anticipation wells in your chest as you look down into the abyss. The door has given way to a dark concrete tunnel with a rusty ladder along the wall closest to you and cage lamps mounted on the wall furthest from you. The cage lamps are off. Maybe they're not working? Even so, the bottom of the tunnel gives way to a small amount of warm light. It seems like there's a room with a light in it that the tunnel gives access to. You gulp. The only thing to do now is to climb down. You take a deep breath, strengthen your resolve, and place your feet carefully on the rungs of the ladder. Slowly, gingerly, you step down, ensuring the rungs will hold your weight until you're too low to grab the edge and save yourself. You look down and then back up, sigh, and continue your descent. As you steadily climb down, you find yourself surrounded by stale and musty air. The air itself feels damp and cold. And the worn-out metal of the ladder against your hands isn't helping. Finally, your foot touches the floor, and you step down, let go and turn around. You're facing a small room, connected to the tunnel through a hefty metal archway. It looks very thick and sturdy. And beyond the doorway is…
.
..
…
….
…..
You are standing inside of the HATCH. It's dark and damp and fallen chunks of drop ceiling crunch under your feet. WATER pools on the concrete floor. The room is dimly lit with a single LAMP, which does little to illuminate the details of the room. Before you sits a small DESK with a COMPUTER sitting on top. A SIREN is mounted to the wall. Similarly, there seems to be a metal CABINET built into the wall right below it. You feel as though the computer is beckoning to you.
Look at hatch>
You look back up the ladder you climbed down. The sun shines down and illuminates a small patch of the floor but quickly cuts off at the entrance to the room. The rungs of the ladder barely even shine due to rust and dulling. The cage lamps of the shaft don't seem to work. There's a small grate on the floor, maybe in case the door is open when it's raining.
Look at water>
You look at the puddle of water that's formed in an uneven patch of the floor. The water ripples with every drop of water dripping from the ceiling. It looks like there's a leaky PIPE somewhere above you. The walls, previously painted white, have now turned green near the bottom of the floor due to the moisture, and is cracking and peeling away.
Look at pipes>
It's hard to see in the dim lighting, but it looks as though above you is a decaying drop ceiling. Patches have fallen, revealing messy patches of wires and pipes, some of which are dripping onto the floor. You can't help but wonder what they're all for.
Look at lamp>
The single source of light in this small room is a light bulb in a conic reflector. Even when the light worked properly, you doubt the room was very well-lit. Regardless, the light is dim and flickers sporadically. Given how ruined the hatch is, you're surprised it even still works.
Look at siren>
The siren is mounted to the wall with heavy bolts, and wires run into the wall and out of sight. Like everything else in the room, the siren is severely degraded, and the metal that it was built with has rusted in patches, the paint chipped and peeling off. The interior is full of dust and spiderwebs.
Look at cabinet>
The cabinet seems to be one of the sturdiest things in the hatch. It's worn and the paint has chipped off, but jostling the doors yields no give whatsoever. Not only is it locked but there's a chain around the handles.
Look at desk>
The desk is extremely simple. It's made of metal but it certainly hasn't fared well over time. The whole surface looks dull and tarnished and the leg nearest to the puddle looks rusty. There's a mess of assorted items and PAPERS sitting around the computer.
Look at papers>
The scattered papers are all old and yellowed. It's hard to make out what most of them say. There are strange diagrams of mechanisms and systems you've never seen before, covered in handwritten NOTES.
Look at notes>
It's hard to understand what any of the notes are referring to, but there is one thing that you can understand; the words "Vitals Monitoring Station".
Look at computer>
The computer is, strangely, perhaps in the best shape of anything in the room. The case is worn, yellowed and covered in a thick layer of dust, but the screen still glows under the dusty layers of years of neglect and abandonment. You wipe away the dust with your hand, cringing a little as you briefly consider how unsanitary is, but find yourself captivated by what's on the screen.
NEXT
PREVIOUS
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I caved in. Saturninus side drabble that I partially wrote at 1am
Silver was much more than a lesser decoration compared to gold. Now, for example, it showed the reflection of the second most valuable person of Los Infinitude. Blue swept up to white on his solid in the summer sunlight filtering through the large window, black velvet curtains pulled apart. It revealed a room impeccably tidy, a bed softer than a newborn’s blanket, and a desk that was devoid of clutter. One might say, devoid of personality.
Slowly, slowly, a silver laurel was lowered onto his own head. None of the leaves’ sharp edges dug into his azure skin. It didn’t slip over the curve nor did it squeeze. The diadem was perfectly sized, comfortable where it was. At the end of each branch, curving to meet between his eyes, was the royal emblem of his family. Though merely silver with no sparkling gemstones, it still glimmered brightly, taking pride in its beauty and its status.
Saturninus then turned away from the mirror. He already spent hours meticulously picking and fixing his appearance. Skin was polished to a shine. A simple collar of fine black fabric circled just above his arms, tied together with a pearl studded clasp. He was never one for extra jewelry, but he had an appearance to make today.
“30 minutes until the celebration, Your Royal Highness,” a dutiful voice called out from beyond the thick wooden doors. Without thinking, Saturninus turned back to the mirror and checked over his appearance again. It didn’t change. Without another word, he stepped out of his room and into the castle beyond.
His 2 conical guards stepped aside and followed behind him. Saturninus was half way down the hall when he realized that the space right besides him was much too empty.
“Minerva!” He knocked on the door to her room. “Minerva, we must appear at once. Open your door!”
Her own guards only stared ahead, keeping eye contact with the ceiling. Never was there a time they would lay their sight upon the royal siblings. Even as the heavy doors swung open, they didn’t so much as flinch.
A smaller, blood-red sphere was now in his view. A bronze laurel of similar, brightened by contrasting sapphires, sat at an odd angle upon her head. Sky-blue eyes glared at Saturninus, yet whatever hate they held was shallow and temporary.
“I was just done getting ready, brother,” Minerva hissed.
“So you tell me,” Saturninus said as he reached up to straighten the diadem. Soon it stood at a perfect level, looking infinitely better upon her brow. “No other accessories?”
She looked down for a moment. “I don’t need any.”
Saturninus sighed. His hand moved to unclip the circle of black fabric, yet one of his guards uttered his title to remind him of his expectations. “Prince Saturninus, Princess Minerva, we must leave at once should we arrive in time for the opening celebration.”
Saturninus nodded at once and stepped back into formation with his guards. Minerva, with a little trip, did so as well. Finally, they stood side by side, approaching the ballroom with enough pride in Saturninus to spill over into her.
In fact, she didn’t only look confident. She looked…almost excited.
Finally they reached the ballroom. Dozens of other spheres and icosahedrons mingled about as they waited for the hours to strike. Their own velvet robes and ostentatious jewelry made them glitter like a night sky full of colorful, chatty stars. Conic guards stood at the perimeter, spears and soldiers in hand, steel glinting menacingly in the chandelier’s light. The walls of white and black marble stood high above them, meeting in a dome overhead. Paintings of past monarchs hung on the walls. Their captured gazes ranged from impassive to kind to judgemental.
Something the two royal siblings saw at the same time, where Minerva gasped ever so lightly; an orchestra, and an empty singer’s platform.
“Here, Minerva” Saturninus gestured to each side besides a throne. Haloed by various gold rays emitting from an aureate sphere, the throne itself was made from humble white marble, etched with rigid geometric patterns, lines, and dots. Saturninus and Minerva took their spots on opposite sides of the royal seat. Without further prompts, they both tilted their eyes upward and held their arms behind their back curve. A perfect pair of brother and sister, perfectly balanced between red and blue, stood like statues. So still, none of the insignificant chatter of lesser nobles halted at all.
Until one trumpeter hailed with a single loud note, and the sea of solids parted immediately.
The rest of the orchestra prepared their instruments. Someone also climbed upon the singer’s platform: a humble cyan cube. He cleared his throat, and signaled the conductor. The music started, and the true purpose of the gathering appeared.
Queen Juno walked with a confidence seen in no one else. A red cape trailed behind her, held up by trusted guards that didn’t even look in her direction. Her eyes remained closed, her hands held a golden scepter as though it was a child, and a swarm of diamonds and sapphires rested on her top hemisphere. Such a prismatic choice of decoration contrasted against her pitch black coloration. It was like she was a black hole, the sheer strength of her being forcing everyone into her control. The music swelled as she continued her path towards the throne
Then, the singer began a song they all had etched onto their souls:
Noble majesty, oh dear mother,
To you we stretch our hearts and arms,
To you, oh dear queen,
We all vow, you shall live!
It was, by this point, a standard song that nobody thought twice about. Strings were fine. The notes progressed well. No member of the orchestra was off-key. A song meant for the very ruler of their lives had become the definition of the happy banality of Spaceland life. Today, however, Saturninus could see something had changed.
It was an innocent glance to his sister to ensure Minerva maintained posture. He didn’t want there to be any imperfections for his mother’s jubilee. Indeed, she had broken formation, but with her he saw a more pressing issue.
Her own eyes were different. They weren’t stern and posed to be the princess of Spaceland. They were wide, bright and alive, enamored entirely in heart and soul. Without turning his body, Saturninus followed her gaze, and they landed on the cubic singer who continued the royal anthem. Queen Juno was halfway to the throne.
Saturninus held still. He fixed his posture immediately and kept his breathing level. Was it one-sided? A harmless infatuation with a trained musician? That look was clear in its emotions; it was almost embarrassing. And how would a singer employed by the palace orchestra be involved with the second in line for the 3D crown? He carefully angled his gaze so the singer was in his general sight. His sister didn’t need to be checked again. The adoration within her was practically palpable now.
By the 4th stanza, the singer had turned his solid towards the royal siblings. Here he had sung:
Flourish, o land, in unbreakable unity,
Always stand tall and serve no other.
The true motto we may undoubtedly claim,
For queen, for liberty and law!
There, the singer’s own eyes changed.
They softened and positively glowed. A near perfect recreation of the emotion Saturninus saw with Minerva. It was such a brief glance, and then the singer steeled himself as he reached the last lines of the anthem. Saturninus couldn’t see Minerva, determined to stay in formation, but he could feel the emotion that surrounded her die away.
Their mother sat on her throne and opened her eyes just as the music came to a close. She gave her speech, thanking each and every guest for attending the celebration of her rule. She clapped her hands, announcing the ball to be truly in effect. Her spell over the attendees vanished, released from her magnetic grip, as they immediately covered each inch of the floor. Conversations filled the air once again.
“Mother, may I?” Minerva asked as she collapsed her hands together.
“Of course, the party is for you to enjoy as well,” Juno said, waving her towards the crowd below. Minerva bowed and gave her thanks, then immediately disappeared into the sea of noble solids.
Saturninus turned stiffly to Juno, and opened his mouth to speak until she said, “and yes, you too, Saturninus.”
“Actually, mother, I have something important to tell you,” he lowered close to a whisper.
“And that is?” She kept her gaze forward.
“I believe…” Saturninus could scarcely believe the words coming out of his own mouth. “Remember how Minerva began taking those music lessons?”
“An heir should be a master of many arts,” Juno said dismissively.
“Mother, she and the…there’s no doubt in my mind that she is…” Saturninus inhaled one more time just as his mother looked at him with confusion. “She must be involved with the palace singer.”
Juno did not react. She simply returned her gaze back towards the party below her throne. The scepter twitched slightly.
“Talasius, hm?” Juno asked. The singer was nowhere to be seen, lost in the ball.
“Yes,” Saturninus said. “I saw them looking at each other with eyes of lovers, and all the music lessons that she refuses to tell me about-”
“Saturninus,” Juno cut in. “Do not lie about your sister like this. Whatever reason you may have, she would not involve herself with the lesser-sided.”
Saturninus held back the mere instinct to narrow his eyes. “And why would I do that?”
Juno didn’t answer. Saturninus stepped closer, bringing himself into her vision. He lowered his front curve in a bow, letting the emblem on his laurel face her rather than his eyes.
“Your Majesty,” he began. Juno’s own eyes immediately fell upon him. “As the messiah of the 3rd millennium chosen by your wisdom and as your heir to our city, you trained me to speak nothing but the truth. To both our fellow solids and the lower creatures inhabiting the valley lake.”
His mother held her burning stare. He continued, “and I speak the truth that I saw the looks between Talasius and Minerva. As well as those lessons she attends for far too long with nothing to speak nor show for it. I say this with intent to save her from ruining our bloodline as spheres.”
Juno still said nothing. Saturninus still held his bow.
“I have exiled people for such lies, Saturninus,” she whispered as she blinked, lifting the weight of her judgment off of him. “Wishing to gain favor through supposedly weeding out the unfaithful in my circles, feeding me falsehoods, even when the truth is much, much worse.”
Saturninus did not reply. He was pure. He only wanted to save Minerva from disgrace and humiliation. For both her and himself. He was saving all of them from chaos. That was just the way things were meant to be.
“Pray to the gods you’re right, my son. There isn’t enough time to train a new messiah.”
#to be crystal clear#the lyrics of the song are from the belgian anthem#because I cant write songs :((((((((#anyways i'll begin chapter 3 tomorrow yippeee
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Two hours earlier...
Mac drops a few more do-dads onto the cleared-off cement paver and kneels down, swiftly sorting his finds into piles. “How many spare earpieces do you have, Riles?”
“Uh, there should be four,” she says, digging them out. The in-ear short-range comms they use for missions like this one are tiny, but also somewhat fragile, so she always carries a few extras in the pocket of her laptop case. “Seven if you’re counting the ones we’re using.”
Mac considers it, then shakes his head. “Four is plenty. Thanks.”
Jack’s already sitting on another cleared-off paver, one arm resting casually on his knee while he watches Mac disassemble a solar path light and pry out a cone-shaped light reflector. “So what’re we making?”
“Since getting into the building to place bugs is too risky, we’re going to use the glass dome as our ears,” Mac says.
Riley exchanges a look with Jack, who shrugs and takes the bait. “You want to explain that more or are we supposed to guess?”
Mac holds up a partly-constructed-looking-thing that involves one of the in-ear comms pieces, some wires, and the cone-shaped light reflector. “When sound waves hit the glass, they cause small vibrations. The vibrations travel through the glass. The conical shape of these reflectors will amplify the sounds to a single point, making them loud enough for pick-up by our comms pieces from the other side of the glass—like if you’re eavesdropping by pressing a cup against a door. With a few tweaks to the audio processing, we ought to be able to make out most of what’s said inside without needing to ever be there ourselves.”
Riley’s mind immediately goes to the code she’ll need to alter in the software that connects their comms. She’ll need to split the seven devices into two channels, add some extra processing to the four that Mac’s turning into bugs, then feed the reprocessed pick-ups back into their channel so they can hear what’s going on inside the building.
It’s a solid plan. It won’t take her long to do her part, and then they’ll be able to listen in on a planning meeting between representatives of four different terrorist organizations from afar.
The intel is going to be amazing.
“So we have to put those where?” Jack asks, while Riley logs in to her laptop and starts to work. “The ceiling?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mac confirms. “The glass dome is perfect for collecting sounds from a distance. We’ll place four of these equally spaced near the center of the dome. It’s octagonal, so they should look like part of the pattern and blend in.”
“I think I’ve got the code you need.” Riley turns the screen of her laptop to face Mac while she gives him a run-down. By the time they’re in agreement about the code, he’s finished all four eavesdropping devices.
“We ready?” Jack gets to his feet, stretching his arms and rolling his neck. None of them are wearing vests because they’re not expecting trouble, but he’s got his favorite gun stuffed in a thigh holster. She’s carrying, too, but in a nice little holster on her belt that’s hidden by her jacket. “We’ve got about an hour, maybe two if we’re lucky.”
“We’re ready,” Mac confirms.
Jack eyeballs the glass dome on the building they’re trying to infiltrate. “I don’t want to be a party pooper, but that dome’s like a hundred feet tall and made of nothing but old glass, so what’s your brilliant plan for getting your gizmos placed without falling off of it?”
Mac’s had his back to the dome this whole time and he doesn’t look at it before he answers. “I'm going to climb it and stick them on. There should be hooks up at the top for a safety line, even though it’s an older building.”
“And you’re just going to… not look down at all while you get those things stuck on the glass below you?” Jack shakes his head. “So I guess I’m going up, then.”
Mac shakes his head in return. “No, like you said, the glass is old, and you outweigh me by what, forty pounds? I need you to help haul me up.”
Riley leans down and picks up all four of Mac’s devices. “How about you both help haul me up? I’m the lightest one of us, and I’m not scared of heights.”
Mac frowns. “You’re going to need to test the network from the ground.”
Riley stuffs the roll of duct tape over her wrist like a bracelet and holds her laptop out to Mac. “As long as you can establish the connection with each comm after it’s placed, I can make any other adjustments we need when I’m done.”
“That’s my girl,” Jack says, giving her a solid pat on the shoulder and a smile that makes her feel like he’s one step away from slapping a My Daughter is an Honor Student bumper sticker on the GTO. “Let’s get moving.”
(More on AO3)
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“607 5th Street sits on a quiet tree-lined block at the edge of Prospect Park, and anchors a group of 14 beautiful Neo-Renaissance limestone townhouses built by architect Axel S. Hedman and developer Eli Bishop in 1907. It's the widest of the group, and the only one with side windows, a conical turret, and views of Prospect Park. Enchanting original details abound, including the original staircase, two fireplace mantles, stained glass windows, parquet flooring, a coffered dining room ceiling, and a wealth of meticulously crafted woodwork and plaster details throughout.”
Instagram: iliketoseeeverythinginneon
#time capsule house#brooklyn#new york#nyc#real estate#zillow#zillowcore#interior#interiors#vintage kitchen#1907#1900s#00s#limestone#townhouse#axel s hedman#Eli bishop#details#calligraphy#prospect park#chandelier#stained glass#fireplace#woodworking#coat hook#sconces#brass#parquet#parquet floor#stoop
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After the tight cloisters of the rest of Waterfall, this part of the cavern opens into a massive chamber, dwarfing you and the monster kid by your side. A subterranean lake stretches before you in a gradient of blues and greens and purples. Far beyond it, glowing faintly in the darkness, the city of New Home stretches toward the cavern roof, its smaller buildings clustered around a pale blue castle topped by conical spires and lined in stone parapets like a fairytale castle. Dozens of gems sparkle in the ceiling above like crown jewels, casting a soft light on the underground below. There it is. The end of your journey. It’s still a long way off, but for the first time you truly see, and comprehend, the magnitude of this kingdom. You and the monster kid stand silhouetted against the splendor of the view for a long time, keeping a reverent silence between you. Then, wordlessly, you both turn and continue along the path, the view remaining in your mind’s eye as you disappear into another enclosed tunnel.
#undertale#frisk the goat#waterfall#art#it's on a dry erase board#don't ask how long that took#one dried-out marker resurrected and died again in the span of making this
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A Dream of Summer Rain (Chapter 7: Ashes Fell Like Snow)
Northern Alaska- 20 Years Ago
Snow surged from the sky like blood from a gaping wound, and wind shattered around the castle and the mountains like a maelstrom of broken glass. Castle Albrecht stood between two mountains, and climbed to half their height. Ten stories tall, with four spires arranged around the center in the four cardinal directions. The cylindrical spires reached into the air with their conical tops, adding another dozen feet to the castle’s considerable height. Built from black diamond and obsidian, Castle Albrecht had stood in its current location for two hundred years, and if her father had his way, it would stand for another two thousand.
At the top floor of the Eastern Spire, looking out over the coniferous expanse, Gwen sat on the floor with her legs crossed as snow fell from the sky and blood froze on the floor. The corpse sat in an indent, between the three siblings and their father. Gwen looked to her left, to her older brother Arthur, with his shaggy white hair and tall, slender frame; and to her right, to her older sister Morganna with her snowy, hip-length tresses that fell beautifully from her delicate head, framing her perfect face. Ahead of them was the body of a man Father had found starving in the forest, tranquilized and placed in the chamber so that they could watch him bleed.
Alistair Albrecht stood in front of the window with his arms folded. He was a tall, imposing man, built lean and tight, with long white hair parted to his left. His gray eyes had sunk deep into his sockets, and he looked at his young children with impatience. Behind him was the uncovered window, through which the frigid reaches of the Alaskan wilderness revealed itself. Snowflakes danced into the room, melting on the ground but not on the corpse. The corpse sat stationary and cold, with wide-open eyes aimed at the ceiling. Gwen couldn’t help but stare.
“Well,” Alistair said. “I’m waiting. Now show me.”
Morganna, the eldest, went first. She held out her hand, and she spoke the German for ‘Gather ye blood, gather ye life, gather ye death.’ A droplet of blood leaked from the man’s slit wrist, floated up from its source and hung in the air, followed by a dozen more. They pooled together, and Morganna closed her fist. The blood sculpted and crystalized, and when it was over a solid letter ‘M’ hung in the air.
Alistair nodded silently, then gestured to Arthur. He repeated the procedure, but rather than a letter, he sculpted a snowflake the size of his hand, an intricate lattice of blood-crystal.
“Excellent,” Alistair said. Gwen supposed that he must’ve meant it, even if his face and his tone did nothing to indicate that. “Your turn, Guinevere.”
Gwen nodded. She closed her eyes and breathed in, let the Stardust in the room fill her up, held it in her heart, channeled it into her hands, released it and fired it towards the blood. She spoke the words, and she clasped her hand. When she released her grip, the blood had formed into a long, thin needle. Alistair regarded it with curiosity, poked it, pricked his finger on the razor-sharp edge as Gwen said, “Blut meines vater.” A splash of Alistair’s own blood was drawn from his finger into the needle, enlarging it into a dagger.
Finally, Alistair Albrecht smiled. It was a mere smirk, but it was more than Gwen had seen from her father in some time. “Very good. You’re all dismissed for the day. Be sure to finish your chores before sundown, or no dinner.”
With that, the Prince of Necromancers began to leave, his long black cloak sliding over the smooth crystal surface of the room.
“Wait,” Gwen said. Morganna shot her a glare.
“What, girl?” Alistair said, stopping but not turning to face her.
“Where’s Tristan?”
“Your mother didn’t care to waste time with him today when she’d rather occupy herself with the younger children,” Alistair said. “So I sent him to collect firewood for the afternoon.”
“By himself?” Arthur said, gathering himself onto his feet. He’d grown four inches in the past year- at the rate he was going, he’d catch up to Father within a few years.
“He’s more than capable,” Alistair said. And then Father left.
As soon as he did, Morganna reached over and struck Gwen in the chest with a closed-fisted punch. “Quit showing me up!” Morganna said.
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said.
“You always say that, and yet you never seem to mean it.” Morganna’s eyes went wide and her teeth were bared.
Morganna launched her fist towards Gwen’s face, but Arthur caught the punch before it could connect. He’d overshot Morganna in both height and weight in the past year, and she’d found herself unable to bully him the same as she had before: a recent attempt of her’s to put him in his place had resulted in her losing her final baby tooth. Soon after that, Morganna had found herself unable to strike any of her younger sibling’s any longer, for fear of incurring Arthur’s considerable wrath. Gwen supposed the only thing more hideous than a fourteen year old’s wounded pride was a thirteen year old’s justified hatred; her twelve year old fear was small and pathetic in itcomparison.
Arthur squeezed his older sister’s wrist, his eyes bulging with rage. “Say you’re sorry.”
Morganna sneered.
“I said apologize to Gwen,” Arthur said, squeezing tighter.
Morganna said nothing. Her face was impassive.
Gwen recounted, then, all the times in their childhood that Morganna had struck Arthur. She supposed that Arthur likely did the same as he delivered a slap across Morganna’s face. It connected with her cheek and eye, and she hissed as it stung her flesh in the cold, gray air of the room. Arthur let go of Morganna’s wrist, and she fell to the ground. Gwen leapt up and hurried out of her way, just in time for Arthur to kick Morganna in the ribs.
“Come on, Gwen,” Arthur said. “Let’s go. Morgan would clearly rather be alone.”
“It’s Morganna,” their eldest sibling said from the floor, clutching her side.
“Nobody cares, you stupid cunt,” Arthur said. Gwen covered her mouth to keep her smile a secret. Arthur had decided he was stronger than Morganna, and Gwen was glad to find he was right. She clung to her older brother as they left the Eastern Spire.
She followed Arthur down the spiraling staircase, brushing her long white hair out of her eyes as she went. Windows carved into the wall and plated with clear glass revealed the outside world, the driving snow blanketing the potter’s field that stood before the coniferous forest. Father would bury the new corpse in an unmarked grave before day’s end- once they did, any remnants of the ghost would vanish: a necromancer’s burial would destroy all claim the spirit had on the body, force it towards whichever afterlife it believed in rather than allowing it to cling to the world in its trauma. The corpse belonged to them, and that made necromancy much easier. It would preserve the corpse as well thanks to their father’s magic, and in a few years he would start showing them how to animate it.
“Are you okay?” Arthur asked, tossling her hair.
“Yeah, I think so,” Gwen said, rubbing her chest just above her heart. “Thanks.”
“No problem, shorty,” Arthur said with a warm smile. “What do you wanna do now?”
“We should go find Tristan.”
“But he’s off getting wood.”
“Yeah, and I heard on the radio that there was gonna be a blizzard this evening,” Gwen said. “I don’t think he should be out there alone.”
Arthur stopped a step from the bottom of the spire. Ahead of them was the overpass that connected the spires with the main building, a darkened, claustrophobic tunnel illuminated by a few lanterns that hung from the ceiling. “I don’t know. Mom and Dad would be pissed.”
“Please. He’s out there all alone,” Gwen said, looking at the back of her older brother’s head.
Arthur’s shoulders tensed, then he exhaled and relaxed them. “Alright. Get your parka and your bowie, and let’s go.”
She nodded, and she ran through the cold, dark underpass and came out beneath a high ceiling. The main building was much warmer than the spires, heated by the boiling lake beneath the earth. It was almost swampy compared to the biting cold of the rest of her world. She ran past the library, the first room on right when entering from the Eastern Spire. It was the only room in the whole castle that was as tall as the entire thing: it had its own stairwell that carried you up each of the ten stories. It was accessible from each floor of the castle, but walled off into its own section, all the knowledge of 1500 years of House Albrecht’s prominence in the Sovereignty.
On the first story, her mother instructed Gwen’s younger siblings- Elaine, age nine, and Iseult, age four- in the ways of oneiromancy. Their mother was the heiress to House Koenig, another of the Five Grand Houses of the Sovereignty, in their case specializing in matters of the psychic variety. Baby Percival rocked back and forth in the cradle next to their mother as she wove a shared dream around the girls. A green aurora washed over the library, while small imps called mara sat on the girls chests’ while they laid flat on their backs, keeping them within the realm of the subconscious so that their mother could lead them through the dream world and show them how to manipulate it. The only way out was to either find the mara within the dream and kill it, or to release a burst of Stardust big enough to shatter the illusion. Silently, Gwen stalked past her family members and ran to the west, into the room she shared with Morganna and Elaine and Iseult. She grabbed her knife and her coat, and she ran outside to join Arthur.
The cloudy sky steadily darkened as the snowfall amplified over the tombstones. They walked quickly through the graveyard, and they entered the forest. Tristan, for his lack of magic, was often punished with manual labor. Just as often, he used that as an excuse to lose himself on the family property for hours at a time. Gwen envied him sometimes for his ability to do so, but she also knew he’d probably kill her if she said that to him.
As the sky grew darker still, Arthur called out, “Tristan!”
“Tristan!” Gwen cried.
Finally, over the screeching wind, they heard a high, familiar voice cry out, “Help!”
They found him after a few hundred yards, running from a beast. It had gray, cracked, stone-like skin and a long, sharp face. Its nose was a flat stump with wide nostrils, its eyes angry red-orange pools, its limbs long tendrils of springy muscle each punctuated by five digits with long, sharp claws. It was totally bald and totally naked, and its genitals had fallen off to leave only a blank mound. Its fangs bulged from its mouth, all closing in on a single circular point. A ghoul, who evidently hadn’t eaten in at least a year, was chasing their brother.
Gwen shrieked in terror, while Arthur planted his feet and breathed in deep. He held up his hand and shouted, “Tristan, get down!” Their brother jumped to the side and rolled with the fall, and Arthur aimed his flattened palm at the ghoul. “Toter engel!”
Arthur’s eyes glowed with white light, and so did his hands. The silhouette of an angel burst to life, twice Arthur’s size and with a massive wingspan. It flew towards the ghoul and slammed into it. The ghoul went limp and fell to the ground, face-first.
Tristan, on his back a dozen yards off, looked at the ghoul in shock. Gwen watched Arthur breathe heavily as his arms went limp. Her eyes were drawn to the pulse of his neck, as it grew faster, faster, faster…
… Slower.
… It stopped.
Arthur fell to his knees
Gwen and Tristan both screamed as they ran to their brother. His pulse was gone, and his body went cold rapidly. They stood there a while, trapped on their knees. The snow soaked through Gwen’s parka and chilled her to her bones. Every time she looked at her brother’s body, she expected him to get up and move, and he didn’t.
After a while, they realized they had to get moving again, or they would freeze to death. So Gwen consoled her sobbing little brother, and together they lifted and carried Arthur back to the castle. It was a cold, bleak walk among the tombstones. Snow pelted Gwen in the face, and she couldn’t feel her lips as they approached Castle Albrecht.
Father stood in the doorway, waiting for them, his arms folded behind his back.
“So weak,” he uttered. “Why did you have to be so very weak, my boy?”
After that, he took the body, and they never saw it again. Their mother said nothing on the subject save to tell Elaine and Iseult where Arthur was.
Gwen sat with Tristan in the den, in front of the burning hearth, examining his gray eyes as they stared into the fire and registered nothing. Morganna came from behind and grabbed Tristan, threw him backwards, stepped on his chest.
“You let him die,” Morganna said. “That was your fault- how could you let him die you stupid fucking brat!? What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
She raised her fist to bring down upon him, but Gwen stopped her. She still had blood on her from the lesson earlier that day, and she breathed and channeled and gave it life, sharpened it into a point and shot it.
The needle went through Morganna’s dominant right hand. She howled in pain as the crystalized blood went through one side of her fist and emerged out the other one. She reached for the needle, but Gwen let go of the spell and let the blood fall apart. Gwen tackled her older sister, raining blows down on her face viciously. She beat Morganna, refusing to stop even when Tristan begged her to, refused to stop even as Morganna began sobbing in pain as one of her front teeth fell out and the cartilage of her nose crunched and her delicate face swelled. Gwen recalled every time Morganna had ever struck her, ever spoken ill of her, ever belittled and blamed her, and every time these burning memories came to her she struck her sister with exponentially greater fury. She wanted to make Morganna as hideous on the outside as Gwen knew she was on the inside. She didn’t stop until her father came into the room and tore her away from her bloodied victim, and even then she didn’t stop struggling for freedom until her father took her into the basement and threw her to the floor. He kicked her in the stomach, knocked the wind from her.
The basement was the hottest part of the castle save for the underground lake itself. A layer of diamond stood between the two sublevels, and the floor itself was warm to the touch. Only the torchlight above the entryway illuminated the level. A trapdoor yielding the way to the lake stood in the far-left corner.
As Gwen wheezed and groped for breath, Alistair loomed over her and said, “You’re upset about Arthur. So am I. Morganna is a useless, hateful fool, and Tristan is even weaker than she is. I understand your contempt for them. I share it. But this does not excuse your behavior.”
Gwen muttered.
“What was that?” Alistair said, raising a foot again.
Gwen twitched. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Alistair kicked her again, albeit not quite with as much force this time. “Siblings do not harm each other. You are kin, and you are at a level with each other. It is improper.”
“Doesn’t stop her.”
“I will deal with Morganna later.”
“You always say that,” Gwen spat.
Alistair said nothing to this. He merely turned around and walked up the flight of stone stairs that lifted him from the basement floor to the doorway of the main level. He stood in the doorway, then looked down once more at his daughter. “You will learn. Eventually. That family comes above all else, and that strength holds a family together. Strength is all.”
The door fell shut, and Gwen was alone in the dark with her thoughts for the rest of the night. Even on the heated floor, she shook with cold misery as she waited for morning to come, nothing to keep her company but grief over her dead brother.
***
Dresden, Michigan- 8 Years Ago
Lacy knew better than to take apart her mother’s radio, so instead she pooled together loose change from the sidewalks and the school hallways, found a few crumpled, filthy bills in alleys, and waited for the the odd times her father sent her to buy groceries and said she could keep the change. When, after about a year of this, she finally had enough, she went down to the pawn shop three blocks from her school and bought an old radio. She brought it into her room, and she took out a screwdriver and opened it up. It was a kaleidoscope of wires and gears and screws, all having somewhere to go, something to link up to, some sort of purpose. Everything fit. She spent an hour taking it apart, and then another hour putting it back together again. She did it again and again, until finally she fell asleep on the floor of her room.
She woke up the next day, and went to school with her fingers twitching, desperately missing the feeling of taking something apart. Putting it back together was alright as well, just a lot more stressful- but she had to put it back together to take it apart again, so at the very least it was an important part of the process. She pressed her face against the glass during the bus ride, having to sit on her hands to stop them from dancing around. When she got to school, she had to keep her hands on her lap in case she needed to write, and when she wasn’t writing she drummed her fingers on her desk. All the sounds coalesced as she sat beneath the low ceiling and obnoxious hum of the overhead light, the cramped, claustrophobic room compressing the noise of a dozen feet shifting on the floor, a handful of footsteps in the hallways, and fifteen cacophonous cardiac patterns. Only the heavy patter of autumnal rain offered a relieving rhythm to heal the afflictions of the school’s raucous timbre.
Her teacher, a squat woman with dark hair and olive skin, spoke of the day’s lesson, while behind Lacy two girls chatted about some asinine subject. Their words were further intrusion into the confluence, offering only sour notes. They sat there, with their long nails and their long hair and their soft skin while she sat crammed into the middle, her flesh mutating into a prison of diminishing tolerability, the abomination between her legs proving increasingly difficult to ignore. She just wished she could shut them up. They were so pretty, and Lacy never would be. She hated them for that.
Her fingers fidgeted frantically, and the girls at the back of the class went quiet.
… No. No, not entirely quiet, just noticeably quieter. Lacy stole a glance to the back of the glass, where the girls looked distinctly confused as to why the volume had been lowered on their conversation.
Lacy looked down at her lap.
“Looking at something interesting, Liam?” the boy next to him said. A tall, blonde boy with messy hair and broad shoulders. He often said things to her. Generally rather insulting things like ‘asshole’ and ‘loser’ and ‘faggot.’ Lacy wished she knew his name- it would make it easier to formulate comebacks.
“Enough,” their teacher said. “And Liam, stop fidgeting and pay attention.”
Lacy stared at the lecture once again, but she focused her mind on the frightened decrescendo behind her, and she lifted her fingers upwards and the girls’ volume rose once again.
“Wait, it’s back!” one girl said.
“Oh thank GOD!” the other girl exclaimed.
“You two! Enough!” their teacher shouted. “I’ll have no more interruptions in this class today, or it's extra homework for all of you.”
Lacy rested her head on her desk and smirked.
“And sit up straight, Liam!”
Lacy snapped into place, the jolt cutting her along with the false name.
The bright piercing cry of the bell ended class. The teacher left the room first. Lacy gathered her things and ran for the door, but as she went into the doorframe, the boy who sat next to her hip-checked her and brought her to the ground. She landed in a heap as the other kids walked over her, until a hand appeared above her.
Danny.
She got up, not taking his hand.
“You okay?” Danny asked.
“Fine,” Lacy said, watching the back of the boy’s head as he walked away. “Do you know what that guy’s name is?”
“Jack, I think. Why?”
“This isn’t the first time he’s done this to me.”
“Yeah, dude, I know. He’s been pulling this all year. And the year before that, now that I think about it.”
“Hey, go on ahead without me.”
“No,” Danny said flatly.
“Why not?”
“Because I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“You gonna stop me?”
“Only if you get out of control.”
“Fine, then,” Lacy said.
They followed Jack out the front door and around back, to the path that snaked through the woods behind their school and led into a meager residential area in the neighboring town of Coldwater. They followed him under the heavy clouds as Jack went around walking free, acting like there were no consequences for his misbehavior. What the hell kind of parents did this idiot have, who let him get away with this. Her parents would beat the tar out of her for this kind of behavior.
Lacy began to close the gap between her and Jack as they plunged deeper and deeper into the woods. She reached out with her mind, gripped the soundwaves on all sides, and lowered the ones around Jack to an absolute zero.
She kicked out the back of Jack’s knees, then tackled him. Then she turned him over and started beating him. She didn’t let him scream. If nobody could hear her, then nobody got to hear him. A smile blossomed on her face, hideous and yet intoxicating to Lacy, a siren’s call of destiny she could not ignore. She liked this. Liked how it felt.
Shame and self-loathing burned inside her, as she pictured her father’s face in place of her own.
And yet she did not stop.
“Dude,” Danny said, his voice cracking. “Maybe you should stop now?”
She ignored him.
“Dude, I think someone’s coming.”
She ignored him.
“LIAM!”
She brought the sound back just as she was yanked off of the boy. She looked up and saw one of their teachers. Lacy couldn’t remember their name.
Because they hadn’t been on school property by a few short inches, they couldn’t expel Lacy, or even suspend her. They could, however, call her parents.
Her mother was dead silent the entire drive home. Silent, as always, like a goddamned statue; no matter what happened, this stupid asshole in her breathtaking lack of wisdom felt no need to say anything whatsoever. Lacy sat there, still brimming with adrenaline and rage. She could switch the sound off on her mother entirely for the rest of her life and nobody would notice a goddamned thing. There was no way it would make any difference. It never did.
Siohban pulled Lacy inside by the arm. When they were in the kitchen, Lacy’s father appeared. He wasn’t carrying a bottle or can with him, but he had the usual stench on him. He put a hand on Lacy’s shoulder, causing her to cringe. Then he slapped her, open-palmed, and knocked her to the ground. She gave no response as he loomed over her.
“Anything to say for yourself?” he asked.
Lacy said nothing.
“Of course you don’t. You never do, you and your mother both. It’s creepy, you know, how damn silent you both are all the time.”
He kneed her in the gut. She wheezed.
“There he is. Listen here boy, I won’t let my son grow up to be a thug. I catch you fighting again, you’ll be sleeping in the garage for the night. We clear?”
Lacy said nothing.
“I said ARE WE CLEAR?!”
“Yes sir,” she whispered.
“There we go. That wasn’t so hard. Now go to your room, think about what you’ve done.”
He pulled her off the ground, led her to her room. She went inside it, quietly, and closed the door behind her. And then she shut off the sound again, so she wouldn’t have to hear her father yelling at the television, wouldn’t have to hear herself sobbing, wouldn’t have to listen to the radio static that kept her mother company.
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Different Shapes of Roofing
Roof is basically uppermost part of the building and a roof covers it. Roof covers and protects the rest of the building from change in weather.
Roof is basically uppermost part of the building and a roof covers it. Roof covers and protects the rest of the building from change in weather i.e. Rain, Snow, Hail, Extreme hot, Sun, Extreme Cold etc. In many countries roof is used basically to protect from rain. Sometimes it is also used in greenhouse for plants. The main things involved in design of roof are material, construction and durability. Material of roof maybe wheaten straw, sea grass, laminated glass, aluminum sheet, banana leaves, and concrete. In many parts of the world ceramic tiles are also used for roof. Construction of a roof is basically determined by its method used for support, how pace is bridged underneath and whether roof is pitched or not. Most people used pitched or sloped roof for their buildings. In simple roof declined rafters on vertical wall plates are used on each wall. Rafters top end meet the ridge beam. Purlins which are horizontal are fixed to the rafters to support the roof covering. Ceiling joists are connected opposite and between the lower ends of rafters to give them extra strength. Durability of a roof is also important and a matter of concern because it is the least accessible part of the building for renewal or repairing and if any damage is caused to it that can cause a lot of problems.
There are different shapes of roof that people use in different regions. Some of the shapes are flat roof, terrace, skillon roof, Saw-tooth roof, Lean to roof, pitched roof, Dutch gable roof, Shaped Gable roof, Salt-box roof, Asian traditional style roof Outshot roof, Saddleback roof, Hip roof, Half hipped roof, Arched roof, Barrel arched roof, Catenary roof, Circular roof, Conical roof, Domical roof, Pyramidal roof, Tented roof, Helm roof, Pyatthat roof, Mansard roof, Gambrel roof, Crow – stepped gable roof and Bell Cast roof. Roofs have basically two parts. The two parts of the roof are outer skin and the supporting structure. Usually the supporting structure of the roof consists of beams that are very strong and are long, rigid material such as timber. In some countries bamboo is also used for roof due to is flexibility.
Outer layer is also a part of roof. Outer layer of the roof is basically outermost layer on the roof. The materials used to make outer layer are sea grass, wooden shingles, timber, slate, slabs of stone, cut turf, sheet metal made of copper and lead, thermo plastics and fiber glass. If we take a look at functions of roof then we come to know that purpose of roof is insulation and drainage. As roof is made to protect people from climate so people use roof for insulation. For insulation natural fibre type of material is used. Drainage is also one of the functions of the roof. To keep water out of the building is one of the primary jobs of the roof. When it rains roof basically repels water out and does not allow it to enter the building so it does not cause any damage or incontinence to building.
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27/11 Pump One Stabiliser [T]
This bright, conical room contains the main pump’s seismic stabiliser - a huge metal ball hanging from the ceiling, the gap bridged by narrow walkways to either side. A Holy litany has been carved into the counterweight, detailing the church’s founder and their initial encounter with the being they now call their god.
The circular walkway allow for the entire record to be read without touching the orb itself, merely by circling the orb and scaling the handholds on the walls. Should the orb be touched, the record has been written in reactive paint, and 2d10 Lurchers will be summoned to it, crawling down from the ceiling high above like descending spiders, the cords of their headsets tethering them to the ceiling above and arresting the falls of any that slip.
Lurcher: C: 40 Claws 1d10 DMG I: 20 W:2 (10).
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Handmade, Conical, medium size, ceiling lamp/ hanging-lamp, handpainted with Orange, green, Pink and blue elephants and flowers, based on leather puppetry art .
Buy at Shilphaat.com
Category: Decor & Utility
Sub-category: Leather Lamps
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https://shilphaat.com/product/elephant-tholu-bommalata-hanging-lamp/
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Sintra, Portugal
September 5, 2023
We left Lisboa for a little while today to explore Sintra, Portugal in the Sintra Mountains.
Less than a hour away is this quaint village the at one time housed numerous castles and palaces of kings and other "upper crust" - so to speak. Our destination was Sintra National Palace, a 15th-century medieval palace where the Portuguese royal family spent their summers until the 1800s. It was good to be king!!
The weather was fall-like with temps topping out at 70 degrees today and 5% change of rain. (LIARS!!!). We left the city and it was sunny and bright but with every mile we saw less sun and more fog. Fortunately we saw these aqueducts before the fog swallowed us up.
This is NOT Roman designed or built - but most certainly Roman "inspired." Here is the buzz from the web about this structure.
"Built between 1731 and 1799, by royal order, the Águas Livres Aqueduct constituted a vast system for capturing and transporting water, using gravity. Classified as a National Monument since 1910, it is considered a notable work of hydraulic engineering.
The completion of this work involved using the Águas Livres water springs integrated into the Sintra mountain watershed, in the Belas area, northwest of Lisbon.
The chosen route coincided, in general terms, with the route of the ancient Roman aqueduct. Its construction was only possible thanks to a tax called Real de Água, levied on essential goods such as olive oil, wine and meat.
The system, which withstood the 1755 earthquake, is made up of:
A main section, 14 km long, starting at Mãe de Água Velha, in Belas, and ending at the Mãe de Água das Amoreiras reservoir, in Lisbon
Several secondary sections designed to transport water from around 60 springs
Five galleries to supply around 30 fountains in the capital
In total, the Águas Livres Aqueduct system, inside and outside Lisbon, reached around 58 km in length in the mid-19th century, with its waters no longer being used for human consumption from the 1968s onwards.
The extraordinary arcade of the Alcântara valley, with a length of 941 m, is made up of 35 arches, including, among these, the largest stone arch in the world, measuring 65.29 m high and 28.86 m wide ."
It was fun to see. Potable water was a big problem for Lisboa with springs located in the Alfama area - and that is it. The Tagus River - the longest river in the Iberian peninsula - is brackish in the city - so great for floating a ships - but not so good for drinking. I'm afraid I went down the rabbit hole on this and I REALLY wish we had visited the Water Museum and the Reservoir. The entire system is fascinating and made me think of the Cistern in Istanbul. Below is a pic I took off the net of the Mãe D´Água Reservoir. But I going to let it go....
Back to what we did instead of what we didn't....
We toured the palace for about an hour and saw the medieval, gothic, and Moorish architectural influences as we meandered through the palace’s decorative staterooms. I took lots of pics - but I took could give you the size of the place - so I tapped the Internet (again). The big conical structures are chimneys in the kitchen. Once we toured the kitchen, I understood why they were so big!
The first building was constructed in the 10th or 11th century when Sintra was under Moorish rule. At the end of the Middle Ages, the Palace of Sintra was at the heart of a large territory under the care of the Queens of Portugal while also one of the preferred destinations for Portuguese monarchs. The rooms were unique and the walls and ceilings were fabulous.
Welcome to the Swan Room.
If you were lucky enough to get an audience with the king - you would wait in this room.
This outer room - that looks VERY Moorish - is the room outside the throne room. Then come in for your audience - into the "Magpie Room" - where rumors go to die.
Every time the royal moved from one palace to another every stick of furniture went with them. OMG!!
These cabinets are amazing work of art. They close and lock and have handles - so that someone else can pick up that sucker and carry it to the next giant palace.
This room is for "exhibitions". For example, the queen has given birth to the new prince - come on in and take a look at the beautiful people. OR The King is Dead - check it out.
The different tiles on the walls are amazing.
I loved this garden - and it gives you a look at our weather. We "heard" you could see the ocean - and another palace in the near distance. Sure you could....
Below is the throne room - filled with the heraldry of the most powerful families.
In the middle is the crest of Portugal and the king. It was surrounded by the crest of his 8 children - 6 boys and 2 girls. Can you find the girl's crests? Look for 1/2 a crest!!!! Don't get me going.....
Sometimes, a loyal subject with great power does something bad or someone tells the king they did something bad - and just like that...
See the blank section above? This very influential family MAY or MAY NOT have been plotting to overthrow the king - but we will never know - because the King listened to Marquis de Pombal who said they were - and suggested that the entire family - EVERY SINGLE MEMBER - be killed to prevent such an event. They - grandparents, children, cousins, aunts, uncles, etc. were killed and their crest disappeared FOREVER!!f
We continued to the chapel and discovered it was under renovation.
WOW!!!
The kitchen was near the end of the tour - and very interesting indeed:
This mammoth kitchen had everything! From a huge doors that opened to bring in the kill, to places where the meat was hung, bled and butchered. The fires to cook whatever needed to be cook were built under the mechanism. So - if the goal was to cook several pigs or deer or, or or - on the spit by Carolina, a fire was built on the floor. And THAT explains why those giant chimneys were a must.
Finally, how about a loverly chandlier for over the dining room table. This one came from a small glass manufacturer called Murano, in Venice.
We had a few minutes to shop after the tour and then a great lunch - while the rains poured on.
I thought the trip was very worthwhile and I think all our our friends felt the same way. Our timing was good too. The 5% chance of rain "poured" beginning moments after we went into the palace. It was raining when we finished our tour as well but we were not deterred.
We headed back to Lisboa and Carolina suggested we might use the time to "meditate" (wink-wink) and we all did exactly that. DEEP MEDIATION!
We stopped by the Tower Belém - a place Mark and I have been to two times this trip but it was still fun to see again with our buddies. From here we went to see The Discoveries Monument. We have NOT seen this up close and personal so that was indeed fun. We especially loved the marble map that had been a gift from South Africa. There were just too many people to get a descent pic - so I'm going to the Internet. There are people in this pic too - but they will give you the prespective to understand just how big this thing is.
It lists the date and location of each of the numerous colonies that were part of Portugal's Empire. Here is a pic I took of just s small section.
I remain conflicted about the "discovery" notion. None of these places were unpeopled. The lands had long ago been "discovered" - but now they were conquered. It is what it is - and NO ONE is denying that these conquests make Portugal rich beyond their wildest dreams. They spread their language, their culture and their religion around the world - but there was a horrific cost to the conquered, my friends. So, I remain conflicted.
Lastly, we had our home hosted dinner. Our host was an AMAZING artist, a woman who was indeed a free spirit. We had such a spirited conversation that I'm ashamed to say we took no photos. But we will have to keep this night in our hearts. Mark, Daphne, Joe, Annie, Carl and I had a delightful evening - so much so that we were late for our return back to the hotel. Oh well.
Tomorrow we leave Lisboa and head to Evora. The name of the trip is "The Back Roads of the iberian Peninsula: Paradores and Pousadas. So far, we have seen NO back roads. But according to our trip leader the "back roads" start tomorrow. Can't wait!
Stay tuned.
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