i believe deep in my soul that treasure works in the service industry.
theyâre either a barista or a server or something. and one day porter visits them at work and feels awful for being like âyour problems are so mundaneâ bc he witnesses how entitled and EVIL some of these customers are and how all treasure can do is smile and agree and accommodate all for minimum wage and to get stiffed on tips. and heâs like âoh my god treasure how do you not hit some of these people i could not handle this. i would kill someone. i would actually end up killing someone.â
Her eyes crawl over to find yours, lids lax with the carelessness solely bestowed on the honest summer child. Her heels are burrowed into damp, glutinous mud, still weeping with the remnants of last weekâs downpour. Bare feet tilt at a persistent angle, pushed by the creek's current, the only sounds your shared breathing and the babble of liquid motion over stretches of flattened stone.
âWhat wouldn't you like?â she drawls, her voice lancing through the balmy stillness between you. âRich's godawful cologne suffocating you while you try to cook his dinner like a serf?â She snorts, fingers lazily drifting through kelly green blades of bristled growth.
The night before, she had insisted on you stopping by right after work while she grabbed a portable radio for your night to the drive-in. Her mother had indeed been slaving away over the stove while her stepfather, Rich, encased her from behind, barely allowing her an inch of movement in any direction.Â
But there's one particular aspect that has stuck out in your mind and needled at your idle hours since.Â
âHe kept kissing her neck.â you finally answer, flicking an ant off of your skirt. âThey were loud and wet andâŠand kind of off-putting.â
Alexis grunts, her agreement not needing to be articulated. But her eyes remain on you, eyebrows raised in droll challenge, irises shimmering with something that tugs at your memory.
"Is it just the thought of him kissing your neck, or being kissed on the neck in general?â she questions, her hand falling stationary.
âThe thought in general.â you reply, your nose wrinkling. You've always been rather sensitive, giving your peers and family members no shortage of amusement as you twisted and flinched away from gentle pokes and teasing prods. You can't imagine that having lips where your sensation is most heightened would be anything nearing pleasant.
Quiet resumes, and you've just managed to tuck away your sensibilities enough to lay back on the grass before her words reach your ears.
âI could kiss you there. If you want. To see if you like it.â
Your chest hitches, static weighing thick and heavy over your just prone form. The implications don't need to be voiced. The potential fallout sits like a stone in your throat.Â
âIâŠI shouldn'tâŠâ you trail off, fingers curling into your dampened palms.
âWouldn't you rather find out now?â There's an odd sort of hunger coloring her tone, desperation tempered with a bite that almost makes you wince. âWhy would you want to wait for some prick to slobber all over you just to find out you'd rather be dead?â
The word dead coming out of Alexis Getty's mouth is nearly enough to make you break into peals of laughter. She isn't made for talks of mortality, not conceivable in terms of beginning and end. You can close your eyes and imagine her laying on this creek bed at any period, at any era. The world could be in ruins, and she would still be siphoning the sunlight for all it was worth, gulping it down like a rabid scavenger aware of its closing window.
Call it familiarity. Call it something that won't go past your trachea. Either way, it's just wrong.Â
You bite your lip, watching as her pupils dilate a touch at the crease in your skin.Â
âItâŠit won't mean anything, will it?â you ask. You're not religious, exactly, but the community might as well be your temple, your family its followers, and its creed forbids aberrations.Â
Her face shutters, her nostrils flaring.Â
âNo.â she mumbles. âIt doesn't matter.â Her eyes flash with an accompanying sneer inching at her lips.Â
âI'm just helping you. I've done it enough.â
Something hot and sour lances your stomach at the reminder. Girlhood is a toothy thing, blossoming in patches of damp in curves you aren't ready for, shark-infested waters you haven't managed to acclimate to, milestones so far out of your reach while others attain them with every other step. Lip gloss and mascara feel like they're trying to glue your orifices shut, making sure you can't see and you'll never be heard. It ends up leaving you sitting in front of your mirror in a daze, wondering when, or if, you'll ever feel ready.Â
Alexis, on the other hand, was born ready in a way that renders you equally dizzy. She flirts and parries advances with blistering ease, caustic insults and saccharine coos intertwining into a symphony that makes your bones chill as you watch from the outskirts. She kisses and tells with identical nonchalance, detailing her exploits with brash satisfaction moderated with boredom while you stew in something nervous and slippery.Â
It will be helpful, won't it? To be on the receiving end? To know what she does and how it feels good, so that you can replicate it later?
âYeah.â you eventually murmur. âYou can do it.â
Your eyes slide shut on instinct, not allowing your senses to catch up with what your mind has decided. The second darkness descends, you feel them. Plush, slightly sticky warmth grazes your skin, lighting a traction path that forks lightning around your skull.Â
You remember when she first moved here, your mother all but commanding you to show her around. You had ended up on this very same creekbed, what would eventually become your âspot.â She had nicked peaches from a yardside farm stand with a quick snap of her wrist, tucking them into her skirts with a wink and a smirk.Â
You had watched her sink her teeth into the warmed, fuzzed flesh, overly eager to see her reaction to the fruits of your land. But then the juice had trickled, and she had slurped the tender meat until you had to focus on your own produce in order to not do something irrational. The thought of her mouth and tongue roving over the mess of sugar and fiber had stained your mind for weeks after.
Now, feeling those same motions on your heated skin, you wish that your dermis could split as easily as a peach's, that she could play audience to the deepest, wettest parts of you.
Seconds or hours pass, time stretching and morphing into a pocket of simple yet devastating pleasure that you can't bring yourself to reconcile with. Her mouth is eternal, her tongue everlasting, and all you want is to fall into the void of athanasia with her.
But eventually, she retreats, breaths puffing in moist drafts over your collarbone. A groan sits leaden in your throat at the sheen of saliva ringing her mouth, and you briefly wonder if it still carries the remnants of nectar.
She looks down at her watch, then jumps to her feet, leaving an imprint in the grass already fading.
âI have to get going.â she mutters.
âWhat for?â you ask, cringing at the desperation lining your tone. You know it's irrational, but you can't help but wonder if your neck wasn't up to par, if you didn't taste the way men do. You don't even know what men taste like, but a sudden, unquenchable urge wells up within you to not only match it, but better it.
âI have a date.â she answers, blase as ever. A vague silhouette takes form in your mind. Gangly limbs and calloused fingers, nicotine breath and wandering hands.Â
And oh, how you ache. How you burn. It doesn't matter. It can't matter. But you can feel your teeth lengthening, whetting themselves on sleek and bitter steel.
âHave fun.â you eke out, watching the creek rush by, continuous and unfeeling. A singular stone tumbles along its current. You know that it will eventually fall out of synch, that it'll stray to the banks and find rest among its kin, too burdened to forever be held aloft. And as she makes the solitary trek back to the township proper, you know the feeling so intimately that it nearly ruins you.
â
She's in your front yard. Her body leans against her beat-up Ford Falcon, the engine idling. Her shoe arcs in drag paths through the packed dirt of your entryway, sending up plumes of sepia tinted dust.Â
You open the door and go out to greet her, the words lapsing to quiet before they reach the open air. Her coming to you is a novelty, and the implication has the hairs on your arm standing on end.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â you ask, and âhere' could mean anything from your property to the mortal plane entirely.
âI'm gonna be gone.â she replies evenly, her hair frizzing in the steadily growing humidity. Her manner is almost frenetic, charged with prey's instinct for watchful wariness. âFor a while.â
She looks as though she wants you to wail, to throw yourself down on the earth and beg. But you instead feel a hollow resolve fill your chest cavity. Something ancient and weary resting in your bone marrow knew this day would come, in the half-baked fashion of a child imagining the sun blinking out, plunging the earth into permafrost at the first mention of dissolution. A tumble from the mundane into the ephemeral.
âWith the guy fromâŠâ you swallow past snarls and profanities. âFrom that day?â Your voice is limned with a plea so needing and insecure that you almost want her to insult you the way she did the men who lurked outside the storefront window when she bussed tables.Â
She nods, chin tilting upward in defiance of a structure you aren't aware of. Her eyes meet yours, and your lips nearly form a perfect circle as the memory from before finally settles into resolution, a stubborn fold in a sheet of paper finally wormed out of its obstinance.
Your mother had taken you to a different county, wanting to show you one of the new-age centers for stray animals.
âThey don't euthanize them right away.â she informed you as you made your way through corridors of steel cages and echoing yips and yowls. âThey keep the majority of them for adoption.âÂ
You remembered that your dad had muttered something about it being a waste of tax dollars, but you thought it was rather nice, to give the rejected a second chance, or at least the hope of one.Â
You had dawdled by the end of a hallway while your mother talked to one of the volunteers. Peering into the nearest cage, you were caught in your own sort of limbo.
Pressed against the bars was a Rottweiler, lips curled up in a ferocious baring of fatal teeth. But its eyes were open, bare in another fashion entirely, frantically jumping between your face and your hand at your hip. Simultaneously asking you to touch, and daring you to try.
Alexis looks much the same way, you realize, beckoning you ever closer and promising a fitting retribution.Â
Affection, or perhaps a jealous sort of pity, buoys your next words.
âIs he nice?â you reply, knowing the answer.
âNo.â she says swiftly, intending it to hurt but unable to follow through. âBut he wants me.âÂ
You let the pointed comment slide by, readjusting your blouse.Â
âWell,â you try with a smile, âwhen you come back, I'll be here.â
A bright laugh tears from her tongue. âYou make it sound like you're staying in this shithole forever.âÂ
âYou make it sound like you'll be gone forever.â you retort, but somehow it doesn't sound as funny.Â
You hold up a finger and dash into the house, fingers sliding against glass and fumbling under water before you re-emerge, tossing her a farewell token.
A peach.
Her face lifts and falls and goes every other direction in the span of a second, her limbs spasming.Â
âA snack for the road.â you tell her. âAnd maybe a little something to remind you of home.â
She holds the fruit in her palm for a moment or two before biting into it with a savage tear.
âWhen I come back,â she says through a mouthful of pulp and juice, âwe'll share one. We'll buy out that whole damn stand. We'll get sick of them. I promise.â
It's the last thing you'll ever hear from her. And when you're sitting on the creekbed after your mother's wake, not caring if you muddy your Sunday best, a small, worrisome nook of your mind will pause to wonder if Alexis Getty ever ate another peach.
So, ya, recall me saying "Give me a meme to draw as RA characters?"
Well, @original-bookshelf gave me this one to do as Imp!Damien & Angel
And so I spent the past 5 hours of my day, with nothing but a boba in my system, doing just that (with an Echo cameo)
I forgot to double check that I got his last name spelt right, I don't think I did? Too late now. PC is shut off, and this took forever to upload.
I also couldn't think of any other pose for Damien.
...I feel like I sound pissed off, like I was forced to do this. But I can assure you, that is not that case. I actually enjoyed it. Just a lil tired, and I rarely like setting aside art to finish later because it usually never gets finished then. XD
tw: nsfw, cigarette burns, inflicted pain, and masochist Blake
last warning to back out, mdni
The smoke was burning their mouth more than his eyes, only on them, gaze piercing to the point of aching. Filter to the lips, inhale, hold, exhale, he told them earlier when they grabbed the cigarette from his fingers, smirk in their lips.
Bad things tasted the best. Kind of. The tobacco was bitter, but it was his, and he almost looked offended when it was held in their mouth, lighter being flicked on and off in their hand, the second one steadily placed on his lap, toying with tbe belt that wrapped neatly around his waist. Or was so, before they unbuckled it, fly open too, dark blue of his boxers out in the open, goosebumps on his skin because of the draft in the room.
"Do I have something on my face?" they teased, another drag, plum of gray smoke covering the features he almost whined upon not seeing. A crime to cover something so perfect.
They could have something soon, if they didn't stop being so beautiful. His hand, cupping the soft cheek, his lips, slightly chapped, but warm and tender as always, his tongue, licking into their mouth, tasting the smoke and tobacco and relishing in it because of course he would.
"You're perfect" he whispered, throat bobbing with a thick swallow when they smiled, skin wrinkling around the edges of their eyes, two endless pits in which he could drown, breath held forever if only it pleased them.
"You always keep telling me how bad those are for me." they hummed, taking a look at the cigarette between their fingers, black filter so wrong yet so right when they held it, flicking the ash into the ashtray right next to his thigh. One wrong move and he would hiss, a small hole burned through the material of his trousers. Thrill of the experience, pain was a factor he was slowly growing more and more okay with when it was delivered with their hand, even the sting hurting in a different way.
"But what about you, huh?"
"I don't care about me" he said, words coming out weaker than usual, no spite in his tone. The laughter died out, replaced with thick and sweet expectation that coursed through his veins like corn syrup, sticky enough for him to lick the chapped lips, almost tasting them on him already like a phantom memory.
"But what if I care about you?" they leaned backwards, head falling behind their shoulders, cloud of smoke once again obscuring his sight. His glasses were long discarded, so was his pride when they asked him to move. Not asked, not at all, not when they were so authorative. They odered. It was either that or nothing, cruel whisperes against his ear spoken only for him to hear.
His hips wiggled underneath their thighs when they sighed, all blood rushing into one place, head empty and body on autopilot, trained into submission when it came to them. What they asked, they would have, always.
"Come on, do better than that." they tutted when he thrusted upwards, clothed groin rubbing against their own, the wet patch staining his boxers, navy blue which turned even darker making them nod their head in appreciation.
"You're mean." he huffed, efforts doubled down with aim to please. Whatever they wished for, they would have.
"I know. Sorry." they hummed, the free hand gently pushing against the flesh of his lower abdomen, slowly inching higher and higher, starting at the band of his underwear and trailing the burning path up to his chest, palm pressing over the mound of muscle where heart should be, beating hard enough to escape his ribcage. Good. It would make a spot for them to curl there and stay forever, and he would die as a happy man with his everything finally perfectly close to him.
"But you're close." he laughed, nervous at the realisation.
"Just from the fact that I'm sitting on top of you, smoking your cigarettes, the ones you always refused me. Touching your skin, squeezing yourâ"
"Don't." was he getting flustered? Maybe. Probably, yes he was, just from the things they listed, but how could he deny that all of it felt heavenly when he dragged his dick against their core? It was sensitive, it always was whenever he was with them, all his desires and needs sacrificed at the altar of their mercy, divine generous enough to grant him the wish.
He sped up again, hands finally shooting up to hold onto their hips, skin and muscle fitting right like puzzle pieces underneath his palms, warmth seeping through the nerves and causing malfunction to his system.
"I'm so sorry. Forgive me?" teasing, of course they were, but he would forgive them for much worse transgressions that making him dry hump them like a dog in heat.
He moaned when their finger pinched the skin, mouth opened for them to lean forward and slip into it, smoke from the drag they managed to take right before making him roll his eyes. The draft in the room was not helping, he was hot enough to melt, his chest heaving when the coil began to tighten more and more, body arching right into them.
"Come for me, baby."
Like an obedient mutt, he did, muffled cry of their name against them, whole body jerking in a spasm when not only he felt himself shoot his load, cotton of the boxers soaked, but when the felt the sudden burn on his chest, the cigarette that started all of this pressed hard against the place they previously caressed and pinched. He trashed, dick twitching and pumping, sensation making him dizzy, thank everything they were both on a bed because he felt how much he shuddered.
He whined when they didn't stop, taking the initiative to finally be the one to move instead, the remnants of the filter dropped into the ashtray. They dragged themselves against him, feeling the wet spot on his crotch, more than pleased with themselves at the reaction. Both hands were then quickly put against him to steady the jerks that were wrecking through him, curses spewed through gritted teeth mixing with the creak of the bed frame.
"Shhh, handsome." they cooed, lips gently kissing the burn, soothing the raw spot with a faint blow and more pecks, trying to take this pain from his mind.
What would turn into a scar later on, placed right over his heart, looked almost like a badge of honour on the feverish skin, goosebumps all around it.
"Wish I could do my initials like that." and at that, he moaned again, eyes blown out with the realisation that he loved the idea.
I guess my two cents in the latest Blake audio matter
long rant/drabble incoming you've been warned.
I've said before that their song is the mash up of "memories" and "another love" and I'm dying on this hill (I guess he's too but we've been saying this from the start lol)
Without D'Deridhan he saw their death.
With him, he saw the death of everything and everyone else around. And he somehow had to make the choice, or at least, was given the illusion of it, gesture so grand he absolutely had no idea how to even thread around it, ice so thin it was breaking with mere look. It was too late to refuse it anyway, decision made the moment it occured to him. Blessing and a curse of seeing things a little more than others.
What he said was true, despite how poisonous the words that left his mouth felt, targeting someone that never should be the target of his inabilities. His body was failing (he was only human, no matter how hard he tried to be more), and the lack of sleep was low in the rankings when it came to reasons as of why it was happening. There were worse things to endure than the constant state of being awake, decaying body and mind on autopilot he didn't set up.
The Sovereign made a comfortable little place between the cage of his ribs and the questionable sense of regret he kept squashing down like a bug. Though it resembled a cockroach more, with how hard it was fighting against him, death not for it but for others, delivered from his hands. He had no right for regrets, not when he put everything on the scale, judgement set in stone with a sentence written in bold font. Too far gone to back out, he just had to live with it, whichever definition of "live" he was thrown into. Or maybe it was no longer a matter of "live" but "survive for as long as you are useful".
Shaking hands. Trembling even, when the room stopped spinning and his ears ceased the ringing, white noise making him want to claw at the side of his head. It began to be a constant as of late, paired with the whispers in his head going on all the time, never a pause to the misery he agreed upon in a moment of greed and selfishness, an excuse for a deed done in greater good. He knew of consequences, lived with them his whole life when he had to lie about his identity, when the lie finally grew too big and truth ruined the only good thing he was offered. Another grand gesture, only to be ripped from him the moment he was foolish enough to reach for it without permission.
Regret was not his to have. Nor the guilt, nor the person he sacrificed everything in the name of, and lost even more due to it.
He knew he was losing. He just didn't know how much and how quickly it was happening, everything was hectic, the lines of reality and something akin to a fever dream blurring his leftover shreds of sanity. If it was even his in the first place, D'Deridhan kept using his mouth and body however he pleased, words not meant to be spoken suddenly screamed on top of his lungs, actions done when they shouldn't take place at all.
No wonder they pulled away, the brief flash of fear in the eyes that usually looked at him with nothing but fondness, soft crease around the eyelashes, eyelids blinking slowly to get just a little more of him, before inevitably closing and opening again. He wasn't their best friend anymore, not the boy they knew from their childhood, not someone they trusted their life with, quite literally. Blake they knew of, was merely a shell, a ghost of the past, with how much he changed. And he was afraid it no longer only concerned his visual appearance, skin dull, eyes sunken, hair messy from tugging at them in the late and dark hours when no sane person should stay up.
The only same thing that remained was his name still being Blake, the only part of himself that was left behind. He hoped so at least, clinging to the memory of their lips rolling so nicely around the syllables whenever they called for him for whatever reasons they had.
Being oblivious was a blessing and he saw it now, the irony. Without D'deridhan, he saw their death over and over, without any means of escaping it, but no reason behind it. Just end, their body lifeless, be it in a casket with few flowers around it, or in his arms, as he begged for a one more chance to make it right.
With D'deridhan, he saw everything, clear like the cleanest water in a mountain spring. And he saw the reason now. And he brought the reason right to them, with a twisted sense of hope of finally fixing what was broken. He put them in danger because he was the danger, he turned into the force that pushed the wheel of fate forward, speeding into its impending doom.
Putting them to sleep was an act of mercy, of sparing them from the horror of what their best friend became. Last stand of trying to protect them, because at least in dreams, the Sovereign couldn't taint them like he did with him. He would bear the disgust on his own, he was good in sacrificing his own needs and desires for them, because in this and every other reality, it was only them who mattered. They were scared and so was he, but unlike them, his choice was given up the moment the shade wrapped his petrified body in the last embrace, chill and smell or sweetly rotten flesh making him gag. D'Deridhan felt different. He smelled of dust and was rusty, like a badly oiled machine that still tried to fulfill its purpose despite the cogs barely working, process not even half as satisfactory as it should be. But he would endure. For them, he would do more and that he did.
He saw everything now. And I promise you, the ending always stays the same because there is no reality in which they can be happy. He saw the endless possibilities, changed the outcome only to end up in the same spot he did those years ago, on the backseat of their car when their touch began to feel too heavy and unfair to have, not when he wasn't himself to them. Profit was none, simple economics no longer could be applied to matters that concerned the potential doom of the whole universe. Doom of them, because he had his whole world right in front of him, too afraid to touch it when his hands were stained.
But you know what's worse than not being yourself in that motel room? Not being yourself on that damned backseat either. Because the moment the truth fell from his mouth and the Dreamwalker Blake was replaced with the true identity he despised with every thread of his being, Seer Blake was abandoned. Taking turns, the push and pull continued, never to fix the gap his existence created.
He was turning into a monster, trying so desperately to still somehow separate himself from the Sovereign, but I guess it's too late for that. He and D'Deridhan have a one stingy thing in common and he's probably realised it at this point - neither of them will be missed when it's all over.
No matter how much he begged, he can't be their friend because he was the one to ruin what they have, powers be damned. He can't be their lover because the time was never right, not when they were younger and reckless, now when he's going mad and they once again pull away from him of all people. He saved them, he died for them, he killed for themâ
They were asleep, his magic doing what he knew best of. Seers are capable of wielding every type of it, yet it doesn't mean he couldn't play favourites, he was good with it afterall, after signing himself away in the name of someone he was failing. And dreams were a beautiful thing, carved so delicately, threads of serenity laced with things out of reach, world a peaceful place to rest for however long it was needed or deserved. Or forced. He knew he shouldn't have, but they couldn't see him like that, not anymore. Because it was no longer him in there.
For however long they slept, all they saw was the memories of times they could cherish. When everything was fine, when death wasn't a threat, when the world wasn't ripping in half and Blake was still Blake, happier than ever to see the smile on their alive face, beaming at him with the bliss of not knowing. And it was better this way.
Bad things happen to bad people afterall, right? And he was turning into a bad person, but they weren't. So while he was getting his crimes counted, list getting bigger and dirtier, with the dust of concrete and plaster clinging to his sweaty face, rubble of the building falling down like a piece of a domino, they were asleep, safely tucked on the couch, his jacket draped over their back, because it was the least he could do.
Not a single good reason in make believing that they could ever exist again. They couldn't. Their dream would end at some point too, and they would be faced with the world in which the ending always stays the same.
okay edit so people don't get me wrong: I'm a full believer of Bestie going with Blake willingly and the reaction they had was valid because cmon, he had to look awful. And he was acting way different than he was in previous audios. But Bestie is as messed up as him (they knew what they were getting themselves into, kissing him after he said what he did for them). They are meant for each other and the only outcome for me is either they both die or both survive, be it a dreamscape or somehow else. They are in this deep shit together.
blake and bestie as high school best friends to lovers but they do musical theatre and have a kind of evil showmance and they donât have any powers and are just normal teens except blake has crazy family issues and theyâre doing phantom of the opera as their senior show and blake plays phantom and bestie is the assistant music director. fic is in the works guys. BIG things coming.
blake nation in honor of the trenches we are all in bring you lengthy blake fic that i started months ago (some mutuals can confirm) and scarily aligns with the new audio so i tweaked a few words here and there to make it fit even more and now itâs here and itâs also on ao3. its also lowk another theory i have for the ending especially given the most recent hush audio. itâs missing italics and bolded stuff here but i donât feel like editing it so if u want the best experience go to ao3đđ€
https://archiveofourown.org/works/84578881
TAGS: angst and fluff, angst with a happy ending, idiots in love, theyâre literally dancing in a decaying dream. major character death kind of but yk. in the inevitable kind of way. i donât get into it too much.
Itâs all forgotten now, the trouble and the pain, forgotten every word Iâve said, forgotten every tear youâve shed, weâre still in loveâŠ
They suddenly noticed the soft, muffled jazz song that drifted toward them. They couldnât even be sure when they started hearing it. They felt their eyes flutter.
Itâs all forgiven now, weâre back in loverâs laneâŠ
Something between their fingers. Paper? A book. This book, a book they had read countless times, had forced everyone around them to read as well. Something cushy beneath them. A couch. Something warm around them. A soft, white sweater. A coffee table, a candle, the faintly tinted light of stained glass windows dancing across the floor. And the book. Words that seemed to dance on the pages, shimmering and blurring, as if delicately whispered onto the paper. The faint smell of something cooking, a dash of rosemary. Where⊠where were they?
And though we wandered from our wayâŠ
Humming. Inexact, wavering between pitches before finding stability, but warm, rich, deep. And at last: one thing they knew.
They slowly placed the book onto the coffee table, not bothering to mark the page they didnât remember beginning to read. Rising carefully from the sofa, feeling the perfectly fluffy and light wool of the sweater beneath their fingertips, they turned behind them. A kitchen. Small, lit with warm-toned lamps, deep wood countertops, a tiny vintage radio beside the square sink, and him. Stirring a pot with a wooden spoon and humming along to that muffled jazz.
The cornerâs turned and we can say weâre still in love.
âBlake?â
âHm?â Blake looked up from the pot he was stirring. His eyes creased quickly into a smile, darting down and back up at the person before him. âOh! H-hey! Good, youâre up, I wondered whenâ it doesnât matter. Iâm making soup! Potato leek. Do you wanna sit?â His grin was wide and seemed to make the lights briefly brighter. He wore a white button up shirt rolled to his forearms, exposing hypnotic, dark ink in swirled patterns. His dark hair was combed, soft as the light. When was the last time his hair had been combed? Surely before⊠beforeâŠ
Itâs all forgotten now, weâre happy once again, our troubles gone beyond recallâŠ
âA-are you ok?â Blake lowered his tone and slowed his stirring in concern. There was something about that tone, they thought, that wasnât quite right. They had known Blake long enough to know the difference between those rare moments when Blake was relaxed, really relaxed, like he had been that night when they finallyâ and when he was pretending to be relaxed so as not to worry them. What was there to be worried about? What was he hiding? Where was this place?
âBlake?â They said again, warily inching closer to him. They saw the wooden spoon waver slightly, quickly, almost unnoticeably. He was shaking. Just beneath the surface, Blake was shaking.
âYes?â Blake whispered breathlessly as they put their hand on his bicep and moved down to his forearm.
âWhat is this?â
âWhat do you mean?â An unconvincing chuckle escaped from him.
âYou know what I mean. What is this?â Their tone was gentle yet firm. Blake visibly swallowed.
âDo you really want to know?â His voice darkened. Not with aggression, not with anger. A genuine warning. A protectiveness. There was something beneath it. Something terrified, something that said there was a monster in the basement, that if they just kept the door closed and didnât ask questions, if they never went downstairs after dark, everything would stay perfect forever. Did they want to know? Had knowing ever brought either of them any good? Knowing had cursed him and them by extension. Knowing had been the reason that they⊠that before⊠when the two of them, no, three of them were⊠how did they get here?
The question spilled out of their mouth before they realized they were asking it. The difference between thought and action felt thinner in this air. This⊠they had felt this before. He had shown them this feeling before. Their question hung in the air as Blake carefully rested the spoon on a dishrag on the countertop beside the pot. He looked to them, his green eyes wide, his brow fighting a concerned furrow, a smile twitching and wavering on his face. He could never hide his expressions from them.
âAh, well, um, weâ this isâ um,â He stammered as he scratched at his sleeve where their hand had been a moment ago.
âA dream?â They asked quietly, delicately, as if knowing would break their delicate illusion of peace this time, too, as it always had.
âYes.â Blakeâs voice was barely audible.
Did you put me to sleep again? The question pressed into them, and they waved it away. When had he put them to sleep before, exactly? They felt that he had but the details⊠They had to be careful with this. He still seemed on the verge of cracking, and they couldnât sense as much of that crushing presence of⊠something⊠something that could be hiding? They were supposed to be afraid of something. What.. no, who.. No. What?
âHow did we get here?â As gently as they could let out those words. âItâs all fuzzy before. Itâs like static when I try to remember.â They scrunched their forehead in concentration. Itâs all forgotten nowâŠ
Blake thought they looked beautiful like this. He always thought they looked beautiful, but them, here, in this perfect dream, unaware? They were breathtaking. He wanted to kiss the crease out of their brow. He wanted to tell them not to worry as he always had, he wanted them to believe him as they had always pretended to, he wanted to protect this precarious peace he now held in his wicked hands, just him and the person he loved in a kitchen with soup on the stove, a simple domestic bliss unquestioned. Selfish, as he always was. Something had to give. And if they were the one asking, oh, he would give. He would give anything.
âWe were, um,â he sniffed. His tone shook. His hands, too. There were no tears in his eyes, but they could feel them brewing beneath the surface. His Adamâs apple bobbed in his throat. âWe were in kind of a bad situation.â He laughed again humorlessly. âAnd this was the only way I could think of to, um, for us to have a little more time. I thought maybe it would be betterâ easierâ if you didnât remember so I, um, when I was making the dream I... Iâm sorry.â He moved around the truth like a trained dancer, treading ever so lightly, giving just enough, avoiding the shadows.
A long time ago, they remembered, they had trained Blake to operate like that. Afraid of how real everything had gotten, not wanting to look at that monster in the basement, they had forced him to reconsider his relationship with honesty for their sake, for the sake of keeping them in his life. The frightened and foolish demands of a teenager unprepared to face the unwavering presence of death looming over them.
They were not that teenager any more.
âTell me.â They said, arm once again sliding up to find his bicep. They gave him a gentle squeeze, as if the pressure would be enough to propel the secrets from his gut up his throat. âI wonât freak out on you this time. I promise.â
A loud silence. A shuddering breath and a âfuckâ spat out in a murmur underneath it. He looked into their eyes. Waiting, patient, trusting. His knees felt weak. Of course, he would tell them anything. Even if it meant ruining it all again. How could he say no. His head was clear now. Too clear. Swimming, frazzled, but clear. He hadnât realized or appreciated the small comforts of being as unaware as he was. Now he was faced with them. And with himself. With everything that had happened. Time to confess. They urged him with another squeeze of his bicep. It broke him all over again. It took all of his strained and practiced will power not to fall to his knees.
âYou died.â He could barely force out the words. âOr, youâre dying, I guess. Weâre dying. We were, um, he, you got hurt. Badly. And I couldnât let that go.â He? âAnd so they ripped him out of me and I let them, because I couldnâtâ I would not let him use you as a shield.â HimâŠ
And it all came back in a dizzying wave. DâDeridahn. The trip, the death, the demons, the deathwalker, the thing that called itself Hush. And pain. And pleading. And Blake clawing to reach them. Shallow breaths, weak arms wrapping around them, a desperate and muffled cry they couldnât make out. A tangy, metallic flavor in their mouth. A stinging red in their eyes. An agonized scream, a hard squeeze with an unlikely restraint so as not to hurt them. A ringing in their ears, a strained grunt, and a warm white wave of familiar magic, Blakeâs magic, the music of his dreamwalking that wrapped and wound like soft, faded jazz reaching in through the orifices of their face, entwining itself with their aura like a sweater.
A soft violin line pulled them back. For one heavy moment, it was only the sound of the bubbling pot, the soft patter of rain outside, the ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere in another room, and the static-filled crooning coming from the small radio.
They pulled him closer and wordlessly wound their arms around him. They could feel his heart pounding beneath his chest, speeding as they tucked their head to his shoulder. After a brief moment of disbelief, that ever present awe that they could possibly pull him closer, want him after everything he had put them through, everything he was actively putting them through now, Blake clutched them back, one hand tight on their waist and another desperately digging into their hair. His breaths were audible as he tried to retain control, fought against those tears so close to the surface.
âIâm sorry,â He whined into them. How many times had he said that phrase and meant it now? How could he possibly atone?
âBut itâs you?â They asked, afraid to know the answer.
âWhat?â
âItâs you? All you? He.. DâDeridahn isnât part of you anymore?â
âNo,â Blake sniffed, his voice tight and wavering as he failed to fight his tears. âNo, heâs gone. Itâs just me. And you. Just us.â
They held him closer. Squeezed him tighter. Granted him mercy he did not deserve. The song on the radio, a crackling static that blended with the sound of the rain, soft piano and strings and brass that seemed to loop back into itself, a song that never had to end. His arms were shaking. They slid one of their hands to his shoulder, another down to wrap their fingers around his. They began to sway softly from side to side, lightly shuffling their feet, but not so much that it would push Blake off balance. They hummed to the song as he had, listening to the sounds of his shuddering, waiting for his breathing to slow.
They were dancing. They were slow dancing with him in a kitchen he had always hoped they would slow dance in one day. It was exactly as he pictured it. He swayed with them, a hand coming to rest all-too-gently on the small of their back. If he didnât enjoy this now, would they both die before they could? They sensed him taking the lead in the dance. They let him, resting their head to his chest.
âHow long do you think we have?â They whispered after a while, whispered like it was a sweet nothing against a pillow. Like they were asking if he thought it was going to rain.
âI donât know.â Blake admitted. âTime is different in dreams. In the waking world? A couple more minutes.â He cleared his throat so it wouldnât crack. âBut here, I can stretch it longer. But it wonât last forever. My magic is, um, limited.â
They were silent as they considered these words. Blake swallowed hard.
âThen I guess we should enjoy it while we can, huh?â They moved their head back to look into his eyes, wide in awe. Always in awe that they would choose him. How many times would they have to prove to him again that they were choosing him for good? They leaned up and pressed a gentle, slow kiss to his lips. Their hand slid to cup the back of his head, fingers teasing at where the skin of his neck met his hair in feather-light scratches. Blake couldnât help the soft noises that slipped from him as the love of his life kissed him again, despite everything. A cocktail of surprise and delight and guilt and devotion that he would serve to them with their soup, if he ever decided to let it finish simmering.
I donât deserve you, Blake thought, but he would be damned if he let this moment of domesticity go to waste. He would be a fool to deny it when they were pressing it, pressing themselves into him. More of a fool than he had already proven himself to be. âI love you.â He choked out instead.
âI love you,â they softly replied, capturing his lips with theirs again. âItâs nice. The dream, I mean. I think I remember it. The kitchen and the radio. From⊠from the motelâŠâ Blake stiffened again. They pulled him closer. That didnât matter now. In these final moments, none of it mattered. It would take too much time that they werenât sure they had to dig through all the muck of what had happened, to clarify what had been Blake and what had been a vengeful god. âThe house. Itâs Victorian.â They observed.
Blake blinked, allowing himself an amused chuckle. Enjoy it while we can.
âYeah. Yeah, uh, you mentioned back when we were younger that if you ever bought a house youâd want an old one like this. With lots of natural charm. So I stored this one away for a rainy day. No pun intended.â The rain pattered on. âItâs also what I always pictured for if, uh, if we were toâŠâ he faltered and cleared his throat. âItâs a favorite of mine.â
âYou dream-designed a house for us?â
For you, he thought. âI hope its ok,â he said. âI thought if we⊠if one day weâŠâ he still didnât know how to say it, after all these years. What else was there to lose? âIf we ever hadâ could have had a life together the way that I wanted.â He cleared his throat. Focus. âA house together. I wanted it to look like this. Like how you dreamed, well, no, I dreamed but. The house you said you wanted. Cozy but not boring. Natural charm. An old Victorian manor by the seaside. I wanted you to have that. I wanted you to have everything you wanted. I still want that.â Iâm sorry. âI- uh- I just hope it's ok. But if I need to change anything, Iââ
âItâs perfect.â
A crack in the radio frequency. Blake winced. They looked over to the radio and up at Blake as he narrowed his eyes.
âAnother tragedy tonight inââ another crackle as the knob turned on its own. Another song.
Dream, when youâre feelinâ blueâŠ
âSorry,â he said again, another forced chuckle.
Dream, thatâs the thing to doâŠ
They kept dancing.
Dream, while the smoke rings rise in the air⊠Crack
âThe number of casualties is unclear, butââ Crack
Youâll find your share of memories there, soâŠ
âHello? Can you hear me?â A new voice. Blake stopped swaying. His blood ran cold. A ferocity in his eyes that they rarely had seen.
âWho is that? How are you here?â He demanded with a slight growl that almost made them flinch.
âItâs Hush. We met. Out there.â The voice answered simply through the radio. âIâm here because of my magic. Or, rather, Iâm broadcasting my voice into your dreamscape. This radio is the most logical means of communicating in a way that makes sense with the environment of the dream. To go in physically would still be a bit risky with DâDeridahn stored inside of me, what with a dreamâs inherent proximity to NâDellex.â
âYou- DâDeridahn is inside of you?â Blakeâs panic was palpable. The rain came down harder. There was a faint rumbling of thunder in the distance.
âYes! That was what I was originally created for, after all.â Hush replied. âBut you donât have to worry. He isnât corrupting me the way he was corrupting you. Iâm not human. And my power has grown. I can contain him without issue until I can transfer him to the Meridian.â
âWhat do you want?â Blake demanded again. He had pulled his beloved flush against his chest. They were frightened, too. He had become all too familiar with that look on them, stomach turning yet still beautiful.
âI came to tell you that Iâm giving you more time.â
âMore⊠more time?â Blakeâs brow furrowed.
âMore time.â Hush repeated. âI used my magic to extend your perception of time in moments of your death, which is still ongoing. Combined with the dreamscape, the moment is practically infinite. You can have as much time here as youâd like.â
For a moment, Blake couldnât speak. This was all he had ever wanted. How, and why was he being handed this on a silver platter. Why? Why?
âBecause now I know what itâs like to have someone you want to protect. Someone you are willing to break rules for. Reassess your purpose for. Repurpose your magic for.â Hushâs voice softened. Sweetened. âI think more people would have done what you did if they shared your circumstances than would admit to it. I think I would have.â
Blake looked at his beloved. As much time as they wanted? He knew. For once he knew with absolute certainty what he must do. He had to give them one final choice.
âYou donât have to stay here with me.â He breathed. Their eyes shot back to his, perplexed and beautiful. âOf course I want to stay here with you. God, I could do this forever. This- this is all I have ever wanted.â His eyes watered. âBut none of that matters. I have done horrible things. For you, to you.â He gulped. âI wonât take anything else from you. You donât owe me anything. I owe it to you to let you go if thatâs what you want. I know that. If you donât want to stay here with me, you donât have to. Iâm not gonna hold you to anything. Not again.â He shuddered. âI love you. And I want you to have what you want.â He was crying now. He wasnât going to hold anything back anymore. And he was going to accept this final heartbreak if it came. âEven if that isnât me.â
âIt is you.â They said after a moment of silence. âItâs always been you, Blake. Just you. Dream or not, a normal life with you? No visions of death, no all-consuming god?â They laughed. The most beautiful sound in the entire fucking world. âThatâs what you owe to me. And thatâs what I want.â He looked at them with burning eyes. âI want you.â They kissed him hungrily this time, and he gripped them back hard. They pressed their love into one another with words and trailing hands and teeth and hot breath. They exchanged tears pressed onto each otherâs cheeks. Again, and again, and again, they had kissed him in the face of their own death. In the face of everything he had done. They had stayed with him despite every reason to run.
Blake had told them once that he was tired of the dance they were doing around one another. Now, a new kind of dance, as Hush wished them one final âBe wellâ and the radio crackled back to soft jazz. A dance that never had to end if they didnât wish it. An eternal dream just before death. But what was death if not a kind of eternal dream? And if he got to spend it with them, maybe he shouldnât have avoided such a dream all this time.
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