Threat Level 21, genderless being. Resides in the RSA.
Very taken
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These are non-negotiable. And include a DNI
If you are not sure, ask:
You can request but I'm not very good at requests
Do not flirt (joking is fine) I'm very taken
I can not write a disability I do not have or understand,
I will not write. Underage, explicit noncon, zoo, copraphilia or the like, most fetishes.
You've slain the demon lord and freed the lands from the threat of a monster invasion, but you see the writing on the wall, seriously the wall has the words "Run, they're going to betray you next."
I've heard the wispers, when I was young. Well younger. I thought they were stupid or some mass hallucination. Till the dream found me.
It was beautiful. These old wooded shelves that ran for miles on every aisle. I started in the middle. The entrance. Where an intricate indescribable statue stood. Carved in curves and spires that melded in every metal like Damascus blades. Golds and silvers and browse and rust ran along in spirals of colors that shone in sparkling lines of dulled metal. I could not tell you the thing the statue depicted. A God, a person, an animal, or even a concept. It didn't make sense. Every time, I thought I knew exactly what it was. I didn't. It was never a thing I knew.
The first time I was there, in that library. I thought it was heaven. Old books bound in every kind of leather, paper, or fabric. It took no less then a moment of wonder and I was lost down one of the towering halls of shelves. Endlessly stepping through hard wood floors. I only found an except of taking a book from a shelf I could reach. The leather was old. Cracking. Chiped and faded. I hardly held it when the corridor opened up.
The hard wooden floor gave way to soft dark carpeting. Chairs of all ages stood. Well maintained and perfectly shaded for reading. I took a second to flick a stained glass lamp before falling into a recliner. One that seemed to firmilur to pass up. My gran had an obnoxious green one. This was a dark red. Plush and suffocating.
I lost myself in the book. Tails of old nights and worriers who fought unknowable and monstrous things. Dieing and running, but sometimes. They win. Sometimes, they actually slay the nightmare holding them. Then it was done. I had turned the last page. The book was over. And I lost myself in the halls again.
By the time a chime sounded, I had piled mountains of books along every surface around my chair. My hair was down my shoulders, dragging as I walked. And the sun ran through endless windows and sky lights for the however many-ith time. I've read every book I could find. I hated some of them. I lived through some of them. I fell so deep in love with some books I constantly carried them with me. Dragging them with me every step.
Then I was awake. It had been so long since I could sleep. Blink or even rest my eyes. But I woke up. Flickering visions of the library shattered behind my eye lids. My hair swayed on my shoulder, longer than I remember it being now that I remember falling asleep. I was in my bedroom. A plush dark rug under my desk chair, dark hardwood floors surround my bed. A cheap copy of a Damascus blade hung on my walls. Tall cupboards run along one of my walls. Doors long since rotted off. This place is old. The house we lived in, my family has lived here for generations. Rebuilt more times then I could count. I turned 8 a while ago but sometimes I feel older. So much older.
School started, but the library followed me. It was supposed to be a dream. A stupid one night wonder in endless knowledge. But no. It followed me into every nap, every slumber every dark corner. It smothered me every sleeping moment.
People called me smart. Said I was reading way above my grade, told me I was smart. Praised me.
Except I wasn't smart. I was fucking trapped. I didn't read at a college level because I could understand and comprehend beyond my age.
I was loosing my mind.
Every night, I had nothing to do but wonder old corridors of books. Stepping passed books I've long memorized in languages I couldn't speak and took years to even read coherently.
No one questioned how I could fall asleep in any science lecture and wake up understanding more than any PHD could teach.
Tomorrow I turn 9, tomorrow I'm actually older. But I don't know if I'm going to have a party. Granma is still mad at me. I shaved my head, close shave. It helps me find myself in the awake. Becuase in the library my hair trails behind me, wraps around corners and books and pillows. The color has started to rot. Meld. Bronze and golden hues shaped into twisting nots that trail in ropes down endless hard work floors. People said it was a thing kids did, cutting thier hair. It was a silly thing all kids do one.
But I'm drowning in the empty corridors. I need to watch my nails as I read, they catch and poke at thin pages with the winding length they are growing to. I've given up biting them off.
I'm scared to go to sleep. But I need it, people ask question after two days, when I'm stumbling, babbling mispronounced dead langues.
But I'm even more terrified of dieing.
If I finally stop.
If I close my eyes for the last time. I'll become it.
Not the love triangle bullshit of "noo they can't find out about each other" but the-
Sharing photos at the most inappropriate times.
Starting as a joke, something small and dumb.
Just a picture of you shirtless one of them took, or sharing the lewds you each took. It was quicker this way. Everyone could see it, so there was no need to forward anything or have the risk of sharing it with the wrong person.
Until you were stuck in some or another meeting, it wasn't mandatory to attend, but you were practically threatened to stay by your higher up. When your phone silently buzzes in your pocket.
Welcoming the destraction and swiping on the message, not thinking much about who sent it. You practically choke when it loads on your screen.
It was your lovers. One tattooed hand holding the throat of your boyfriend, his eyes glazed over with lust and your other boyfriend looming over him, both equally naked. The next, this beautiful picture of your lovers pierced dick disappearing into the other. The same string of tattoos holding him in place with a firm grip. Then when they saw you were actually looking at it... well, they didn't stop at just two.
And that wasn't the last time.
But it was when you got involved.
Sharing quickies in a bathroom or nudes from earlier in the day. Even the more... intense things.
See, you quickly learned that your tattooed lover had a thing for being filmed. That his eyes would wonder to the camera just to roll back in his skull. Putting on even more of a show so he could proudly share just how good he made either of you feel later.
Possessiveness doesn’t always have to be a rough touch to show ownership. It can be light and subtle as ever; a hand on the lower back, a lax arm around the waist, being so familiar with their body like being familiar with their coffee order - splash of milk no sugar- fingers resting just below the spot where you know their birth marks, scars or tattoos lay, gently brushing over clothed skin carefully avoiding the spots where you know they’re ticklish and watching the way they lean into your embrace with a smile on their face.
Possessiveness doesn’t always have to be crashing your lips onto theirs in front of someone who is trying to flirt with them. It can be an indirect kiss- taking a drag from their cigarette, and tasting the sickly sweet lip balm they always wear on the tobacco stick - the cigarette smoothly shifting from their fingers onto yours like this little habit of yours had been ingrained into their bones, or drinking from their drinks - specifically from the one a stranger had bought for them, the sudden appearance of your hand onto their beer glass barley phasing them as they continue on with the conversation they are having with the stranger- your lips resting just on the place where theirs have been, spots still wet from when they had taken a sip, while flashing a smile at the strangers over the rim , you and the strangers now both aware that you’re the only who knows how those lips feel.
Possessiveness doesn’t always have to be growling “mine” into their ear. It can be something simple as causally mentioning their name in conversations with family and friends, so much so even strangers know them through the stories you’ve told them, maybe even adding a little my in front of their name, not so much in a possessive tone but rather with a certain familiarity and fondness when talking about the socks they tend to leave scattered around the apartment or using the endearment when talking to your significant other, looking at their glittery eyes and big smile as you hand them a gift they’ve wanted for a long time, because of course you know what to get for your love, right?
germansingergirl
2087
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