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CRYSTAL
Sometimes, she dreams of the fey wilds. She knows this must be through her mother’s invitation, that Baba Yaga’s protection must be coiled over her like a fresh skin of power. She steps slowly, takes in the fragments of spirits she can barely make out through the thin mists. She stands on a bridge, her bare feet blazing red against wooden planks. Of all the things in the mists, one of the things she likes the most is that there are these trees that look like they grow crystals instead of leaves.
“Magic constellations,” Baba had once whispered to her, from behind her ear, there but not, “They are not unlike a manifestation of the raw magic. Touch one… you will see.”
So she goes to one and barely presses her fingertip to a low hanging crystal (perhaps, more like fruit that leaves?) before she feels a warm electric current run through her finger and down her arm, leaving a hot flush of pleasure in her fluttering belly.
She shudders hotly, blinking. She almost feels drunk from the magic. She had taken her hand away from it before she had even properly touched it, reeling from it.
“Again,” Baba had said, stroking Mercury’s inky black curls, “you can handle just a little more…”
So she had, biting her lip, touched it again.
She’d woken herself up, shuddering and mewling under her breath, her husband eyeing her from his side. Shivering, she arced helplessly as the electric current ran through her. It was no longer wholly pleasant. It was almost painfully, like her magic was struggling to cope.
She wanted to plead Anderson for help, but it was like her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. He reached out and touched her, and it was like the connection had broken. Her body deflated, though her heart kept up its agitated rhythm.
DRAGON
She was an archaeologist for a long time to make a name for herself, and when was she invited to a dig where an old dragon’s nest was, deep in the bowls of a shut off cave system, she was delighted. She was lucky enough to catch the skull while she happily dug, her husband patiently reading his tomes none too far from her, and hide it in her luggage for later.
This took a fair bit of quiet swearing from her and Anderson as they snuck the object to their luggage, while most of the encampment slept soundly. A dragon’s skill was worth quite a lot, all things considered, and Mercy was quietly brimming with pleasure that she had found and hidden it away. Even if they found more of the skeleton, it could be said that the skull had already been spirited away by some other wayward group, or that the adventuring party that had took the dragon down to begin with had taken it to prove their bounty.
Stroking the bone lovingly, Mercy smiled. When she got it home, the first thing she would do is bleach the skull, get it to that nice heavenly white she was so keen on. As far as she could tell, there was only a few missing teeth (all the better for presentation) and as she hunted, she was lucky enough to find a few scales.
“This is going in the living room,” she said breathlessly, brimming with excitement. Already knowing better than to even bother fighting (and also finding the skull quite interesting himself) Anderson merely grunted.
“We’ll have to make sure the kids don’t touch it, of course.”
She spent the evening getting a good start to cleaning the mud clods away from the bone, caressing the contours lightly with her set of specialised brushes.
TIRED
She let out a low grumble, her arms hugging her pillow to her face all the tighter so she could exaggeratedly push her face into it. Anderson had pulled the quilt off her, letting the cool night air whisk over her skin.
Still very sleepy, she wriggled under his palms as he cupped her sides, fingers lightly brushing over the curves of her waist. His hand slipped between her thighs, oh-so-deft, working between her clit and entrance until she was silky with want. Her tail, which had been curled around her thigh lazily in sleep, slid itself off said thigh and lightly coiled in the air; a sign of arousal.
She whined, caught between sudden arousal and a state of tiredness that left her unwilling to move. He drug his pillows from his side of the bed and slid them beneath her hips, letting her prop her legs up.
“Shall I?” he murmured hotly behind her, tongue tracing the line of her neck and teeth teasing her ear lobe with a delightful nibble.
She nodded into the pillow, dazed.
“Are you going to answer me, devil’s child?”
Oh, she couldn’t help her reaction to that, feeling her walls tighten with anticipation and a slick of her own lubricant sliding down her thigh.
“Yes,” she breathed, fingers grasping her pillow tightly. He adjusted his hips, resting his cock against her entrance and slowly easing it around her in a clockwise motion. She let out a tiny sob, rubbing her face into the pillow.
He eased himself in, murmuring quiet prayers under his breath, until he was fully sheathed. Her lashes fluttered slowly, mouth opening to release a slow exhale of relief. Even in the moonlight as her face slanted to look back at him, he could see the dark flush of her cheeks and the sparkle in her liquid black eyes. Now all he had to do is fuck her into absolute oblivion, and they would both sleep well.
Journal
As far as he knew, his wife had no important secrets. She had brought up no childhood trauma, no past loves or secret children. Anderson held up the three journals she’d tucked away under the mattress at some point. He knew she wrote them, and she’d actually written in them in his presence sometimes. He fingered the oldest looking one, feeling the vellum-like texture of its cover.
His wife was a wonderful woman, that was true, but she was also very naïve about what constituted as important when it came to herself. He knew she had no important secrets; but he also knew she had some. Everybody does.
Murmuring a prayer under his breath, he opened the first book. The writing in it was a little messy, the common tongue a little clumsy here and there. It started at her childhood, growing up surrounded books and recounting funny little memories. He smiled, imagining Mercury has a little girl. It was not too far in when she recounted feeling ill, and the pages were slightly stuck together. He peeled them apart slowly, carefully, and found the culprit to be dark red. Blood.
Growing nervous, he read on. Being ill as a child was no issue, but her perspective was certainly interesting. As her entries grew on, he found himself growing ashen, his knuckles flashing white as his grip tightened onto the book. His teeth gritted, fury building.
She escaped. His shoulders trembled slightly. His wife didn’t get to walk away. She didn’t get to cut the Doctor away emotionally; he was always there in her memories, attached to her survival instincts. He closed the book shakily, and grabbed the other two, ramming them under the bed with more force than necessary. Why hadn’t she told him? Had she even told anyone? He closed his eyes and exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
Later, he held her in his arms, kissed her forehead and felt every bit of him singing to protect her.
MURDER
She has thought about murder before; who hasn’t really, but she had a lot of time to sit and think about it, especially in that closet, with her body contorting into all those uncomfortable positions that made her cramp up and actually fucking cry sometimes. She seriously contemplated it, more than a few times. Enough to make herself feel concerned about the funny way her mind was warping under the strain of existing the way she did.
She has daydreamed about his murder, about asking him to wash her hair, only to pull him into the water and then under it, squeezing her hands around his throat until he stops thrashing, or to slide a sharp blade into the meat of his throat while he slept, (or one fucked up day dream, she jammed a dull butter knife into his eye while they had rough sex), but, alas… even if she wanted to go through with any of her macabre fantasies, she was not physically or mentally strong enough.
When she accidentally reacted to his violence in an all-consuming fear, striking him with Eldritch Blast, she wanted to scream her throat into a raw, blood-curdling blister for how badly she wanted to kill him and end his hold over her, but she simply could not bring herself to. Even unconscious, she was terrified of what he could (would) do to her. So she does what she can, and she runs.
On a sickening note, she knew she couldn’t hurt him for another reason, too. He was essentially her parent combined with her almost lover. The man who had looked after her as she grew into her womanhood, and had given her every material thing she could want. She owed him nothing and everything in the same breath.
It’s funny how resentment grows.
MURDER
She has thought about murder before; who hasn’t really, but she had a lot of time to sit and think about it, especially in that closet, with her body contorting into all those uncomfortable positions that made her cramp up and actually fucking cry sometimes. She seriously contemplated it, more than a few times. Enough to make herself feel concerned about the funny way her mind was warping under the strain of existing the way she did.
She has daydreamed about his murder, about asking him to wash her hair, only to pull him into the water and then under it, squeezing her hands around his throat until he stops thrashing, or to slide a sharp blade into the meat of his throat while he slept, (or one fucked up day dream, she jammed a dull butter knife into his eye while they had rough sex), but, alas… even if she wanted to go through with any of her macabre fantasies, she was not physically or mentally strong enough.
When she accidentally reacted to his violence in an all-consuming fear, striking him with Eldritch Blast, she wanted to scream her throat into a raw, blood-curdling blister for how badly she wanted to kill him and end his hold over her, but she simply could not bring herself to. Even unconscious, she was terrified of what he could (would) do to her. So she does what she can, and she runs.
On a sickening note, she knew she couldn’t hurt him for another reason, too. He was essentially her parent combined with her almost lover. The man who had looked after her as she grew into her womanhood, and had given her every material thing she could want. She owed him nothing and everything in the same breath.
It’s funny how resentment grows.
TEETHING
Her mouth was literally kept open by the strange wiry contraption that the Doctor had placed in her mouth. Her jaw could not flex or break the material inside it, but it did actually hurt to try.
“Don’t do that,” her doctor muttered, bringing up what seemed to be ruler of sorts. He scratched down each result, muttering.
“Central incisor… Lateral incisor… and canine. Your canines still have some growing to do. Hm, push your tongue back…”
He’d started doing this since her teeth had started their steady growth, including four new wisdom teeth sprouting up at the back, writing the length of her teeth down and the growth and sharpness they were steadily undertaking.
“Ja’ hurrrsh,” she half-whined, half-slurred through the contraption. Her mouth had begun to overflow with saliva. The doctor smiled, and wiped her mouth lightly with a piece of cloth.
“We’re about done,” he promised, “and then you can have an apple.”
The apple was dosed with painkillers, as he had explained when he first introduced them. It was a liquid the apple flesh absorbed easily, with little taste but abundant affect. After that apple, she’d feel dreamy and sleepy for hours, blissfully worlds away from the tooth ache.
He scraped behind her lower teeth, collecting a little plaque.
“Not bad,” he muttered, setting the instrument aside. He leaned forward to help her get the contraption out of her mouth, watching her lick her teeth and give a little shudder.
He brandished an apple and she took it eagerly, taking half of the apple in one big bite. The juices ran down her face and she hummed dizzily in pleasure.
“Better?” he smiled, stroking her hair. She nodded, her head sinking into his chest.
“Tastes so sweet,” she murmured, licking her lips. Too bad the apples would only last so long as her teething did.