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~She walks everyday through the streets of New Orleans

The street where she walks is dappled with splotches of light, where the streetlights still glow. Distant, perhaps, are the sounds of a modern city, but here on the residential street there are only crickets and the irregular beat of her footsteps. The breeze of her motion pulls her hair, loose to the knees and unnaturally bloody in the streetlights, away from her face. Sometimes she lifts her eyes to the narrow crescent of the moon, sliding through the leaves of the trees overhead.

~I must love what I destroy, and destroy the thing I love

It’s midnight, the witching hour, but her thoughts won’t let her rest. It’s the old nightmare, new again since she came here. She walks faster, but can’t escape. Fiercely, softly, she says, “I don’t miss you,” but it’s a lie. If she says it enough she might believe it. She doesn’t realise she’s stopped, is clutching someone’s wrought iron fence in a deathgrip. “Was I not good enough?” But the person she’s talking to isn’t there.

Someone else is, though. She didn’t notice them, in the shadows, in the dark.

askklausmikaelson, littlemikaelson, homicidaltendenciiies, method-to-my-mxdness, sorcierexcachee

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Summer grumbled, wrapping her arms around her middle. It felt like someone had their hands in her guts and was twisting, and she hated it. She’d much rather be home, lying on the couch with maybe some chocolate and a heating pad. “I hate this,” she whined. “I wish I could just be male for this one week, you know?”

The world seemed to go completely still for a moment, and she looked up, confused. Then magic coiled around her and yanked her off her feet, and her consciousness was blotted out.

Awareness returned, slowly, with the knowledge of sensation in the body. A pins-and-needles feeling danced in the bones, erratic and shifting. First the toes, then leaping to the hips, then a hot band around the ribs. It continued on and on, for awareness did not include measures of time. Finally, the fizzing climbed into the skull and subsided, leaving behind a sense as though every bone and joint had shifted into perfect alignment.

Something cradled the body, providing perfect support and relaxation, soothing and comforting as the tingles returned, in nerves and muscles and skin. Rather than the chaotic handling of the bones, the prickles began at the top of the skull, swiftly engulfing the entire face with a near-unbearable intensity. Then it flowed down as a gentle heat to the shoulders and arms, tiny sparkles popping in the fingers.

Another wave began to rise from the toes, even as warmth filled the chest, pouring onward. A trio of white hot points clustered in the cradle of the hips, one larger one flanked by twin spots. These, too, receded to meet the heat rushing up the legs, colliding in a burst of intensity in the centre.

For the third time, sensation began, this time as of light touches, barely there, along the body. Chest and waist, thighs and hips, the touches swept further and further inward, pressing within. A need to move arose, and was prevented, as the touches caressed ever more deeply. Then the sensations began to change, from long, gentle caresses in the depths, to shallower brushes, to slight tugs, to slow, soft pulls, to long, hard strokes.

Movement began to be permitted, and the hips thrust into the stroking. The pulse, that had beat hard in wrists and throat and ears, rushed downward. Heat began to gather between the thighs, throbbing, and the flesh responded, swollen and moist. Need drew up through the centre, thick and heavy, and a growing pressure. Just a few more strokes … 

He was stretched out flat on the ground, nude to the world, thrusting desperately into thin air. He growled, voice a low, rough tenor, needy and helpless. “No, don’t — stop!” he demanded.

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“Take one, pass it down, you know the drill,” Summer said, starting a stack of brief questionnaires down the first column of desks. “I need these back by the end of class today. In the meantime, let’s talk about touch. Why do we touch people?  Anybody?”

On the paper is a series of questions. The directions say to underline the closest answer, and note that the class will probably include hands-on experience outside of preferences.

What orientation are you? men women either any unknown

What gender are you? male female other-(specify)

What sexual experience have you had already (receiving)? oral anal vaginal fingering none other-(specify)

What sexual experience have you had already (giving)? oral anal vaginal fingering none other-(specify)

What is your pronoun preference? male female other-(specify)

Indicate your comfort level with your nudity, 1 is not comfortable at all, 10 is completely comfortable

Indicate your comfort level with others’ nudity, 1 is not comfortable at all, 10 is completely comfortable

What do you expect to get out of this class?

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Summer sorted through the pile of books on her desk, trying to decide which one would best suit her purposes this semester. She didn’t know yet how many students she was going to have — a smaller class might not even need the book at all. She left the door to her office open, establishing the habit now. Wandering, lost, or new students always felt better about approaching an open door to find help.

Or maybe someone would just come by to ask about the class. It was a little less exciting-sounding than some of the other offerings — less about kinks and more about discovery. The basics, really.

It probably would be a small class, but at least she would get to do more hands-on sessions that way.

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Death happens every day. She knows this. An empath can’t live every day with everyone else’s emotions crawling in and out of her consciousness, or she goes mad — but the knowledge of it is always there. Life, going on; joy and grief and pain and anger and hate and love. It’s always there.

But sometimes, it takes someone so hard — dying. The absence of it, the grief of it, the shattering of it, it takes them so hard. And she has to hear. The way you can not be hearing the sounds of the road that passes your home, until something goes terribly wrong, and then you can’t NOT hear it.

That’s happening now. Somewhere, nearby, just now, someone has died, and it has ripped apart the folk who cared for that person. It’s a beacon of dark light, loud as a shout. Irresistible.

This is what she’s for: pain, and the helping of it. It’s the only thing she’s for.

She just doesn’t know how, here. All she can do is stand there, because how else do you help strangers other than witness?

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Summer Rainault opened and closed her fan nervously, glancing around at the ball-goers with serious green eyes. A red curl brushed her bare shoulder as she turned her head, the weight of the pinned up tresses tipping her chin up. Ordinarily, she would be almost completely at home in this kind of setting, whether the location was Atlanta or London, but tonight was different.

Tonight she would meet her affianced for the first time. She had always known she would marry to the family’s advantage, with little consideration for her own desires, but she had strongly hoped it would at least be someone she knew. Alas, the War (and General Sherman’s inexorable advance, which she wasn’t supposed to know about) had set everybody’s plans awry.

It was still annoying to be traded off (rather like a slave herself, she thought mutinously) for ships, without so much as a by-your-leave. She couldn’t even count on gracious Southern manners from her new fiance. It was enough to make a girl turn suffragist. Not that the British had any notion of women’s rights, Queen or no Queen.

Turning to gaze out over the crowded ballroom once again, she spotted her father, talking animatedly with another gentleman while making their way through the mass of society. Behind them trailed a tall, slightly sardonic looking young man, whose eyes were so vivid she could see the color from several feet away. Hastily she smoothed her hands down the pale green skirts of her ballgown and stood up as straight as possible.