#minimal proofreading

There most certainly had. In frustration, Zandik had walked off after deciding there was no reason to entertain the aggravated Spantamad Dastur any further. His ears were already ringing from how the other had progressively raised his voice.

And it had paid off! A walk just long enough - in the opposite direction as their area of interest - for a sheen of sweat to cover his brow, and a bird had caught his attention when it seemingly disappeared into a mass of hanging vines and epiphytes.

Right there, so close by all this time, sat a perfect dahri machine. If Zandik hadn't known better, he might have mistaken the scene for a painting, bits of light illuminating the polished bands of metal along its arms as it rested against the back of the small cave. There wasn't a scratch on it, like someone had placed it with the care of a child and promptly forgotten its existence.

For a moment, his breath caught once his palm made contact with the cold surface, half expecting the construct to move. It was a thing of beauty, the foreign runes adorning it no doubt holding some meaning beyond decorative - at least that was what his intuition told him.

He couldn't help but trace every line while speculating how to bring it back. If he should bring it back. The others hadn't exactly been thrilled about the prospect of transporting larger pieces, and there was still a certain fear surrounding the wandering machines.

Maybe it was better left here until he had discovered how to operate it.

Reaching for one of its hands, Zandik strained to lift the construct, panting as he managed to turn it over to better examine the joints. Emboldened by the lack of reaction and the adrenaline of countless possibilities coursing through him, curious hands roamed across the machine to examine every little detail.

It wasn't until he raised himself up onto his toes, one foot on either side of the machine's leg, did he notice the extent of his enthusiasm. A jolt ran through his body the moment his groin rubbed against the metallic knee, hands immediately coming up to catch him as he slumped forward.

As soon as the ringing in his ears - or was that his heartbeat? - had subsided, Zandik found his hips shifting once more. To withdraw, of course... Another shiver went down his spine, eyes fluttering when he pushed against the hard edge of its knee.

It was a pleasant sensation once he found a satisfactory angle, every little movement causing the metal to press against his rapidly hardening bulge. The fabric was a nuisance, not that he had any desire to chase relief like this, but it would undoubtedly feel far better without any obstruction.

Carmine eyes briefly flickered to one of the dahri machine's long arms, the evenly spaced metal bands providing a tantalising idea. The thought of those hands, used to crush and destroy, aiding in one of humanity's most base acts - it had him tossing back his head and nearly piercing his bottom lip.

He shook his head, ignoring the immediate disappointment building in his chest when he stopped moving. There was no way he would return to the others looking anything but put together. Obviously, this meant finding something else to occupy his mouth with.

Such as licking along the star shaped embellishment that adorned its head, dragging his tongue a fair distance before sputtering. It was absolutely disgusting, not only did the taste of damp soil invade his senses, something felt bitter on his tongue.

Still, it was better than returning with bloodied lips. If he sucked enough in one spot, it would eventually be clean, right?

Zandik felt himself throb, moving one hand to adjust his fully erect cock with a soft hiss. Chances of this issue subsiding in a timely manner seemed nonexistent, meaning he could only take the matter into his own hand.

It's better than going back like this.

His breath came out in strained pants as his movements picked up with renewed vigor, every rut causing a wave of anticipation to course through him. The sparrow that had guided him here had long since fled, leaving his disgrace the only thing piercing the silence.

Even when his legs ached and his cheeks were flush from equal parts exertion and shame did the realisation strike; it wouldn't be enough unless he could feel the smooth metal with every thrust.

The bitter taste could have been spores, or there could have been something growing on the vines he had pushed through - there had to be a reasonable explanation as to why the front of his pants was growing sticky. Something fleeting and out of his control.

Curse whatever foul growth had poisoned his mind and set his nerves ablaze.

At least the cave offered solitude, the rest of the group most likely halfway through their dinner by now. Heat crept along his skin, there would be no salvaging his reputation if they saw him like this. What would be better? The outcast? Or the freak who couldn't help but-

His head fell back, a disgraceful moan escaping him at a particularly hard nudge against the golem. Something clicked in Zandik's mind, movements bordering on haphazard in their haste to remove the offending fabric.

Trousers discarded, Zandik moved to straddle the ruin guard's arm instead, groaning when a ridge caught against the meat of his thigh. Not even the cold surface against now bare skin did anything to ease the burning feel along his nerves.

There's nothing shameful about solving a problem.

No sooner had his hand touched the sensitive flesh of his cock than bile rose in his throat. It was far too different from the cold bite of metal, a low hiss filling the silence as Zandik got into position. He was practically laying flat along the lower half of its arm, clinging to its shoulder as his hips immediately set to work.

With his back arched, the pressure on his aching member felt divine, the surface quickly growing slick. Damned animal. It felt heavenly to rub against it, the runes etched into it's components flickering before his eyes. All restraints shed, Zandik's pace grew frantic, pleasure sparking along every inch of his being.

It wasn't enough.

Had his eyes not been closed and the dahri machine's surface not dull, he would've seen a drooling animal reflected in the surface. There was nothing on his mind but the perfect curves, every piece of it sculpted by hands far more adept than any god.

Greedy for more, he staggered backwards to grind against the tip of a square finger. White flickered before his eyes, a corner of metal catching on his hole causing every muscle in his body to lock up. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he came, dizzy and desperately panting for air.

The wet spot left behind could always be cleaned later, after all, Zandik had no intention of sharing this location with anyone.

Pritchard, with the two O'Carrick kids on his tail, walked into the mansion and with a low sigh took off his jacket, hanging it on the coat-stand by the door. "Alright, I'm gonna have to stay here for a little bit more before your dad arrives, okay?"

Ferris grumbled something incomprehensible in response, kicked off his shoes and ran upstairs into his room. Pritchard just shrugged and turned to Halt. "You want some tea or something? I'll boil some water."

Halt watched as Pritchard walked into the kitchen, thinking. "Uh. Black tea. Thanks." He took off his shoes properly and went after him. Pritchard nodded and loosened his tie and relaxed his posture, something he never saw Father do. He always had to look proper.

...But he liked how Pritchard looked better. He actually looked friendly, even in his formal suit. Even in the court.

Halt peered over the kitchen counter as Pritchard spun around, preparing everything. "I want my mug. It's the one with trees," he remarked as Pritchard put down the wrong mugs.

"Okay." It took just a few seconds and the problem was fixed with a quick smile. Halt mumbled a thanks and Pritchard, for a second, thought he even saw the kid smile back.

Then Halt noticed that Pritchard didn't put a teabag into his mug, but instead took out this weird cone out of one of the cupboards and started rummaging for something else.

Halt's curiosity was piqued.

"What are you making?" he couldn't help himself.

Pritchard gave him a wry smile as he emerged from behind the counter with a jar full of dark powder. "Coffee." He unscrewed the lid and offered the jar to Halt. "Here, smell it."

Halt took the chance and immediately regretted it, his face scrunched up as he had to take two steps back from the counter, accompanied by Pritchard's laughter. "Ew! That smells bad. You're going to drink that?"

Pritchard replied with a wide grin. "Yeah! What did it smell like to you?"

Halt gave him a suspicious glance as he thought. "Like... Like bitter dirt."

"Ah, that's about how it tastes, too. Delicious," Pritchard nodded as he poured two spoonfuls into the cone, trying to look completely serious, but his eyes gave away the fact that he thought this was absolutely hilarious.

"Who would want to drink something like that?!"

"Grown-ups. That's also why it's a grown-up drink." The water finally boiled and Pritchard poured it into the mugs. The aroma of coffee spread through the room and Halt shuddered.

"Grown-ups have weird tastes."

"Yes, we do," Pritchard laughed and leaned over to Halt. "But let me tell you a secret," he whispered, leaning over to Halt, who immediately walked up, "Some grown-ups might tell you it's blasphemy, but it tastes much better if you smother it in honey. Remember that if you ever decide to have one."

"Ugh, like I'd ever drink something like that!"

“Your father wouldn’t understand, Wendy. There are some things you can’t make people believe or have them swallow down.”

She had knit her tiny brows together and asked, “But doesn’t he love us? If he loves you enough to marry you he’d have to believe you.”

Her mother had given a small sigh and peered out the window, as if it were not as simple as her daughter would have liked.

“Your father loves me – and you – very much. But he loves me as I am, how he knows me to be.”

This hadn’t made sense either. Who she really was, well she was so much more wonderful than he allowed her to be – she had taught her daughter how to fix a birds broken wing by cupping the injured creature in her hands and blowing gently across it’s feathers, and taught her to see with all he eyes and feel with all her senses. “But you’re pretending. We’re pretending to be like father – would he stop loving us if he knew who we really are?”

“He would never dare stop loving us, Wendy. It’s only that he would spend less time loving us and more time thinking about why he shouldn’t – your father is a great thinker, it would be difficult for him to explain it to himself.”

*     *     *

Wendy knew now that it was difficult. Witches could stop aging whenever they pleased and her mother was already pushing it, she tried to look aged – plastering face paint and spells to fool her father into believing that they were growing at the same speed, that it was good genes that kept the twinkle in her eye and the strength in her bones. It was a blessing perhaps, never growing old and grey sounded lovely but in practice not so much.

They were different, as her mother’s side of the family always was – but it was always the woman and never the men. She never understood why her brothers could never see images in the stars or why they never awoke at 2 am with dirt caked on their feet. All Wendy knew was some day they would have to leave them.

“Boys are always trying to stay young for too long and then one day they turn into men,” Her mother had said, stroking a blonde curl on her head and tucking it behind her daughters ear, “they get to keep their youth because they’re allowed it longer but girls are taught to grow up sooner – it’s only fair that we be allowed the same opportunity to stay as young as them. Perhaps that’s why it skipped the boys.”

Wendy had wiped the tears from her eyes, roughly pressing the heel of her hand into her burning eyes – none of it seemed fair – her brothers would grow old and die and she would never be able to, she wouldn’t even be able to stay with them.

“Is it true?”

“No – I don’t know. Still I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a boy who was able to do magic.”

Maybe that was the truth, all of the truth, and nothing but the truth, but Wendy Darling had seen many boys over there years – boys with feathers in their hair, black dirt on their shins that smelled like the kind that covered her sheets, loud boys, silent boys, boys with glittering yes and sharp teeth that looked like they were ready to swallow her whole – the only issue was that these boys weren’t there. They lurked, nameless, behind her eyelids and parade themselves in front of her as she walked her brothers to school each morning.

At night she could hear them crying or laughing or screaming.

As Wendy grew older it began to sound a lot less like laughing and a lot more like a single voice, a boy who murmured words into her ear that froze her skin and made her burn – and it was beginning to drive her mad.

*     *     *

“So I see things that aren’t there! That’s it? Is that my gift?” Wendy had to struggle to yell, it hurt her throat and heart to have to demand for answers – a spell had gone wrong, not the first time and not the last, but this was different – she had wanted the visions to just be visions but she had ended up making them worse. She had made them real.

She had made the shadows and laughter stick to the walls of her bedroom – Wendy had opened the nursery window.

“No Wendy it is the other people that can’t see what’s there, you can see the world more clearly than others – sometimes I think you’re father refuses to see three feet in front of him.” Her mother was trying to make her laugh or smile – that was what Mary tried so desperately to do – but she couldn’t stop Wendy from shaking from clawing at her eyes and trying to unsee the shadows in her room, “It’s natural. It’s you Wendy – it’s you.”

But she hadn’t wanted it to be her – she wanted to just be Wendy. She wanted to rest to just be stories and make believe.

*     *     *

Dirt. All around her was Dirt.

She hadn’t remembered why she was kneeling on the rickety, splintering floor – or why she was in nothing but her white lace bra and flowering skirt – but she knew it was the fault of magic. Magic needed quiet and calm in order to fester and grow inside you– but then it also needed warmth, the warmth that bare skin burned with, it needed intimacy and blood. Her veins gave off a greyish hue and looked perfect next to her bloodied fingernails, her pale skin looked about seven shades darker from the black soil that painted her from fingertip to elbow.

Why there was dirt in her attic, well she didn’t know that either. Wendy didn’t particularly want to find out.

“Mother!”

She let her voice carry down the stairs, felt it rattle the floorboards. She heard the chaos of tiny footstep just below her, struggling to see what the matter was with her. A small voice – Michael’s – came from outside the door as the sound of knocking pounded at her ears. “Is everything alright, Wendy? Can we come in?”

Her body shook with some unknown feeling, sent a chill into her bones as she shook her head despite them not being able to see her.

“Don’t you dare come in here, everything’s fine but I just need you to get mum for me. Can you do that? Please?” She closed her eyes and waited until she could no longer feel her brothers waiting for her, until their shouts had let her know that they had listened to her plea – God, was she ever thankful that her father had gone for that business trip.

Wendy squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breathe slowly – the heat had begun to worn off and she wrapped her arms around her expose chest to force the cold away from her body. What had happened? Nothing made sense to her anymore, not even her magic which had always been the thing that she had known the most about. And now she was sitting in the same dirt that had been in every dream she’s ever had – and more had come back with her.

“Your mother isn’t coming for you.” She knew that voice – it clung to her skin and made it feel raw – “Oh and even if she was I would doubt she’d be able to take you back with her – it’s one thing to mend a broken birds wing but it’s another thing to save one that’s been shot out of the sky.”

A string of laughter scratched at her ears and she felt at stinging right above her left breast, “I don’t know what you’re taking about.”

“It’s a good thing I know how to heal – I guess that woman never taught you like I did – you shouldn’t go searching around my home Wendy, sometimes it’s not a dream and sometimes boys have bullets.” Wendy couldn’t see him with her eyes but she knew he smiled, “You’re already naked enough, go on and look down, look at the scar and the dirt because you know I’m telling the truth.”

Sure enough, there it was – a circular scar no bigger than a thimble and as pink as her lips, it held an angry shine. The girl turned her head around to look at the voice and saw the same hair that had been ruffled by the wind, the same sharp toothed smile – he still looked like he was ready to devour her. In what way, she wasn’t sure. He backed up as if daring her to take in the entirety of his lanky form and she concluded that he looked as human as her – flesh and bone – but he moved with a quietness that she had not yet managed.

“What are you then?” The question was out of her mouth before she knew it but she didn’t run from it, “I’ve seen you haunting me for as long as I can remember – you haven’t left me alone. Tell me why.”

This seemed to please him, and he prowled towards her, “I’m just like you Wendy – a witch, a warlock, a sorcerer – I’m magic, only more powerful. I can walk in and out of dreams, watch you sleep, I dreamt up the dirt we rolled in when you were small, and the forest you got lost in and the rocks you cut your knees on when you got bigger. I’ll never age past what I want. And like you I have no need for a mother or a father.”

“That isn’t possible.” She had never heard of it before – a boy, like her, living between reality and dreams – no, she refused to believe it, “My mother told me –“

“Your mother lied to you. She wanted to keep you away from the simple little spells that could entertain you but make you safe, she kept you away from stronger magic because she didn’t have faith in you – she made you feel ashamed for wanting danger, for tasting freedom and a power that she denied herself of to be a mundane. “He spat the last word as if it was foul.

He crouched down beside her and tore her hands away from her ears, he pressed them into her bare sides so that there was nothing to shield her body from his hungry eyes on the thin lace she wore – she didn’t know how someone could look so hungry. Perhaps that’s what power did to you. His gaze raked over her body and when he look back to her face an easy smile crept across his mouth – sinister was the only word that came to mind.

“She lied to you when she said your father would still love you – he would hate you.” Wendy flinched as if he’d slapped her – she already knew it deep in her heart, but she had never heard anyone say it so plainly.

“Your brothers would hate you because you scare them, because we’re different and unpredictable and they're too stupid to understand.” She thought of the small spells that had gone out of control, the dogs that had turned into double-headed demons before her eyes – the good things she’d done – the fixed birds and sunny day – had always felt so bright but now a shadow had begun to creep across them.

“I understand you Wendy – that’s why you visit me when you’re sleeping or get up in the middle of the night and walk deep into the woods to find us – you belong with me because I love you," His words were beginning to make her head swim, everything felt so calm as if the nightmare was now lulling her to sleep. "I love you and I can make you more than just useful, I can make you important and powerful.”

Wendy hadn’t realized his hand was on her face until it had already begun to slide down her neck – his nails trailing just hard enough over her skin to leave pale lines. She felt exposed but embarrassment wasn’t what she felt as a single finger circled her new scar and made her eyes snap up to his.

“How?”

She could barely stomach the sick excitement that filled her as he leaned in, forehead against her burning cheek, and answered –