Greetings, and welcome to what I have affectionately dubbed: The -First -Thing -That -I -Have -Actually -Written -Since -Writer's -Block -Struck -Me -Three -Years -Ago. I kid you not. This is the first thing I have written in three years outside of college essays and creative writing assignments that were only allowed to be a page each, therefore severely limiting any chance of plot happening, or character development. Honestly, I just made this account so that I could keep track of the things I was reading on here and leave reviews and stuff. I had kind of given up on posting anything.

So why, you may ask, have I emerged? Blame thenorthface. If not for her and her ridiculously addicting story The Long Distance Phone Call, this story right here would never have come to be. I originally started writing it as a bribe for a sneak peek at her newest chapter because it had left off on a cliff hanger and was causing me actual pain. She requested something "short and slashy" and that was what I was originally going for. it didn't really work though, because as I started writing the characters decided that they were going to hijack what was supposed to be a smutty little oneshot and insert all this plot. And really, who am I to deny my characters the chance to develop themselves. So her newest chapter came and went and then so did another one and now here I am, finally posting the first chapter of whatever this is.

Warnings: The following the story may (will definitely) contain the writings of someone who has been very out of practice for a VERY long time, a plot that was made up on the spot with no prior planning, completely made up acts of psychic power, and the first sex scene that I have written since I was 12 and didn't even know what I was writing about, probably written with no real accuracy or realism. Read at your own risk!

When Oliver had asked for help passing his Chem final, he'd been thinking of something more along the lines of tutoring or a group study session. Instead, Natasha had pursed her pouty lips, walked in a slow circle around him as if to evaluate him from all angles, and then given him the card of a local psychic somewhere downtown. Standing in front of the building, a tiny purple thing nestled between a seedy looking bar and a rather questionable Thai fusion place; he couldn't help but wonder, for the millionth time, what she was thinking.

The doors were glass, but had some kind of black fabric stretched across the inside, obscuring the inner workings of the shop from view. Cursing himself for even thinking to go along with this harebrained scheme, he pushed open the door only to be assaulted by a tinkling curtain of tiny beads. It was the kind of thing his cousin Clara had used as a door in middle school, plastic beads of blue and purple in the shapes of stars and moons and clearly meant to add something to the ambiance. Assisting it in this endeavor was a dim orange light bulb covered with a cloth and heavy incense, billowing out from a tiny silver dragon. There were a few chairs up against the side wall and a counter where a teenage girl sat, looking at something on her laptop and blowing large pink bubbles out of chewing gum. Behind the counter there hung a heavy black curtain. The overall impression of the establishment was…well, he wasn't even sure what he thought of the place, aside from being about what he had expected from Natasha.

A tiny bell had chimed from somewhere above the door upon his entrance and the girl looked up. She was blonde with her hair up in a high ponytail shot through with streaks of hot pink. She had blue eye shadow, winged eyeliner, and a little diamond sparkling in her nose above bright pink lips. Every now and then her face sparkled, as if she had dusted some kind of glitter over it in an attempt to better fit the mood that this place was clearly striving for. She might have succeeded better without the tight, black, Trivium band tee.

"Hello" she greeted in an airy voice as the door closed behind him, "And welcome to the shop of mystery. Where the past, present, and future collide and the fates are but the tools of my master's whims." She waved her hand for effect, but it was somewhat ruined by the ding of a Facebook notification from her laptop. Cursing, she popped her gum and scowled down at the device for ruining her theatrics. "Fucking CandyCrush" she muttered, clicking around, presumably to block whoever had been trying to coax her into joining the ever-growing cult of Facebook gaming, before turning her attention back to Oliver and staring expectantly. She had bright red fake nails and was tapping one absentmindedly against the little silver dragon incense holder.

"Um…yeah." Oliver said awkwardly, giving her a little half-wave and shoving some very orange hair out of his eyes. "Whatever. Um..." He paused, debated the sanity of what he was about to do, before figuring that he was already here and he might as well just go for it. "I asked a friend for help passing my Chem final. She sent me…um….here." He glanced around the small, smoky room again, as if trying to convince himself that yes, he really was here and that someone had actually recommended it to him.

"Oh." She replied simply, popping another bubble with her gum. "Okay. You're here for a charm or something, right? Lemme just go get the big guy." With that she gave a definitive little nod and before he could even shrug, because to be perfectly honest he didn't know what he was really here for, she turned and disappeared behind the heavy black curtain.

Shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, Oliver started after her, waiting. He didn't think this place was dangerous really, despite the questionable neighborhood, because it had been Natasha who'd sent him there. If it had been Aaron or Stefan or someone than yeah, he'd have booked it the hell out of there before he woke up without a kidney, because that was the kind of shit situation his older brother and his dickhead friend would have sent him into, laughing their asses off when he came crawling home the next morning with tetanus. But Natasha had been his friend since high school, and while she was often eccentric and sometimes even scary, she had never been intentionally cruel and he had to believe that she at least believed that this place could somehow help him. And that was why, when the girl emerged again and gestured for him to follow her into what he supposed was a hidden back room, he did.

The room behind the curtain was smaller than the front with only a round table in the middle with two chairs. There was a crystal ball in the middle of the table, it's blue glow providing the only illumination. At the far end of the table sat what he understood, upon a second look, to be a man. And that was only because his white shirt gaped open down his chest, revealing a smooth, firm chest without even the slightest hint of cleavage. The man was sitting, so he had no way to gauge his height, but what he could see was thin, a slender neck and graceful collarbone sloping into reasonably wide shoulders. His hair was probably white blonde or something, but in the questionable lighting seemed to show a pale silver, and hung nail straight down his back, down past the table to where Oliver could no longer see. The most disconcerting thing, however, the part that made him gasp and step back, was the mask he had settled on his face.

It was shaped like a skull, with carved and painted teeth. The base was bone white, with a delicate lace pattern carved into it, or maybe it was actual lace. He really couldn't tell. It was split in a subtle, horizontal line across the middle where the top and bottom halves fit together like a puzzle piece, and the nose was painted black, as well as dark circles around the eyes. It was spartanly decorated with little curls and dots of color around his various features that may have made it beautiful in the light of day. However, back here in the eerie blue light with the air cloudy with scent it was something skeletal and terrifying. The effect wasn't helped by the long black cloak he wore open over his shirt, the sleeves hanging down around where his hands were folded on the table.

Either oblivious to Oliver's terror or just immune to the sight, the girl just gestured for him to sit down before slipping once more through the curtain, returning to her post and presumably her laptop. Oliver stood staring for a moment longer, before one of the man's long, pale, fingers twitched and he hurried to follow orders.

Sitting across from the man, watching the shadows on his mask dance in the eerie blue glow, Oliver wondered if maybe Aaron hadn't put Natasha up to this after all. After several moments of silence, the man spoke, his voice soft and deep, his words curling into the air like the scented smoke.

"You have come to me with a request, have you not?"

Oliver jumped a little, starting as the sound broke the silence. "Um, yeah I thought maybe you're…secretary, or whatever she is. I thought she already told you."

If the man had any reaction to Oliver's awkward rambling, he didn't show it. "She told me what it was that I should expect, however the request means nothing if it is not made by the one who seeks it."

Oliver shuffled his feet nervously. "Okay, um. I have a Chem final next week and it's not like…that is, it wouldn't be too big a deal except that I'm kind of just scraping by in the class so if I bomb this test…well…I need to not. Do you, I mean…do you have anything, a charm or whatever that could help me, you know…not fail? Um…please?"

He followed that brilliant bit of eloquence up by chewing on his lip and trying to forget that he had ever spoken in the first place. Staring hard at his hands, the ones he'd placed on the desk and was failing to keep still, drumming the pads of his fingers lightly against the table, he spared a glace up through his lashes, searching for any kind of reaction from the strange masked man. He wished, not for the first time, that he could see his face, watch for any kind of visual clue as to whether or not he was about to be brutally murdered, but any and all helpful hints were hidden away behind the mask.

Finally, the man made a slight considering humming sound and then stood, walking a few feet into the darkness. Slowly, Oliver watched him walk along the perimeter of the room and as he passed floating candles sprang to life. Some were attached to the wall or settled atop previously unseen shelves, but occasionally one would hover there in the air, suspended by what he assumed was a very thin thread, twine or something. Whatever they used on movie sets. After setting three walls worth of candles aflame, thankfully excluding the probably highly flammable wall of black curtain behind Oliver, the man returned to the table and moved the crystal ball to the floor. Oddly enough it no longer seemed to glow, instead simply reflecting back the image of the man and the candles and even Oliver himself, as would regular glass. Oliver chose to ignore this observation, in favor of studying the man before him in the dancing candle light.

The shadows now flickered around him like something living, deepening and lessening in uneven waves. The mask was perhaps beautiful as he had suspected, but seemed no less scary as the lights swam through the smoke. Even more troubling was that his hair had retained its silvery hue, glinting and shining as if painted with the moon. He noticed a trail of shiny silver stars falling down the right side of the mask.

Waving his hand it what Oliver believed to be a superfluous motion, two more floating candles appeared, hovering in the air on either side of the table, and with a snap, they both ignited red. A chill went down his spine at this display, his easy explanations drifting away from him in the face of this strange unknown. He bit his lip, digging the remains of his short-bitten fingernails into the legs of his jeans and reminding himself of the front entry way. Of the little chiming bell and the cheesy curtain of plastic beads and the receptionist with her band tee and pink streaked hair and chewing gum who was probably typing away on Facebook at that very moment. Trying to remind himself that this was all just smoke and mirrors, a lot of flashy effects for show that would probably do nothing more than drain his already measly bank account of some exorbitant amount.

He could tell himself that all he wanted, but that still didn't stop his legs from shaking underneath the table.

Unbothered by Oliver's trembling, the man returned to his seat, magicking a small wooden disc from seemingly thin air. There were three small, blue, feathers protruding from the bottom and upon further inspection, while trying valiantly not to hyperventilate, a delicately carved web pattern across the surface. In his other hand he held three glittering crystal beads, presumably conjured from the same place as the feathered disc, which Oliver was rapidly failing to believe had been hidden up his sleeve. The red candles flickered, their light bending ominously through the tiny prisms. The effect was simultaneously magnetic and terrifying.

"I do believe that I can help you pass this test of yours" he said finally, "but first I will need a strand of your hair." Tiny beams of light danced frantically across the room as he shuffled the beads into the same hand the disc, holding out his now free hand expectantly. "I do hope you condition" The Man added with a small frown as Oliver hesitantly plucked what he hoped would be a satisfactory hair from somewhere near the back of his head. "Brittle hair tends to result in weaker, brittle charms."

Oliver honestly wasn't sure as to the quality of his hair. Beyond keeping it clean he'd never really given the rebellious mop much thought, but The Man apparently deemed his hair worthy, snapping the strand lightly between his fingers like one might snap a belt in warning before stringing it through the beads. It was then fastened in a loop atop the disc. The end result looked something like a strange voodoo keychain and Oliver hoped that should anything prick the wood the sensation wouldn't be mirrored on his own flesh.

"Is that it?" he asked hopefully, as The Man laid the charm down atop the table. He'd been ready to flee since he sat down, sure that this was going to end with some sort of satanic bloodshed goats blood ritual, and if all he sacrificed to this misbegotten endeavor was an apparently healthy hair than he'd consider himself lucky.

Predictably, his luck wasn't that good.

Shaking his head, the wash of silver hair swaying slightly, the man proceed to lay one hand outstretched, palm up, across the table. When Oliver just blinked, staring at it blankly, the man sighed.

"Assembling the charm is only the first step of the procedure. To progress, I need your hand." After a beat. "You're dominant hand."

Oliver didn't want to. He really didn't want to. In fact, as he sat there, curling his hands into little claws that dug sharply into his leg, he could think of at least ten other things that he would rather do than give this man his hand, the least painful being 'root canal.' However, he somehow found the strength to pry his right hand away and offer it forward with all the enthusiasm of a man reaching for a bear trap. He was unable to quell the tremors, despite his best efforts, and hoped to whichever deity would listen, that the man before him wasn't offended by his terror.

If he was at all put out, the man didn't show it, his hand lying completely still against the table. But when at last Oliver laid his hand in the other man's palm, the long pale fingers curled around it gently, squeezing slightly. His skin, which looked so cold to the touch, was surprisingly warm as he held his hand, running his thumb soothingly against the back of Oliver's.

After a brief time he took Oliver's hand in both of his, turning it over so that it lay face up, the back cradled in his own, his thumb free to swipe purposefully over the palm. He leaned closer a bit, as if to better see through the holes of the mask, studying Oliver's palm while the man himself tried to discreetly catch a glimpse of the eyes he knew must lay hidden behind there somewhere. His attention, however, was diverted by the feeling of the man's warm thumb swiping over his palm, leaving behind ticklish lines of sensation. As if sensing Oliver's confusion, he began to speak.

"A charm itself can be made by anyone in possession of the necessary ingredients. What determines its worth, however, is its resonance with its owner. If the charm's magic is in tune with the soul of its holder than the effects can be most rewarding. If not, than it creates a dissonance within the magic that can cause more trouble than if the charm was never held at all." He gave another broad swipe of his thumb diagonally across his palm and Oliver was helpless to repress a shiver. The man paused at that, and it was all Oliver could do to fight the encroaching blush that threatened his cheeks. After a few agonizing minutes the man resumed and Oliver could once again breathe.

It was insane, and startling to realize, but despite his initial misgivings and previous fear, the combination of the man's soothing touch and flowing, honey voice had successfully managed to calm him. It was if his voice had curled around the fear and lured it out and away, pushing it somewhere else and allowing it to be replaced with, what he realized, was the beginnings of a hesitant arousal. And that elicited a whole new kind of fear.

"W-what are you looking for?" he stammered, eager to distract himself from his slow growing arousal. He shifted a little in his seat, uncomfortable in this chair for whole new set of reasons. He was suddenly extremely aware of the fact that the girl was right behind the curtain, and though it was thick and heavy, it was still very much just a curtain.

The man paused once more in his ministrations, and if surprised, before continuing. "To tune the charm to your specific person, I must first come to understand the vibrations of your soul. The waves it gives off. I suppose that I am looking to understand your soul. People often underestimate the fount of information that can be gleaned from one's palm, if only one knows how to look."

Oliver wasn't entirely sure how he felt about someone supposedly reading his soul, but any irritation or fear he might have felt was quickly ushered away by the feel of fingers stroking lightly down his wrist. He bit his lip against the moan that threatened to rise up and prayed that he couldn't feel the quickening of his pulse.

"Like what?" he asked, simultaneously amazed at his ability to keep his voice steady while horrified at the octave at which it emerged. He'd sounded low and husky, horny if he was telling the truth, and he wondered if that was the kind of detail his soul would reflect. Would it tell him how agonizingly long it had been since he'd last had sex? How often he masturbated? Or the fact that when he did so it was to thoughts of other men? Would his soul betray that he often ended those sessions with three fingers up his ass, grinding helplessly against his mattress?

He was forced to bite down hard on his lip as the thought of the masked man's long, slender fingers barged unbidden into his mind. The image of them dancing nimbly along his cock, stroking deep inside of him, playing him like an instrument and tuning his charms to the sounds of his moans.

His body felt hot, flushed, his cock no longer gently nudging against his zipper and now straining in a desperate demand for attention. He shifted again, his breathing shallow, feeling squirmy inside his suddenly too tight skin. The man had to have noticed, there's no way he couldn't have, but when he replied his voice was the same as ever.

"I know that your name is Oliver." He began, the shock of that statement serving as a momentary distraction from his ever-insistent hard on. "I know that your father left when you were very young, leaving your mother to raise you and your brother alone. You worried about her, worried that she worried too much herself, that she worked too hard, that she spent too much time on her children and not enough on herself. I know that you're a very kind, compassionate man, capable of loving with your entire being."

The man's words rumbled through his body, words that should frighten and intimidate, as he poured out personal knowledge that should chill him to the bone. And yet it didn't. All traces of fear were gone. It was as if it was alright for this man to have access to this knowledge because beyond the strangeness, beyond his arousal, was the overlying feeling of rightness. couldn't explain it if he tried, but somehow he was absolutely, positively sure that no harm would come to him. Not from this man, and not from what he knew.

"I know that you go to school on scholarship." He continued. "That you were proud to win it, because then she wouldn't have to pay. You were happy that she was happy. You're the kind of person who finds happiness in the happiness of others. Especially those you love. This is why this test matters, what hangs in the balance. This is the source of the considerable bundle of stress I can see." At this he swirled his thumb in tiny circles against the webbing between Oliver's thumb and pointer finger. If you fail this class, than you lose the scholarship that you worked so hard for. You disappoint your mother. Become a burden like your brother Aaron."

"Oh?" To his horror, the word came out as a single breathy sigh. The Man however didn't seem to notice, apparently too focused on his task to be aware of the physical effect he was having on his client. Either that, or he was simply to kind to draw attention to it.

"I can feel anger swirling deep beneath the surface. It surges at the mention of the man, Aaron. You're brother." At this his thumb, which had previous swept horizontally across Oliver's palm began a slow path from the tip of his middle finger down to his wrist. "It's tempered with resentment and embarrassment. Yes, Aaron serves as a source of great strife for you, bullying you as a child and causing your mother unnecessary worry." His voice had turned soft, taking on an almost soothing note to it, as if trying to usher away the darker feelings staining his soul. He made another swipe, tilting his head, and Oliver could have sworn he heard the man make a small sound of disapproval. Why? "There is another. A young man besides your brother who has caused you much pain." Oliver waited to see what more he'd say, knowing who he spoke of but curious as to his reaction. A feather-light brush over his skittering pulse quickly brushed the thought away though.

"W-what else?"

The man paused for a moment and Olive swore to God that he would continue to play dumb, to feign ignorance to Oliver's current physical state. He could feel his blush rising to match the red behind his eyelids, and found, to his horror, that his eyes had slipped closed. He was panting slightly, his breath coming out in humiliatingly desperate little puffs.

"I can tell", the man continued after a moment, "That you are very reserved. Shy. You feel things very strongly, love and loyalty, hope and longing, and yet are hesitant to share these emotions with others. You openly share some parts of yourself to better hide those which you would prefer to remain hidden, making it difficult for others to truly know you. You are embarrassed very easily." Oliver tensed at that, wondering if that was truly gleaned from his soul, as opposed to simply read from his face. "You are also very passionate, but that passion is often hidden under a layer of cautiousness. Of fear. Fear of baring yourself. Of vulnerability. Of rejection."

Oliver opened his eyes then, staring into the black eyeholes in the mask. He knew what he must look like, sitting there bathes in candlelight. His face was flushed, only partially from embarrassment, his pupils surely hopelessly dilated. He was panting and squirming and the man would have to have suffered severe head trauma not to have figured it out by now. He had nothing left to lose and so he had to ask, found his lips forming the question before he'd even registered his acceptance.

"Can you see…you know…other stuff? More…private stuff?"

For the first time since this began, the man's voice seemed to adopt a new inflection: Amusement. "More private than your childhood bullies? Your relationship to your mother? Your innermost fears?"

"Yeah." He nodded, licking his parched lips. "More, intimate things."

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb stilling. "By intimate, do you mean your attraction to men?" The thumb was back on his pulse, rubbing more firmly than before and sending sparks up his nerve endings. It was all he could do not to choke on his moan. "Do you mean the fantasies you harbor towards them?"

"Y-yes" he gasped, as the thumb was replaced by lips. His head had fallen back, his traitorous eyes slipping shut, but when he looked, he was shocked to find the bottom half of the mask gone. He moaned again as the man's tongue swiped across his palm, imitating the broad strokes of his thumb from before.

"Hmmm." He hummed against his wrist, nibbling his way slowly up his arm, "I wasn't going to look there. That part of your soul was unrelated to the topic at hand. However," he paused to suck at the crease of his elbow, and this time Oliver could no longer hold back the sound, a needy, desperate little cry that slipped free. His body was on fire now, starved of this sort of touch for so long now that it drank it up like a sponge. His erection was hard and hot, biting painfully into the metal of his zipper until he slipped his hand down to palm at the denim in a desperate attempt for relief. "It was very hard to resist."

"Than don't." Oliver moaned, his body arching towards the touch. It was somewhat awkward, what with The Man still leaning over the table, but he was certainly putting forth his best effort. "You can look if you want. Look at it all. I trust you."

The Man stopped his slow descent just short of Oliver's collarbone, resulting in an agonizing little whine. Cracking open his eyes, curious as to why such pleasurable ministrations had ceased, he found the man staring down at him. He was leaning halfway over the table, his own breath coming a little heavy which gave Oliver a very new kind of thrill. His lips were thin and pale, but the memory of their touch on his skin, skillfully working their way upwards, was enough to make his cock give an impatient throb. Slightly more fascinating though, was the tilt of his head as if Oliver had confused him.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his voice almost inaudible. "Why do you…I've done nothing to deserve it. You were terrified until a few minutes ago when you…well…when you weren't. But…"

Oliver could almost imagine the baffled look in his hidden eyes and for some reason that only served to soften his heart further. "I don't know." He replied honestly. "I really don't, I just…feel safe with you. You were the one in contact with my soul. Maybe it felt something it liked in return.

The man snorted in amusement and it was only then that Oliver realized what exactly it was he had just mumbled. Regardless of his amusement though, The Man seemed almost touched as he reached out and carefully tucked a lock of unruly red hair back behind Oliver's ear. His fingers were gentle running down the side of his face, trailing lightly down his neck and leaving shivers in their wake.

"Oliver." He whispered, his voice dropping down into suspiciously horny sounding territory. "I would very much like to kiss you."

Any arousal that had faded during their brief gentle interlude slammed back with a vengeance. "I-I would very much like that too."

"I would very much like to do a great deal of other things to you as well." He rasped and yeah, there was absolutely no way of hiding the arousal in his voice just then.

"I- Yeah. Do those things too." He was practically begging at this point, but was suitably rewarded as thin lips suddenly crashed against his, making up for any lack of mass with sheer enthusiasm and skill. Plunging his hands into the wild mass of red curls, he pulled Oliver closer still, crushing him to him as much as the damned table would allow while trying to lick his way as far back into his mouth as he could manage. Oliver could do nothing but just moan helplessly while The Man's tongue tangled with his own, stroking expertly against his pallet and eliciting desperate cries which he promptly swallowed in an erotic cycle.

Finally giving way to his frustration, he stood, pulling Oliver up and across until he was sitting on the damned table, his legs spread wide to accommodate the man between them. The man had his shirt rucked up over his nipples, thumbs toying with them absently, working Oliver up while his mouth licked and sucked and nibbled him into a mindless puddle of need.

"Isn't this against some kind of code?" he panted breathlessly while the man had turned his attention to the pale flesh at the junction where his neck met his collarbone, sucking dark, possessive marks there. "You know, fucking your patients?"

"Heh" The Man snorted against his neck, "That's doctors. Trust me, psychics are much more carpe diem." He punctuated his words by shoving his thigh firmly between Oliver's legs, grinding mercilessly against his still-trapped erection. Oliver couldn't have stifled the resulting moan if he tried, having long since forgotten the gum-chewing secretary. It wasn't as if it really mattered anyways. At this point the pope could have led the entire congregation of the Vatican through this spooky smoke-filled shop for all he cared, but this was still going to happen. He honestly suspected that he might well and truly die should anything happen to cease their current proceedings.

Eager for more contact, needing to feel as much of The Man's smooth, pale skin as he could, Oliver shoved his hands into the deep V parting the front of his loose billowy shirt. He chose to interpret the resulting groan vibrating against his collarbone as a good sign, pushing somewhat frantically the material, stretching it open as far as the pesky buttons would allow. Ever helpful, The Man made quick work of the buttons himself, his fingers nimble where Oliver's were clumsy and fumbling, and Oliver found himself torn between gratitude and longing. To undo the buttons had meant removing those hands from his person.

He gave an impatient little groan, pulling The Man back towards him by his belt loops, and it was the sweetest kind of benediction when those hands returned to him, long, slender fingers finally found their way to his zipper, freeing his aching cock from its cruel denim prison, wrapping it in their nimble velvet grip. Oliver's voice was a litany of debauched moans, pouring from his throat like water from a fountain as the masked man stroked him from root to tip, swirling his clever thumbs around the head, pressing the tip of his thumb into the slit. Oliver spent but a minute pulling his own shirt the rest of the way off before eagerly pressing his bare chest against The Man's, attacking his mouth with a vengeance.

His hands seemed unable to decide whether they wanted to touch the smooth expanse of skin revealed to him or tangle frantically in his long silver strands. He was so absorbed in simply touching as much of the other man as he could, that he was slightly surprised by the feeling of fingers sliding along the bare crack of his ass. More startling was the fact that both his jeans and boxers were tangled somewhere around his knees and he had absolutely no memory of that happening.

Gently, The Man leaned Oliver back until he was lying back against the table. He could just imagine the sight he made, all splayed out with his cock lying hard against his belly all red and leaking, hickies deliciously sore down his neck. The Man was apparently enjoying the sight too, just standing there, looking down at him and palming his own cock. He seemed to be very skilled in the act of discreet clothing removal, because his pants had also been discarded, tossed off somewhere in the flickering shadows. Oliver wasn't sure if he'd been just that absorbed in his task or if maybe this was some lesser-known physic ability, the kind that didn't make it into PG13 movies.

Regardless, that didn't change the fact that he wasn't touching him, and no matter how hot it was to watch him touch himself, that wasn't enough for Oliver. Whimpering he sat up, pulling The Man back down with him, reveling in the return of the sweet, sweet friction. Sealing his mouth back down across Oliver's, The Man trailed his hand back down to the smaller man's hole, circling the rim gently, but refusing to push into him. Pulling back from the kiss he laid his forehead down atop Oliver's. The mask was cool against his heated flesh, but more important than that was that finally, finally from this close proximity he could make out The Man's eyes. They were dark, though he wasn't sure about the color, but more than that was the desire that he could see simmering in their depths. The pure, concentrated want. It was heady, realizing that he could do this to someone, work them up this much so that despite their considerable composure they could burn this hot for him. Heady, and also extremely arousing. And so when he rasped out, "May I?" it was all Oliver could do to nod, thrusting his hips up, desperate to feel those fingers delving deep inside of him at last.

He was denied this feeling a little longer, but was rewarded with a smile as The Man brought his fingers very much away from where he wanted them to press against his lips.

"Than suck" he purred. He fucking purred, that bastard. Moaning helplessly he curled his tongue around the fingers as they pressed inside, rubbing and thrusting and imitating everything they planned to do to him later. It was the cruelest torture, and his only recompense was that the other man was in as much pain as him. He gave a particularly cruel suck and suddenly found the fingers yanked from his mouth, pressed back down against his hole and then inside. It was just one at first, stretching and rubbing, driving him crazy as he writhed beneath them, but soon it was two and then three, curled just right, mercilessly assaulting is prostate with ruthless precision. He was panting, twisting, the hot coil of desire strung tight inside his belly, perilously close to snapping when suddenly it was gone. He was about to cry out in protest when he felt the blunt tip of The Man's cock lining up with his waiting hole.

"Are you ready?" The Man asked and for once his voice sounded just as wrecked as Oliver's, his voice just as hoarse and needy and God if that didn't make him hotter.

"Yes!" He cried out, arching, desperately trying to fuck himself back on that cock. He felt empty, his body tense and sensitive, "God, yes! Do it already!"

He was rewarded with a sharp thrust, the man's cock fucking deep into him, rubbing all his innermost places. Nudging up against his prostate before pulling out, only to slam ruthlessly back in. Oliver found himself unable to do little more that throw his arms around the other man's neck, bury his face in his shoulder and hold on as he gave his body over to the waves of pleasure that assaulted him. A few skillful strokes of his cock and it wasn't long before he was arching his back, crying out loud and high as he splattered cum hard between the two of them. A few good thrusts later and The Man followed, his seed flowing out inside of Oliver's ass, filling him up in strong hot pulses. The Man continued stroking Oliver lazily, even after he'd stilled his hips, wringing every last drop of pleasure he could before the sensations became too much to bear.

With a pleased little groan, Oliver lifted his head, coming to the somewhat surprising realization that he was being held. The man was bracing one arm on the table, but the other was holding Oliver firmly to him, his hand gently stroking at his hair while he recovered from his high. It was sweet, somehow even more surprising than the spontaneous fucking, and he found himself nuzzling into The Man's neck. He knew he should worry about the safety of what he had just done. The fact that he just allowed himself to be plowed like last year's crops on a little round table behind a curtain by a psychic in a mask whose face he'd never even really seen. The fact that he'd started off terrified of the man and ended with his cum dripping out of his ass all in the course of about…A quick look at his watch confirmed that yes, it had been about an hour. And speaking of cum, he hadn't used protection, hadn't even thought to bring one to this place because seriously, who does that? And yes, his ass burned because spit was terrible lube and he was probably going to catch some horrible disease and die and then his test was going to be a complete nonissue and hey, maybe that's how this charm was going to work, but really, at the moment, cuddled up against the masked man, he really couldn't care less about any of that. That overwhelming feeling of security had yet to fade and he planned to make the most of it.

It was hard living life as a perpetual skeptic. Tiring. Right now, the only thing he wanted to focus on was the warmth of the man's skin, the smell of salt and sex and incense, and the soothing sound of the heartbeat he could feel against his chest. When the man pulled him tighter against him, lowering the two of them to the floor, he went, bonelessly and without question.

The lay there together for a few minutes, content to just be while they came down from their mutual highs. The man's long fingers which had felt so wonderful strumming inside of him, were now running through his hair soothingly. He wondered if The Man still liked it, even the strands he wasn't using to string beads. After a little while the man sat up, feeling around on the floor for something. With a little sound like an "Ah ha!" he settled back down, pulling Oliver back against him.

In the midst of their passion, neither one of them had spared so much as a second thought towards the little charm, innocently lying on the table they had set about debauching. By the end it had found its way onto the floor, though whether it was carelessly knocked or jumped by itself in some magical act of self-preservation was still up for debate. Regardless the man now held it in his hand, hanging it from one finger by the little beaded loop of hair. Honestly Oliver was a little amazed: his hair was obviously stronger than he'd given it credit for. His amazement quickly turned to shock as The Man proceeded to drag the charm through the cooling puddle of cum on his chest.

"What the-" he stammered. "Why would you-"

The man just chuckled, carding his fingers carelessly through Oliver's sweat-damp curls. "The final step, one the charm has been assembled and synced to the holder's soul, is to imbue it with its holders…essence." At Oliver's horrified look, he laughed again. "Usually I opt for something more traditional, like spit or tears. Sometimes blood. All things considered, however, this seemed like an apt substitute." Sitting up, he rubbed the cum into the wood with one finger. Oliver could only watch as slowly, the sticky white substance was absorbed into the charm until the delicate carving of the web shone white. Running his own fingers over it, he was shocked to discover that while he'd been expecting to dig his cum out of the cracks, there was none left to speak of. The wood had absorbed it all, the remaining color but a side effect. When he looked back at The Man, he was just grinning.

It was a little awkward after that. Oliver had wiped them both off with his shirt, tugging his discarded hoodie on over his bare chest and hoping nobody questioned the cum-soaked rag shoved deep inside the pocket. Tugging on his pants, he watched at The Man redressed himself as well, hiding all that warm, smooth skin piece by piece beneath his various layers of clothing. Finally he grabbed the bottom half of his mask settling it firmly on his face before Oliver could offer so much as a word of protest. Once more his entire face was hidden from view, leaving behind a string of hickies and the memory of thin lips and dark eyes. At the thought of the hickies, Oliver couldn't help but rub at his neck, an unwelcome blush stealing across his face. He wondered if they were as bad as they felt and how in hell he was going to explain them to Natasha.

Goodbyes were quick, brief words said in parting. The Masked Man didn't talk much to begin with an Oliver wasn't really sure what to say. What did you say after something like this? Whatever it was, it was considerably harder to say to robed and a skull mask. He had put the candles out, returning the crystal ball to the table, and in the eerie blue light he was once more a man to inspire fear. He might have inspired more had the room not smelled like spunk, but still, the effect was there.

Finally, The Man had placed the charm in Oliver's hand, sandwiching it between his own. He murmured a few indecipherable words, his hands growing unnaturally warm, and Oliver didn't even try to pretend that the charm wasn't vibrating. It stopped after a moment or two, even if his heart didn't, and The Man stepped back. "It is complete." His voice was once more calm and cool as glass, revealing no trace of his earlier passion. Oliver was sad to see it go. "Wear this on your person the day of the test, and you shall most definitely succeed."

"Alright, well…thank you." He replied, shuffling a little. There were a million things he wanted to ask: The Man's name, if he would ever see him again. He even had the insane urge to ask him to dinner. Instead he just thanked him again, gave an awkward little wave, and pushed his way back through the curtain. He waited just a moment, to see if maybe he'd stop him, and told himself that that little flare of disappointment was foolish when he didn't.

The girl was still sitting behind the counter, leaning back in her chair. Her feet were resting by the little silver dragon, her laptop having relocated to her lap. The newest addition to her ensemble was a pair of thick, chunky headphones converting her ears, blaring some song that he could vaguely hear across the small room. She was tapping her foot to the beat of whatever it was, humming absentmindedly. He felt his stomach sink at the realization that she'd obviously been trying to drown them out, and couldn't help but wonder if she'd known to come to work prepared. Was this a common occurrence here? Was this like the cheesy psychic version of some sleazy massage parlor? Had he really just ordered a good luck charm with a happy ending?

Despite the fact that this was easily climbing to the top of his list of things he'd really rather not do, he approached the counter, waving his hand a little to get her attention. She blinked and looked up, a broad smile stretching across her face as she recognized him. She popped a bubble with her gum, eyes dancing merrily for reasons he tried not to think about.

"Well hey there" she grinned, setting her laptop back on the counter. "So, you get everything you needed?"

"Um…" He hated how easily he blushed, hated that he could feel it spilling across his face like paint. Like a giant neon sign that blinked YES, YES I DID AND IT WAS FANTASTIC. WHICH YOU KNOW. BECAUSE YOU HEARD ME. And also possibly, in smaller print, (I HOPE THAT DOESN'T INCLUDE VD. NO ONE REALLY NEEDS VD.) He never was a fan of neon… "So…how much do I owe you?"

She just waved her hand at him. "Don't worry about it, It's on the house okay? In fact…" she leaned over, rummaging through an oversized bag on the floor beside her. "Take this. Complementary." Leaning up over the counter, she spared not a single thought towards his personal space and wrapped a gauzy scarf around his neck. It was dark blue with shiny golden stars scattered across the surface and he was taken aback for a minute before realizing its purpose.

"Oh um…thank you? But I couldn't…"

She just chuckled, her shit-eating grin taking up half her face. "Relax, it's not the first time that scarf's been used like that and trust me, it will not be the last. Now you don't worry about paying or anything. Just go home and get some rest so you can pass Killagan's test. If it really bothers you that much you can just give the scarf back later."

He just blinked, so far gone tonight that it wasn't even funny. Determined not to question anything else, because really sleep sounded just amazing, he mumbled some words of thanks, tucking the scarf a little tighter around his neck and turning to leave when something drew him up short. "Wait!" he asked, spinning on his heel. "How did you know my test was with Killagan?"

The girl paused, giving him a strange look. "I'm Stacey Sherman dude. I'm in your class." He blinked owlishly at her, noting the way her eyes flickered momentarily to the curtain behind her.

"Um…wow, okay." He mumbled, wondering how he had never noticed. Sure, the class was a little big, but was he really so unobservant that he wouldn't have noticed her selectively pink hair sitting in the same classroom as him for months? "Well, good luck to you to then." He mumbled awkwardly, tightening his fingers around the strange little charm and hurrying out, eager for the night to be over. He caught sight of her giving him a little two finger salute on his way out, a funny little smile on her face.