Suburban Fairies

The town of Pine Valley is small and quiet, nestled in the middle of California, home to only about 300 occupants, my family included. It's a perfect place to raise children, I've been told. The statement must have some merit, given how my siblings turned out after a childhood in Pine Valley.

I wasn't born here. I was adopted by the Wests after a brief stay at an orphanage. To this day I can't tell what the West patriarch and matriarch saw in me, what set me apart from the rest of the children, most more **** and deserving than me.

I've learned not to question it, though. There's no satisfactory answer for me. The best response the West can offer is a ‘gut feeling.’ Don't get me wrong, I do believe humans have primal instincts that deserve some grace; my skepticism comes from how useful that is when deciding which child is deserving of a better home, and which are not.

I am grateful for the Wests, though. My stay at that orphanage had made it startlingly clear I wasn't capable of ‘roughing it,’ or surviving out in the world by myself.

“Rhys.” Marilyn's voice halts my musing. My eyes span up, landing on her face and the small concern in her gaze. “You're lost in your thoughts again, honey.” Her voice is soft, melodic, like the sweet tunes of a renowned pianist.

“I'm fine,” I tell her, avoiding her eyes as I lift a glass of milk to my lips and chug it down. “Just thinking.”

The concern smudged across Marilyn's face merely dampened the radiating beauty of her clear, porcelain skin, warm brown eyes, the shape of almonds, and mesmerizingly perfect features.

Marilyn West is the embodiment of a perfect woman; not only with her beauty, but just her life in general. She was once a high-powered corporate lawyer, chewing the wealthiest men and women out in boardrooms and courtrooms, before retiring after her first child, Lila. Now she's a typical suburban housewife, and the matriarch of the West family. Her days now consist of shopping for the family, cooking and cleaning, and her weekly Bookclubs with the other housewives of the town.

She seems happy, content. But there's always a flash of longing in her eyes when she thinks nobody's looking. She misses it, truly misses it. The days when she led and battled. Now her main concerns were making sure three budding teenagers stayed out of trouble.

“What are you thinking about, sweetie?” Marilyn leans forward, her impeccable blonde curls framing a beautiful face that could've put models to shame, her brown eyes sparkling with interest.

“Nothing much,” I say after a beat of contemplation, and turn to stare into the living room.

It's currently taken up by Marilyn's eldest daughter, Lila. The television flashes through images of women in a multitude of different yoga positions, stretching their toned, athletic bodies. My eyes trail down and locate Lila, her arms pressed firmly into the pink yoga mat, straight, shoulders aligned and her spine inverted as her hips lift high towards the ceiling. My gaze traces the curve of her toned, muscular behind, wrapped in tight leggings that accentuate its size and roundness. Blood rises around my groin at the sight.

“Rhys.” Marilyn's voice snaps me out of my gawking. Her hand comes up and lands softly on mine. “Is something the matter?” Her smudge of concern has morphed into full-blown worry.

I don't retract my hand, even as the warmth of her skin on mine shoots jolts of electricity along my flesh. I imitate the most assuring smile I can and say, “I'm fine, mom. I'm just thinking about something. It's not important.”

I shake my head when I see her about to press the issue, plant my free hand on top of hers and give it a gentle squeeze.

It's clear she's not moved, but she finally relents and releases a sigh. I keep her hand firmly in my grip and flash her a disarming smile. “Need any help for breakfast?” I ask, itching to switch to literally any other topic.

She beams at my offer, nodding before rising to her feet and pointing towards the stove. “Of course. Can you get started on the eggs, please?”

I nod and make my way across the kitchen to the stove. Marilyn stands beside me, engaged with the pancake mix and a large clear bowl while I crack several eggs into a bowl.

As she's absorbed with breakfast, I take the opportunity to steal glances at her full, round behind. She sports the largest curves of the women in the house, maybe even in the town. Her wide hips spoke to the multiple children she's pushed out, and the potential she still has for several more. Below her hips lay the largest, roundest butt I've ever seen, its curve and plumpness visible even through her tight, leather jeans.

My cock twitches and I tear my eyes from her, focusing back on the eggs. I lean over to grab a wooden spoon at the same time as Marilyn, our fingers lightly grazing together for only a moment. Electricity sizzles up my arm, but I don't pull away, and a part of me thinks Marilyn won't either, given the way she completely stills.

A tense, charged moment passes, in which neither of us dare to make the first move, before Marilyn abruptly steps back, the motion jerky and sudden. There's a breathless, but deeply conflicted look in her eyes as we stare at each other. Then she laughs a nervous, shaky laugh. “Here you go, honey,” she passes me the spoon without meeting my eye, and wordlessly returns to her dish.

I make a determined effort not to gawk at Marilyn for the rest of our time together, even after we shift away from each other and resume our respective tasks in silence. The air between us seems charged, now, but I can't pinpoint exactly how. Every breath I now take seems labored, more ragged, like I'm afraid to breathe in her presence. I'm tempted to think she feels the same. It feeds some dark, distant desire I harbor to know that I do have an effect on her, regardless of how subconscious it is or how much she tries to reject it.

I can tell it's the same with Marilyn. She stands tense, like a cobra coiled around itself. There's a faint pink hue over her head now, and it's as though she's deliberately trying to avoid looking in my direction.

Eventually we finish with breakfast, set the tables, and announce for the rest of the family to come downstairs. Mr. Alan has already headed to work for the day, so it's just Lila, Marilyn, and I at the dining table.

I eat my food in silence, engaging in small talk only when I'm directly involved or asked a question, and retire to my bedroom. The door creaks then slams shut behind me.

My bedroom is a dark, dim space, courtesy of the blackout curtains drawn across the window. It's cooler than the rest of the house too. The walls are a bland slate grey, matte, absorbing what little sunlight does come in rather than reflecting it. One wall is lined with bookshelves filled with advanced texts–mathematics, psychology, mechanical design, quantum theory, just to name a few. They're my prized possessions, along with the aged, ancient classics I spent years procuring.

Opposite the bed is a tall mirror for observation and reflection. Off to the other side of the wall is my desk, neatly arranged with a state-of-the-art laptop, drafting tools, and stacked notebooks. The chair is ergonomic but well-worn, a testament to the amount of time I spend here than anywhere else in the house.

I pull out the leathered chair with a soft scrape and sink into it. Reaching for my laptop, I drag a finger across the smooth, cool surface before spotting the power button. The screen blooms to life with a soft glow.

For the next few moments I contemplate what to spend time on. Freelancing is the most appealing option, but I'm not in the mood to waste hours for a few bucks. Designing is another alluring option, but again, my stomach churns unpleasantly at the notion of wasting hours drawing and calculating.

“God.” Frustration weaves through the word as I slide the laptop away and bury my face in my hands. Summer truly is the worst human invention. A heavy breath escapes me as I rub my temple with two fingers.

I stretch my hands until a satisfactory pop echoes in the silence, push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, and stand. I make for the way, my fingers wrapping around the doorknob, twisting–

“You might not want to do that.”

My pulse jumps at the unfamiliar voice. I spin, fear creeping up my spine. Two small figures stand at the center of my bedroom, inhumane, absurdly tiny, like little fairies. I back away cautiously until my back presses into the wall.

The feminine half of the two creatures is watching me, observing. Her gaze is unnerving, and my breath catches in response. I open my mouth to scream, but I don't produce a sound. Not even a whimper.

“It's okay,” the feminine creature's voice is smooth like silk, carrying across the room despite her unnaturally miniature stature. Her dark, sun-touched skin blends with the dimness of my room, but it's her eyes that capture my attention. They're bright, like stars on a dark evening sky, so much that it almost hurts looking at her. Her hair is the color of ash.

The other… is floating freely in the sky. My throat works a hard swallow, disbelief mixing with its cousins' shock and fear at the blatant **** of the laws of physics in front of me. Green-haired and upside-down, this creature doesn't elicit the same fear his partner does. He's grinning at me as if I'm a friend he's known forever.

“Hey!” he chirps, his voice excessively cheerful. “Cool room, man. Not a lot of colors, but that's cool. You've got a lot of books, dude.” He blabbers, floating swiftly across the room. His grin stretches until I think he's permanently stuck in that expression.

A fraction of my fear morphs into curiosity as I slide a glance at the feminine creature, only to find she's still staring, intensely, at me. I flinch and hurriedly look away.

I finally find my voice amidst the shock and confusion, and as my heart slams into my ribcage and the urge to flee becomes overwhelming, I blurt out the first question that comes to mind: “What are you guys?”

“Wishkeepers,” the green-haired creature excitedly announces, staring at me in a way that suggests he'd been expecting, or hoping for, more of a reaction.

I can only imagine the expression that's on my face right now, but my gut tells me it's not the excitement he's looking for. I swallow past the dryness in my voice and **** myself to speak, “Wishkeepers?”

“Rhys West.” The feminine creature's hard, but equally silky tone draws my attention back toward her. “You've been granted an honor not many throughout history have been given. We are your assignment Wishkeepers?”

Honor? Granted? What the hell even is a Wishkeepers? My head throbs as questions rapidly form. “What's a Wishkeeper?” I ask quietly, trying to remain level-headed.

“Wishkeepers!” The floating creature repeats, twirling in midair for dramatic flair. “Magical enforcers of the Wishing Society's reality-altering–”

“Ignore him.” She cuts him off with a pointed glare, but her eyes soften a touch when she turns back to me. “We're here because you've been deemed deserving and capable by our leaders for your unique cognitive frequency. That means your brain–however unusual–qualifies you for magical bonding.”

My brows furrow as I attempt to make sense of her words. A unique cognitive frequency isn't unusual. It's been proven by research that many humans have brains that function wholly differently than others. It's the cause of sociopathy and psychopathy. “My cognitive frequency is linked to magic?”

“For simplicity's sake, yes.” Her gaze is observant, assessing, gauging out a reaction while her partner twirls and swivels in the air. Her plump red lips part to release a sigh before she extends a hand to the ceiling and… pulls a long, brown scroll out of nowhere.

I gape at the display, my jaw hanging open as she extends it towards me. Her eyes are sharp, faintly glowing, as she says, “These are the terms of our binding. No ****. No mind control. No **** love or sex. And no mass reality alterations that could have a global catastrophic effect. If you break these…” she passes into silence, but her eyes glint with warning and a pitifully veiled threat.

I meet her gaze with a defiant stare, suddenly not wanting to back down. It's something about the way she watches me that stokes a fire in my chest. “I see.” My voice is tight, and I glance at the green-haired Wishkeeper to see if he'll join the conversation in any helpful capacity. When it's clear he wont, I sigh and return to the feminine creature. “There are two of you?”

“Nyx,” she introduces herself before gesturing to her partner, “and Orin. Usually we Wishkeepers are assigned only to one human each, but an exception was made since Orin and I are newlyweds.”

My gaze flickers to her hands, expecting to see a shining diamond ring on her finger, or at least the Wishkeeper equivalent of it. And there is, wrapped tightly around her right ring finger. A small but dazzling diamond ring.

“I'm strangely accepting of all of this,” I say, hoping they have an explanation for why my internal reaction didn't progress past the initial fear and shock.

“It's your brain frequency.” Nyx starts, strutting across the room before plopping down on the edge of my bed. I'm briefly transfixed by the hypnotic bounce of her round breasts as she sinks into the cotton. “Your mind is inherently attuned to magic, specifically wishing magic. That's why you're not reacting as strongly as others would.”

Her explanation is plausible, and though my clearer instincts warn me to take her words with a grain of salt, I decide to accept her explanation, nodding slowly.

I take a slow breath and rub absently on the carving on my ring to ground myself. My confusion and shock have dulled, and reshaped themselves into something sharper. More useful.

“You're bound to me,” I repeat her words back to her, testing, probing for a reaction.

“Until you die,” Orion adds from another corner of the room, where he's staring intensely at the wall. He doesn't even look away to answer my questions.

“Or break the rules.” Nyx finishes, her stare hard as the implications race through my mind.

I nod and take a slow–cautious–step forward. “May I look over the scroll, please?”

When she hands it to me, I unroll it and begin reading its contents. I don't care about the magic itself, not really. I care about the language. The rules and limitations. Something Nyx said stuck with me. It was so vague.

When I'm done, I look down at Nyx, suspicion crossing my face. “The wording is… loose.” I tell her, frowning. “It seems almost intentional.” I've already found several possible loopholes to the supposed rules.

Nyx arches an eyebrow. “The rules were written by some of the wisest in our world.” There's a sharp edge to her voice, and it's telling. I'm on to something.

I wrap the scroll back up and set it down on the table. “I assume I can start making my wishes, then?”

Orin hums agreeingly from the corner, his gaze still fixed on the wall as though it'd vanish if he looked away for one moment.

Forget Orin, though. Excitement and anticipation bubbles in my stomach. Life is going to be so different from now on. And I've already found a cheeky little loophole to the Wishkeepers’ cosmic laws.

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A/N: I'm back from my self-imposed exile from this website and I have new ideas for this story. The upload schedule isn't fixed, so new chapters will be released randomly as soon as I've written, edited, and reread them. That said, I'll be focusing largely on this new story for now, and my other novel likely won't be updated for a while. I hope you enjoy this new adventure.