#🖊 — wicktober 2024

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐦 ⚜

Sources: One (I lost this link T_T but it was on pinterest. I'll add it if I find it!!) | Two | Three

Event Host: @wickblr

Summary: Sebastian LaCroix gets creative to make Vincent a cup of "hot chocolate" from blood, since he can't eat sweets anymore. (Crossover with Vampire: The Masquerade)

CW: blood, semi-sensual kisses with fangs, and lots of fluff <3

Hot chocolate was a simple enough recipe for kine. For kindred, it was, undeniably, a little more complex, but Sebastian LaCroix had always been a man of ambition. And Vincent had taken the loss of sweets so terribly hard after the embrace…it was really heartbreaking. Something had to be done about it.

LaCroix put his ingenuity to work one day in late October. Vincent had just come in from a blustery night, scattered with the flecks of a first snowfall. The concrete and asphalt floor of LA was just barely too warm for the snow to stick, but the air still stung. Sebastian kissed his lover’s icy cheeks, but it only earned a momentary half-smile before the Marquis’ perfect mouth returned to a pout. “J'espère que tout s'est bien passé? [I trust everything went well?]”

“Votre précieuse Mascarade est intacte. [Your precious Masquerade is intact],” he said, pulling away to sink into the couch by the fireplace. So he was annoyed. Apparently, it had been a long work night.

“Mon associé ne t’a posé aucun problème ? S’il l’a fait, je veillerai à ce qu’il soit convenablement puni. [My associate didn’t give you any trouble? If he did, I’ll see that he’s suitably punished.]”

Vincent shrugged. “Oh, il est mort maintenant. Pas besoin de s'embêter. J'aimerais seulement, les soirs comme ce soir, pouvoir rentrer à la maison avec un parfait ou un vin doux ou… de toute façon. Je vais me nourrir dans un moment, mais ce n'est pas pareil. [Oh, he’s dead now. No need to bother. I only wish, on nights like tonight, that I could come home to a parfait or a sweet wine or…anyway. I’ll feed in a while, but it’s not the same.]”

“Ah. Je suis désolé, mon amour. [Ah. I’m sorry, love.]” Sebastian stifled a smile. He had chosen the perfect day to prepare his recipe, it seemed. “Installez-vous un peu. J'ai quelques affaires à régler en bas. [Settle in for a bit. I have some matters to attend to downstairs.]”

“Bien. [Fine.]” Vincent’s eyes didn’t move from the fire.

In some twenty minutes, Sebastian emerged from the elevator carrying a gold tray, set with an enormous, fluted parfait cup. Vincent was still tucked into his seat, evidently more relaxed now. Sebastian took a moment to just look at him, to admire his quietude. He was reading, with his chin resting on one hand while the other supported the book on his knee. His face was placid and yet engaged, absorbed in some dreamy world, lips moving ever so slightly at times to savor the form of a particular word or phrase. It was almost a shame to disturb him. But Sebastian noticed that he’d also wrapped the throw blanket around himself. Sometimes, it bothered Vincent to be so cold from the inside out – he still wasn’t accustomed to it. And Sebastion could help with that.

He approached delicately, setting the tray on the coffee table in front of him. “Vinny,” he said, sing-song.

“Bast,” came the echo, natural and effortless, even before he closed his book. At last he looked to the coffee table, raising an eyebrow. “Qu'est-ce que c'est? [What is that?]”

“C'est du chocolat chaud pour toi. Et c'est vraiment caféiné. [It’s hot chocolate for you. And it really is caffeinated.]” LaCroix couldn’t help grinning with pride over his handiwork. “J'ai trouvé le noble le plus né possible, je lui ai donné autant de sucreries qu'il pouvait en manger et je lui ai injecté suffisamment de caféine pour qu'il soit mort dans une heure. J'ai même demandé au chef de faire des miracles avec de la mousse de sang et de la poudre d'os pour la chantilly. [I found the highest born nobleman I could, fed him as many sweets as he could eat, and pumped him with enough caffeine injections that he’ll be dead in an hour. I even had the chef work some miracles with frothed blood and bone powder for the whipped cream.]”

Vincent just stared at the cup for a moment, his expression quivering in the most touched sort of way. “Tu as fait ça… pour moi? [You did this…for me?]”

Sebastian smiled. This was one of the many contradictions of Vincent – if he had asked for hot chocolate himself, he wouldn’t have dreamed of being denied his request and would’ve been outraged at anyone who suggested he didn’t deserve it. But when it was a gift, he was painfully overcome with disbelief. “Eh bien, je ne vois personne d’autre dans la pièce, n’est-ce pas ? Essayez-le. [Well I don’t see anyone else in the room, do you? Try it.]”

The cup was big enough that even Vincent had to lift it with both hands (Sebastian wanted to get every last drop of blood that he could). It made him look adorable as he put it to his lips and came away covered in whipped cream. Sebastian leaned over and kissed it off of him, taking the time to run his tongue along each lip and caress each of Vincent’s fangs, which were protruding in eagerness at the taste of blood. He was rewarded with a shiver of pleasure from Vincent. Sebastian sighed against his lover’s mouth. “Mmm… J'ai bien fait, semble-t-il. Il a presque aussi bon goût que toi. [Mmm…I did well, it seems. It tastes almost as good as you.]”

The fresh blood all went to Vincent’s cheeks. “Oui, c'est le cas - presque. Arrête d'être charmant pour que je puisse le boire avant qu'il ne refroidisse. [Yes it does - almost. Stop being charming so I can drink it before it gets cold.]” But he stole another kiss in spite of that, long and fierce with gratitude. His words were barely a whisper. “Je ne sais pas pourquoi tu es si gentil avec moi. [I don’t know why you’re so kind to me.]”

An ache rushed into in his heart, as if it was threatening to start beating. Sebastian fell against the couch next to the Marquis and put an arm around him. “Tu ne peux pas dire des choses comme ça, ma petite fraise, pas autour d'une simple tasse de chocolat chaud. Tu me fais trop sentir comme ça. [You can’t say things like that, my little strawberry, not over a simple cup of hot chocolate. You make me feel too much as it is.]”

For a moment, he was too flustered to speak. “Er - hmmm. Eh bien, je dirai simplement « merci ». [Er - hmmm. Well then, I’ll just say ‘thank you.’]” He noticed Sebastion pulling the blanket over both of them, snuggling up to his side. “Essaies-tu de voler ma chaleur? Ensuite, tu demanderez une gorgée de chocolat et tu ne pourrez pas en avoir. [Are you trying to steal my heat? Next you’ll be asking for a sip of chocolate, and you can’t have any.]”

Sebastion kissed him just above that pesky lapel that was hiding his jugular away. “C’est très bien, de toute façon, je préfère le boire dans ton cou plutôt que dans une tasse. [That’s fine, I’d prefer to drink it from your neck than the cup anyway.]”

“Diablerist,” Vincent giggled, and took another long drink. He came away beaming with a childish joy, and even warmer. Sebastian was starting to feel his faint, gentle heat even through both the vest and the tailcoat. “Tu as interrompu mon livre, Bast. [You interrupted my book, Bast],” he accused, in mock seriousness.

“C'est ce que j'ai fait. Comment puis-je me rattraper? [That I did. How can I make it up to you?]” God, Vincent owned him. He was utterly lost.

“Lisez-moi pendant que je prends mon dessert. [Read to me while I have my dessert.]” The contradiction again - here was the imperious side of Vincent, who had been so shy and grateful just moments ago. And Sebastian was only too happy to obey.

[wickblr]

Hi everyone! With wicktober starting, please do tag this account @wickblr when posting works or use the tag: #wicktober 2024 (regardless of it’s wick week or wicktober btw as to not be too cluttered)

The tag I will reblog with will be #🖊 — wicktober 2024 with the necessary ships, characters, and warnings (if any) added into the tags!

October is coming up soon! What if we had a spooky Wicktober event, like those writing events with a prompt for each day of the month (or every other day or something)? People could answer the prompts with a piece of writing or a drawing, and the prompts could be things like:

Helen Wick’s Ghost

Vampire AU

Serial Killer Santino

Dog’s Halloween Costume

That sort of thing! Would anyone be interested in that?

I’m supposed to be replying w nothing but this is a great idea!

This should have been done like a month ago but I really didn’t think anyone would be interested, so, uh anyways;

I’ve made 2 versions of this since I know a lot of the writers on Wickblr are adults who only do writing as a hobby, so here’s both Wicktober and Wick Week! I don’t know if there’s been a writing event for the John Wick community, but here!

Wicktober is a month long event where people submit their drabbles/fics based off the prompts listed! Considering we aren’t really a strict fanbase, you can switch around the days and prompts—skip a day or few, or just do one! You’re free to use this as a writing ask game for October. Any day can be switched around except Day 24 which is the ten year anniversary of the first John Wick movie and the John Wick series as a whole (happy birthday to the movies!!!)

Feel free to run rampant on the prompts with your own interpretation of it, be more symbolic, be more realistic—just as long as you want to contribute to this event and want to write for it.

Wick Week is a seven day long event, which can be started on any day in October honestly since it’s a week of prompts. It has the same thing going as with Wicktober.

Rules:

- No harassment (some anons are really mean when it comes to people’s writing which is no good since Wickblr is a pretty damn small community)

- No derogatory comments made in the ask box of this blog since I know SOME people really wanna fucking discuss how “bad” some fics are (which you should write yourself if you really think it’s that bad)

- NSFW is allowed, and unlike this blog; x readers, x OCs are allowed, or cc x ccs (ex: helen x john which I will be doing on @marquisedegramont if you wanna see that)

- Make sure to tag #wicktober 2024 or #wick week 2024

- Creators can produce fics/drabbles or drawings

- Add the necessary warnings before every fic, thank you! Some fics may be triggering for some people and they would appreciate warnings beforehand :)

- Post it on ao3! (If you want)

- Do as little or as much as you want. Be self indulgent

- Prompts are free to use after October ends

shameless plug from the mod: art -> @evrensadwrn | writing -> @marquisedegramont and on ao3

and also my furry friends: art -> @tobytheeggo | writing -> @bluelolblue

reblog maybe ?

cr ; cross divider

[thewhumpcaretaker]

𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐕𝐈𝐈: 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

Event Host: @wickblr

Summary: John Wick battles against the memories of The Director telling him he is a serial killer who cannot love.

TW: guilt, emotional child abuse, suicidal thoughts

“You’re a serial killer, Jardani.”

It’s in the back of his head all the time. Not even as a fully formed thought. Certainly not a rational thought. He's aware logically that he doesn't do this because he likes it...right? But he was so good at it, from such a young age. It came so naturally to him. He must like it. He knows what he is. He knows it above all other things. He doesn’t know how many he’s killed. Other people know, probably. People who like killers keep tallies. John doesn't like killers. He doesn't like himself. So he keeps no tallies. He doesn't want to know. And what kind of man doesn’t even know how many people he’s killed?

“You’re a monster, John Wick. The boogeyman.”

Why should he, John Wick, be allowed to have a child when he is the thing that parents tell their children stories about to frighten them into obedience? Why should he have a family or a wife or even a girlfriend? Why should he hold someone gentle in the hands that have been drenched in blood, that have crushed windpipes and snapped spinal columns? He tells Helen not to put their pistol in the bedroom. Never. He doesn’t want to wake up from a nightmare thinking she’s the enemy and - But he knows it doesn’t matter where they keep the gun. He could kill her with his bare hands anyway.

“Jardani. Listen to me. You’re a killer. You can’t love.”

The Director is still leaning over him with her hair in a bun, murderous hand on his shoulder as if what she’s saying is such a tender and important message. Like a proud parent telling him he can do anything he puts his mind to, except she’s telling him what he can’t do instead. He can’t love. She’s always saying this. She’s always standing over him, no matter where he goes or what he does, awake or asleep. And no matter how old he gets, no matter what happens, his answer is always the same.

“The woman I love is stronger than me. She’s more loveable than I am incapable of love. She wins.”

He didn't say it then. He just held his tongue and nodded and kept it in his secret heart. It's not an articulate thought but it comes to him as a victory. Every time, she wins. Before he met her, he knew she would win. He knew it because she was already winning. When he imagined her, he felt himself disappear. Killer? Who’s a killer? Jardani Jovanovich? Never heard of him. No, there’s just a beautiful, open-hearted person somewhere. How is there attention left for anything else when she’s in the world? Some asshole killer is not worth thinking about. He’s already forgotten his own name. Her, on the other hand…

“Even serial killers should make themselves useful for Helen.”

Serial killers get the death penalty. But a death penalty is a waste of someone who could bring Helen her morning coffee. A death penalty is a waste of someone who could hold Helen while she falls asleep. A death penalty is a waste of someone who could behold Helen, and appreciate her in every way, and carry her memory forever. A death penalty is a waste of someone who could love Helen.

“I love Helen.”

There it is, the contradiction. Men of his sort can’t love. And Helen can’t NOT be loved. This paradox is always in his head. This exchange.

“You’re a serial killer, John.”

“I love Helen.”

Love wins every time.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐕𝐈: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬 ⚜

Sources: One | Two | Three

Event Host: @wickblr

Summary: Vincent toys with a candle recklessly to tempt Chidi into playing a dangerous game with him.

CW: smut, wax play/temperature play, bratting, self-harm scare (it's not what Chidi thinks), previously established BDSM relationship

What can Vincent be holding in his secret heart? What patience will win that knowledge? And how can Chidi quiet his own heart without knowing?

With respect, and with love. That is, as always, the answer. Vincent is being silent tonight, and that frightens him every time. But Chidi's worry is his own to manage. He's lucky just to be in Vincent's presence.

The most exquisite man in all the world is sitting at the window, watching the sun die behind clouds too thick to transmit the glow. There’s only a little light at the horizon, as the day turns to night without sunset. Outside, a dismal rain falls gently but persistently, and inside, the lights are off in the bedroom. The only fire of this evening is in Vincent’s hands. He’s taken up a long, white candle, and he’s playing with it more idly than Chidi would like. But then, it lends him that daring quality which Chidi loves, the dark playfulness that sometimes comes over him in the midst of fencing or even a genuine knife fight.

“Assieds-toi avec moi. [Sit with me,]” he says, without turning towards Chidi, and Chidi can think of nothing he’d rather do. He sets a matching chair next to his master.

Vincent is fresh from the bath, warmed and flushed all over. He seems so small, so fragile against the vastness of the autumn evening. Pink rosiness glows out from under the loose fur robe that he’s allowed to slip down off his shoulders. It falls around him as a blanket, giving him the look of someone disheveled, debauched even, to match his tossled, damp hair. The candlelight singes its way across his features in yellow-gold, turning his irises to honey. But Chidi can’t read the look on his face. Pensive? Dreamy? Tense?

He’s staring into the flame, unmoving. The wax pools slowly at its tip, a little hollow of mesmerizing liquid. Chidi watches Vincent watching it, tries desperately to read him. He’s so caught up in the effort that it takes a moment for him to notice how the candle is hovering over Vincent’s lap. It’s starting to tilt.

“Marquis.” He doesn’t answer. He’s doing this on purpose. Chidi’s heart goes into his throat. “Vincent.” Still nothing, not even a change in expression. The wax shimmers.

It’s pure reflex. His hand shoots out to shield Vincent’s skin, a split second before the drip can make contact. On the back of his hand, there’s a fiery sting. It doesn’t hurt as much as he expected but he’s speechless at what just happened. He notices that his hand is still on Vincent’s thigh but doesn’t dare take it away because the candle is still hovering above it. 

Vincent, to his surprise, just breaks into a smile. “Tu trembles. Pour moi. [You’re shaking. For me.]” There’s real tenderness coloring his voice. He leans forward and leaves a reverent kiss on Chidi’s lips in reward. 

He swallows, trying to focus on the problem at hand. “Bien sûr que je le suis. Monsieur, pourquoi avez-vous - [Of course I am. Sir, why did you - ]"

“C'est une bougie spéciale. Tu aimes ça ? Je l'ai acheté dans un club à Rome. La cire fond à une température plus froide que la plupart des autres, suffisamment froide pour couler sur la peau. C'est pour le plaisir. [It's a special candle. Do you like it? I got it at a club in Rome. The wax melts at a cooler temperature than most, cool enough to drip on skin. It’s for fun.]”

Oh. Chidi’s heart refuses to fall back into its regular rhythm, even as he exhales. “Ne m’effraie pas comme ça. Je pensais que tu étais… imprudent. [Don’t scare me like that. I thought you were…being reckless.]”

All he offers is a smug grin and a shrug. “Tu as ressenti un frisson, je peux le dire. C'est tellement protecteur… En tout cas, c'est plutôt sûr. Bien sûr, il y a parfois des histoires d'horreur à propos d'impuretés dans la cire qui fondent trop fort. Des cicatrices permanentes… on ne sait jamais ce qui peut arriver. Mon garde du corps devrait s'en préoccuper, n'est-ce pas ? [You got a thrill out of it, I can tell. So protective… Anyway, it’s quite safe. Though of course, there are occasional horror stories of impurities in the wax that melt too hot. Permanent scars…one never knows what could happen. My bodyguard ought to be concerned with that, wouldn’t you agree?]” His hand drifts back, threatening a spot closer to his torso, where Chidi’s hand is no longer in the line of gravity. With a lurch of adrenaline, he follows, just in time to be struck by another searing droplet. He’s farther up Vincent’s thigh now, and acutely aware of how his thumb is pressing against the inside of the flesh.

A game is afoot. Follow the fire. Protect the Marquis.

Vincent leans back, as if he’s just getting comfortable, and lets the robe fall open. Chidi can’t help stealing a glance at his erection before locking eyes with him again. They’re both breathing too fast. But he’d better keep his focus on the candle - now it’s close to the V-line of his hip. (V for Vincent. V for voluptuous.) Chidi’s hand slides up to follow, feeling the dips and the curves and the sudden hits of pain. Vincent’s thigh is all disused muscle and gentle plumpness, the innocence of a body that has never known physical labor. Chidi presses into it to convey his urgency. The sense of danger still lingers, the need to prove that he’ll never let Vincent feel even an ounce of pain on his watch. 

Vincent keeps moving the candle. Up. Back down, up again. He’s puppeting Chidi’s hand, teasing himself with it. He bites back a moan but the way it changes his breathing still halts Chidi’s. In another second he moans anyway, frustrated - he’s teased himself too much and now he can’t take it anymore. 

Then the candle is over his cock. Chidi could swear Vincent’s eyebrow twitches upward just a fraction in challenge.

There’s no hesitation. Chidi grabs it, cupping the tip in protection. The candle flickers as Vincent tenses up with sudden pleasure. “Putain… [Fuck...]”

“C'est dangereux, monsieur. [This is dangerous, sir,]” Chidi admonishes. “Si ça coule ici, ça fera trop mal, peu importe le type de bougie. [If it drips here it will hurt too much, no matter what kind of candle it is.]” He's still shaking. But he doesn’t safeword.

“Alors tu ferais mieux d’être extrêmement prudent avec moi. [You’ve better be exceedingly careful with me then.]” The Marquis' voice is unnaturally soft and heady. 

God, this man will be the death of him. “...D'accord, je le serai. […Okay, I will be.]” Chidi puts a second hand at the base of his cock, now enveloping it completely.

The Marquis grips at the arm of the chair, making the most gratified sorts of noises, while a lazy drop of wax strays onto Chidi’s wrist. Vincent throws his head back, breaking eye contact for the first time in their little game. “S’il te plaît… ne reste pas assis là. Ne vois-tu pas que ce n’est pas suffisant de supporter ma douleur ? Fais-moi plutôt ressentir quelque chose de bien. [Please…don’t just sit there. Don’t you see it’s not enough to take my pain? Make me feel something good in its place.]”

And of course, Chidi obeys. He translates the heat in his hands into long, sensual strokes that wring heavenly noises out of Vincent. It seems to go on forever in that otherworldly space of total service and devotion. The candle is their hourglass and time counts forward only by each drop of wax. With every hit, both of them jump, heightening the tension. 

Vincent’s breathing is getting heavier, his eyes half lidded. The candle is burning low, and as the flame approaches his master’s fingers, Chidi’s fear becomes more real. He accelerates his pace until Vincent’s hips start to thrust upward into his grip. Good, he’s close to losing control.

Everything is on fire now. If Chidi has a body outside of his busy hands and the bulge straining at his inseam, he has lost all awareness of it. It’s swallowed in the pure sex of those delicious sensations, in the scent of wax and smoke and Vincent’s musky-sweet pheromones, in the sight of Vincent’s parted lips and shadowed eyes, in the next huge drop of wax building up at the edge of the candle.

The final rush of warmth comes not from above, but flooding into his palm, accompanied by a high-pitched whine and a string of French expletives as Vincent melts completely under his touch. Chidi loses himself in it, in a bodily sympathy for Vincent. He realizes too late that there’s a wet spot forming in his slacks. 

Vincent giggles. “Regarde ce que tu as fait. Je - [Look what you’ve done. I - ]“

“La flamme, monsieur! [The flame, sir!]” It’s glowing right against Vincent’s fingers now. Before anything can happen, Chidi’s breath snuffs it out. With a swift motion, he sends it flying onto the windowsill where it can't touch Vincent anymore.

There’s darkness. Silence. Only the light of the blue-black sky and the patter of raindrops and the ocean of their breathing. Vincent amends his phrasing. “Regarde ce que tu fais pour moi. [Look what you do for me.]” There’s no misinterpreting the affection in his gaze now. He leans forward.

The last whisper of smoke is trapped between their joining lips.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

𝑾𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑾𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝑰𝑰: 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆

In dreams, John remains caught in a horrific moment. | TW: Grief. | Event Organizer: @wickblr | Image source.

She won't stop dying. She's flickering in open flames, She's breaking on the wind in ashes. She's fading out of picture frames, No, she won't stop dying.

She won't stop dying. He's up at 4 AM, he's breathing water. He's asleep at 3 PM, and he's in hell. He's screaming for her life - it doesn't matter. No, she won't stop dying.

She won't stop dying. There's a song below the world that never ceases. There's her endless, failing light, above all things. There's an ache that always (never fully) eases. No, she won't stop dying.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐕: 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐫𝐝 ⚜

John and Vincent help each other mourn for Helen and Chidi. Compatible with Beyond Judgement. I like to think they did this when everything was over. | Event host: @wickblr

[thewhumpcaretaker]

✦ 𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐈𝐕: 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 ✦

Sources: One | Two | Three

Event Host: @wickblr

Summary: After faking his death at the duel, John has gone into hiding deep in the desert to preserve his peace. Sofia Al-Azwar begs him to come back to the everyday world...and confesses her love. This is my first time writing John x Sofia! I hope it seems like them...

CW: Kissing, and that's about it. It's just angst and fluff.

The air is perfectly still, and dry with oncoming winter. But here, it’s always dry. It’s the richness of burning wood that truly makes the moment feel like autumn.

Night is making its way down in a blue-black gradient, the lowering of a ceiling rather than a sky. There’s nothing but sand for so many miles. And everything has already happened. What future is there? The space feels eternal. An epilogue.

“John. How long will you wander alone out here?” Sofia’s fingers weave deeper into his hair. His head is in her lap, both of them staring into the campfire, and she’s just…petting him. He needs touch so badly, after some seven hundred lonely nights. It’s been two years now, since he faked his death. And Sofia is the only one who knows where he is.

He doesn’t answer for so long that she thinks he’s fallen asleep. Then, “Long as I live.”

In front of her crossed legs, Dog whimpers and licks John’s forehead. Then he moves off to curl up with Lerna and Orthus, the three of them forming a cozy, tangled pile on the other side of the flames.

Sofia shakes her head, even though John’s not looking at her. “You fought so hard to survive. Why don’t you fight the same way to get back to a normal life?”

“It’ll all just happen again. I’m tired, Sofia.” He sounds that way. His voice is even rougher than usual.

“Dog’s tired. He’s tired of getting sand in his paws every time we visit you. Come back to the hotel with me.” She knows it’s futile. They’ve had the conversation dozens of times. But every time, she says it anyway.

“Give it up.”

“You know I’m too stubborn for that. It’s how I survived: being too stubborn to give up on myself. You deserve the same persistence. Hell, you were so persistent for…well, for Helen’s sake.” What did she almost say there? For the sake of his friends? For her sake? She knows that’s not why. Sofia frowns deeply. “She wouldn’t want to see you living like this. It’s no way to honor her memory.”

That strikes a nerve. His voice has a little more edge to it this time. “She wanted me free. Out here I’m free.”

He’s pissing her off by this point. Her hand stops moving over his hair for a second. Let him feel the weight of what he’s doing. “You’re alone, John. I'm surprised you haven't lost your mind out here. This is solitary confinement. It's torture. Stop it.”

His answer is the same as ever. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.” As if he already knows his answer. But unconsciously, he curls closer against her body, hugging her knees.

The silence reigns again. Sofia leans down over his body, embracing his whole torso to give him as much contact as possible in the little time they have before she’s back in the world of struggling against the High Table, of day-to-day life. He should be there too. Anything, anything to reach him… “People love you. Living people.” It’s a second before she realizes what she’s said.

But he knows. Of course he knows. “…I love you too.” John shifts onto his back, where he can reach up and hold her in kind and god, it almost breaks her. She feels like she’s holding his body back from a motionless river, the waterless, unforgiving current of the dunes. A stagnation, instead of motion, but he could sink and drown in it just the same as water. She won’t let that happen to him. Let his life be a life, not just a haunted survival. Please…

His breath against her lips is proof that his head is still above the waves. And then they’re breathing into each other, biting at each other’s lips, stubble and teeth and refusal to let go, his hand tangled in her hair now too. They get primal so quickly, they understand each other’s vicious energy and bring it out of one another. Fists on each other’s backs, pulling each other closer. Sofia topples over, and now they’re laying side by side. She pulls his head back for a second by the hair, staring fiercely into his eyes. “It’s too dusty for sex out here. Come home with me and we’ll fuck on a nice plush rug in front of the fire.”

He just laughs, and kisses her again. Goddammit. Well. At least that wasn’t a no. Sofia settles against him, staring up at the stars and allowing herself the recklessness of hope.

Night has fallen entirely. The sun is dead beyond the black horizon. But a light still glows: the flicker of her campfire. It will come to him in a cycle of months instead of days, but it will always come back. There’s still light at the end of the world.

[wickblr]

This is absolutely heartbreaking :(

The first 3 lines </3 she’s absolutely his fire in his life

𝑾𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑾𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝑰𝑰: 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆

In dreams, John remains caught in a horrific moment. | TW: Grief. | Event Organizer: @wickblr | Image source.

She won't stop dying. She's flickering in open flames, She's breaking on the wind in ashes. She's fading out of picture frames, No, she won't stop dying.

She won't stop dying. He's up at 4 AM, he's breathing water. He's asleep at 3 PM, and he's in hell. He's screaming for her life - it doesn't matter. No, she won't stop dying.

She won't stop dying. There's a song below the world that never ceases. There's her endless, failing light, above all things. There's an ache that always (never fully) eases. No, she won't stop dying.