#A winters shroud; Visage

[rainforestakiie]

Adamsapple Month Harvest

Pumpkins~

@adamsappleweek

whoa! i got it finished it in time! i wanted to write more and i might come back to this idea later! but for now, enjoy a creepy pumpkin twist! hope you all like it!

For as long as Adam could recall, he had dwelled in the shadowy embrace of Hallow-Eve, a town steeped in autumn's eerie charm. He had never ventured beyond its mist-shrouded borders; his family’s roots run deep in the soil of this peculiar place.

Even during their rare escapades, they merely retreated to the heart of the town, seeking solace at Miss Sera's Inn, where the air was thick with the whispers of the past. Hallow-Eve revelled in the spirit of Halloween year-round, its streets adorned with gnarled pumpkins and sinister decorations, dismissing the likes of Christmas or Easter. Instead, they celebrated with a chilling twist—exchanging sweets nestled in coffins for Easter and gathering around a 'dead tree' come winter, its branches draped with ghostly ornaments.

Adam had only ever known life on the town's enchanting pumpkin patch, a sprawling expanse of vibrant orange nestled among shadows, where townsfolk flocked daily in search of the most haunting harvests. While he supposed there was never a mundane moment amid the revelry, a weariness clung to him like a thick fog, suffocating his spirit.

He longed for the warmth of a traditional Christmas, the intoxicating aroma of a festive feast wafting through the air, instead of the relentless onslaught of skeletal decorations and pumpkin pies. Halloween’s nightly escapades, filled with children donning ghastly costumes, left him yearning for the innocent delights of chocolate eggs and lavish dinners that never seemed to grace their table.

It was as if Hallow-Eve existed in an eternal autumn, with summer and winter shunning its gloomy charm. The trees stood in perpetual decay, their leaves a tapestry of gold and crimson, forever caught in the throes of a hauntingly beautiful fall, the air crisp and unyielding.

Leaning against a towering stack of pumpkins, Adam's piercing green eyes surveyed the patch, glistening under the pale light of a waning moon. In a matter of hours, families would arrive, their excitement palpable as they sought the most spine-chilling pumpkins to carve. His mother, with her uncanny knack for the macabre, often hosted spirited carving mornings, teaching eager youngsters the art of transforming innocent gourds into grotesque visages. Renowned for her chilling creations, she wielded her carving knife with a flair that sent shivers down spines, bringing the town's Halloween spirit to life in the most haunting of ways.

A black crow suddenly soared overhead, its ominous shadow flitting across the ground before it landed directly in front of Adam. With a haunting croak, the bird flapped its sleek, obsidian wings, bobbing its pointed head as if sizing him up. Adam frowned, a wry smirk creeping onto his lips as he regarded the feathered omen. “I don’t suppose you’re here to warn me of misfortune?” he teased dryly. “Black crows are notorious harbingers of bad luck.”

The crow squawked again, flapping its wings and pecking its long beak beneath its wing, as if unconcerned by Adam’s quips. Clicking his tongue in dismissal, Adam turned away, a soft hum escaping his lips. In Hallow-Eve, it was common knowledge that a black crow’s appearance foreshadowed calamity. His grandmother had been the sort to throw salt at the birds whenever they crossed her path, and don’t even get him started on the folklore surrounding black cats.

Returning to his duties, Adam began inspecting the pumpkins, removing the rotting ones or the less desirable specimens. It was hard work, and while he had once relished tending to the vibrant gourds as a child, a suffocating boredom now clouded his enthusiasm. He craved something more, a taste of adventure beyond the confines of his routine.

“Adam!” a melodic voice called, pulling him from his reverie. His mother waved him over, beckoning him toward the towering wooden archway adorned with a macabre display of skulls and bone-like decorations.

“Can you come here for a moment?”

With a sigh, Adam straightened up, tugging off his gloves and tossing a small pebble aside. He approached the archway, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves lingering in the cool air. As he emerged from the wall of pumpkins, he noticed three figures standing with his mother. One appeared noticeably shorter than the other two, and he squinted, trying to discern the peculiar scene.

“Adam, come meet our new neighbours!” His mother beamed, excitement dancing in her eyes. “They’ve just moved in.”

Just moved in?

Adam’s eyebrows shot up at the revelation. He’d never heard of anyone moving to or from Hallow-Eve; it was a town steeped in tradition, and this was utterly new.

“Hi,” he mumbled, shifting to stand beside his mother.

He blinked awkwardly, taking in the sight before him. The shorter figure seemed older than the two taller females. The blonde girl, with her cascading golden curls and flawless porcelain skin, could easily be mistaken for royalty—save for the unsettlingly vibrant red of her lips and the strange way her cheeks seemed to glow. For a fleeting moment, he could have sworn they both had red circles on their cheeks and no noses, but when he blinked, they were just… normal.

Weird.

The other girl was a stark contrast, with her long, thick braids of purple and grey that cascaded down her shoulders. She was slightly shorter than the blonde, sporting a hooked nose and soft, grey eyes that held secrets. Her black lips curled into an expression that straddled the line between a smile and a frown, leaving Adam uncertain of her feelings.

“Hello!” the shorter man exclaimed cheerfully, thrusting a gloved hand toward Adam. “Nice to meet you! I’ve just moved in with my daughters!”

Adam hesitated, eyeing the man’s gloves, which appeared oddly oversized, hinting at something more claw-like beneath the soft fabric. When his mother nudged him with her elbow, he sighed and reluctantly extended his hand. He jolted in surprise as the man’s grip tightened around his, nearly yanking him off his feet.

“My name is Lucifer!” the man declared, his eyes twinkling with mischief as a soft blush painted his cheeks. “This is my daughter, Charlie!”

The blonde girl beamed widely, her eyes sparkling with an unsettling charm that sent shivers racing down Adam’s spine. Dazed from the force of Lucifer’s handshake, he could only nod.

Charlie chirped, bouncing on her feet with an energy that felt almost infectious, “It’s nice to meet you!”

“And this is Vaggie, my daughter’s girlfriend, but I’ve taken her under my wing as my daughter as well!” Lucifer added, gesturing proudly to the purple-haired girl beside him. He flashed a bright grin at her, and Vaggie returned it with a delighted smile that still felt shrouded in mystery.

Adam slowly nodded, bewildered. He pulled his hand to his chest, stuttering slightly, “Wait, did you say Lucifer? Like, the devil?”

The look on Lucifer’s face sent a chill down Adam’s spine, his cherry-red lips curling back to reveal a row of sharp, gleaming teeth. His blue eyes sparkled with an unsettling allure, his long lashes fluttering as he leaned closer.

“Yes,” he hissed, his forked tongue slipping between his lips in a way that made Adam’s heart race. “Exactly~”

“But don’t worry, compared to what it looks like, he doesn’t bite,” Charlie joked, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Lucifer gasped dramatically, turning to his daughter with mock horror. “Don’t say that, Charlie! I like biting!”

The two burst into laughter, and even Adam’s mother joined in, her voice light and melodic. Vaggie, however, still smiled but facepalmed with a groan, leaving Adam feeling like an outsider in a bizarre joke he didn’t quite understand. He took a step back, a strained smile plastered on his face as the odd energy radiating from the new family felt too peculiar to bear.

Lucifer’s gaze bore into him, as if he were contemplating a delicious meal. As if reading Adam's thoughts, Charlie flashed a wide grin that revealed too many sharp teeth, her eyes gleaming like a predatory cat.

“Um, right…” Adam laughed awkwardly, glancing at his mother in disbelief.

His eyes screamed, ‘Are you seeing this bullshit?’ but his mother seemed blissfully oblivious to the spectacle unfolding before her.

“Er, I... I think I’ll go... you know, get back to work…” Adam stammered, desperate to escape from this sharp-toothed stranger who was eyeing him as though he were a delectable morsel. “Because, you know, these pumpkins won’t prepare themselves for the kids.”

His mother shot him a look that was both perplexing and disconcerting, one he couldn’t quite decipher and truly didn’t want to. He took another awkward step back, raising a hand in a half-hearted wave toward his bizarre new neighbours, preparing to make his escape.

“Oh! Please wait!” Charlie exclaimed, her delicate hand darting forward to grasp Adam's arm. Damn, she had her father’s strength, practically yanking him off his feet. “We’re actually here to pick up a couple of pumpkins; you can help us choose some, right?”

Adam’s green eyes widened in disbelief, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. That was the last thing he wanted. He had no intention of spending time with them, not at all!

“I have to be honest; we don’t know a thing about pumpkins,” Lucifer chimed in cheerfully, perhaps a bit too cheerfully, his grin stretching wide enough to reveal his unnerving teeth. “We’ve got rocks for brains~”

Adam’s mouth opened in protest, the words of refusal hanging on his lips. He had too much work to do and didn’t want to deal with them. But as he caught sight of his mother’s face, which brightened with an unexpected glimmer of relief, his resolve began to waver.

“Of course! Adam would be thrilled to help you all out, wouldn’t you, Adam?” she said, her voice a strange mix of encouragement and something else he couldn’t quite identify.

Faced with that knowing look, Adam felt his stubbornness melt away. His cheeks flushed crimson as he noticed all three of his new neighbours’ eyes fixed intently on him. With a deep, resigned sigh, he nodded, gesturing for them to follow.

“Um, sure, yes, just… follow me,” Adam mumbled quietly, his heart racing as he led the way into the patch, feeling the weight of their curious gazes on his back.

His skin prickled with unease, every hair on his body standing on end as he led the trio down the winding pumpkin patch trail. A palpable sense of danger loomed in the air, as if something predatory lurked just beyond his peripheral vision, ready to pounce. Fear coiled tightly in his throat, making it hard to swallow.

Adam felt like a timid mouse, surrounded by three hungry cats—each one more menacing than the last. The weight of their gazes felt like a tangible force, pressing down on him, and he was filled with an overwhelming urge to bolt, to flee from the chilling atmosphere that seemed to thrum with unspoken threats. He had never experienced such a sensation before, the instinctive drive to escape prickling at his every nerve, urging him to run from the impending danger.

As Adam guided them into the sprawling rows of pumpkins, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the ground beneath his feet was somehow shifting with each step, as if the earth itself were alive and aware. Charlie’s reaction was immediate and infectious. She gasped, her eyes widening like bright, gleaming orbs of wonder, and she squealed with pure delight that echoed through the crisp autumn air. Her smile was so radiant, so sweetly innocent, that for a fleeting moment, Adam found himself questioning whether he had judged them too harshly at first.

“Look at all the pumpkins!” Charlie exclaimed, her voice a melodious chime as she clasped Vaggie’s hand, practically bouncing on her toes. “They’re stunning! Absolutely perfect!”

Vaggie chuckled, a warm, rich sound that wrapped around Adam like a comforting shawl.

“Calm down, babe, or you’ll lose your hair,” she teased, rolling her eyes affectionately.

Charlie pouted for a second before pressing a soft kiss on Vaggie's cheek, her exuberance bubbling over as she practically dragged her deeper into the patch, fully intent on selecting the finest pumpkins. Adam couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Vaggie, watching her struggle to keep up with Charlie's electrifying energy. Yet there was a glow on Vaggie’s face, a happiness that seemed to radiate like the golden autumn sun, making Adam second guess his first impression of her.

But as they ventured further into the patch, leaving Adam momentarily isolated, he suddenly realized he was not alone. The air around him felt charged, and he stiffened under the weight of Lucifer's gaze, intense and unwavering. Adam turned his head to meet those striking blue eyes, deep and captivating like twin oceans swirling with secrets. An involuntary shiver danced along his spine as Lucifer broke into a grin, one that sent a fluttering thrill through Adam’s chest.

“Um,” Adam stuttered, sheepishly smiling back, unsure of how to bridge the strange silence enveloping them.

Desperate to dispel the eerie tension, he glanced around, his eyes landing on another black crow that had landed behind Lucifer, its glossy feathers glinting ominously in the fading light. The crow flapped its wings, adding an unsettling rhythm to the moment.

Unable to endure the silence any longer, Adam blurted out, “So, where did you live before moving to Hallow-Eve Town?”

Lucifer rocked on his heels, a low hum escaping his lips as he considered the question.

“Somewhere far away,” he mused, his voice smooth and melodious. “You’ve never been there before. It’s not like Hallow-Eve.”

Intrigued, Adam pressed, “What do you mean?”

With a fondness that surprised Adam, Lucifer’s gaze drifted across the autumnal landscape, lingering on the fiery hues of leaves swirling in the crisp breeze. “The place I came from was very hot and humid. It’s different from Hallow-Eve Town,” he replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I like it very much.”

A chill skittered down Adam's spine at Lucifer’s words, the way he spoke made the hairs on the back of Adam’s neck stand on end. “I can’t say I agree with you,” he admitted awkwardly, forcing himself to maintain eye contact.

Instantly, Lucifer’s expression sharpened, those azure eyes widening as they locked onto Adam’s. “You don’t like Hallow-Eve Town?” he asked, his tone almost conspiratorial, as if he had uncovered a secret. “Do you want to leave, then?”

The way he asked it felt like a victory, as if he had struck gold in the midst of their strange exchange. Adam felt a heat rise to his cheeks as he sheepishly shrugged, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, I guess I don’t want to stay here… I really want to leave.”

Lucifer’s grin widened, revealing those sharp, gleaming teeth once more, as he leaned in slightly, his voice dripping with intrigue. “Where would you go? Somewhere hot?”

Adam paused, a flutter of uncertainty swirling in his chest. Somewhere hot? He had never truly contemplated a destination, only the fervent desire to escape. He released a soft hum, his thoughts swirling like the autumn leaves dancing around them. The idea of venturing somewhere beyond the pumpkin patch, away from the creeping shadows of Hallow-Eve Town, ignited a flicker of hope within him.

“I— I don’t know,” he finally admitted, glancing away, as if the weight of Lucifer’s gaze would pin him to the earth. “I’ve just… always wanted to go.”

With that, the air thickened with unspoken possibilities, the autumn night closing in around them like a velvet curtain, leaving Adam teetering on the precipice of something both thrilling and terrifying.

Adam hesitated, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips as he shifted on his feet.

“Yeah, maybe somewhere hot,” he mused aloud, letting his imagination wander. “I could see myself enjoying the sun... maybe a place where the warmth seeps into your bones and the nights are still.”

Lucifer’s pleased hum broke through the crisp autumn air, almost like a purr of satisfaction. The sound was unsettling, too intimate, as though Adam had unknowingly revealed something far deeper than a passing thought.

Lucifer's piercing blue eyes never wavered from Adam’s face as he asked, his voice low and curious, “Would you ever come back? To visit your family, I mean.”

The question caught Adam off guard, and he frowned, giving Lucifer a strange look.

“Of course I would,” he replied, confusion lacing his tone. “I love my family. Sure, they can be a bit... much sometimes, but they’re still my family.”

Lucifer’s grin stretched wide, his sharp teeth glinting in the soft light of the fading day.

“I like that,” he said, his voice rich with approval. “A family man. That’s perfect.”

The way Lucifer said "perfect" made Adam’s skin crawl, a strange mixture of flattery and something darker curling around the word. It felt like there was a hidden layer beneath his words, something Adam wasn’t catching. He opened his mouth to ask what Lucifer meant, but before he could, Charlie’s excited voice pierced the air.

“Dad! Come here, you’ve got to see these pumpkins!” she called, her voice like honey, dripping with enthusiasm.

Lucifer’s grin deepened, and without a moment’s hesitation, he turned and strode toward his daughter, leaving Adam standing alone in a swirl of confusion. Adam stared after them, feeling a sense of unease creep into his bones. It was as though a vital piece of the puzzle had slipped through his fingers, something important, something he should have caught but didn’t.

Awkwardly, he trailed after Lucifer, his steps slow and hesitant, his mind still trying to wrap itself around the strange interaction. His eyes flickered toward Vaggie, who was standing just beyond the rows of pumpkins, her purple-and-grey braids swaying slightly in the breeze. As his gaze met hers, he noticed something odd—her eyes held an emotion he hadn’t expected: pity.

Adam’s confusion deepened, his brow furrowing. Why would she look at him like that? Did she know something he didn’t? He wanted to ask, but the weight of her gaze made him feel even more out of place. He tore his eyes away from her, glancing back towards his house at the edge of the pumpkin patch.

His stomach twisted as he spotted his parents standing on the porch, their arms crossed, silhouettes dark against the dimming sky. He was too far away to make out their expressions, but something about their posture made a chill creep down his spine. They were just standing there, watching—watching him, Lucifer, the whole scene. The air around the house seemed to thrum with a strange, unsettling energy.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, Adam’s eyes lifted to the roof of the house. His breath caught in his throat.

A dozen black crows had gathered there, their sleek, inky feathers shimmering in the dying light. They stared down at him, silent and still, their dark eyes glinting like polished onyx. It was as if they were waiting for something, their presence an ominous, creeping shadow over the house. Adam’s heart hammered in his chest, a gnawing sense of dread settling in his gut.

“What’s going on?” he whispered to himself, the words barely audible.

The crows didn’t move, their eerie stillness amplifying the strange, heavy atmosphere that had been building all afternoon.

Adam’s mind raced, the strangeness of it all closing in around him. He didn’t know what was happening, but something in his gut told him this day wasn’t like the others. Something was shifting, and he was at the centre of it, though he couldn’t see how—or why.

He swallowed hard, feeling as though the world was watching him, waiting for him to make the next move. And as Lucifer’s voice floated back to him on the breeze, that same low, pleased hum, Adam couldn’t help but feel like he was being pulled deeper into something he didn’t fully understand. Something dangerous, something he might not be able to escape from once it had fully wrapped its tendrils around him.

Adam was ripped from his spiralling thoughts at the sound of his name, the touch of a hand sending a jolt through his body like ice water down his spine. He jerked around, blinking furiously as his gaze landed on Lucifer, standing much too close for comfort, his hand resting lightly on Adam’s arm.

The touch burned, though it was cold, and Adam bit his bottom lip nervously, trying to suppress the strange fluttering that came with it. His eyes darted awkwardly from one face to another, realizing all three of them—Lucifer, Charlie, and Vaggie—were staring at him again.

“Er… yes?” Adam managed, voice a bit too high, sheepish as he shifted under their combined gazes.

Lucifer’s pout was almost cartoonish, lips pursed in a teasing mock of disappointment. “What’s got your attention, Adam?”

His voice was smooth, too smooth, like silk wrapping around his name. Lucifer’s eyes flickered toward Adam’s house, the movement almost imperceptible, but Adam followed the glance instinctively.

He turned just in time to see the murder of black crows on the roof take off all at once, their wings exploding into the air like thunderous shadows, spiralling into the darkening sky. The sight was eerie, unnatural, as if the crows had been waiting for some silent cue. The flurry of feathers and ominous cawing made Adam’s blood run cold.

Lucifer snorted beside him, an amused sound that seemed too casual for the unsettling scene.

“Don’t pay attention to crows, Adam,” Lucifer teased, his grin widening as he tugged at Adam’s arm with surprising strength, pulling him away from the sight. “They flip-flop all the time—never can decide what they want.”

Adam barely had time to process Lucifer’s words before he was being dragged—rather forcefully—toward Charlie and Vaggie, who were still standing in the pumpkin patch. Charlie’s face lit up when they arrived, her smile bright and innocent, though something about it sent a shiver down Adam’s spine. Vaggie, always the quieter one, still had a small smile on her lips, but her gaze was steady, a little too knowing.

“Do you like apples, Adam?” Charlie chirped, bouncing on her heels as she reached out to pick up a small pumpkin, cradling it like a prize.

“No, not really,” he said, unsure why the question had been asked. Adam blinked; his confusion clear on his face.

Lucifer chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the autumn air, but he said nothing, though his grin deepened, almost feral. Adam’s frown deepened in response, wondering if he was the butt of some joke he didn’t understand.

Vaggie shook her head, still smiling, and nudged Charlie playfully.

“Stop teasing him,” she chided lightly, though her own chuckle betrayed her amusement.

Adam furrowed his brow, glancing between them. “What’s going on? What’s so funny?”

Charlie waved her hand dismissively, still giggling. “Oh, it’s just an inside joke. Don’t worry about it!”

She grinned wider, eyes twinkling with mischief, and before Adam could pry further, she pointed to a large, misshapen pumpkin with a crooked stem. “I want that one.”

Adam blinked, staring at the pumpkin with a perplexed look. “You sure? It’s… kind of ugly.”

Vaggie snorted beside him, nodding her head in agreement. “I’m with Adam on this one, it’s not exactly winning any beauty contests.”

Charlie gasped dramatically, clutching Vaggie’s arm in mock offense.

“How dare you gang up on me with Adam!” she exclaimed, but her laughter broke through, her voice light and airy. She looped her arm through Vaggie’s, giggling as Vaggie leaned in to kiss her cheek teasingly.

Adam couldn’t help but smile at their playful affection, the sweet way they moved together like a pair of dancers caught in their own private rhythm. For a moment, the weight of the eerie atmosphere lifted. There was something undeniably charming about the way they looked at each other, like they were in their own world.

But just as Adam began to relax, that gnawing sense of unease slithered back in. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he became acutely aware of Lucifer’s gaze once more. It was intense, almost predatory, and when Adam met his eyes, he was caught in them—blue and impossibly deep, like staring into the abyss of an ocean.

Lucifer wasn’t smiling anymore. His expression was unreadable, but those eyes… they burned with something. Something that made Adam’s heart race, not with excitement, but with fear.

A cold sweat formed at Adam’s temples, and his throat tightened as he tried to break the spell Lucifer’s gaze had cast. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, and Adam suddenly wished he could disappear into the earth like the pumpkins they were surrounded by. There was a weight in Lucifer’s stare, something that made Adam feel like prey—like he was being sized up, toyed with.

His mouth went dry as he forced out a nervous chuckle, trying to break the tension.

“So, you really like that pumpkin, huh?” he said, addressing Charlie but feeling Lucifer’s presence looming beside him, a shadow that refused to go away.

Lucifer finally grinned again, but this time, it was slower, more deliberate.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, his voice almost a purr, low and sweet. “There’s something… perfect about it, wouldn’t you agree?”

Adam’s stomach flipped as he glanced at the misshapen pumpkin. It wasn’t just the pumpkin Lucifer was talking about, was it?

~#~

The following weeks were strange—too strange. Adam couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something off, something sinister weaving itself into the fabric of Hallow-Eve Town. The air had turned thick and heavy, almost oppressive, as though the atmosphere itself was conspiring to smother any sense of normalcy. The clouds hung lower now, swollen and dark, blocking out the sun more often than not, casting long, eerie shadows over the town. It wasn’t just the weather either; something darker, more intangible, had crept into the town. The shift was subtle but unmistakable, like the sensation of being watched when you’re certain no one is there.

And then there was the strangest part of all—Adam. Or rather, the way people had begun to treat him. It hurt more than he’d expected, like a knife slowly twisting in his chest. He’d grown up here, known these people his entire life, and yet suddenly, it was as if they no longer saw him. People who used to greet him with smiles and nods, who would chat with him on their porches or wave as they passed by, now acted like he didn’t even exist. It was like they were ghosts, or maybe he was. The town’s children, once eager to run up to him, to beg him to play guitar, now hurried past with vacant eyes, their laughter hollow, distant. No one met his gaze, no one asked him how he was doing, no one cared.

It was painful. Adam felt adrift, as though some invisible force had severed his ties to the town he once called home. He couldn't shake the suffocating feeling of isolation.

One afternoon, desperate for some kind of connection, Adam picked up his pace when he spotted Lute and Emily, the twins who’d been his childhood friends. They were as much a part of his life as the pumpkins in the fall or the first snowfall in winter. Surely they wouldn’t ignore him too, right? His heart lifted for the first time in days, and he called out to them, waving with a hopeful smile.

"Lute! Emily!" His voice sounded too loud, echoing unnaturally in the stillness of the street.

Lute didn’t even acknowledge him. Emily glanced at him for a fleeting second, her eyes unreadable, before turning her back and walking off, Lute following her without a word. Adam came to a halt, his chest tightening, the familiar ache of rejection spreading through him. His hands dropped limply to his sides, the air around him growing colder. He muttered to himself, “What did I do? Why am I losing my friends?”

The sting of tears pricked at his eyes, and he wiped them away roughly with his sleeve, not wanting to cry in the middle of the street. It hurt more than he cared to admit. But just as the loneliness started to suffocate him, a dry, familiar voice broke through the fog.

“It’ll get easier. Eventually, it won’t hurt at all.”

Adam blinked, startled. He hadn’t even noticed Vaggie standing there, her presence as sudden as a shadow slipping into view. She was leaning against a post, her grey bomber coat zipped up to her chin, the silver cross on her chest gleaming faintly in the muted light. Her braids swayed slightly as she pushed herself off the post and walked up to him, hands stuffed in her pockets.

“I didn’t notice you there,” Adam admitted, surprised by her words. He tried to smile, but it faltered.

Vaggie returned the smile, though hers was sharper, more knowing.

“People like us, we’re used to being ignored.” She gestured for them to walk together. “You look like you could use the company.”

Adam gave a small, grateful smile. “At least someone’s still willing to talk to me.”

Vaggie shrugged, her hands still buried deep in her pockets. “Don’t worry about them. It just proves no one here really cared about you in the first place. They can all fuck off.”

The sudden vulgarity from her caught Adam off guard. He hadn’t expected it from her, someone who always seemed so composed.

“You swear?” he asked, half amused, half surprised.

Vaggie raised an eyebrow and grinned slightly. “I do when it’s deserved. And trust me, they deserve it.”

Adam chuckled softly, the sound more sad than amused, and they fell into step together, the autumn streets unusually quiet. The carved pumpkins lining the sidewalks stared back at them with jagged, crooked grins, their hollow eyes flickering with candlelight. Everywhere they walked, the pumpkins watched, their expressions twisted, as if they knew something Adam didn’t.

Vaggie’s voice broke the silence again. “You can talk to me, you know,” she said, her tone softening. “I’ve been through something similar.”

Adam glanced at her curiously. “How similar?”

Vaggie sighed, her breath fogging in the chilly air. “Let’s just say that everyone I thought cared about me—family, friends—they turned on me the moment it suited them. Threw me under the bus to save themselves.”

Adam winced, the pain in her voice hitting too close to home. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything to me,” Vaggie snorted, though there was no bitterness in her tone. Still, Adam couldn’t help but feel guilty.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m just sorry you had to go through that,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet.

Vaggie smiled again, this time a little softer. “You’re a nice person, Adam. Too nice for this place.”

As they walked, the conversation turned lighter. They passed by more pumpkins—hundreds of them—each more grotesque than the last, their grins sharp and menacing.

“I didn’t care for pumpkins at first.” Vaggie confessed, her cheek turning pink. “I didn’t care for a lot of things until Charlie. She made me see the beauty in them.”

Vaggie’s face softened in the dimming autumn light as she spoke, her voice carrying a wistful note that Adam hadn’t heard from her before. "It’s been a long time now, me and Charlie," she said, her gaze distant, almost lost in memory. A faint blush crept over her pale cheeks, and her usual cool demeanour melted away like frost in the morning sun. “She was there when I needed someone the most. When everything felt like it was crumbling, when I didn’t think I had anyone left... she was there. No questions, no judgments. Just open arms.”

Adam smiled softly, teasing just enough to lighten the mood. “You must really love her, huh?”

Vaggie gave a half-shrug, her expression unreadable for a moment.

“I didn’t at first,” she admitted, her tone more vulnerable than Adam had ever heard from her. That caught his attention, and he tilted his head in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asked, curiosity piqued. He couldn’t imagine anyone not loving Charlie instantly—she was so full of life, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Vaggie sighed, her breath curling in the cool, thickening air. The pumpkins that lined the streets seemed to flicker with a ghostly light as she spoke, their crooked smiles and jagged teeth casting eerie shadows on the cobblestones.

 "It’s complicated," she said, her voice quiet, almost as if confessing to something she hadn’t shared with anyone in a long time. “For a long time, I resented her. Blamed her for... a lot of things. Things that weren’t even her fault. But I was hurting, and it was easier to be angry at someone than face what was really going on inside me.”

Adam frowned, slowly processing her words. There was an unspoken weight in her voice, a history thick with pain and regrets. He didn’t push for more, sensing that whatever had happened was something deeply personal, something that had shaped her in ways he couldn’t begin to understand.

“But Charlie...” Vaggie continued, her eyes growing distant as she spoke of her past, “Charlie never gave up on me. No matter how cold or distant I was, she stayed. She was kind, patient. She didn’t try to fix me—she just... she was there. She saw something in me when I couldn’t see it in myself.”

Her lips curled into a soft smile, almost bittersweet. “Eventually, I realized my life had become so much better because of her. She chose me, and I’d rather spend my days happy with her than be stuck in my own darkness.”

Adam stared at Vaggie, his heart warming despite the chill creeping through the air. There was something deeply moving about the way she spoke of Charlie, like the two of them were bound by something far stronger than mere affection—a kind of love that had been forged in the fire of hardship, shaped by resilience and trust. He found himself envying that connection, that deep, unwavering loyalty.

But before he could ask her more, a familiar, excited voice cut through the air, breaking the moment like the snap of a brittle twig.

“Adam! Vaggie!”

Charlie’s voice rang out with infectious joy, and when Adam glanced up, he saw her bounding toward them, practically glowing in the fading light. Her smile was radiant, her golden hair bouncing as she hurried toward them, and just behind her, as always, was Lucifer.

And of course, Lucifer was staring at Adam again. His intense, unnervingly blue eyes never seemed to leave him, watching him with a gaze that felt too sharp, too knowing. It was like being caught in the gaze of a predator—silent, patient, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

When was he not watching me? Adam thought with a shiver, his pulse quickening under that piercing stare. He tried to shake off the unease, telling himself it was all in his head, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t ignore the way Lucifer’s presence seemed to suffocate the air around him.

Charlie skipped toward Vaggie, her steps light and playful as autumn leaves crunched beneath her feet. In her hand, she held a small brown bag adorned with pink bows—delicate, almost childish, but in Charlie’s hands, it radiated a sweetness that made the dreary streets of Hallow-Eve Town feel just a little brighter.

"You have to try these apple slices," Charlie said with a breathless excitement, practically bouncing as she reached Vaggie. Her voice sparkled with enthusiasm. "They're so good!"

Vaggie smiled, a rare softness touching her lips as she watched Charlie. Her grey and violet hair swayed gently as she leaned in closer, her dark eyes glimmering with fondness.

“Oh yeah?” she teased, glancing at the bag with curiosity.

Charlie didn’t miss a beat, quickly retrieving an apple slice covered in sugar and cinnamon from the bag. She held it up in front of Vaggie, the sugary coating catching the dim light like a dusting of frost.

“Here,” Charlie said, almost shy, her voice sweetening like honey.

Instead of taking it, Vaggie leaned forward, sinking her teeth into the apple slice right from Charlie’s hand. The crunch echoed faintly in the cool air, and Vaggie’s lips curled into a smirk as she chewed. Charlie gasped, a blush blooming across her cheeks, her eyes wide and bright. There was something almost adorable about how flustered she got, like the simple act of feeding Vaggie had caught her off guard. She blinked, then beamed at Vaggie, the pink in her cheeks deepening.

Adam, standing just a few steps away, couldn’t help but smile, even as a pang of sadness twisted in his chest. Watching the two of them, their love so obvious, made him feel a strange mix of warmth and loneliness.

“It’s really good,” Vaggie said softly, her voice carrying a hint of affection. Charlie’s eyes flickered to Vaggie’s lips, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.

“Can I...?” Charlie whispered, her voice trailing off, leaving the question hanging in the cool air between them.

Vaggie didn’t answer with words. Instead, she leaned in, closing the space between them as Charlie’s eyes fluttered shut. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss, one that seemed to momentarily pause the world around them. Adam quickly turned away, his face flushing with bashful awkwardness, trying to give them their privacy.

Just as he did, though, a warm hand gently cupped his elbow, pulling him out of his own thoughts. The touch was soft yet firm, guiding him up the street. Adam’s heart skipped a beat as his green eyes met the deep, intense blue of Lucifer’s.

There he was again.

Lucifer grinned, his golden hair catching the faint light of the streetlamps, giving him an almost ethereal glow. He held up a small brown bag, identical to the one Charlie had been carrying.

“Don’t worry, Adam,” Lucifer said in a voice that was both playful and unnervingly soft. “I got you something too. Pumpkin slices, your favourite.”

“You... didn’t have to,” he stammered, feeling a strange flutter in his chest. Adam blinked in surprise, his cheeks warming despite the chill in the air.

Lucifer’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he reached into the bag, pulling out a pumpkin slice dusted with cinnamon.

“I know,” Lucifer replied, his voice lowering to a velvety purr. “But I wanted to.”

Before Adam could protest, Lucifer held the slice up to his lips, much like Charlie had done for Vaggie. The air between them thickened with an odd tension, something that felt both sweet and unsettling all at once. Adam hesitated, his heart racing, but then he leaned forward, biting into the pumpkin slice.

As the warm, spiced flavour spread across his tongue, Adam’s gaze dropped to the cobblestones, too flustered to meet Lucifer’s eyes.

He mumbled a quiet “Thanks,” his cheeks burning with embarrassment. When he dared to glance back at Lucifer, he noticed the blonde was still staring at him, a look of almost surprised warmth softening his sharp features.

Lucifer’s blue eyes widened briefly, then his lips curled into a slow, gentle smile that made Adam’s chest tighten in an odd way. Lucifer lifted the rest of the pumpkin slice to his own lips and—without warning—bit into it, finishing what Adam had started.

“Sorry,” Lucifer said, chuckling softly. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Adam’s face turned even redder as the realization hit him—Lucifer had just shared an indirect kiss. He swallowed hard, his heart beating too fast, his mind whirling.

“It’s... it’s fine,” he mumbled, desperately trying to ignore the way his gaze kept flicking to Lucifer’s cherry-red lips.

Lucifer watched him for another heartbeat, his gaze intense, searching, before finally looking away, seemingly satisfied with Adam’s response. He turned to glance at Charlie and Vaggie, who were still wrapped in each other’s arms up the street.

“What were you two doing before this?” Adam asked shyly, trying to break the tension, his voice a little unsteady.

“We were just out doing some grocery shopping,” Charlie beamed at him, still holding Vaggie close.

Vaggie leaned her head against Charlie’s shoulder, her usual stern demeanour softening in the glow of Charlie’s affection. “Do you need a hand in taking the bags home?”

“Don’t worry about it Vaggie!” Lucifer chimed. “They’re already back at the house!”

 “We were about to head home now.” Charlie sang before gasping, her eyes widening gleefully. “You should come with us!”

“Yeah, you should,” Vaggie agreed, though her voice was quieter, more casual.

“Wait, your groceries are already back at the house?” Adam blinked in surprise. “But... your place is, like, an hour and a half from here. How...?”

Before he could finish, Lucifer squeezed his hand—when had he taken Adam’s hand? —and grinned up at him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lucifer said with a wink. “We’re efficient.”

Adam wasn’t sure what to make of that, but his thoughts were quickly interrupted as Lucifer’s grip tightened slightly.

“Come have dinner with us,” Lucifer said, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive whisper. “I’d love for you to join us.”

“Dad’s the best cook! You must try his pancakes, Adam!” she begged, bouncing excitedly on her heels. Charlie squealed in agreement, her golden eyes sparkling with hope.

Even Vaggie, usually more reserved, smirked and added, “They’re damn good. Best pancakes you’ll ever have.”

Adam hesitated, still feeling the weight of the town’s strange coldness toward him, the way people had started to ignore him. But here, with these people—the odd, charming, and slightly unsettling family—he felt... wanted.

Adam smiled, albeit shyly. “Pancakes are for breakfast.”

“Pancakes are an anytime food, Adam,” he said, his grin wide and infectious. Lucifer snorted in amusement.

Charlie clapped her hands, practically glowing with excitement. “Please say you’ll come!” she begged, her voice full of warmth and sincerity.

Lucifer leaned in just slightly, his voice soft but compelling. “Please.”

Adam’s resistance crumbled. How could he say no?

“Okay,” he said, his smile widening. “I’ll come.”

Charlie cheered, her joy infectious, while Lucifer’s blue eyes sparkled with something more intense, a warmth that lingered just a moment too long. Adam couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just crossed some invisible threshold, and there was no turning back.

The crows cawed ominously overhead as they walked together into the deepening twilight, and the shadows seemed to stretch a little longer behind them.

~#~

As they walked through the dim, winding streets, the dying light of the autumn sun fading behind jagged rooftops, Adam couldn’t help but feel at ease. Talking with Lucifer, despite his unsettling name and the sharp, enigmatic aura he seemed to carry, was unexpectedly comforting. The crisp Halloween air swirled around them, carrying the faint scent of smoke and pumpkin spice, but the chill wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, Adam found the warmth in Lucifer’s presence more soothing than he'd anticipated. He had definitely misjudged him.

Their hour-and-a-half-long walk felt like a strange, enchanted passage, where time stretched in peculiar ways. It was as though the shadows grew deeper, the streets quieter, but within that eerie silence, Lucifer’s soft humming provided an odd sense of peace. Up ahead, Charlie and Vaggie had broken off, giggling to each other like a pair of mischievous ghosts, leaving Adam and Lucifer trailing behind in a more intimate solitude.

Adam glanced at Lucifer, who was kicking a small stone out of his path with casual indifference. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle, almost too quiet for the cool evening air.

“Charlie’s mother didn’t want her.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dark, like a cloud of mist creeping through the barren trees. Adam winced as they hit him, feeling a sudden surge of regret for even asking. He stammered out an apology, his mind racing as he realized he had wandered too far into sensitive territory.

“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—"

Lucifer’s smile was soft, warm despite the cold sting of his revelation.

“It’s fine, Adam,” he assured him, his blue eyes meeting Adam’s with surprising tenderness. “It’s been a long time... and I’ve never really had anyone to talk to about Lilith.”

Adam blinked, taken aback by Lucifer’s openness, and the mention of that name made his stomach twist. He tried to shake off the unease, but Lucifer seemed to notice. With a playful chuckle, he leaned in slightly, nudging Adam with his shoulder, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I can tell what you're thinking,” Lucifer mused, grinning slyly.

Adam flushed, his face heating up despite the cold that lingered in the air. “I-I’m not thinking anything!” he insisted, flustered, trying to look anywhere but at Lucifer.

“You’re wondering if everyone I know is named after a demon,” Lucifer said, his voice rich with amusement.

“I wasn’t!” he lied, but the way Lucifer’s sharp grin widened told Adam he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Well,” Lucifer's eyes twinkled with mischief, his voice dipping to a playful purr, “You’ll just have to stick around and find out.”

Adam swallowed hard, feeling his heart skip a beat. His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, he muttered shyly, “I... might.”

Lucifer didn’t miss a beat. He reached out again, curling his fingers around Adam’s hand, and squeezed gently. The contact sent a jolt through Adam, not unpleasant but unexpected, like a spark of static in the crisp October air.

“I was with Lilith for a short time,” Lucifer began, his tone softer now, almost reflective. “I was lonely... and she was looking for something—or someone—to entertain her. But when she became pregnant, everything changed.”

Adam’s breath hitched, and his gaze flicked toward Charlie, who was still walking ahead, blissfully unaware of the conversation behind her. He couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting Charlie in their life. Her joy was infectious, her kindness so bright that it almost hurt to think about her being unwanted.

“Lilith didn’t want the child,” Lucifer continued, his voice growing heavier. “I had to beg her not to...”

Adam gulped, feeling the weight of what Lucifer was about to say. His heart raced as he thought of Charlie, her sunny demeanour masking what must have been deep hurt.

“Not to abort her,” Lucifer finished, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though the words themselves were a curse.

Adam’s eyes widened in shock, the cold autumn air suddenly feeling a little more biting. He could only imagine the desperation Lucifer must have felt, pleading for the life of his daughter. And then, to his horror, he learned the price.

“Lilith only agreed to carry Charlie to term on one condition,” Lucifer continued, his voice tightening slightly.

“I had to give up half my King—” He stopped, catching himself before he revealed too much, then quickly added, “Half my estate.”

“She sounds like a... gold digger,” Adam muttered, trying to process the cruelty of it all. He blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“That’s exactly what she was,” he replied with a sharp edge in his voice. Lucifer snorted, a dark, bitter chuckle slipping through his lips. “She got what she wanted, and once Charlie was born, she slammed the door. Never looked back.”

Even though Lucifer spoke with a casual tone, there was something broken in his words. Adam could feel the weight of those memories pressing down on him. And then, the final blow—Lucifer spoke of how Charlie, years later, had gone searching for her mother, yearning for a connection that Lilith would never give.

“When Charlie finally went looking for her... Lilith didn’t want to know her. Didn’t even want to look at her.” Lucifer sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Charlie was heartbroken. But Vaggie helped, more than I could ever thank her for.”

Adam exhaled slowly, the knot in his chest loosening slightly. Relief washed over him knowing that Charlie had Vaggie by her side during that painful time. He couldn’t bear the thought of Charlie—bright, joyful Charlie—being so hurt.

Without thinking, Adam squeezed Lucifer’s hand, offering him silent comfort.

“Charlie’s lucky to have you,” Adam said softly. “You’re... a wonderful father.”

Lucifer stopped walking for a moment, blinking in surprise. His usual mischievous grin faded, replaced by something far more genuine—something vulnerable. He looked at Adam, a blush creeping up his cheeks, as though the compliment had caught him off guard.

“I...” Lucifer started, his voice almost shy, a rare crack in his confident exterior. His lips curled into a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Adam.”

As they continued walking together, the shadows seemed to close in around them, the eerie glow of jack-o’-lanterns flickering from porches and windows, casting long, twisted silhouettes that danced along the ground. Despite the creeping darkness, there was something warm between them—something real and tender beneath the surface.

And for the first time in a while, Adam felt... not so alone.

Lucifer’s fingers remained firmly intertwined with Adam’s all the way to his house, and no matter how much Adam tried to rationalize it, he couldn’t ignore the fluttering warmth in his chest. It was absurd. Maybe Lucifer was just naturally touchy-feely, and Adam was overthinking it. The man was clearly lonely. After all, Adam had learned that Lucifer’s past was a tangled mess of betrayal and heartbreak. No family to speak of beyond his daughter, and, apparently, no friends. So perhaps this was just… friendly.

But then, why did his heart keep racing every time Lucifer smiled at him?

By the time they turned the corner and reached their destination, Adam’s train of thought came screeching to a halt. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed up at the house—a towering, three-story Victorian marvel painted a rich, velvety red. It was framed by a glossy black roof, the eaves lined with elegant filigree and ivy that curled like skeletal fingers around the trim. Massive, arched windows with intricate latticework peeked out like watchful eyes from every floor, glowing faintly in the dusky light.

But it was the front yard that stole his breath completely.

Dozens of jack-o’-lanterns grinned wickedly up at him, filling the garden in rows and clusters, each one meticulously carved with its own unique expression. Some were twisted and monstrous, with gaping maws and crooked, wicked smiles; others were hauntingly beautiful, delicate patterns of swirling vines and spiderwebs etched into their skins. The flickering candlelight inside them seemed to dance and sway, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the yard and up the house’s red facade, making the entire place look as if it were caught in a ghostly, enchanting dream.

Adam could only gape, utterly stunned. He’d carved pumpkins every year with his mom, and she was the best pumpkin carver he knew. But this—this was something otherworldly.

“You… you live here?” Adam finally managed to choke out, his voice filled with awe.

Lucifer’s grin was smug, sharp as the crescent moon rising behind them. “Impressed, are you?”

Adam nodded; his eyes wide. “Of course I am! This is—this is amazing!”

Charlie, who had skipped ahead, spun around to face him, her blonde curls bouncing. She beamed at Adam; her smile as bright as the jack-o’-lanterns surrounding them.

“We love trying new things! We’re so happy you like them!” she chirped, practically glowing with excitement.

Adam blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. “Wait—you’re saying… you’ve never carved pumpkins before this?”

Charlie and Vaggie exchanged a knowing glance, sharing a secret smile.

“Yeah,” Vaggie replied with a nonchalant shrug, brushing a stray lock of silvery hair behind her ear. “This is the first time we’ve ever really touched a pumpkin. We only started after moving to Hallow-Eve Town.”

“You’re amazing,” Adam’s jaw dropped, the words slipping out before he could think.

Lucifer squeezed his hand, and Adam jolted, looking over at him. The blonde’s eyes glinted with a dark, playful light, and his grin widened.

“Oh, we have many skills, Adam,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, velvety purr. He leaned in slightly, his gaze locking onto Adam’s, teasing and intimate. “I’m sure you’ll come to learn them all—if you’re brave enough, that is.”

Adam felt his face flush hot. The sudden tension between them crackled like the air before a thunderstorm, sending shivers down his spine. Was he reading too much into this? Or was Lucifer actually…?

Lucifer just smirked, guiding him through the wrought-iron gates and up the cobblestone path. The gate creaked shut behind them with a soft, ominous groan. As they stepped onto the wide, shadowed porch, Adam’s attention was drawn to two dark figures sitting in front of the grand, lacquered doors.

Two black cats, their eyes gleaming like twin emeralds in the gloom, were perched on the stoop, staring up at them. Their sleek fur blended seamlessly into the creeping shadows, but the flick of their tails and the faint glow of their watchful eyes betrayed them.

“Black cats?” Adam murmured, surprised. Black cats were bad omens, a symbol of curses and ill fortune—especially on Halloween night.

But Charlie and Vaggie scooped the cats up without hesitation, cuddling them to their chests.

“This is Razzle and Dazzle!” Charlie introduced them proudly, cooing to the cats as they purred in her arms. “Aren’t they sweet?”

Adam couldn’t help but smile a little. “Razzle and Dazzle? Those are… unusual names for cats.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Charlie named them when she was little,” he explained, shaking his head as if recalling some fond, exasperating memory. “She insisted they needed ‘sparkly’ names.”

“That makes sense,” Adam said softly, watching as the two girls disappeared into the house, the cats nuzzling into their arms. “They’re cute.”

Charlie glanced over her shoulder, grinning. “We’re going to finish up some homework before dinner!” she called, her voice echoing through the foyer.

“Okay! I’ll call you when dinners ready!” Lucifer called after her.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Vaggie paused at the base of the staircase, turning back to Adam and offering him a small, genuine smile. “We’ve been looking forward to it.”

Adam blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—um, thanks. I’m happy to be here, too.”

Charlie’s grin widened, and she gave him a quick wave before the two disappeared up the winding staircase, Razzle and Dazzle perched in their arms like living shadows.

Lucifer’s hand slipped from Adam’s, his touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Come,” he murmured, his voice soft but insistent. “Let me show you around.”

Adam nodded dumbly, following Lucifer deeper into the house. The grand corridor stretched before them, lined with high, arched doorways and rich, dark wood panelling. And on the walls… Adam’s breath caught.

Paintings. Dozens of them. But not the eerie portraits of long-dead ancestors or the grim landscapes he would have expected. These were… different. Angels, bathed in ethereal light, their wings spread wide and luminous. Scenes of heaven, of divine glory and celestial battles. The artistry was breathtaking, almost blinding in its beauty, yet there was something unsettling beneath the perfection. The eyes of the angels seemed too sharp, too knowing. Their smiles were serene, yet their gazes held a strange, predatory hunger.

“You—” Adam swallowed hard, glancing at Lucifer, who was watching him with a dark, secret smile. “I… didn’t think you were into religion.”

Lucifer’s grin turned wicked, his eyes flashing with something wild and dangerous.

“Oh, Adam,” he purred, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “I’m not.”

“But sometimes,” he whispered, his lips curving into a sharp, predatory smile. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving Adam’s, “I like to pretend the stories are true.”

A shiver ran down Adam’s spine, a mix of fear and something darker, something thrilling. And as Lucifer’s blue eyes bore into his, Adam couldn’t help but wonder what other stories the man liked to pretend were real.

Lucifer led Adam into the kitchen, and the moment Adam stepped inside, his breath caught in his throat. The room was enormous, gleaming under the soft glow of pendant lights that hung like eerie moons over the countertops. Every surface sparkled, polished to a mirror-like finish. The stainless-steel appliances reflected the light in cold, sharp glints, giving the whole space an almost sterile perfection. It was ten times the size of Adam’s own kitchen back home—no, more. It was the kind of kitchen you'd expect in a mansion, a place fit for a king. Adam couldn’t help but wonder just how rich Lucifer really was.

Noticing the awe-struck look on Adam’s face, Lucifer smiled smugly and stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. His fingers trailed up Adam’s arm in a slow, deliberate motion, the lightest touch that sent a shiver of sensation rippling across Adam’s skin. When Lucifer’s hand reached Adam’s chest, his fingers began to toy with the buttons of Adam’s coat. Adam gasped softly, startled by the intimacy of the gesture.

Lucifer's eyes twinkled with feigned innocence as he tilted his head, his voice a teasing whisper. "You don’t have to wear your coat indoors, Adam. Why don’t you take it off?"

Adam flushed, his face turning a shade of pink that matched the warmth now flooding the kitchen. He glanced down at himself, realizing the heat had seeped into his bones the moment they’d entered the house. He nodded shyly, fingers fumbling for the buttons of his coat, but before he could begin to unbutton it, Lucifer took his hands.

“Let me,” Lucifer whispered, his voice low, almost a purr.

Adam’s heart leaped into his throat, his mouth opening to respond, but nothing came out. He stood frozen, rooted to the spot, as Lucifer slowly undid each button of his coat, the sound of fabric brushing against fingers the only thing breaking the silence. With an almost reverent touch, Lucifer tugged the coat from Adam’s shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms like a heavy, inevitable weight being lifted.

Lucifer hummed softly, his eyes sweeping across Adam’s form in a way that made Adam feel exposed, vulnerable. His fingers grazed the oversized shirt Adam wore beneath the coat, tugging at the hem with a playful flick.

“There,” Lucifer murmured approvingly. “Isn’t that better?”

Adam, flustered, could only nod, folding his arms awkwardly as he stood there, unsure what to do. Lucifer took the coat from him, moving with graceful ease to hang it up in a nearby cupboard. Adam watched him, his gaze following the sleek lines of Lucifer’s form until the man shrugged off his own coat, revealing something that made Adam blink in surprise.

Lucifer was wearing a Halloween-themed sweater—bright orange with a little cartoon duck in a witch’s hat plastered on the front. The sight of it, so unexpected and oddly adorable, made Adam quickly avert his gaze, but not before Lucifer caught him staring. A smug smirk curled across Lucifer’s cherry-red lips, his eyes glinting with mischievous amusement.

Adam fidgeted nervously, trying to find something—anything—to distract himself from the intensity of Lucifer’s gaze.

“Why did you choose to move to Hallow-Eve Town?” he asked softly, almost to himself. “Surely it wasn’t because of the pumpkins, right?”

Lucifer, now whistling a light, haunting tune, stepped up to one of the many pristine counters. He reached for an apron—one that, to Adam’s surprise, matched his sweater with more little ducks—and slipped it over his head, tying it neatly at his waist. The apron was frilly, white and red, with a cute little bow that sat snugly at Lucifer’s lower back. Adam blinked, wondering how someone could switch from eerie to adorable so seamlessly.

Rolling up the sleeves of his sweater to reveal pale arms with strange, dark patches that dusted his skin like shadows, Lucifer glanced at Adam. The markings caught Adam’s eye, but he quickly looked away, not wanting to be rude.

"No reason, really," he said in that same playful, lilting tone. Lucifer hummed as he tied the final knot. "We won’t be here for long."

Adam furrowed his brow, the cryptic answer making him uneasy. "Are you… planning to move again soon?"

Lucifer smiled, a slow, wicked curl of his lips. "Something like that. We came here to retrieve something." His voice dropped to a low, almost sinister murmur.

A chill crept down Adam’s spine at the way Lucifer said that—"retrieve something." It sounded ominous, like something out of a dark, forgotten legend. Adam shivered, resisting the urge to ask more, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.

Before Adam could dwell on it further, Lucifer snapped his sharp teeth playfully in the air, his blue eyes gleaming with a predatory light.

"Come closer," he teased, his grin widening. "I don’t bite."

“You said you liked to bite.” Adam pointed out.

Lucifer purred. “In the bedroom, I meant~”

Adam swallowed hard but managed to breathe in deeply, steadying himself. He stepped up beside Lucifer, his heart still racing.

"Can I help with anything?" he asked, eager to do something—anything—to distract himself from the tension hanging in the air. He didn’t want to just stand there while Lucifer did all the work.

Lucifer cooed softly in admiration, his hip pressing lightly against Adam’s in a casual, almost intimate gesture.

"That’s very sweet of you, Adam," Lucifer purred. His hand grazed Adam’s side as he handed him a bowl filled with fresh ingredients. "I appreciate the offer."

Adam smiled, feeling a bit more at ease. Despite everything—the cryptic comments, the playful snapping of teeth, and the tension that seemed to swirl like shadows around Lucifer—he was happy to help. He liked being useful. Besides, the kitchen felt warm and welcoming now, despite the eerie undercurrents of the house.

As they began working side by side, the tension in the air seemed to settle into something more comfortable, more familiar. Adam couldn’t help but glance at Lucifer every now and then, catching the faintest smile or the sly glint in those sharp blue eyes. There was something about the man—something both unsettling and irresistibly alluring.

And Adam wasn’t sure if he should be afraid of that or if he liked it.

As the two continued their playful banter, the air between them grew thick with an undeniable tension, charged like the crackle before a storm. Lucifer, ever the tease, slid closer to Adam’s side, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savouring every second of their proximity. Adam felt the subtle heat of Lucifer’s body as he leaned in, the smell of cinnamon and cloves clinging to the air between them—a scent that seemed almost too sweet, too tempting for someone so dangerous.

Lucifer’s fingers curled over Adam’s hand, guiding it towards the cutting board. His grip was firm, yet strangely gentle, his skin cool to the touch but leaving a trail of warmth where their hands connected. Adam's breath hitched as Lucifer pressed closer, his body lightly brushing against Adam’s side. The contact sent an involuntary shiver racing down Adam’s spine, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. The heat crept all the way up to his ears as he felt Lucifer’s chest pressing into his back, close enough that every breath Lucifer took seemed to sync with his own.

"Careful now," Lucifer murmured, his voice a low, sultry whisper that sent a ripple of sensation through Adam.

His breath ghosted over Adam’s cheek, cool and soft like a breeze that carried whispers of something darker, something dangerous.

 "Hold the knife like this…" His fingers wrapped around Adam’s hand, tightening just enough to guide the blade as it hovered over the vegetables.

Adam’s heart pounded against his ribcage, the thrum of his pulse quickening under Lucifer’s touch. He swallowed hard, focusing on the feel of the blade rather than the man pressing against him. But it was impossible to ignore the way Lucifer’s breath tickled his skin, how close his lips were to the side of Adam’s neck—so close it felt like a dare, a tantalizing threat lingering just out of reach.

Lucifer’s voice dipped lower, a playful growl behind his words. "If you’re not careful, you might just nip your fingers. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?"

His lips hovered near Adam’s ear, as if sharing a secret. His tone was rich with amusement, the sharpness of it cutting through the air like the very blade Adam was gripping.

Adam blushed even harder, his entire body reacting to Lucifer’s presence, every nerve alight.

"I-I’ll be careful," Adam stammered, his voice unsteadies, betraying the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him.

His hands felt clumsy under Lucifer’s guidance, but with every movement, Lucifer’s touch steadied him, controlling the knife with such ease it felt like second nature.

"Good," Lucifer purred, his lips brushing ever so slightly against Adam’s ear, sending another electric shiver down Adam’s spine. "We wouldn’t want to ruin those pretty hands of yours."

The compliment, whispered so close, made Adam’s breath catch in his throat. He could feel Lucifer’s smile, could sense the way he was enjoying every second of this, pushing the boundaries, seeing how far he could go before Adam would pull away. But Adam didn’t pull away. Instead, he let himself be drawn in, feeling both trapped and comforted by Lucifer’s presence.

For a fleeting moment, everything else fell away—the eerie atmosphere of the house, the distant rustling sounds of the wind against the windows, even the faint creaks of the old floorboards beneath their feet. It was just the two of them in that moment, Lucifer's cool, almost predatory presence coiled around Adam like smoke. It was intoxicating, dangerous—but it was also undeniably thrilling.

Lucifer’s fingers finally released their hold on Adam’s hand, but he didn’t move away. His presence lingered, almost as if he was waiting for something. Adam exhaled shakily, his heart still pounding, trying to steady himself. He focused on the knife in front of him, his fingers shaking slightly as he continued to chop the vegetables, all the while acutely aware of Lucifer’s gaze, of the way those sharp blue eyes traced every movement.

"You’re a fast learner," Lucifer praised, his voice a velvet purr. He moved ever so slightly, his chest brushing Adam’s shoulder as he leaned in again. His breath was back, close to Adam’s ear, closer this time.

"But you know…" Lucifer's voice dropped, becoming an intimate whisper, "I’m even better at other things."

Adam’s blush deepened, and his hand faltered for a moment. He quickly caught himself, hoping Lucifer didn’t notice the sudden hitch in his movements. But of course, Lucifer noticed everything. Adam could feel the man’s smirk without even looking at him. It hung in the air like a well-placed trap, ready to ensnare him.

"Are you trying to make me nervous?" Adam muttered, glancing sideways at Lucifer, trying to muster some semblance of control over his own embarrassment.

Lucifer chuckled softly, the sound a low, dangerous rumble in his chest.

"Maybe." He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "Is it working?"

Adam opened his mouth to reply but found the words tangled on his tongue. He couldn’t deny the effect Lucifer was having on him—the heat, the tension, the way every touch seemed to set his skin alight.

He swallowed thickly, forcing a small laugh. "Maybe a little."

Lucifer grinned, satisfied with the answer, and finally stepped back, giving Adam a little space to breathe. But the absence of his presence was almost worse—it left the air cold, hollow, as if something vital had been pulled away.

"Don’t worry," Lucifer said, his tone light and playful once more. "I’ll let you finish without distraction. For now."

He winked, turning his attention to another counter, where various ingredients were laid out for the meal they were about to prepare.

Adam, now free from Lucifer’s proximity but still feeling the lingering weight of the moment, exhaled a shaky breath. He smiled to himself as he continued chopping, the ghost of Lucifer’s touch still tingling on his skin. This wasn’t just an ordinary evening—it was something far more unsettling, far more electrifying. And Adam wasn’t sure if he wanted it to stop.

Dinner unfolded with a strange mix of warmth and tension that Adam couldn’t quite shake. Charlie and Vaggie bounded down the stairs, clearly eager to eat, their playful energy filling the dimly lit room. The table was set with an array of food that looked and smelled so much better than anything Adam had been used to growing up. His fingers fidgeted with the fork as he tried to summon an appetite, despite the gnawing uncertainty in his chest.

As they all settled around the table, Charlie’s curious gaze fell on Adam, noticing his hesitation to eat. She cocked her head, her big eyes filled with concern.

"Do you have trouble with food, Adam?" she asked softly, her voice full of innocent curiosity.

Vaggie nudged her with a sharp elbow, whispering something about personal boundaries, and Charlie quickly flushed with embarrassment.

"I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to," Charlie quickly added, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink as she ducked her head.

Adam glanced around the table, suddenly feeling like all eyes were on him. Lucifer, who had chosen the seat beside him, was particularly attentive, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Adam with a soft, almost curious expression. Under the weight of those gazes, Adam swallowed nervously, his fingers playing with the cold metal of his fork.

"It’s fine," Adam muttered after a moment, forcing a small smile to ease the tension. "It’s not a big deal or anything. Growing up, there wasn’t a lot of food around. Not because we were poor, but… my parents didn’t like the idea of me eating too much. They didn’t want a fat kid."

Charlie’s frown was immediate, her brow creased in obvious disdain. She shook her head, muttering something too low for Adam to catch, but her expression said everything. Vaggie, ever her grounding presence, gently took Charlie’s hand in hers, squeezing it as if to remind her to stay calm.

Lucifer, on the other hand, gazed at Adam with a kind of quiet, knowing sympathy. His gaze softened, and he reached out, resting a hand lightly on Adam’s shoulder.

"You should never be ashamed to eat," Lucifer said, his voice low and smooth like silk sliding over velvet. His eyes glinted with something sincere as they met Adam’s. "It would make me very happy if you enjoyed this meal. Eat more than just enough to fill yourself—take pleasure in it."

Adam’s face flushed, heat creeping up his neck as Lucifer’s words hung in the air. Before Adam could respond, Lucifer, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, speared a slice of ham with his fork and held it up to Adam’s lips. The action was playful but intimate, far more than Adam had expected.

"Open your mouth, darling," Lucifer cooed, his voice a teasing lilt that made Adam’s heart skip.

Adam recoiled slightly, a flustered smile tugging at his lips. "I’m not a baby," he protested, trying to sound firm, but his voice betrayed him with its softness.

Lucifer’s grin widened, sharp and wolfish. "Then don’t act like one. Open your mouth and eat the tasty ham."

His voice took on an almost sing-song quality, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Or should I make airplane noises? Hmm?"

Charlie and Vaggie exchanged amused glances, their giggles filling the room as Adam’s blush deepened. Feeling like he was in some ridiculous situation he couldn’t escape, Adam dared Lucifer with a soft, "Go ahead, try it."

Lucifer’s grin only grew wider as he accepted the challenge. He leaned in closer, making exaggerated airplane noises, moving the fork toward Adam’s lips in slow, playful circles. The entire moment felt ridiculous, like something straight out of a cheesy movie, but the playful glint in Lucifer’s eyes made it impossible for Adam not to smile.

Finally, with a sigh of defeat and cheeks burning, Adam parted his lips and allowed Lucifer to feed him. The ham was savoury and delicious, but Adam barely registered the taste. His mind was too focused on the sensation of Lucifer being so close, of their playful connection weaving an odd but undeniable bond between them.

Lucifer, ever the tease, didn’t stop there. After Adam had swallowed, Lucifer leaned in and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek. Adam froze, startled by the sudden affection. His heart raced in his chest, and his body tingled with the warmth of the unexpected gesture.

"Good boy," Lucifer whispered sweetly, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he hummed, pulling away as if nothing had happened.

 His movements were casual, but Adam could feel the heat radiating off his own skin, his mind still reeling from the subtle intimacy of it all.

As if to add fuel to the fire, Lucifer continued eating, but not before deliberately using the same fork that had just been in Adam’s mouth. There was something devilishly innocent about the way he did it, as though he were unaware of the unspoken implications. Adam’s eyes widened, his mind immediately jumping to the realization that it was an indirect kiss. He swallowed hard, trying to calm the fluttering in his chest, unsure of how to respond to Lucifer’s deliberate antics.

Dinner concluded soon after, Charlie and Vaggie disappearing upstairs to finish their homework, leaving Adam alone with Lucifer in the dimly lit kitchen. Adam felt a slight pang of nervousness but also an odd comfort—Lucifer’s presence, while mischievous and teasing, had grown familiar.

As Adam began to gather the dishes to clean up, Lucifer waved him off with a soft laugh.

"You don’t have to do that," he said, leaning against the counter with a grin. "I invited you here for dinner, not to work."

Adam shook his head, smiling despite the lingering warmth in his cheeks. "It’s the least I can do. You cooked dinner, after all. I want to help."

Lucifer’s eyes softened at Adam’s insistence, and he tilted his head slightly, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You really are sweet," he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. He stepped closer, just enough to brush against Adam’s side, his presence once again invading Adam’s space with an almost magnetic pull.

Adam couldn’t help but smile, his heart fluttering in his chest as he began to rinse the dishes. This house, this moment—it all felt surreal. A little eerie, a little romantic, and something else entirely, something that made his pulse quicken and his mind race with thoughts he wasn’t quite ready to confront.

The air between them thickened with a kind of intensity that left Adam breathless. The kitchen, once filled with playful teasing, now hummed with a palpable tension, something darker and more electric. Adam could feel Lucifer’s gaze on him, a warm weight that made his skin prickle and his face flush. Every glance, every lingering second stretched out, charged with an unspoken emotion that hovered between them.

Lucifer, with his golden hair catching the dim light and his sharp eyes smouldering, stepped closer to Adam, closing the space between them with graceful ease. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost predatory. Adam felt his breath hitch in his throat as Lucifer’s fingers, cool and soft, brushed against his hand. The touch was gentle but insistent, and before Adam could think to resist, Lucifer was tugging him away from the sink, the warm water and dishes forgotten.

"Leave them," Lucifer whispered, his voice low and velvety, curling around Adam like smoke.

Adam opened his mouth to protest, but before the words could form, Lucifer silenced him in the most unexpected way. His lips pressed against Adam’s in a kiss so soft, so fleeting, that it barely registered at first. The world seemed to still in that moment, time itself pausing as Adam’s wide, startled green eyes locked onto Lucifer’s.

Lucifer pulled back slightly, his eyes searching Adam’s face for something, some sign of acceptance or maybe hesitation. His fingers traced a slow, feather-light path up Adam’s arms, leaving a trail of shivers in their wake. Adam, still frozen in shock, felt his heart hammering wildly in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears.

Then, as if finding what he was looking for, Lucifer leaned in again. This time, the kiss was deeper, more deliberate. Their lips moved together, a slow and sensual dance, and Adam found himself instinctively leaning into it. The taste of Lucifer was intoxicating—dark, rich, with a sweetness that caught Adam off guard. His mind spun, and without realizing it, he was kissing back, his lips parting slightly as their tongues began to explore one another.

The sensation of it, the heat, the closeness—it was overwhelming. Adam’s entire body trembled, a mixture of desire and nervousness flooding his senses. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t even imagined it, but now that it was happening, he couldn’t pull away. The feeling of Lucifer’s hands on him, his lips so confident and teasing, left Adam breathless and wanting more.

Lucifer broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against Adam’s lips, his breath warm and full of temptation.

"It’s late," he murmured, his voice low and persuasive, each word sending a shiver down Adam’s spine. "You should stay the night."

Adam’s heart raced; his chest tight with the weight of his pounding pulse. He tried to speak, tried to form some coherent response, but all that came out was a soft, breathless murmur. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, his body betraying him with its eager trembling.

"Please," Lucifer added softly.

His voice laced with something almost vulnerable, as if the devil himself was asking for something more than just a kiss. His hand tightened gently around Adam’s, his thumb brushing across his knuckles in a tender, reassuring motion.

Adam’s resolve crumbled. His lips parted, but the only sound that escaped was a soft exhale, and with a shy nod, he surrendered to the moment. Lucifer’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, one that was as wicked as it was tender, before he leaned in again, claiming Adam’s lips once more with a kiss that promised much more than just a night.

The following morning would be first of many mornings where Adam was served fresh pancakes.

[ilreleonewikia13]

◌TDIOBCB chapters as gifsets ↪

∯ C H A P T E R 4 : The Reckoning of Time

The Isle of Faces was an inhospitable place, not meant for the likes of ordinary mortals such as himself. On that narrow piece of land surrounded by the frigid waters of the Gods Eye, time seemed to flow to a different cadence than on the mainland. Though he had arrived there some six years ago, Aemond would sometimes experience the strange and inexplicable sensation of having penetrated the island's magical shroud only a few months past. On other occasions, his mind would convincingly argue that he had dwelt there for years, perhaps decades, often blurring the line between day and night, summer and winter. This peculiarity might be attributed to the fact that in the Riverlands, and especially on the Isle of Faces, the sun was often concealed by thick rain-laden clouds for most of the year, creating an eternal autumn where months seemed to blend seamlessly. Yet, deep within himself, Aemond recognized that such temporal disorientation couldn't be solely attributed to the island's weather patterns. By his calculations, he should have been approaching his twenty-sixth year, and consequently, his countenance should have begun to bear the marks of maturity, of manhood, or at the very least, a divergence from the visage of the twenty-year-old prince he once had been. However, this transformation failed to materialize. His face, akin to his physique, remained unaltered over time as if not a single day had ticked by in this forsaken place. Only the length of his hair and the gradual fading of his wounds served as tangible indicators of the ebbing months and years. Following his capture at the hands of his uncle and the Blacks, Aemond's once-flowing locks had been summarily shorn, leaving his scalp nearly bereft, a calculated act of derision. The purpose had been to unveil the mark Daemon had branded upon the nape of his neck, showcasing it as a grim war trophy upon their arrival in the capital. This was the reason why Aemond still bore a partially bald pate when Alys transported him to this secluded island. Since his initial arrival on the island, his hair had managed to grow at an agonizingly sluggish pace, now reaching a length that cascaded halfway down his back. It stood as the unequivocal testimony to the passage of time, a tangible reminder that the world had not remained stagnant since his advent. Hence, the prince had resolved to never shear his silvered mane, allowing it to flourish unchecked.  For, in its flowing strands, he found the only concrete evidence that years had indeed traversed him and imbued meaning into the tableau that encircled him.

[ladythornofrivia]

The Imperfection of Sound

In a world of sound, reader is deaf. Until she meets Ran Haitani, who shows her that life is more than just hoping for a miracle.

Pair: Ran x Reader

Warnings: Mature Content, Inappropriate Moments and Adult Language. (if you’re under 18, you can’t read this).

Author’s Note: Great news! So I’m going to expand on this series with 2 more chapters! Yay! It’s a very long chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

(Please report if someone decides to steal/plagiarize my story. And notify me. Thank you.)

Chapter 6: I Dream of You

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He must’ve been dreaming.

Surely he must’ve.

After all, all he had ever done is eat, watch, shower and sleep. And a little bit of seven-minute cleaning the apartment—not counting Rindou’s space and the DJ equipment. Most of the time, throughout the day, he constantly thinking—and dreaming—about you, a kind and gentle soul with an enigmatic aura shrouded with alluring mystery all at once.

His nights were lonesome, but his dreams are filled with vibrancy with you, sprouting like flower on a chilled winter.

The day before Rindou went out, Ran is entirely decent, apart from his internal conflict. Ran kept moping until a moment of idea came to mind. Ran went up, until he earned a cough and a high-aching fever and a sore body from hanging out too much by the wide-range balcony beyond his bedroom. To think a cold wind and a warm daylight would bring him as a new distraction, failure befall upon him.

He wanted to make amends with you. He’d do anything to see you smile once again.

Days before he got sick, his research on the internet from the usage of his laptop is helpful and beyond complexity.

Rather, he’s astonished, immersed at the laptop screen.

Learning sign language. In Japanese, of course. When he was a child, Ran wanted to become a well-known celebrity. And being a well-known celebrity, with its status means having unlimited access to medical and daily affairs and materials with no problem—with fortune and famous, throwing money and well-made name to solve conflict is not an issue. Dreaming of having—hiring—a translator is one of them.

But, at one point, he noticed the pattern of his laziness, despite the his known reputation for the club and his status at the Roppongi’s high-end lifestyle. That is something to say he’s content the way it is. But not without your presence.

And so he practiced, for more than 2 hours, from learning in beginner’s mode, then slowly moving forward to the normal mode. He kept watching videos regarding on sign language. With a fresh mind, it’s easy for Ran. But now he’s sick, he has to tend to himself first.

Regardless of sickness, on a counting days before the battle with Tokyo Manji Gang, he yearned to get well. A little more hope would do the trick. Ran is so occupied, his realization hadn’t dawned upon him when he awoke the next day to find someone on the bed beside him.

You.

Pouted lips formed onto your sleeping visage, soft-angled brows crinkled and breathing relaxed.

If he were to scream, you’d fall from his bedside after his shocking reaction. But thankfully, nothing happened. His eyes taking it all in into your beauty, one thing he couldn’t deny.

You’re here in the flesh.

This wasn’t an illusion.

Or a dream within dreams.

This is real.

The bold and rich make up on your face weren’t smudged or stained onto his pillows and blanket.

Though he didn’t mind. Sheets and pillowcases are meant for washing, not decorating them until neglected. Unless if it’s permanently stained like red wine or pomegranate, it’s something that folks had to pay for him if they tend to stain it on purpose. But since it’s you, he wouldn’t demand or hurt you from scolding from his wrath that he was trying to hide from you. Up until now, he didn’t tell you he’s part of the gang—a new one, in fact.

So separating you—a part of his personal life—from Tenjiku would be best.

But he desired for you to be in his world. And him in yours.

He lay back on his bed beside you as his eyes were taking it all in from your sleeping figure. Before his hand could reach the blankets, he studied your stilled body, clad in nothing but the black dress and long evening gloves. Lines of your collar bone softly outlined as the soft arch on your neck is occupied by choker.

Breathtaking.

Normally, he’d compliment for the heck of it. He did it, so he could watch girls throw themselves at him, seeing their reactions amuses him. But when it comes to things that took him by surprise, he save compliments for anything special.

Make up or not, the memory of you never faded into his mind.

Gently, his hand roamed over to the side of your waist, lining it down with his gentle caress, along the soft and velvet material of your outfit choice, then trailing to your exposed skin.

Smooth and rejuvenated.

His eyes glanced over to your peaceful visage.

Angelic.

Upon Ran, a reddened shade summoned over his cheeks, recalling of the last dream he had dreamt, and vividly saw (y/n), naked and horny before his eyes.

As much as he wanted to touch you, he couldn’t bear the nature of playful boy get in the way; he didn’t want to put you in harm’s way. You appearing before him meant one thing: the opportunity has given him one last chance before it closes once more—locked forever.

Unsure, Ran let his grasp go from you, and yanked the blankets slowly. As the blanket reached near to his chest, he heard you whimpered in your sleep.

His heart stopped at the sound of your voice.

Trying to remain calm, Ran slept next to you, watching your shifted to a comfortable position as your mouth opened as if you’re talking. But no noise produced.

A little noise you made while stretching your arms up with your eyes closed made Ran’s heart skipped a beat. It was undeniably loud for his ears.

Prolonging his gaze, it’d be a terrible lie if he said that he wants to stop admiring you.

The frantic beat and motion within Ran dissipated, and yet, he wondered what you’re really reckoning, regarding towards himself. Whether it’d be good or bad, he’s ready.

Whether his hands to take a hold of you, he wanted to do so, but frightened he might lose one last chance.

Confession.

He has to be ready.

“(y/n),” he uttered, whispering as he felt his heart tightened. “You’re here.”

You’re really here.

His heart is jumping for joy yet terror, unknown of what the outcome is going to be if he keeps pressing onward. Going with the flow is the main option.

Your eyes fluttered open, your lips stretched to a wide yawn, arms high up, bones crackling. Eyes still closed as you sat up at the bed frame before opening them, seeing Ran watching her, his movement numbed with anxiety, yet a thrill spread—mingled.

Ran, you thought.

As your mouth opened and your limbs relaxed, Ran tackled you into a lock-tight hug.

His nose sniffed into your fresh-cut hairstyle you’ve adapted to. But his heart wrenched, the tears in his terrorized eyes dispersed into a one leap of relief. He hasn’t been relief this long since Rindou gotten himself injured or in danger.

With his alarming senses controlling, Ran doesn’t know what to do next. Hands shaken as he clutched you. He didn’t want to let go. Not this time.

He wanted to make things right.

He had to see your face.

Pulling himself back, there were tears in your eyes as you met his. This mystical feeling, it all spiraled into madness.

Ran watched you grabbing your new phone and typed and sent the message, then you unblocked him and changed his name back from “Roppongi’s Douchebag” to “Handsome Giant 💜” again.

Ran’s phone buzzed in his pocket and took it out, reading it.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back. :)”

“Where are you going,” he replied on the text.

“Secret.”

Then you rushed, off to God knows where. Ran obliged, despite being curious. While waiting for you to be back, Ran turned on the music, classical music, which it has been a while since his music is frequently loud and energetic. He went for a hot shower, first, then dried himself up with new fresh-laundry clothes. His complexion relaxed compare to the days before, as he did steps to his usual self-care on his skin, lips and teeth. He stayed for a while until his nostrils caught a scent of breakfast meal, closer than in the kitchen.

Entering the kitchen, he saw you blowing the hot steam off of the ramen you cooked on the cooking pot. But it wasn’t the only thing he had for breakfast. There’s french toast with melted butter and syrup with tall mug of cold water and chocolate with marshmallows.

Remembering your hearing disability, he flicked the kitchen lights off and on to get your attention. Your head snapped to meet his eyes.

The rapid rate in his heart pounded and endless.

You approached him a smile and a note in your hand, distributing towards him, and watched him read your note.

Come on. Let’s eat.

Shortly, you and Ran ate the ramen. It was delicious, better than the ones he tasted in the restaurant. Ran guessed that the food is better if its homemade. Then drinking the chocolate drink you made, Ran instantly fell in love, and thanked you.

After putting the plates away, you and Ran cleaned the dishes, then went back inside the room. By then you handed him papers in your hand.

I hope you don’t mind me making tons and tons of breakfast meals since it looks like you haven’t eaten anything properly for days, and I’m aware that you’ve been ill, as well. I made you ramen so that the system in your body would flush out its excess. I hope you don’t mind me being here. Rindou isn’t here. He hasn’t been here since last night, told me to do what I like in the apartment, so, I came into your room. I’m sorry I misunderstood you. I’m just afraid that I’ll get in your way. You’re a handsome man, and ladies are lining up left and right for you, I knew I couldn’t stand a chance—that’s why I didn’t bother myself to text you or see you. I was only keeping an arm’s length because you’re too good for me. And when we played the two truths and a lie, when you said that you have your eyes and heart set on someone, I know it’s going to sting—didn’t contact you because I’m not the ideal type for you. But it hurt even more when I saw you and the girl—Rindou already filled me in with your side of the story. That girl shouldn’t have used you as a rebound. Even though I have a hearing disability, I still want to make meaningful memories and accomplishments, so I wouldn’t be a burden, and that I’m more than just a person who is incapable based on my disability. There are times where I see you in my dreams, it felt real, but the reality of dreams just as hurt me as much as it hurts me during awake. I want to know what your voice sounds like, emotions and music—everything. That is my first wish ever since I was born. I want you to know that my heart and mind aches for you, whether awake or sleep; I’m no good at communication, but I’d like to remedy it, for the times we wasted for months, for months that I avoided you. I just want you to know that I love you. And I still do.

Ran looked up from the long letters you gave him, and met your eyes.

But without given his thoughts out, you pulled him into an embrace. Not a word exchange.

Ran then pulled himself away to gaze at your tearful expression. His thumb swiped your tears—and thankfully you’re able to read his lips—still gazing at you with a sad smile.

“I’m not a good person, (y/n), what I am and what I’ve been doing were no good. It wasn’t a lie when I said that I love you since the moment we met. I wanted to get to know you and see you. I fear every time you didn’t come, I knew something was wrong. So I tried to be careful, to not hurt you. I learned sign language, so you don’t feel isolated. In my dreams, I see you, too. When you turned away from me, I knew that I wanted to make things right with you. You don’t have to wait for a miracle, (y/n), I’m here to rescue you, in hopes for you to be excited for everything in life, and I can show you all the things you desire. I can protect you and care for you, even when you don’t ask. I don’t want you to be lonely anymore. I still love you, then, and I still love you now. I’ll be the sound of your life. You’re the miracle of my life, (y/n).”

Tears couldn’t stop in your eyes. And Ran kept wiping them, cooing you, knowing that whispering sweet words to you meant nothing—your hearing disability has deprived you from everything. But with Ran, it seems like everything is possible, that every doors are open for you. After wandering into the dark, the light became brighter and warmer.

His hand snaked at the back of your head. His back bent forward, tips of his nose tapped to yours, as his violet eyes brightened, thanks to your sudden appearance.

“I love you, (y/n).” He kissed your forehead, then your eyelids, then the nose and cheeks. He stopped for a moment to ask, “can I kiss you?”

Before he could wait for your answer, you pulled him in, then your hands moved and entangled behind his neck, with your little hums, he’s awestruck.

Where does your boldness come from?

His hands rested on your waist, holding you.

Do you like me like this? Ran, you only say your confession because you love me looking like this.

Ran’s brows furrowed, pausing. “What’s wrong, my little goddess?”

You typed down your message onto your phone, sending it to him?

With his hand on your waist, he checked your message.

Do you like me like this? Is that why you easily confessed your love to me?

With his phone put a quick shove into his pocket, he embraced you again, then looking into your eyes. “No, I don’t love you because you look like this. I love you when you’re being as your true self. I knew that there’s something special about you,” he answered. “Self-conscious or not, I’m still amazed by you. I’m not going to lie if I said you don’t look beautiful. I hope one day, you can see the way I love you—inside and out. Don’t listen to your doubts, I’ll be here, now and always.”

Your smile slowly curved wider.

Cute.

“Tell me, my little goddess, what do you want to do to gain your trust?”

“Be yourself,” you messaged. “I want to see your charm and playful side of yourself. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I don’t want to hurt you or make you cry,” Ran said.

“I trust you,” you signed.

“I’ll be as myself,” Ran signed. “Something you’ll see. I hope you see the best side of me, not my worst.”

Your eyes widened at the attempted sign language Ran did, your heart melted at his effort.

“Even at your worst, I still love you,” you replied.

He kissed your cheek lovingly.

“Tell me, little lady, since you’re here at my kingdom, what do you want to do first?” He kept kissing you at every chance he gets after the deprived and absences of your touch.

Being able to somewhat read his words—which you thought it’s a sign of miracle.

You messaged on the phone with a smirk on your face.

Ran took it out, and his phone nearly slipped from his hands when the screen read:

I want you to fuck me.

Taglist: @galactict3a @f1yh1gh @penguinlovestowrite @onyx-blossom @akemiixx01 @colored-tr-panels @goldenbeskar @mrssano04 @sehunnies-hunnie96

[safethaw]

How To Concrete Driveway: 4 Pre-Winter Steps With Safe Thaw.

Emerging on the horizon are the frosty gusts of winter, beckoning the need to bolster your concrete driveway against the impending challenges of the chilly season. The importance of readying your driveway cannot be overstated, for its longevity and pristine appearance are reliant on the right preparation, even when faced with the harshest weather.  Our guide is poised to lead you through the fundamental choreography of fortifying your driveway in anticipation of the winter's embrace. We shall embark on a journey that unveils the four pivotal maneuvers to safeguard your driveway's resilience and well-being. Notably, we shall also illuminate the virtues of a potent elixir designed to dissolve winter's icy grip while upholding the sanctuary of your driveway and the sanctity of the environment. Preparation Begins How to concrete driveway: Envisage the canvas of your driveway as winter’s curtain rises. Its care and maintenance are akin to the symphony that upholds its integrity, a symphony that must be orchestrated with precision. This ensemble, composed of essential steps, shall equip you to orchestrate a performance of resilience in the face of winter's overture. 1)The Ritual Of Cleansing And Scrutiny As the season's chill infiltrates your realm, your driveway's canvas must be cleansed. Banish the remnants of warmer days—dirt, debris, and the blemishes of time. A pressure washer, akin to a sorcerer's wand, shall conjure a deep, purifying cleanse. Yet, let not your gaze falter from scrutiny; for cracks, undulations, and blemishes are the notes that, if left unattended, can crescendo into a cacophony of woes amidst the frozen landscape. 2) Mend And Veil Second step in the process of how to concrete driveway is mend and veil. Should your keen inspection reveal the mark of time etched into your driveway's visage, seize the moment for reparations. Address the fractures, those minor transgressions that can burgeon into winter's folly. Employ the alchemy of concrete repair products to mend the breaches, granting them the grace to cure. When restoration is complete, the time shall arrive to bestow upon your canvas the armor of a high-quality concrete sealer. Thus, a barrier shall emerge, shielding your driveway from the relentless forces of moisture, salt, and the agents of ice's dissolution. 3) The Artistry Of Safe Thaw Snow Melting Mats Now, envision a dance of technology upon your driveway's stage—the graceful pirouette of snow melting mats. These marvels, tailored to vanquish snow and ice, render manual shoveling an antiquated endeavor. As winter unfolds its icy tapestry, these driveway snow melting mats, stacked in preparation, will introduce a ritual of comfort on your driveway. But let us not forget the ceaseless vigil demanded by the season. Snow must be tamed, kept from piling its burdens upon your driveway's shoulders. An ensemble of plastic and rubber-edged shovels shall perform this delicate choreography, for metal's touch can mar the beauty of your driveway's visage. The quiver of chemical ice melt products should remain sheathed, for their touch can scar the very earth you tread. The Overture Of Safe Thaw: A Winter’s Anthem As the temperature dwindles and frost paints its tapestry, the call for a savior to dissolve winter's icy shroud resounds. Enter Safe Thaw—a savior, non-toxic and formidable in its approach. Unlike its chemical peers that bear the poison of chlorides, Safe Thaw stands unblemished, bearing a composition untouched by the scourge of toxins. The Sonata Of Safe Thaw's Virtues Upon this icy stage, Safe Thaw is accompanied by a symphony of virtues: - Mastering Frigidity: Even in the clutches of subzero temperatures, Safe Thaw wields its potency to swiftly dismantle the frozen barricades. - The Elixir of Non-Toxicity: Safe Thaw, a guardian of health and environment, keeps pets and children safe from the menace of toxicity. - Guardian of Concrete: Unlike the scourge of some, Safe Thaw does not seek to mar the tapestry of your driveway's beauty—it safeguards it. - Beyond Driveways: Safe Thaw's influence traverses beyond the threshold of homes. It extends its shield to industrial domains and roads, bestowing upon them the touch of safety and responsibility. Curtains Fall: The Finale Of Foresight With winter's grand performance at its peak, the spotlight shines on your driveway's resilience. As the snowflakes pirouette in the frigid air, you shall stand armed with the wisdom of pre-winter steps and the guardian strength of Safe Thaw. The harmonious interplay of your efforts shall translate into a driveway that defies winter's rigors. Your concrete stage shall bask in the light of a well-tended sanctuary, an opus composed by your vigilance and sustained by Safe Thaw’s steadfast resolve. Read the full article

[sasorikigai]

"why have i not seen your face for so long ?" goddess liv @ scorpion!

↪     𝑺𝑳𝑬𝑬𝑷𝒀 𝑯𝑶𝑳𝑳𝑶𝑾 . || @somniaxperdita || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || In the heart of chaos, Scorpion carelessly slipped himself out into the morning light. There still are maelstrom of conflicting emotions, a raging battle inside. Tears of manic joy mixed with excruciating, unbearable pain that he hides beneath the mask. His heart continues to be torn asunder, confused and unsure; a constant, perpetual struggle the specter must endure. Myriads of emotions surge through his being, akin to the erupting hellfire coursing through his veins. Hope and despair, they both coexist as the cleansing and destructive nature of his everburning embers.

Memories of the past, how they haunt and heal; and even beneath the solemn, defiant, and stolid visage, Scorpion cannot completely conceal a mix of emotions. For regrets and mistakes, they come and go, as does the feeling of humility and powerless, senseless and vicious violence imbued through every fiber of his being. This is a constant reminder of what Scorpion knows; vitriol enmity of his enemies and annihilation of self.

For every Shirai Ryu name lingers in his mouth like metallic blood, like a bad omen; a prediction of further inevitable and unpreventable destruction to come. And Hanzo Hasashi's fiery blood clings to instinct; dead yet alive, but refusing to simply and barely exist through this unforgiving, freezing winter of immovable helplessness. His history may be the one of pain and sorrow, but Scorpion stands erect and tall, unbending to the blow. With every step he takes, he'd leave his mark; a reminder of his power, his eternal hellfire that would burn even through what was thought indestructible. For his soul is deep, and his heart is pure.

How his stubborn humanity speaks a treasure chest of stories, waiting to be heard. And how he eloquently intonates such with passion, with words that sing. He may be shrouded in the tenebrous coal of darkness, but how his aureate eyes become the very symbol of strength, a beacon of light through an abysmal void; a mighty, soaring thing.

"While I still bear the heavy burden of despair and depression, I have been tending to my spirit, which perpetually continues to shine like the sun. As if that alone had been a testament to my perseverance....," a battle he will win soon enough, as he will be more of a formidable warrior, a hero; a man of grace and power, never faltering or cowering against any prospect of evil. For Hanzo knows that in his heart, there beats a strength that's true and incorruptible, a force that cannot be broken, with a valorous vigor that will always renew, as if his pulverized life hadn't even experienced death and darkness. How Scorpion's determination shines like diamond beneath the pressured burden of his trials and tribulations. "Facing the weight of history, and the challenges of my being in this moment of time had been rather strenuous, but I know, with my strength and love, I will etch enrichment to the world renewed." ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[ryusxnka]

━━━━༺ ᵒ ༻ ❖ ༺ ᵒ    A conspicuous tempest of irascibility fiercely awoke within the crux of the adolescent's forbearance, likened to the awakening of molten lava keen to burst in wrathful torrents of retaliation as Daisuke persistently writhed and twisted atop his shoulder, akin to a youngling endeavoring to acquire autonomous liberation, sans indicative evidence of any forthcoming cessation. ---- A vigorous extremity came perilously close to assaulting his countenance, prompting a primal response that, as a result, gritted teeth tightly in concert. ------- Exasperation characterized the shinigami's disposition, portraying a perceptible frustration 'pon his habitual pretense of monotony stringency, at the current and it coerces him to respire a lungful exhalation of external indecisiveness. ---- His grip tightens 'gainst the momentarily imprisoned, though not to harm, but to ensure a secureness. ---- He often ruminated on why he even concerned himself with this child's inconsequential well-being; an inexplicable self-injected query that loomed over him, provoking onerous stagnation, and he exhaustively loathed it.

    His cold-wintering heart, a cataclysmic battleground of conflicting emotions, cradled within a discreet consideration for the ephemeral souls of mortality,a stark discrepancy to his uninhibited assertions, demands, of separation and disengagement Shinigami must endorse regarding any involvement when upholding their duties amidst their lives,their everything. An actuality not so effortlessly swallowed. " Oi!! " He inclines his pate rightward, an ire-suffused growl, an erecting snarl, poised 'tween his lips, meant for the latter alone to hearken, the one whose actions had only risen more and more desperate and distraught per elapsing seconds. -- What his eyne confronted, however, was not the student's visage, but a disarrayed piece of apparel -- Their shirt, turned wholly inside out, shrouded their head from his scrutiny, perplexing Hitsugaya instantaneously. Lost in thought, he had not remotely anticipated for a feline, a vast in stature Tabby, to leap out from an adjacent bush, hissing and howling at his forefront, nearly startling him out of his Gigai; he shrieked, how discomfiting. Resulting in him loosening his unwarranted handle and ultimately releasing the adolescent.

    ᵒ ༻ ❖ ༺ ᵒ ༻━━━━

HIS WHAT ?! no , nevermind that right now ! what about his social death ?! hitsugaya tells him to settle down , and he's been trying , but trying not to think about the uncontrollable pound of his heart has only captured his focus even more , worsening its messy drumming . the squeeze at his hip too makes him yelp --- ' n ... no ... ! '

ahh , it's no good , all of him felt like it scalding --- ! he bites his lip as his teeth sharpen ; chords tense with shift and change yet he remains all of the sudden so dead silent . he can only pray the other didn't realize an adjusted height and weight , amongst even worse things . desperate to escape yet left with no other choice but to hide , he squirms enough to pull his shirt and reverse it , inside out over his head in a makeshift covering .

it's absurd , but anything was better than being recognized --- ! the instant the other gave him an opportunity , it didn't matter what happened , or what they thought ! the niwa would start hightailing it away to a better safety than the firm grasp and all too embarrassing touch of toushiro's arms ! ( please let me go and get away from this , somehow ... ! )

[wintervvaltz]

when hes. when he. when

[kazeofthemagun]

@cursedfortune asked the summoner:

Her hands cupped his face, intentionally allowing the collar of his cape to be pushed down by her wrists. The witch stared, as though seeking something deep within his soul - but no means of a connection was sought to be made between her soul and his. Perhaps she was going to play a prank? Tease him? State her desire for him in some manner?

The two certainly enjoyed playing their games.

Alas, no such things occurred. Just a simple set of words, spoken for any to hear - but for only him to know. "I love you." Blunt, plain and simple. It didn't change their paths, their roles as forces within the universe - nor was it expected he say or react back in any manner. She just wanted him to know, clearly, the affinity she held that was obvious before but now was without any possible shroud.

Wasn't it lovely? To be capable of such in a universe such as this?

He wiped a droplet of sweat from his brow, gazing upon a work well done.

The wood now lay in a pile, chopped up neatly for the fireplace. The Hunter brought out a basket, collecting all the fragments and heading for the cabin. For a while, his collar dipped lower - a small, white puff of breath escaping his lips, almost like a more mundane kind of Mist.

He supposed White Cloud in winter could almost pass for a normal man, if not for the horns - and assuming nobody gazed too close into his eyes.

The door closed behind him with the tiniest creak, the hinges' way of reminding it was once again time to oil them. He set the basket on the floor, a gaze of blue finding the Witch in the other side of the room. Busy as she tended to be, moving different ingredients, flasks and boxes. The fire crackled leisurely, illuminating the cabin with a warm orange hue.

She noticed his return - ceasing whatever she had been doing to come over and greet him. The Wind did the same - turning to acknowledge her, a small nod as his one hand rose in anticipation, ready to slip round her back and embrace her.

Mortem's own hands made their way below his collar, moving up the sides of the Hunter's face to brush red locks out of his eyes and feel the warmth of skin. It was their wordless language, the silent affection shared after a simple day of good work and years of separation alike. No matter for how long - or short - they were apart, they always eventually met one another with the very same gestures. The soft abyss of her eyes finding the oceans of his.

A calm night over the waves.

No matter how far he travelled, or how fiercely he warred; He always found himself missing her. His thoughts ever occupied with Chaos, he had almost forgotten what it meant to be a man. It was one of the reasons he tended to call himself "Weapon", a stubborn rejection of self. And yet, all it took to shed the facade was but a brush of her fingers, reminding him of the flesh and blood, not the metal, that made up his body. The skin that felt, the hairs that stood up electrified with her touch.

...Yes, so very starved he was.

"Mortem." Her name always sounded so right in the deep rumble of his voice; Almost like poetry in its own right. There was affection in his eyes, visage now uncovered. Entirely transfixed, wanting for nothing more than to simply gaze upon her in this moment. They could remain like so for all he cared. For what little time they had before the tides of fate separated them, purpose calling them to different things.

...Though they would inevitably be brought together time and time again by this very same force.

The words that came were simple, ones he had heard before. The Hunter's arms brought his lover close, closer - the heat of his breath almost tickling her skin. It was his turn now - to caress the smooth curve of her jaw, palm resting against the side of a paler face. How silly it looked, with how large his hand was.

"As I do you." He whispered, letting his heart speak its truth as it did before. And yet, there was something else, something the solemn Hunter had not done before - at least not visibly. After all, he usually had his collar halfway up his face.

There was the slightest smile upon his lips, so gentle and full of love as though it belonged to another man. Who, him? The Black Wind of stern eyes and sharp edges? Surely, this was no Black Wind.

At least not the one he allowed others to know.

But he allowed her. Meticulously, she had unearthed that buried soul, the core that rested beneath a dragon's hard scales and a wolf's bared fangs. Something other than a warrior, other than a vessel of violence and war. Something new and old alike, something he would have been, should things have played out in a different way.

Something he once was.

He slowly pulled her yet closer, foreheads now resting together in a Windarian kiss. The elder Unlimited allowed the moment to linger, before guiding her jaw, a soft tilt of her chin - and then his lips met hers, a gesture of her people following a gesture of his own.

So tender, warm like a ray of sunshine, like a fickle breeze dancing in the meadows. He wanted her to feel this love, to think of nothing but their hearts beating to the very same rhythm. In this moment, this short while that belonged only to them.

Such an unlikely confluence they made, but how beautiful indeed. And it felt right.

"You have a beautiful spirit." The Wind purred, pulling away and blinking slowly against the dim orange light. "A dark-light unlike all else that my eyes had seen. Kienhti, altarlai. I am grateful."

Grateful for all the kind moments they had shared and would yet share.

...Wasn't it lovely? To be capable of such in a universe such as this?

[inb4belphienaps]

warnings: demon hunter au, monsterification (?), blood, gore, fighting (physical), death word count: 2028

Through the sounds of one man’s grunting and the clash of metal meeting hardened flesh, the ground of the forest shakes. Whatever birds had remained in the wake of the battlefield signal to one another (warning not just their own, but also the other inhabitants) that the current fight taking place could have devastating repercussions. More devastating than the smell of iron continuing to linger in the area.

As the earth shifts, flashes of bright light mingle with green smoke, creating a pool of fog that, were it privy to the eyes of outsiders, would hint at sorcery being afoot.

Magic holds its weight here in these lands. Depending on where your loyalties lie, you are either the hunter or the hunted. The former is normally trained in combat and taught to wield their powers as well as their swords. The latter, on the other hand, is feared, for the reasons that they are hunted are rooted deep in their very nature.

They go by many names – creatures of the dark, harbingers of evil, infernal bearers of sin. The list continues. And the stories grow. Generation after generation, children are taught to fear them. They are…demons. Children too in fact, of the King of Hell.

A royalty shrouded in mystery. The legend says that those who look upon his face never again see the light of day. And, since, no one has been able to confirm nor deny the numerous depictions of him, littering the books of those whose teeth chatter at the very mention of his title and covering the walls of the temples erected in honor of those who fight against him, he is better thought of as the very embodiment of your worst fears.

The soldiers are easier to motivate that way, more willing to be shaped into obedience. Whether that is seen as the mangled bodies of their loved ones or heard as the cries of the innocent, they are to never show mercy to the beings that do his bidding.

However, there are those who (baring the markings of a heretic), believe that these monsters were once human. That they sold their souls and gave into the darkness. That they were swayed by sweet words of promises unkept and in the end only saw suffering.

There are also those who, in the same manner, believe that these monsters take on the forms of humans. Either the humans they’ve converted or humans that they are to ravage, soon-to-be victims of a plague that cannot be cured or forgotten.

Dangerous thoughts like these are what make the difference between a good soldier and an immovable hunter. If there is doubt or a shadow of sympathy when facing these beasts, you may very well find your head removed from your body, and then, shortly after, consumed in its entirety.

(Yes...they feed on humans.)

Blood mars the surrounding trees and smothers the leaves, painting them an ugly copper. Where the dirt turns black, Simeon knows a struggle took place. How valiantly his brothers and sisters must have fought, he thinks. And how unsavory a death they must have met.

With this in mind, he steels his resolve and focuses all his energy into the magic materializing in his hands, imbuing it into his sword. He’d perfected his techniques. Trained until they’d become an extension of him and his will.

“Why”, the creature says, “they didn’t tell me they were saving the best ‘til last.”

Simeon neither flinches at nor acknowledges its voice. A voice that would otherwise send humans fleeing, pushes him to carry on, to increase his speed and thrust forwards with accuracy.

“But I suppose I should’ve known. The ones before you were far too weak to stand against me.”

He lunges, twisting half-way when he’s met with a swipe of a giant arm and a lash of a bright-green tail. Green. The color of evil. Green. The color of sin.

“They never had a chance.”

“Quit your blithering, monster. I have no intentions of hearing you speak.”

The creature smiles. Though its features are ghastly and covered with remains, Simeon can make out the ends of its mouth and how they curl upwards.

“You’ll have to cut out my tongue then, hunter.”

With each instance that their magics meet, the world around them becomes all the more obsolete. The serene landscape is instead transformed into an arena, of which only the strongest contender will leave from unscathed.

Simeon has hunted many of these puppets in his time. Cutting their strings and burning their shells, he’d gotten used to the smell of them. Except their appearance is another matter entirely. This creature that stands before him is a testament to that.

Its scales shine in the sunlight, like jewels beneath clear waters. Its limbs are strong and impressive. Its horns, like the antlers of a magnificent stag, demand his attention. Disregarding the loathing he feels; the creature is almost beautiful.

Almost.

He creates some distance between them, reconfiguring his stance and propelling himself off the scarped face of a mound of rocks piled atop one another just so.

The creature is quick to respond and close in on him, running on all fours at him head-first, like a raging bull. Its strides are far and wide, causing Simeon to abandon future attempts at discouraging close combat.

There is a menacing, contained kind of anger that permeates from the creature. He senses it every time its magic brushes against him be it the patches of exposed skin or his armor.  There’s a heat to it too. A hot measure of lethality that reminds him to be careful.

Demons are after all, tricky beings with a history of dabbling in the dark arts (necromancy was nothing to them). These are experienced fighters, unhinged and free to do as they please without their need for self-preservation or the need to maintain their dignity getting in the way.

The sheer force of their clash resounds, akin to a clap of thunder and the sparks that fly as its talons scrape against Simeon’s metal gives ode to the lightning that would normally accompany it.

When they part, following a further exchange of blows, Simeon is panting, and the creature seems excited by the notion.

“You are a creature of the dark. You take solace in the shadows, so you may attempt to flee from your sins but make no mistake, beast”, he hisses, jutting his chin out defiantly with a type of pride that the creature knew all too well, “I will have your head.”

The creature laughs and bares its fangs. Only…the hunter in front of him pictures how they’d glint on his neck, to serve both as a reminder and as a medal for his efforts.

Taking this monster down and fashioning his remains into something wearable? It was the least he could do for his companions who had sacrificed themselves and died fighting. Hell itself would have to freeze over before he’d admit defeat in any sense of the word so that their deaths would not have been in vain.

Suddenly, something splits in the air, the fractures dissipating in a myriad of pieces that could pass for shattered glass and Simeon is temporarily rendered immobile. His eyes widen, and he feels the creature within him. It was invading his mind.

Sentiments of nights spent practicing on his own and memories of harsh winters spent in front of crackling fires cause his shoulders to shake. There, amidst the confusion and horror, his friend’s cheerful visage startles him back into reality.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”, the creature chides. “It’s dangerous to go looking for the dead.”

So, the creature knew his intentions. To find his friend and give him a proper burial. His friend, who was probably now disfigured beyond recognition, was waiting for Simeon to find him. He could feel it. His friend, the one who had been there to see him through the hardest times of his life, was calling to him.

“Silence”, Simeon spits, venom coating his demand as he hurtles daggers and magic alike at the looming silhouette shrouded in mist. Each one ricochets off of its hide, and he clenches his jaw. He wasn’t focusing hard enough.

“I’ll give you two seconds to prepare yourself”, it says.

The creature then comes to a standstill and Simeon feels the first inklings of dread. A sentence like that meant that he was either going to be met with a resistance he had no hopes of fathoming or it had a trump card up its sleeve – another nasty trick it could use to its advantage.

“One.”

Wind rustles the foliage above and carries his scent towards it. He tightens his grip on his trusty weapon and tilts his head to the side to crack his neck.

“Two.”

With inhuman speed, it leaps, first into the thickets, disappearing from view, then to his side, grabbing him by the scruff as he’s rendered helpless.

Simeon squirms, his sword doing little to better the situation, and he kicks at the creature’s torso. The dull sounds of his foot colliding with its build send a rush of panic through him. And then-

And then he is falling. And the creature is smiling, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he looks down at the devastation tainting his features. The creature stands at the edge of the cliff, watching him descend into the abyss.

“What a shame”, it says. “You put up such a good fight, little hunter.”

As the creature turns his back, its ears twitch and it swivels around in disbelief. Was there a humming noise? A buzzing? A ringing in its ears?

It doesn’t have the chance to come to a conclusion. Simeon surges upwards from within the depths, colliding with its giant frame, and crushes it to the ground, with the same foot he’d used to kick it just moments before firmly planted on its chest.

“You…you have wings”, the creature whispers.

Simeon resists the urge to shiver. He hadn’t known he’d had them. He hadn’t known he was even capable of conjuring such things.

In its moment of weakness, he plunges his sword into its chest, watching the expression in its eyes change from bewilderment to indifference. Perhaps this was its way of dealing with death. Upon realizing that it too, like him, is capable of it, perhaps it resigned itself to its inevitable fate.

“What is your name, hunter?”, the creature rasps.

He hesitates. It is said that once a demon utters your name, you are forever cursed. And yet, with the outcome of the battle decided, he’s willing to take his chances.

“My name is Simeon.”

The creature nods once and sighs, as if vaguely fatigued.

“And what do they call you? Do your kind even have names?”

It snickers, and Simeon removes his sword, the severe movement causing it to stiffen and clutch at the fresh wound, talons covered in its own sanguineous substance. He feels no remorse or contrition at the pitiful sight, and he digs his sword in once more, eliciting a grunt. The creature assesses his hands – vigorous and seemly, and baring a ring too.

“Satan. That is my name.”

.

.

.

As the sun sets on the horizon and bathes the scenery in twilight, a shadow emerges from the edge of the forest close to the border. His clothes are ripped, and his blonde hair is covered in mud.

He stands, taking a deep breath in, and closes his eyes. When next he opens them, they glow a vibrant chartreuse – its yellow and green hues mixing together to create an uncanny image. The dust has settled and so has the blood running through his veins.

A body lies beneath his feet. Its uniform indicates that the man was once a solider. And as he turns him over, a familiar-looking ring falls out of the soldier’s pocket. He stoops down to pick it up and admires it in the low light.

Yes, those seemly hands and those crystalline irises that’d shown unwavering tenacity.

He will return. If only to cradle that hunter’s pretty little head in his hands.

[auburniivenus]

As yet another annum wends its way to a close, the academic sojourn embarks upon its customary pilgrimage to commemorate the festive yuletide spirit. Air, minty and laden with winter's chill, vibrates with profound laughter and exultant exclamations of jubilation as young intellectuals exchange dialogues rich in delight and speculation about the enigmatic allure that shrouds their destination. They find themselves cocooned in the tranquil embrace of a shrine, its serene atmosphere unequaled, nestled amidst the snow's pristine blanket—a spectacle of purity and unmolested magnificence, mirroring the unadulterated essence of the locale itself. Pupils, with hearts open and spirits buoyed by the festive cheer, become acutely attuned to the profound peace and mirth that the winter season bestows.

A young woman's auburn tresses cascade in voluminous waves down the graceful contours of her slender silhouette, presenting a harsh yet mesmerizing juxtaposition against the winter's monochrome palette. Inoue, so thoroughly captivated by the architectural grandeur and the natural aesthetic encircling her, remains blissfully unaware of her impending collision with another soul. A soft exclamation. "O-Oh." Slips from her lips as she automatically retreats a step, her gaze lifting to meet that of the stranger before her. For a fleeting moment, caramel eyes lock with his, embarking on a silent inquiry. This figure, shrouded in an aura that seems to weave harmoniously with the winter's embrace, possesses a complexion of alabaster and hair that echoes the hue of fresh snowfall, prompting her to ponder if perhaps she stands in the presence of a deity borne of winter itself.

"I'm alright." Responds, her voice a delicate murmur, as a spring-like smile blooms across her visage, accentuating the soft tilt of her head. "My mind, too, was adrift in the beauty that surrounds us. But tell me, are you faring well after our unexpected encounter?" Her inquiry is gentle, imbued with a genuine concern, as she adds, "Have you also come to bask in the serene glory of this sacred shrine?"

words and smiles alike are exchanged between two childhood friends as they say their goodbyes for the day.  &  mina tells him to text her once he's back at his apartment. "yeah, i will," soma agrees as much before turning to leave. apparently, it's getting busy at the hakuba shrine— as far as he knows, it's some out-of-town college students on a field trip.

but as soma turns around the corner, his thoughts drift to what he's going to have for dinner today. he's definitely not paying attention.  &  thus, the pale eyes only catch a glimpse of auburn hair when it's too late. he bumps into something, or rather, someone, solid.

soma staggers back a step, though otherwise he keeps his footing. "sorry, i wasn't paying attention." his gaze turns to the person he walked into — a young woman. auburn hair. maybe she is one of the students mina mentioned? "are you okay?"

@auburniivenus  ——  sc.

[bangtan-dreamland]

in another life, you and i

Pairing: pjm x male!reader ; one-sided!kth x male!reader

Word Count: 16193

Warnings: major character death, brief descriptions of violence, mention of a massacre, terminal illness

Rating: PG15 

Genre: angst, fluff (?), supernatural!au, demon!au, reincarnation!au

Summary: you are, surely, the strangest human Jimin has ever met, and he’s had two hundred years to mingle with your kind. still, a deal is a deal, and your soul is interesting, so why not?

he soon realizes there’s much, much more to the story than he knows.

A/N: written as a belated birthday fic for @sombreboy, whose fics feed my never ending thirst!! this is pretty wordy and kind of wonky, but I had a lot of fun writing this, the ending stressed me out though, I couldn’t help making it bittersweet

a big thank to you @tigertaehyunq who helped encourage and support me writing this!! I could ramble about her help but it’d take a lot of space, so I’ll just say I couldn’t have finished this without her. also, I rushed making the banner and will probably replace it later. edited a little now!!

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The first time Jimin’s summoned in decades, it’s to a human who he cannot understand at all.

And as a demon, he’s met plenty of human beings over the course of two hundred years. He’s met humans who worshipped him, humans who feared him, humans who hated him… he’s granted all kinds of wishes as well, has made more deals than most demons, even those older than him. He has a reputation, one that he’s earned.

He doesn’t think that you’ll be different from any human that he’s met before, and that like usual, this would be a quick transaction. Boring. Repetitive. But if he doesn’t meet you, then there’s nothing else to do- even if you’re only a quick distraction, he welcomes it.

Yet, when he��s summoned by you, you manage to blow all his expectations out of the water. 

Oh, as the fire that rises to the ceiling brings him over, his feet making contact with the rough floor, the markings on the ground, the offerings- there is not one bit that surprises him. Instead, he readies himself for your shock.

Humans are always ever so vocal, after all, even those who seem to be, at first glance, calm and composed. It’s a waste of energy and effort to introduce himself when they’re too busy panicking over the fact that they’ve ‘actually summoned a real demon!’. Therefore, he waits for you to get your screaming done and over with.

But as the flames make way for your visage, the face with which you greet him is not one that he’s familiar with.

Yes- In the split second that the flames die down to a simmer before disappearing, he can see the vivid surprise in your face, then replaced by fear and- grief?

However, as soon as they come do they pass, leaving him wondering why and if he only imagined it. You approach him with a mild look on your face that gives away nothing as to what you really feel inside, your tone even. Still, your slightly heavy breathing gives you away. “... You’re not the demon I aimed to summon.”

Jimin chuckles. “No, I am not. However, do not fret. I am much more powerful than whatever demon you originally intended for, I assure you.”

“... Or perhaps, you are not worried, so much as you are afraid right now?” As he takes a step forward, he has to inwardly commend your courage- even at the distance of a mere foot between the two of you, still you do not cower away from him. Rather, it seems you even have the nerve to take a step closer, as you tilt down to look at him. He feels a small surge of excitement in him- maybe this one won’t prove to be boring at all. Jimin continues his words. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Humans are ever always so afraid, after all. Especially of the supernatural.”

And then it takes him by surprise- the way that your lips shift oh so suddenly into a smile. It turns your face from a still lake in winter to the blooming fields of spring, and a stray thought in his head arises- for a human, you’re quite attractive yourself. “I’m not afraid of you at all,” you easily state. “I don’t mind if you’re not the one I was originally calling for. You’re much better than him, after all.”

At this close a distance, he can see in clear detail the way your eyes are clearly free of any fear, as you say.

How interesting.

“Wonderful,” he purrs, smiling widely, taking delight in the way you freeze for a moment, evidently charmed by him, especially when you’re so close to each other. “For humans like you, I do not mind making a deal.”

It would be best to take a step backward, the current distance between the two of you unsuitable for a serious conversation. Still, he’s never been the one to back down first. With that in mind, he simply continues on the conversation. “Now, human, for what reason have you called for me?”

You nod your head, a small smirk on your lips. “This is my last cycle,” you suddenly declare, and, what-

Before Jimin can process the words you’ve just spoken, you admitting to information that you should have no way of knowing, you are the first one to take a step back. As you do, you make a gesture to the center of your chest, and- 

“As you can see.”

Jimin makes a sound of surprise in the back of his throat as his attention is demanded by your soul. As he examines it, the first thought in his mind is that- impossible.

It’s an enigma, like you. Whole, unbroken. Your soul can almost be called pure, as there’s not a single crack to be found anywhere, the orb smooth. Yet mystifyingly enough, at the same time there is a black shroud of darkness that surrounds it, the type that only souls broken beyond the point of salvation can emit. The pristine state of your soul would qualify you a place in heaven- yet at the same time, the aura of death and hatred that surrounds your soul would open a position for you as one of hell’s most powerful demons. He can’t help wondering just what exactly were you like, and if the state of your soul is the reason why you can remember your past lives.

It’s how the game of heaven and hell works, after all. Humans are given ten lifetimes, ten journeys in the mortal world, their souls starting out as pure orbs filled with the power of uncertainty and potential. And then they are born as humans- starting out with truly blank roots, no outside influence offering them good or bad luck. 

Starting from the first lifetime, all decisions they make are important as it determines their next lives. The more giving and loving they are in their previous life, the more luxurious and pleasant their next lives come to be, as they are blessed with luck by the heavens. Even those that seem to start from a tragedy, it wouldn’t be too hard to survive and thrive. People would adore them, they would find themselves more attuned with the world, and ultimately whatever field they endeavored in, they would find themselves succeeding.

In turn, the more wretched and hateful a person is in his previous life, the more the heaven casts him out with luck against him. They may be born in a wealthy family- but if you wait longer, then you will find that their only choice is to fall deeper into disgrace with evil, fight fire with fire so to say- or to suffer the fall and endure pain to gain heaven’s blessings again.

Both would face harder and harder trials in each passing cycle of life- yet, for those with heaven on their side, passing such trials would not be that hard a task, and they would gain even greater benefits if they are sincere. Yet to those who are hated by the heavens, they may only turn to more evil to mitigate the luck that deems them betrayed, failed, loathed by even those that they may trust with their life.

With each passing life, a human’s soul either cracks or repairs. To those who persevere, who manage to mend their ways, who somehow are in heaven’s good grace- their souls are instantly taken to heaven the moment their tenth and final cycle ends. To those whose souls are broken and filled with hatred, well. They are disposed of, turned into demons. 

Most of the time though, souls at the end of their cycles are broken down and remade into new ones. He’s never heard of any exception to the rules of the game they’re all bound by.

And as for him? Jimin is one of the few demons who became one even before his ten cycles were completed. It’s what gives him his reputation, his power.

Yes. As a demon, he’s quite familiar with the system. He’s familiar with all the types of humans in different stages, different cycles of their lives. It’s easy for him to realize, with a glance, the state of their soul. Not even their reactions faze him anymore. After all- you can only listen to one too many screams and whimpers, before they lose the thrill, before they become merely annoying. With a glance, he can tell if they are headed to the world above or the one below- yet with yours, it seems as though you belong in both.

It’s a contradiction- you’re a contradiction.

“What kind of lives did you lead before this?” He mutters, a hint of surprise evident from his voice. “I’ve never quite seen a soul like yours before. Never have I met a human who knew about the cycles before, too.”

In response, though, you only laugh quietly, dodging his question. “I’ve lived the best lives, that’s all.”

Jimin’s lips curl up into a bemused smile. “Then I suppose you really indulged yourself in the past?”

“And now the heavens punish me for it,” you agree with a smile. “But I don’t want my last life to end like this.”

With that, you suddenly gesture to the room around the two of you, bringing Jimin’s attention to your state of living.

Jimin frowns as he notices the run down walls, the naked floor, the cracked windows. That’s not even mentioning the bare feel of the room, without much furniture or personal items in any way.

“As you can see,” you explain. “I’m currently down on my last legs.” 

Giving him a nonchalant shrug, you continue. “Estranged family, no friends, no money, not much possessions left… a birth defect that will deare me dead soon enough… with the state of my soul, it seems that there is no changing it in this lifetime either.”

At your last sentence, you fall quiet, but it’s not quite the quiet of despair, but rather- calm acceptance. It intrigues him. With each second that passes by in your presence, Jimin finds himself sensing layers underneath layers in your personality, little things that make you stand out from other humans he’s met before. 

He hums. “Well, YN, I hope you realize it isn’t possible for me to give you the perfect life without a proper price,” he teases you with a lazy smirk, wondering if you’ll notice his lie. “Seventy five years of a human’s life, one that’s evidently been marked against by heaven too, it doesn’t seem like one that offers me much power. At most, I could give you a year.”

And yet you only shrug a little. “I figured that might be so,” you admit. “I… I think I just want a better life, in any way I can get it.”

He lets out a chuckle at your words. “If a better life is what you want, that you want to repent, I believe you’ve summoned the wrong entity,” he muses. “After all, with a soul like yours, even an angel could be persuaded into helping you.”

You scoff. “If I wanted to repent, which I don’t, I never would have summoned you.”

“I just... I just want to make the last years of my life worth living,” you clarify, voice becoming wistful. “Rather than live a lifetime like this… I’d much rather use the rest of what I have for a moment of happiness.”

“I won’t ask much from you. I don’t want to stand out too much anyway, humans can be just as troublesome as devils and angels.” You huff wryly at that, fidgeting with your hands. “I just need you to-” for the first time, you falter, a noticeable blush coloring your cheeks, but you go forth anyway, “-stay by my side.”

“At all times. I mean- to ensure I am happy and safe at all times, for at least a year, keep my disease at bay,” you add, at a point almost stammering. Still.

Jimin blinks. Looks at you. Twice. Waits for you to continue- to rescind your words,  to say something. Yet you continue to stay silent, eyes not quite meeting him but peeking at him anyway, and he-

Jimin erupts into laughter, loud and long, practically falling over himself at that. “You want me to- stay with you, protect you, heal you and oversee that you are always happy, that’s your wish, human?”

You huff, making a snippy comment, "I don't believe you can heal, which is why I'm only asking you to keep the pain away," but you nod your head without a hesitation. 

Jimin grins. “You really are daring, aren’t you? Aren’t you afraid to bring heaven’s wrath down on you? Asking a demon for protection and healing! For happiness- and I doubt what you’re asking is the one that you can gain from materials or other humans.”

You scoff. “I’m not afraid of heaven,” you deadpan, brows furrowing as the solemnity of your voice, coupled with the tight look on your face makes him smirk. Daring, indeed. “And- do you really believe an angel would grant this wish?”

His lips curl into a smirk. The answer to that is something that you obviously know as well. No, an angel would never.

Seemingly satisfied with his silence, taking it for compliance, you take a step back towards him. 

At this close a distance, for the first time of the night, he fully takes you in. And- truly, although he doesn’t know what standard of beauty humans have at the present, even with the faint, bluish hue to the tips of your body that he now notices, Jimin thinks you’d fit any and all requirements to be considered being able to bewitch one’s soul at a glance. Not him, though, as a demon.

“So,” you murmur, a slight smile visible on your face. “Do we have a deal? Seventy five years of life, in exchange for a year of living however I want.”

“Deal,” he purrs, tilting your head down to seal your transaction. As his plush lips glide over your own, he whispers, light and teasing. “I truly hope you don’t regret it.”

With his eyes closed, Jimin fails to see the way your face flashes with an unknown emotion. “I know I won’t,” you murmur just before he fully claims your lips for a moment.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

After that starts his deal with you, and Jimin is given all the time in the world to realize- that yes, you truly are one of the weirdest humans he’s ever met, much less made a deal with.

The first evidence to that is perhaps the morning after the night of his summoning.

As a demon, he never had the need for sleep. However, after signing the contract, you’d immediately claimed to be exhausted, heading straight towards your bed. With that, he took upon it himself to first examine the state of your apartment, and to verify your past. Well, this cycle’s past, anyway.

What he finds only deepens the mystery that is you in his mind.

Twenty three years old as of today (he’s amused that you summon him, a demon, on your birthday, of all days), YN LN. Congenital birth defect. Living family, however, there’s a record of abuse towards you, particularly from your parents. Still, the charges were dropped, and the records erased. Most likely because your family is influential and rich. No friends, none that can be called upon in times of need, anyway. No lover, of course. 

You also have a brief history of showing great skills, particularly academic wise. It’s baffling how you've come this low, if you remember your past lives. Luck plays a huge part in living, yes, but so does skill and it does not seem as though you are lacking in that in any way.

Not to mention, your personality. You are- brave. Or perhaps fearless is the right word. You do not panic in unknown situations, and you are clearly quite intelligent. Witty as well. Skilled, and experienced.

And yet.

You truly hold no wealth or money under your name, and you are without a job too. More than that, you live in the shady part of town, in a dilapidated apartment.

"... I can't wait to discover your secrets," Jimin cheerfully announces as he takes a seat at the table. Placed on it are food that you've cooked, and he's more than curious to try it out. Though he doesn't need to eat, he's never been one to deny himself of any pleasure, and food is no exception.

You hum in response. "Well, good luck with that. Although I'm not telling you anything."

"You will," he assuredly tells you. "It's only a matter of time."

He hears you snort, before diverting your attention back to your food. "... I hope you like it."

Jimin has high standards. Or, rather, humans have very low standards for what they see as delicious, which is understandable considering that most never leave their cities, much less their countries to sample other foods.

Still, there’s something about the hotteok you offer him that brings him comfort. He takes one bite- and a part of him is already impressed. 

"It's passable," he admits, amused when he sees the way your mood suddenly seems to become happier. 

For a moment, silence reigns in the room as the two of you as you eat breakfast. 

A moment like this- it's rather nice. Compared to the screams and flames that fill hell with noise, the murmur of the city outside, in a time where the world still holds a small piece of quiet, Jimin finds himself relaxing a little.

Still, all too soon the food is gone and the conversation starts again.

“Truly, it astounds me, how those who heaven is frustrated with are bound to the worst lives," he finally remarks as he takes another look around at your apartment. In the light of the day, its inadequacies are only made more apparent. The wallpaper peeling off the walls, the faulty pipes that offer you poor water, rusty doors that creak noisily and the cracks in the walls and floor that are damp with water. No doubt would they leak if there is rain. “I will have you move to a more suitable lodging. This one is not fit for a human in a deal with a being like me, much less one that is fit to house a demon like me.” The distaste in his tone is pronounced.

He misses the smile on your face, hidden behind the cup of tea you’re drinking.

“I’ve made plans for you to win the lottery,” he announces.

“I refuse.” You bluntly say, before adding. “Sorry.”

Jimin frowns. “Why not,” he crosses his arms. “Would you then prefer to live in a place like this?”

“I don’t,” you deadpan. “However, winning the lottery would make people suspicious of us, and I’m pretty sure there are people who would target me for the money.”

“Are you doubting my ability to protect you?”

“I’m not. I just don’t want to deal with having to be protected in the first place.” At your words, something in your tone changes for a moment, and Jimin frowns. Sensing the sudden fall of your mood, he opts to acquiesce.

“Your family is quite well off, isn’t it? And you aren’t close to them in the slightest... I could arrange their deaths and leave you with their riches,” he offers quickly, not really meaning it- just wanting to keep your mind off whatever thoughts you found yourself in.

“For the same reason as the first, no,” you refuse. “Angels would notice, and that would be troublesome.”

“A contest?” Jimin drinks his tea while he waits for you to consider his proposal, internally pleased with your skills in cooking. It doesn’t come close to renowned chefs, but there’s something about your food that makes him feel happy, and safe. The way you’ve acted so far… the lack of fear, the familiarity… perhaps you’ve dealt with demons in your past lives? It’s certainly a possibility. “I can acknowledge your skills with food.”

You smile for a brief moment, but all the same, it’s laced with the same emotions as before. Grief and longing.

“... Thank you,” you reply after a  moment, although you shake your head after. “But I don’t want the fame that comes with it. … I’ve had enough of it.”

Left over feelings from a previous cycle then. Jimin nods, finally letting out a sigh. “Well then,” he grumbles. “I suppose that leaves me no choice.”

“Human-”

“YN,” you interrupt him, gaze not particularly on him, but the tone of your voice firm. “Call me YN. Please.”

“... YN, how do you fancy a game of poker?”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Six hours later, YN is a man richer by several hundred thousand dollars. And as Jimin feels the cold air of the night meet him as they step outside, he has to suppress the giggles building up inside him. There’s nothing quite like being in a casino, surrounded by danger and despair hidden beneath the veneer of luxury and temptation. Nothing quite like the faces revealed to them as he deceives foolish humans, especially when they believe they’re about to win- and then, just like that, the victory is taken away from them. It’s all quite hilarious, really.

“You seem quite happy,” he hears you remark. Spinning around gracefully, Jimin grins at you. 

“What’s not there to be happy about?" He smoothly retorts. "I've gambled to my heart's content, and you are richer than you expected. This has been a productive evening."

He's about to tell you exactly why casinos are amazing, when he notices the man standing around the corner. 

Jimin's smile falls.

Clad in simple but fashionable clothes, the handsome face and sculptured body would have been a cause for getting mobbed by humans, not just girls, but also boys.

However, he's standing alone.

He may be without his wings, but there is no mistaking the holy aura that surrounds him, evidently sensed by even humans, as none dare to approach him. 

Crossing his arms, Jimin sends Taehyung a sharp look, the frown on his face all too visible. He instinctively pulls you behind him, not wanting you to get taken away by the self righteous sanctimonious angel. "Taehyung."

His name rolls off Jimin's like a curse, but it's as if Taehyung doesn't hear him, or he doesn't care.

In fact, the only assurance Jimin has that Taehyung has seen them is the way that he looks up- before freezing, the surprise all too visible as his eyes dart from you, to him. For a moment he sees something flash in his eyes- before it dies down, and like Jimin, he frowns deeply. He takes a step forward, towards you, but Jimin pulls you back as well, restoring the distance between the two of you and him.

"What are you doing with him?" Taehyung's jaw is clenched, a sure sign that he's angry, if the way his eyebrows are knitted aren't enough. "Let go of him." What more, the way he bites out his words.

“Let go of who, my human?” Jimin sneers, arm holding you close against him. A lazy smirk arises on his face as he meets Taehyung’s eyes and sees the sparks of anger inside. “You aren’t in any position to warn me away from him, angel, seeing as he called for me on his own.”

“Although it is quite intriguing for you to take so much interest in a human,” he taunts. “To go so far as having a personal meeting with him… why? Have you fallen in love?”

“YN.”

Instead of responding to Jimin's words, Taehyung turns to you, worried countenance seemingly pleading with you. 

“Taehyung,” you softly reply. It makes a part of Jimin annoyed, for some reason. The first time he hears you like this- and it's for an angel.  “It’s my choice.” 

Still the other does not back down, and you add with a helpless sigh. “Please.”

If possible, the angel's fury grows at your words. Not to you, though, but perhaps for him. For a moment, Jimin readies himself to fight- even if he doesn't know why the angel sees you as someone close enough to personally protect, more than the view of heaven treasuring a potential asset, he's determined not to give you up. You are a mystery he wants to unravel himself, after all. And it'd be another way to oppose the angel. 

Still, soon enough even that diminishes, until the angel's face is blank and seemingly uncaring.

“If you know what’s good for him and for you, you would leave,” he glowers at Jimin. And then he faces you and his face immediately softens. “I’ll try to plead with them.”

“There's no need for that,” you shake your head, a small smile on your face. “... But thank you.”

And with a nod of his head, the angel disappears, and the two of you are alone, again.

"Well," you sigh. "That was an experience."

Jimin turns to you, pinning you down (or rather, trying to) with a look. Still you remain calm under his gaze.

"An angel," he states, the question there all the same.

You only shrug at him, a playful smile on your smile as you start walking down the road. "A secret. Come on, I want to eat at a proper restaurant. Feels like it's been forever since I got to eat good food."

Jimin follows behind you dutifully, but it doesn't erase the suspicion in his heart.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

"So, YN” he starts as he watches you stroll through the aisles of clothing.

At this moment, the day after your casino outing, your first plan of action had apparently been to head to the mall and acquire new clothing. While Jimin personally thinks that there are other places, other things that you could handle first-

“Where do you think I should go then?” The sarcastic tone in your voice is loud. “The hospital? What’s the point of getting treated if, after this year, my conditions still stay the same? Maybe you’ve forgotten the state of my soul.”

“My old family? Oh, to make amends. Unfortunately I hate their guts with a passion,” you continue, making him fall silent with how suddenly the words seem to spill out of your mouth. Your face is set in a tightly neutral look, but the bitterness is easy for him to see.

“A job for after then? What’s the use? As with my condition, this cursed, rotten luck will ensure that I never truly succeed without dirtying my hands. And while I don’t mind it, it’s just too troublesome.”

“I just want to live my life the way I want to, without other people fucking butting in for once.”

There’s an intense look in your eyes then. There’s a history behind that sentence that Jimin can easily see. It can’t be from this life, so it definitely must be from your previous ones. Still, for once, he can’t help but wonder just what exactly it was like, for you to react like that.

“The mall it is, then,” Jimin hums with an easy smile, pressing his body closer to you. Since that little moment when he was first summoned, he’s noticed that he has quite the amusing effect on you whenever he goes near- your cheeks reddening, body stiffening for a moment, eyes darting away- it’s clear that on some level, even though you try to hide it, you find him attractive. Which really isn’t a surprise.

Even now, he sees you bite the inside of your cheek, angry look easing down.

And that was that.

“What is your requirement for,” he pauses, mulling the word over in his head, “‘happiness’? Is there anything in particular that you want? … I doubt you’d be one to wish for the typical.”

You pause from your steps, looking up from the rack of clothes.

The answering smirk that he spots on your face only confirms his words. “Well, I was hoping you’d answer that question,” the hint of cheer in your tone makes him look at you with even more surprise.

“... Me?” Jimin repeats. Your smile grows and you turn back to the matter at hand. In your hands.

“Give me a year of fun that can rival even more than my past lives,” you challenge him brazenly, although your attention is seemingly only on the clothes that you’ve picked. With a scowl, Jimin stalks over to you.

“And you believe I can provide you with that?” He dodges your challenge, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m curious as to what a demon enjoys,” you nonchalantly say. “Aside from casinos, that is.”

Jimin suddenly has the urge to sigh, his face falling at once, but it seems you pick up on it.

“I mean… aren’t you a demon?” you grin at him unabashedly. “Are you seriously telling me, that in all the years you’ve been a demon, you’re still surprisingly-”

He has a bad feeling about this.

“-pure?” You chortle at that word, and Jimin bristles.

“I’m not,” he instantly denies, lips pushing up. “It’s only that your wish was for me to protect you and keep you happy, however, why should that mean that I become your… your…" He pouts even harder, "... your helper?"

“Because that was our deal,” you say simply, before throwing him a look, a hint of mischief in your expression. “But there’s no shame if you can't do it. After all, it's not usually what a demon is summoned for, is it?" 

Jimin crosses his arms.

"And if I choose a dangerous place? If none of what I choose brings you any enjoyment?"

"Well, if I remember, part of the deal was for you to protect me. And it’s alright, we’ve got a whole year to play around with!" With that said, you finally turn back to look at him with a pleasant smile, holding up a jacket to your frame. “How about it? Do I look good?”

“Put down that clothing for one moment,” he bites out, annoyed. “And listen to me?”

“Don’t want to,” you blithely reply. “Besides, I’ve already made the decision. You can’t make me change my mind.”

There’s an obstinacy that your stance conveys all too well, and goddamn you’re such a brat. When you refuse to look back at him, he grabs your arm, pulling your body to finally face in his direction. When you still keep your gaze locked away from him, he uses his other hand to tilt your head up firmly but gently. 

In this distance of less than a foot, he looks you in the eye and asserts himself.

“I am not a toy, nor am I your butler,” he tells you slowly, but with a weight in his words. “I am a demon. If you know that, then you should know not to treat me like we’re anything like friends, as I assure you, it is only a mistake. And one that will cost you your life.”

You bare your teeth at him, eyes suddenly clear of any emotion. “And so?” You demand, pulling him closer in turn, a strange pressure present in your tone. It makes him tremble, an unknown emotion building up inside him. Annoying, frustrating, maddening. You’re the strangest human he’s ever met. “You say that like you believe that will somehow change anything.”

It’s not fair. Why do you have this effect on him?

He opens his mouth to speak-

But then he catches your expression change slightly. There is a brief flash of pain on your face, and the heavier breathing alerting him to your condition. Barely does a second pass before your legs tremble and Jimin spurs into action.

Jimin immediately maneuvers you to fall into his arms as your legs give way, leaving you to collapse on him, your chest falling and rising with increasing tempo. 

“Someone dares to harm my charge,” he swears under his breath, immediately spreading out his power to sweep through the nearby areas, but to no avail. There are only humans around, ignorant humans, so-?

“It-” you shudder as you struggle to breathe, your voice coming out as a croak. “Heart-”

-of course. Your congenital birth defect. 

He places one hand against your body, the magic in his veins directing, telling him that your disease is acting up again. Although a little awkward, he directs his magic through the nerves in your body, cutting off the pain and easing up the exhaustion of your body. Jimin isn’t an expert in the workings of the human body, but he at least knows enough to figure out how to temporarily ease and solve the problem at hand.

When he feels your breathing slow down, body relaxing, melting to his own- only then does Jimin allow himself to finally stop worrying.

“Don’t you humans have more regard for your life? Isn’t it human instinct to want to survive, or is your brain just that broken?” He hisses, glaring at you when you purse your lips, the very picture of stubbornness.

Still, when you speak, he’s forced to listen.

“... The moment I summoned you,” you say quietly as you press yourself closer to him. If anyone were to see the two of you now, they’d assume you were lovers embracing each other, the fleeting thought races into his mind. “I knew what I was getting into. I place my life in your hands. I trust your hands to take care of it.”

“After all,” you continue. “what else is there to live for?” 

“Besides, it’s only for a year. After that, you’re free to do whatever you want with my soul.” And then do you smoothly pull away from him, earlier weakness gone, the clothes you’d been trying on in one hand as you make your way to the counter. “Choose something you like. We have the money for it anyway.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

After that starts what might be Jimin’s craziest deal yet. Fully committed to live your remaining year of life your way, you have no qualms about using the contract to make him submit and follow your tems.

What’s even more infuriating is the way you do it. Sure, he could easily get mad, as a demon there is pride in his bones that cannot be easily handled, but you somehow manage to avoid that. When you talk to him, your tone is always light and playful, teasing, ever so confident. You don’t bow to him, like some of the humans he’d met who knew him and his power, but neither do you assume yourself to be the better of him, ignorant and drunk on power. For a lack of a better word, even after everything he’s done to you, you treat him as an equal.

“I feel exhausted.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you, considering I was the one who carried all our luggage.”

After that event at the mall, the two of you decided on a plan. 

A year’s worth of time, several hundred thousand dollars and absolutely no responsibility left to hold you down anywhere. Jimin didn’t know where to start, who the fuck would ask a demon to guide them? No one in their right mind would. 

Except you, that is. Infuriating you.

“It’s not my fault I’m not as strong as you,” you dramatically sigh as you flop on the bed.

Jimin snaps the lock on the suitcase a little harder than he intends.

Still, when he’d been practically browbeaten into accepting your deals, you’d offered him a piece of advice.

“I’m alright with anything you want to do. … Isn’t there something you wished you could do here? I don’t imagine a demon can spend so much time aboveground, the same way angels don’t linger here.”

So here the two of you were, on a trip around the world. 

“Maybe not,” he mutters under his breath, “but getting here would have been done much faster if it weren’t for you almost fainting in the middle of the damn street.”

“I didn’t think it was that serious,” is your blithe reply.

Starting from Japan, to Philippines, to a week in a country of your choosing, sometimes more, sometimes less, the two of you have gone in several different countries, trying out food, experiencing the vividly different cultures, learning about famous landmarks and basically touring around. All things that Jimin (if only to himself) admits that he enjoys, especially with your company. 

Choosing this particular plan is perhaps a mix of his own desires and an assumption. Almost every human had the desire to travel the world, didn’t they? Even you, with your past lives, would have to enjoy it.

He just didn’t expect how much he himself would have fun as well.

“You,” he sighs, “are completely hopeless.”

“But you’re still here with me, aren’t you?”

Perhaps that’s why three months later, as the two of you are checking in into your hotel rooms, he finds himself… being more gentle (not fussing, not, he would never fuss or truly worry about you, he’s a demon for fuck’s sake) with you, especially after you’ve just experienced another one of your episodes.

Three months with you, and Jimin’s become accustomed with you being… well, you. 

When you mention something clearly ridiculous (who asks a demon to dye his hair? Just because you are doesn’t mean he should, and why would he know how to?), to doing something ridiculous (he didn’t really need that stuffed toy. Really), to just about almost collapsing from overexerting your body in your excitement (the most annoying thing about it perhaps may be the fact that you don’t even seem to care that you’re in pain, just that you can’t move as your body refuses to listen to you), he slowly becomes used to handling you. Reading you, learning to take care of you.

He doesn’t understand it himself, even as he slowly recognizes that maybe, just maybe, he’s started caring for you more than he should. More than he wanted to, far more than he ever thought he would.

He accepted the deal because you were a mystery he wanted to unravel, but as each day passes, he finds your existence to be more than enough reason for him to stay.

“I keep telling you to take better care of yourself,” he scolds you as you lie down on the bed, eagle-spread. Still you remain completely at ease, complacent look on your face and body relaxed. If not for the way that you eye him with amusement, Jimin would assume you’re not listening to him at all. As it is, he fixes you with a glare. “I’m not all-encompassing, you know. All I can do is take the pain away and temporarily fix your body’s failure.”

“That’s more than enough for me,” you cheerfully exclaim. Jimin aggressively unpacks the clothes in the dresser in response, grumbling under his breath. No matter how much he practically insults you into taking care of yourself, you always shrug off his words.

“What kind of human are you? Don’t you want to live?”

“Of course I want to live,” you immediately reply, before yawning. “But I don’t want to live it in a hospital.” 

“Anyway, this current life is good enough for me. As long as I’m happy, I don’t care what happens to my body,” you quietly laugh, as if there is a joke hidden somewhere in your words that Jimin has failed to see. “Now, won’t you kiss the pain away?”

He sighs even as he looks over you, scanning you for any signs that your disease has flared up again. You wink at him in turn and he snaps his head around, annoyed at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Says the one who took me to Disney World. A demon taking a human to Disney World, can you think of anything more ridiculous than that?”

The clothes in his hand almost slip from him as he splutters. Red flashes in his cheeks as he whirls around to glare (read: pout) at you. “You had fun! … Didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” you agree with a small smile. “I’m pretty sure I had the most fun there, even if you were the one screaming your head off while we rode the rollercoaster.” Jimin’s face reddens even more at the reminder, while you chuckle at his reaction. “Though you lost all your dignity for a moment.”

“If you can make jokes like that, then I know you’re feeling alright already,” he glowers. “Go on and get some rest.”

“Yes sir,” you mock salute him, before shutting your eyes and falling asleep just like that. Jimin sighs, and then pulls up the sheets to your chin. 

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Why does he like to visit you so fucking much?” He asks, maybe a little more aggressively than he likes. Still, it’s very much justified in his opinion. Taehyung stops by way too often, dropping by at least once a week, if not even more. It aggravates him to no end, to see the angel dare to get close to what Jimin has marked as his. “Does he not have anything else to do, or is heaven really that idle?”

His irritation only deepens as your lips quirk up in amusement.

“He’s just checking up on me.”

“What he is is being a nuisance and an overall pest. The urge to swat him down like the fly that he is rises up every time he appears.”

He hears you snort with laughter beside him.

“Pfft! Geez, alright. Instead of thinking about that, why don’t you look over this with me?”

He feels you lean on his shoulder, the phone’s screen showing your possible next destination.

“As long as that fly doesn’t dare to appear, I’m fine with wherever.”

“So you don’t mind missing out on the music festival in England for some other place then-?”

“I never said that,” he glares at you, pout on full display, ignoring your snickers. “Give me that phone.”

“Yes, yes, here you go.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

It takes him five months- almost half of the time he’s dedicated to your deal- before he asks you about the question he’s always wanted to know the answer to, the curiosity backed up by the fact that you probably will answer him. Hopefully.

Five months, and with every little thing he manages to glean about you, there comes another question to replace it. The skills he can easily guess to be remnants of your past lives, far off gazes reminiscing old memories, the unbothered attitude the accumulation of lives lived and lost.

Not to mention the way you always seem so... sad. Yes, perhaps that’s the best way to describe it. You hide it well, but even as you smile, you always seem to be one step saying goodbye. It doesn’t make sense, considering it was your choice to traded away your remaining years. Not to mention, you’ve let it slip that no one from your past lives are still living in the present.

Although.

It’s not as if he cares, not really- besides the fact that you always keep him on his toes, surprising him at ever moment, you’re just like any other human. Actually, you���re even less than that, considering your living conditions.

But time is running out, and if he lets you slip away without even trying, out of fear, then it wouldn’t be like him, now would it? And that won’t do at all.

At this moment, the two of you are sitting on the roof of the cabin you’ve rented out in Swedish Lapland. Something that you both came here to accomplish was seeing an aurora borealis, and as you’re both clad in warm layers of fur, hot chocolate in your flasks as snow surrounds you below and around you and the brilliant flashes of light above you- he can’t help but let his thoughts wander. 

For once Jimin decides to take a step past the line he’s tried to define against you.

“What were your past lives like?” The question slips from him before he can take it back, and he sees you tense up, though you soon cover it up with a befuddled look.

“Hm?”

“You know what I mean,” he pushes. “Even us demons barely remember our human lives, much less a human like you who remembers their past cycles.” 

A flash of heat decorates his cheeks as he sees the light in your eyes fade a little. “.. I was merely curious. It’s alright if you don’t want to-”

“I was the village healer in my first life,” you simply state. Jimin freezes, shocked that you would even reply.

Still, when he sees you turn to him, the look on your face clearly asking him to respond, he clears his throat.

“A healer huh…” he trails off, the image of you in his head becoming clear. “Somehow, I can easily see you as one. … Although it’s a little ironic, considering your current state.”

“Yeah,” you quietly chuckle.  “It was one of my favorites. I had a loving family, and many friends. We had enough to live by ourselves, and the place where we lived was peaceful and beautiful.“ 

“Our village was situated on the mountainside- we were surrounded by this huge forest, and the blue sea below. My daily life started with tending to my patients first, and then to my garden. After that, I’d go into the forest to scavenge wild herbs, and I’d always take the time to appreciate the beautiful scenery. When I got back, I’d start making medicine, and then I’d continue taking care of any patients that came through the door.”

“Sounds like an idyllic life,” Jimin remarks, before adding, “If it were me, I wouldn’t have been able to stand that.” 

“I wouldn’t begrudge you for missing that sort of life. It’s much more simple and easier than the life humans lead nowadays.”

You laugh, the sound full of melancholy even as there is nostalgia in it. “Right? You have the same way of thinking as- as him,” you pause, before your tone changes to a softer, gentler one, full of unspoken feelings. “My best friend. Kindest, most cheerful and helpful angel of our village. He was the son of our chief, but that wasn’t the reason why everyone loved him. We all adored him because he was the brightest part of our lives.”

“You sound overly fond of him.”

“I am.” The way you phrase your words doesn’t escape him as you look him in the eyes. You pause for a moment, before almost whispering the words, though he still hears them. “I will always love him.”

“... Do you?” For some reason, Jimin’s chest feels tight. It’s impossible for it to be like that. His body doesn’t function the same way that a human does, after all, no matter how much it may seem otherwise. Still, the way it suddenly feels as though the breath in him is slowly being stolen away, pain filling in the space left- he hates it. “How did it go, then?”

“How did what go?” You ask him, bemused. He sighs irritably and repeats his question, mixed emotions unknowingly present in his tone.

“You said you love him, so… did you, with him...?”

For a moment, you stare at him in surprise-

- and then you burst into laughter, long and hard. “Pfft! No, we didn’t,” you clarify as you giggle. “I’m sure I don’t have to point it out explicitly, but he was the son of the village chief, and I was just the healer. Besides, we were both men. No one would have approved of it, and it’s not like we could just shrug off the village and run away together.” 

You smile widely, brighter than he’s ever seen you smile before, but Jimin is not blind to the lingering pain inside. “He got married to someone else.”

“... He did? But I remember you saying you were the closest one to him. If he knew-”

“-I never told him,” you shrug, a hollow chuckle slipping out. “It wouldn’t have done anything anyway, except make him miserable.”

It should make him happy. Thinking about this ‘best friend’ of yours who you’re still in love with makes him unnaturally angry, and to know that you have feelings left for a ghost even more. 

Yet in the face of your heartbreak, as much as you try to hide it, Jimin feels sympathy for you instead. He clears his throat, breaking the silence.

“So you spent your life alone, then. While the guy you loved was with someone else?” He shakes his head. “I’m surprised, and yet I’m not.” Only half a year spent with you, and yet he can tell it’s something you would do. “Tell me about your next lives then.”

You smile a little then, recognizing the out he’s giving you. After a brief period of contemplation, you start speaking again.

You tell Jimin vaguely about your previous lives, the previous cycles you’ve gone through. You tell him about the city in your second life, the wandering merchant family you’d been born to and how you were pulled into the trade. You dipping into secret deals, backstabbing and a little manipulation to protect your family from malicious people. Your third life, where you are from a family of low nobles, and your forage into politics to find out who’s your allies and who’s your enemies. All the way up to your eight life, you talk, and talk, and talk, filling up the silence of the night with tales of lives lived so long ago, details lost to history and moments uncaptured but remembered. 

Even as a demon, as old as Jimin may be to the humans, he’s barely as old as you are, if one were to take your first life as your moment of birth. He’s only heard snippets and rumours of dynasties and eras so far down history, nothing can be proven a hundred percent true. Yet in your words, you manage to vividly paint a picture, a window into a world he’s never seen before.

In your eighth life, you tell him about the powerful family you’re born into. About the way your family held you tight, how politics ran deeply and tightly around the city, the powerful dictating the lives of those without, and how you carved a place for yourself into history despite the obstacles in your way.

About the prince you grew up with, the emperor you eventually strived to serve faithfully.

That’s something that he’s noticed is a commonality with every lifetime of yours. There is always the presence of this other person. Some lifetimes, they are your childhood friend and others they come late into your life. Their personality often varies, and so do your relationship, but several things always remain the same.

You and them are partners in some sense of the word.

They are in a position of power higher than yours.

You are close to them, devoted to them, perhaps even in love with them, although it never leads to anything tangible in the end.

“That sounds like a tedious life,” he quietly comments as you tell him about the banquet you’d been forced to attend, the beautiful but dry and cold food. “It doesn’t seem like one you’d like, but let me guess, this lifetime around he was the emperor, wasn’t he?”

To your point, you don’t ask him what he’s talking about. A bitter smile alights on your lips instead as you consider his question.

You huff. “Yeah. It’s kinda obvious, isn’t it? He was the emperor’s son in that lifetime,” you admit. “I helped him battle his siblings and gain the throne.” 

“But if you’re wondering... as I’m sure you know, relationships between the emperor and the officials are forbidden.” You look away from him then, eyes going back up to the northern lights above, though neither of you have been paying attention to it since the conversation started. “I was already pretty controversial in that time.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How?”

“Secret~” you smirk. He frowns at you, rolling his eyes- and you giggle.

“... I can’t understand how your soul became like that,” he grumbles. “How the hell do you have a soul that’s both pure and not? More than that, how is it that you happen to be reborn together and in almost the same circumstance in every life? It’s as though you’re tied together.”

You laugh, although it’s tinged with sadness. “... if I ever find out how, maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

He only rolls his eyes. “You will.”

The resounding laughter he hears from you makes it worth it. Still...

“Where is he in this lifetime, then?” He finally asks. Surely, if this person who you’ve met and waited for in every cycle has been part of your life without fail, then, surely, he has to have appeared in this one as well, right?

Although he thinks they don’t deserve you, but they obviously make you happy, and… you’re just about the only human Jimin thinks deserves that word the most. Happiness. He hasn’t seen you truly happy even just once, and it’s not as if he cares, no. But you made the deal with him to enjoy your last life, didn’t you?

You fall silent at his question, lips struggling to hold the smile on your face. When it doesn’t work, you take a deep breath, and then turn to him. “... Who knows? If he’s out there, alive… I just hope he’s happy.”

Jimin hisses at that.

“Asshole,” he furiously mutters. “After everything you sacrificed for him, you should get to have your own happiness too. If I ever see him, I’ll-”

You interrupt his angry tirade with laughter, warm and isn’t it funny how that single action seems to be more effective at keeping the cold away than the drink in his hands?

“Being with him was what already made me happy,” you smile. “But thank you.”

He pouts, wracking his mind for words to not only keep your smile afloat but to show you how worthless the person you’ve endured heartache for is. “... I wouldn’t leave you to suffer alone.”

“I know,” you coo at him, smile becoming a smirk.

“Because of our deal,” he hurriedly clarifies, the tips of his ears burning red as you lean on his shoulder. Jimin feels his body stiffen as the weight of your head on his side registers. He doesn’t want to push you away- but damn it if this isn’t something he’s ever done, and is familiar with before. 

Your fingers intertwine with his, bringing with them affection and comfort, and he finally calms down with a huff. “... I-I made a deal with you, after all.”

“Yeah, I know,” you repeat, obviously struggling to hold back your laughter.  “Thank you.”

“... As long as you know.”

That night ends with the two of you spending far more time than you should out in the cold, no matter that it’s the rooftop of your cabin. The aurora lights last all night long, the beautiful glows of colors dissipating and blending into the rosy colors of the morning sky, a beautiful sight that even Jimin has to appreciate as he sees it from the bedroom’s window.

If only you would wake up from your slumber, you could see it too. Still, he isn’t too keen on waking you up in any way, much less shoving your body away from him. 

… Even if your body is a little too cold than he likes.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

It’s in his seventh month of being with you that he slowly realizes something. As the cherry blossoms die, autumn leaves falling and snow coating the world in white, he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he’s let you come a little too close, a little too familiar with this heart.

At first he looked forward to knowing your secrets, but it’s infuriating to realize that even as much as he gets to know about you, it’s surprisingly not enough. He wants more. It never feels enough- whether it be your secrets, your attention, or maybe just you.

Not to mention he’s never had reason to stay so long as he has in the human realm, and not so close to anyone, moreso his human. Perhaps that’s part of the reason why it takes him so long to realize.

The way that it dawns on him too is frustrating- the thought instantly settling in his mind when he sees you flash one of your rare smiles at him. Mid-afternoon, as you stir the tea in your hand, the sunlight almost seeming to cover you with an ethereal glow as you sit with your back against the window. 

For once, you’re the one filling the silence, chuckling over incidents that happened as the two of you went to see the parade earlier that day. The memory of you watching the performers decked beautifully in white facepaint, skull masks and roses, and elaborate clothing, with an awed look on your face… the thought of it makes him smile unconsciously and you catch it.

“Are you smiling?” You raise an eyebrow at him, bemused. “I didn’t know you liked the parade that much, you wanted to join.”

Red flares up in his cheeks when your words sink in. “What. I- I wasn’t smiling! I was just- thinking.”

You give him a skeptical look, eyes travelling from feet to head, before you hide a very visible smirk behind your cup of tea. “Huh. Must’ve been a wonderful thought, if it made you smile so easily like that,”  you tease him. “... It’s nice seeing you smile more often these days.”

Do I? He wonders. You’re all that fills his head these days, from your ridiculous antics and decisions, the unfathomable way of thinking you have, the way you so easily see him and read him. Does he really smile that much, when you’re the only thing he thinks about so much?

Do the thoughts of you really make him happy, enough to the point that he’s always smiling?

You offer him a warm grin. “I’m glad. I worried I was the only one enjoying this deal, after all.”

… He’s fucked.

After that, it takes a miracle (heh) to act the same as before, to pretend that nothing is going on. After all, it’s not as if he can confess his love for you, can he? He isn’t even sure if it’s love that he feels- can demons even feel that emotion? 

But the truth is, now that he’s aware of just how much exactly you mean to him, it’s hard not that smile a little too much when you get the pleased look in your eyes, to keep the laughter at bay when you make a mistake and pout just the tiniest little bit, sulking, to generally just not let you catch on that everything you do is making him feel like holding you close as much and as long as his heart demands.

He can’t. He shouldn’t. He wants you, and he’s never had a problem with taking what he’s set his sights on before. But you aren’t like anything else he’s collected. You aren’t a toy he wants to play around with, nor are you a rare item he wants to keep locked up. You’re someone he treasures, and while he has no doubt he’s charming and powerful, that on some level, you’re attracted to him, that’s not enough to make you choose him.

At least, not enough for you to pick him over them.

Not if you chased them across literal lifetimes, if you’ve spent lifetimes dedicated to them.

Even now, when he approaches the subject, he can feel you distance yourself from him. He’s torn.

Jimin watches you, a smile of his own appearing.

I don’t want to push it and push him away for good.

But.

I really want to get past this wall.

… It’s fine though. There’s still time. There’s still time to make you change your mind, to love him too. He’ll make sure of it. After all, whoever he is is long gone, and Jimin is the one in front of you and beside you at all times. Something is bound to change.

��• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“You’re much more agreeable these days.”

Walking side by side, he thinks that it would be more than easy to reach across and hold your hand in his. Instead, he raises an eyebrow at you and pushes those thoughts out of his mind.“And? You aren’t complaining, are you?”

You chuckle. He averts his gaze, feeling a little blinded. “No, not really. Just an observation. Does this mean you won’t mind the festival tomorrow? It’ll be messy, after all. And not in the way you like.”

He grumbles. “... I suppose so. It’s not like I have a choice, anyway, so why not?”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The days pass, and the cold becomes unbearable. It burrows under his skin, surrounding his body that not even human clothes can keep away. Especially at night, when the temperature is at its lowest, does he find himself shivering. Although admittedly, it’s much better than how it was months ago, now that the seasons are shifting into spring, it’s still bad for his health.

At least that’s what he tells you, any extension himself, as you continue to share one bed. You are his responsibility, but in the line of thinking Jimin is someone under your care too, as you are both partners. Therefore, it only makes sense for you to share warmth with him by cuddling (read: spooning, you’d been the one to bring it up after a very embarrassed Jimin almost stomped off, although you never mentioned the implications wrapped around it) with you.

In your arms, your scent surrounds him, legs thrown over his own, your hair soft on his cheek. Moments like this are hard to come by, but that just makes him savor every one of them even more.

Under the darkness of the room, minutes after you’ve agreed to turn off the lights and go to sleep, he finds himself whispering, wondering if you’ll reply.

“Aren’t you scared to die? … Is it really that terrible, to be confined in a hospital?”

Your response is short, tone even, but the way you tighten your hold on him says everything.“I’m more scared to not have lived.”

“And honestly… I can’t stand the somber atmosphere in hospitals. I never have, and I never will.”

Months ago, he wouldn’t even have entertained sharing a bed with a human, much less cuddle with one. But these days, Jimin finds he can’t ever sleep without the uneven beat of your heart lulling him to sleep.

He’s become spoiled with your presence.

“I’ll give you the best two months of your life,” he mumbles before correcting himself. “... Lifetimes.”

“Really now,” you hum, a yawn escaping you near the end, “I’m looking forward to it then.”

“Don’t give me those perfunctory words,” he gripes. “I mean it.”

“I know,” you adjust your position, just so that Jimin is pulled close, close, closer to you. WHe can hear the faint beating of your heart even louder, the miniscule warmth of your body a familiar blanket over his own. “... I’m just really tired right now. Can we go to sleep?”

Jimin finally yawns too, feeling exhaustion wash over him as you accept his declaration. “... Alright, fine. Good night, YN.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

But everything good has to come to an end. It isn’t an opinion, but rather a fact, and Jimin is only reminded of this just as the seasons start to shift back to spring, the year coming to its last month.

The way it happens is not even anything gradual, or perhaps it is, but he’s long chosen to ignore it. Because he’s been able to handle it so far, so it should be okay, right? If it’s for you, he’s willing to dole out his magic freely for your sake, so, you’d be alright no matter what, right?

But the way you suddenly collapse on the sidewalk tells him otherwise.

There’s barely a few seconds of warning, maybe one or two. Jimin can’t really tell. All he can remember is how you were walking side by side under the warm weather, enjoying the sun him telling you to take a break at the next cafe over, your laughter ringing out-

-before you fall over, just like that, your legs and arms painfully stiff, you almost crashing onto the asphalt if it weren’t for him catching you in his arms.

“J-Jimin,” you instantly choke out his name, the blue tint of your skin becoming stronger as the words fail to leave you, leaving you gasping and clutching your chest. He isn’t as worried at first, thinking that he only has to fix your failing heart again, but-

No. Your blood won’t move. It won’t close.

He tries again, his hand clutching you tighter this time as if to respond to the panic slowly rising up inside of him, but- still. It’s as if your body is rejecting him, the magic being blocked out, unable to enter you-

“No-”

-and he can only uselessly hold you in his arms, you getting closer to dying with every moment that he wastes-

“No, no, n-no-” he stammers.“YN, hang in there-”

Again and again, he keeps trying, trying to push your body to do something, but no, nothing.

From thereon, it’s a blur. He remembers that he can call the hospital, and scrambling for his phone, he immediately punches the numbers in, though his hands shake with every passing second. 

“9-911, help, please-” he chokes out, “please help, m-my YN, he’s- he’s-”

“Sir, can you please give us your location?” The voice that answers him is quick, urgent, but focused, and how can they be focused when you’re bent over, convulsing in pain-?

“I-I can’t-” he stammers, the address muddled in his head. Though he then looks around, searching for landmarks to give the other person. “W-We’re in front of the entrance to the Keukenhof Gardens.“

He fails to hear what they say, the only words standing out in his head that they’re coming. 

It should amaze him, later on, how at this moment all the panic seems to melt away and not, leaving him shaking but able to speak better, clearer. It’s as if the emotions have dulled away, leaving him pounding but still going on.

“YN,” he tells you, voice wrapped up in emotions that not even he can tell is what. “Hold on, the medics are coming- just-”

“Jimin,” you whimper, trembling. He can see your skin turn even bluer with every passing second, a warning that your heart is pumping yet your lungs are failing. You’re clearly in pain, but- despite that, your whole focus is on him. “... I couldn’t- I can’t see you- I t-thought you left me again.”

An ugly sob tears its way out his chest then. It feels as if his eyes are burning with tears, blurring his vision, but he’s resolved not to let you go.

“D-Don’t worry about that. I’m right h-here sweetheart,” he reassures with a shaky voice. “Didn’t I say I’d n-never leave you? Just focus on my voice-”

Whatever words he speaks next, you never hear as you fall unconscious. Jimin catches you in his arms, and promises to not let you go. 

He doesn’t register the sound of the ambulance arriving, the medics pulling you away from him, him using his power to convince them to let him go with you. The ambulance’s siren doesn’t sink into him, and neither do the busy personnel connecting you to various machines and leading you away into the emergency room, him stuck outside as they tell him to wait. He wants to go inside, to see you, but- they tell him that they can’t work with him in there. So he lets him be sat down on the bench outside by the nurse, eyes drifting into space as he stares at the doors.

All that remains on loop in his mind is the moment you look at him with tears dripping down your face, the terror reflected back in his eyes as you whispered that you thought he’d left again.

The tears fall even faster.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

When they allow him to come in, hours and hours and what feels like an eternity later, the sight of feathers and a(n unfortunately) familiar face barely surprises him. After all, it was made clear to him during your earliest days with you that the angel has a soft spot for you, though how much is still a mystery.

“Taehyung,” he says quietly.  “what are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Taehyung stands by your bed, lips pursed and entire countenance stony as he regards Jimin. You continue to slumber, unaware of the conversation taking place before you. “I should be the one asking you that question. Then again, I guess I can’t be too surprised. You really are dedicated to your job, aren’t you?” He doesn’t laugh, only tightening his grip. “I’d say I hope you’re happy with what you’ve done to him, what you will do to him, but we both already know that’s a lie.”

Jimin bristles. “You say that like I intended for this to happen. … I care about YN.”

At his answer, Taehyung only seems to grow even more furious, the tick in his jaw appearing as his glare becomes murderous. 

“If you really cared for him,” he doesn’t outright yell, no, but Taehyung’s voice is low, trembling with anger, the type that takes every part of yourself to hold back. His hands are drawn into fists and Jimin doesn’t doubt that if you weren’t asleep, he wouldn’t even talk, he’d use his fists instead. “You wouldn’t have stayed near him at all, much less let it come to this point!”

“If you cared about him, you would have let him move on!” 

“I-” Jimin should be angry, and he is, but there’s something about Taehyung’s words, something about the grief in his face that forces him to take a step back. “W-What do you mean…?”

“... this was supposed to be his last chance,” Taehyung whispers. Looking down at your sleeping face, Jimin sees the way his face crumbles with bitterness.  “If he could just move on from you and start anew, he could have been given a chance to be an angel instead. Now, it doesn’t even matter if you and him aren’t like before, that he hasn’t done anything to harm others at all, they aren’t letting him go-”

Jimin’s whole body stills as he stares at Taehyung.

“... Like before?”

Taehyung’s face darkens- and then he snaps.

“How daft can you be?! Have you never wondered just why, out of so many demons, you’re the one he summoned? 75 years of a human life, even on their last cycles, that’s more than enough for a lifetime of wealth and riches!” Taehyung’s voice becomes increasingly loud, anger and blame visible in his eyes, before they shift to bitterness. “But no, he just wanted you. You, who’s always been the reason why he got screwed over in all of his previous lifetimes!”

“I…”

“And now he’s dying, his tenth life and he can’t enter heaven or hell, neither can his soul be broken and made anew,” he spat out bitterly. “Don’t preach to me about how his current state is our fault, because if you’d never tempted him in the first place he wouldn’t even be born into this wretched state!”

After saying his piece, it’s as if a string controlling Taehyung has been cut, as his whole body sags. Once more does he show grief in his face, tears falling and him brushing them away.

And Jimin?

He doesn’t know what to say, how to react. 

Thinking back on it, perhaps the clues had been there all along, and it was just him who refused to see it for what it was. The whole mystery, presented to him, while still missing important pieces had already given him the most important information.

All along, it’d been Jimin who YN searched for in every life, who you’ve been devoted to, may be in love with, and-

And him who’s ruined you in turn, whether it be your previous lives or this one.

The revelation makes him fall, crushing the breath in his lungs. It feels like he’s falling, deep, hard, with no way out and goddamn it why would you still want him after everything?

“... no.”

It’s your words that halt them in their tracks. Surprised, they see you awake.

“YN!” 

They both exclaim your name in surprise. You smile weakly at them in turn, and the way you struggle to breathe a little doesn’t escape them. 

“Thank you, Taehyung, for trying to protect me,” you start, before your smile turns sad. “But I think you forget I’ve always had the choice to leave Jimin. If I ever wanted to, if it ever got too hard for me, I could have left. But I didn’t. And I never will.”

You close your eyes. “A life without him isn’t a life worth living at all.”

Taehyung’s laugh is broken as your words sink in. “Is it worth it even if it costs you everything?”

“You know my answer will always be yes.”

It’s kind of funny. Jimin has always known you would die. Not just mentioning how you’re human, the fact that you refused to get treatment for your condition means death was only ever a few steps behind you.

But even so, now that the moment is creeping closer, it still hits him hard, anyways. 

Perhaps the worst thing yet is the calm smile on your face, reminiscent of the first time Jimin’s met you. You aren’t angry, aren’t defiant, aren’t trying to fight against this in any way at all- you’re just accepting what’s to come and it breaks both of their hearts.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

After that, Taehyung leaves, though not before he has a private talk with you. When he leaves your room, Jimin sees the trail of tears remaining on his face before he disappears.

Coming in, it all feels like a dream. 

It was only a day ago that the two of you had been planning to take a stroll together and admire the garden boasted to be the ‘most beautiful spring garden in the world’. 

Now the only thing that reminds him of spring inside is the flowers on the vase by your bedside (probably placed there by Taehyung, his mind tells him). You’re admiring them with a small smile (fake, his mind oh so helpfully tells him), though the way you’re determinedly not meeting his gaze, hands clutching the blanket tightly tells him otherwise. 

Silence reigns in the room like so many times before, but this time, neither of you are breaking it. He can only stare at you, the questions in his mind screaming at each other to make themselves known, but as he sees the vulnerable stance you’re holding, your body curled up just enough that you could hide in on yourself, he hesitates.

He can’t. 

It’s with that that Jimin turns around, intending to leave, but-

Only then do you finally speak. Your voice is almost a whisper, but he hears it loud and clear. “Don’t leave,” you beg him. “Please.” The way your voice cracks at the end with unshed tears echoes in the room.

Jimin stops. A moment passes- and then he turns around again, sighing as he seats himself beside you. You still aren’t looking at him, but you aren’t quite looking away from him either.

“... Is it true then? YN.”

You flinch, but you answer all the same.

“... Yeah, it is.” When you speak next, it’s only too obvious that you’re trying to be casual and light. “Sorry about that. I didn’t think Taehyung was such a blabbermouth.”

Jimin already knew. That was a fact.

But damn it if it doesn’t hurt right now. If it doesn’t make him physically sick, to consider his part in your current condition. To actually have to face the truth. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have-”

“You could have what?” You interrupt him. Jimin falls silent, unable to answer and you smile bitterly. “That’s what I thought.” 

“If I told you when we first met, would you have believed me?” 

He looks away. “... Yes, I would have.”

“Liar,” you immediately call him out, a hint of exasperation present in your tone. “Don’t blame yourself, Jimin. I chose this. I’m happy right now.”

“Originally I wasn’t going to find you, but… when I saw you, you just reminded me of the old you,” you smiled sadly. “when you didn’t know what to live for, desperate for anything to keep you going. And then I realized you didn’t recognize me… I just wanted to see you smile happily again.”

And then it feels as though someone’s punched him in the chest.

“If you die, I won’t be smiling happily anymore! If you die right now, I won’t find any reason to smile for the rest of this hell that I’m stuck as a demon. This time, I won’t ever be able to forget you. I won’t ever be able to forget your smiles, your laughter, the way you smirk at me when you tease me- I couldn’t ever forget you.” He chokes out, tears brimming in his eyes as he looks you in the eyes, forcing you to see him. “How could you ever think there would be a life where I wouldn’t fall in love with you?”

“... I’m sorry, Jimin,” your voice breaks with tears. “I’m sorry for being selfish. I should’ve just let you go, I’m sorry, I just missed you so much-”

He doesn’t know who starts crying first, only that the two of you are so close to shattering. 

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“What did I do to you?” He finally asks. To your credit, you don’t break eye contact with him, only flinching a little. Jimin quietly continues. “Taehyung… he said your soul became like this because of me. I want to know the full story.”

When he senses you hesitating, thinking over what to say, he clasps your hands in his own. “Please.”

Your shoulders sag, and you look away. 

“... in our first life, your wife cheated on you with another man from her village,” you finally say softly. 

Jimin says nothing, only encouraging you to speak. 

“Your father married you to her because she was the daughter of the head of the neighboring village, and she seemed to like you. When you were married, you made sure to treat her well, going above what people would normally do and almost even pampering her. With everything that was going on, you becoming head and your marriage, we began drifting away.”

“But your wife turned out to be tricking you only for the money and the status. I soon found out she’d been stealing money and lying about it, and going behind your back to see other men. At first I was incensed, and I immediately confronted her. She knew I could make you listen, so she promised to stop and change her ways. I agreed. I didn’t want you to be heartbroken when you realized how much she’d been lying to you.”

“... I found her under another man weeks later, near the shed. I confronted them, threatening to tell you- and her lover, who obviously knew who I was, panicked. He tried to kill me then, but I was stronger than him- and then he tried pleading for his innocence, killing your wife in turn before begging me to let it go.”

“I was shocked. At first I didn’t know what to do, but then I tried to confront her, and well-” you fall silent again, obviously torn about telling him what happens next. Jimin awaits your response, and it isn’t long before you make up your mind.

“... I tried to detain him, but in the process killed him instead. You came out, attracted by the ruckus… I can’t ever forget the face you had when you saw both your wife and another man dead, and me, standing over them,” your voice comes out as a whisper. “You never blamed me, especially after you heard the truth, but- we were never the same afterwards.”

“I think… that was the start of everything.”

The way you retell your past lives now, revealing to him the parts that you glossed over before, it puts the clues he’s seen before in clear perspective. It breaks his heart to hear your journey through the different lives, always there for him, always getting dragged into the darker side of the world because of him. Because of him, in almost every life you’ve been dragged to kill, to manipulate, to ruin lives on his account. If not to protect him, to keep him safe then to avenge him in some way.

Taehyung was right. It is his fault.

Finally, you touch upon your last life with him, your eight life.

“In our eight life, you were the emperor’s son, and I was the concubine’s son of the right minister of the court. We were childhood friends,” you smile a little in reminiscence. 

“... The royal family was full of backstabbing and schemes. I wanted to protect you, but I was too young. When I finally had the power, you were already broken in by others, wanting nothing but power and revenge. I thought… no, I wanted to help. If I could have just stopped it sooner, you wouldn’t have suffered so much after all,” the guilt in your tone is thick as is the regret in your eyes. “I became the minister, scheming and backstabbing others in order to gain what I wanted, to protect you, and to help you get revenge.”

“At the end of that life, we’d drenched the whole city in blood, not a single person against you left alive.”

“... I remember that,” Jimin finally says.

A demon’s past lives are always sealed shut and kept secret, but- perhaps just by the virtue of standing by you, the one person who’s always been a central point in all his lives, that he can remember at least his last life clearly.

“... I was poisoned, wasn’t I?” He chuckles. Your smile tightens, a shaky breath leaving you that he knows isn’t just from your illness.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “In the ninth life, I couldn’t find you anywhere. I lived my whole life searching for you, but I couldn’t even sense the slightest hint of you anywhere.”

“You were looking in the wrong realm,” he laughs a little. You shrug.

“... And now, this life.”

“This life,” he echoes, falling quiet.

“You already know about my family. My mother dying at childbirth, father abandoning me, my relatives only being greedy… I ran away as soon as I could. I suffered, that’s true, but- I thought,” you swallow nervously. “I couldn’t find you anywhere last time. And this was my last life. So… I thought that maybe, I could summon a demon to help me search for you, if you were at least still alive somewhere.”

“Imagine my surprise when I summoned you instead.”

You place a small kiss on his palm, intertwining your hand with him after. “I promised I’d only take a little peek, see if you were happy, but… I guess… I guess I got greedy.”

Jimin lets out a shaky exhale, feeling the strength leave him as your words sink into his mind. “And Taehyung?”

“I met him in my ninth life. I’m pretty sure he already told you, but… he’s the one who made it possible for me to remember my past lives,” you smile a little at that. “I started searching for you after that.”

“I guess they were pretty anxious for a new angel to arrive, making me that deal.”

He scoffs. “The amount of angels that enter heaven have heavily decreased these past centuries. I’m not too surprised if they are. For a system that prides itself on its morality, their pragmatism rivals even hell itself.”

“Yeah,” you simply reply. “Don’t be too harsh on him, okay? He was the reason I found you in this life, after all. I’m thankful I got to see you again in my last life.”

And just like that, he’s reminded again of the situation at hand.

“After all, they said,” you continue, “I could die at any moment now.”

Fingers trace where your heart would be in your chest. “Complications from my birth defect. A blood clot formed in one of the arteries near my heart. ”

“More than that though- there’s only two weeks left, before our contract ends,” you tell him. Jimin squeezes your hand, seated beside you.  

“...Is there anything you want?”

“Just stay with me, please,” you close your eyes as you lean on him.

“Alright. Alright, I can do that.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

After that, Jimin stays by your side at all times, every waking second of the day, if not to keep you company, then to ease the pain in your body. It’s ironic, considering your past lives. He remembers being bedridden, every change of his condition monitored. You’d told him multiple times then, that you were willing to follow him to the grave. The ministers praised your loyalty. Only he knew that it wasn’t a promise so much as a statement.

“Wow,” your lips quirk into a grin as you take the cup from his hands. “Tea from you, our great and oh-so-gracious emperor. How lucky of me.”

“Perfectly brewed tea too,” he preens as you compliment him.

In a reversal of roles, he brews you tea, accompanying you around (though not too far lest your disease acts up again), making sure that in your last days, you’re left with as little regret and as much contentment as you can get. 

Still, he can’t help thinking over the angel’s words. Every time he sees you just enjoy being alive together, he wonders, why not? If it guaranteed your survival, he’d push you to become a demon, or even an angel.

The one time that he brings it up, though, you instantly shoot him down.

“I don’t want to be an angel,” you bluntly state. “If I did, I’d be bound to fight you someday. Besides, heaven cast me out already..”

“Becoming a demon isn’t something you can so easily do, either. Remembering my previous lives actually makes it harder for me. Even if it’s for you… I can’t justify ruining people’s lives in any way in this life.”

He exhales, grip on you tightening with every word you say, feeling as though if he doesn’t, then somehow, somehow, you’ll instantly disappear.

“... I know.”

He doesn’t bring up that topic again.

And if he leaves moments later, not returning until an hour later, appearing the same but feeling empty of everything inside, well. At least you don’t call him out on it.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

A few days before your contract ends, he’s visited by someone he didn’t think would see him.

“If you had a chance to save him,” he says. “Would you?”

Of course. If there’s anything that binds Jimin and him together, it’s you.

“I would.”

A heartbeat’s worth of moment passes- and then he replies.

“What are you willing to give up?”

“Everything.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“YN!”

You cheekily wave at him from where you are, standing by the bed, outfit not the hospital gown but rather clothes for outside wear. Jimin stride over to you, features stiff as he almost-but-not-quite glares at you, or to be more specific at you standing and dressed to go out.

“I didn’t want to spend my last days on a hospital bed,” you explain before he can say anything, a forcefully lighthearted tone in your voice. You smile at him easily, pulling him down for a kiss- one that he easily returns, before grasping his hands in yours. “So. Accompany me, will you?”

Cold. Your body temperature has always been a little below than how normal humans should be, but in this moment it’s fallen even lower and Jimin can’t help but let his magic ease the discomfort you must be feeling. You hum in pleasure as you feel the pain in your body dull, no doubt because of Jimin.

“... Fine,” he sighs, before warning you. “But we aren’t doing anything strenuous.”

“I know,” you roll your eyes at him, before tugging on your interlocked hands. “Come on, we’re losing daylight.”

Where are we even going? He wants to ask, but it’s a futile question. After all, he’ll follow you wherever you decide to go, whether it be even heaven or hell.

With that thought in mind, he lets you lead.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The destination in question turns out to be the Keukenhof gardens, the place you two intended to visit before the incident.

Although he originally didn’t want you to put too much pressure on your body, Jimin thinks, if only to himself, that maybe this trip is doing you more good than harm. Surrounded by the beautiful scenery, it seems as though you are at peace for once. The tension that seemed unnoticeable before has visibly melted away for both of you, leaving you both at peace. 

“I remember you strolling in the imperial gardens.” The memory in question comes in a burst as he watches you walk around. The scene before him blurs. The present overlaps with the past vision of you in his mind- where you’re wearing brightly colored robes, followed by several attendants. Tulips on the ground are replaced by falling plum blossoms, and even the atmosphere is different. 

What only remains the same is you and the gentle look on your face.

“I always found you having tea in the pavilion. That was the first place I looked to when I needed you, and I rarely failed to find you there.”

You laugh a little. “I always asked you to join me.”

“... Yes, you were the only one who could so easily ask me to take a break with you,” he murmurs. “No one else would even dare meet my eyes. They were always too afraid.”

“The memories keep coming back to me now.”

“Do they?” You ask him, swinging your linked hands a little. “Our lives keep changing, but if there’s anything that stays the same… I guess it’s this. I’m glad I got to do this at least once with you in this life too.”

“If it were up to me, we’d do this everyday.” 

And then he feels you tug on him. He notices the way your breathing quickly becoming erratic, you starting to struggle even more just to breathe. It’s nothing that his magic can’t dull, the pain disappearing but the damage increasing.

This is the limit of what Jimin can do (he hates it, but you always look at him a grateful look on your face and he swallows back the words, knowing what your reaction would be).

After that, he carries you to one of the benches by the path. In the late afternoon, the sky is a brilliant shade of rose, sunlight gently bathing the sea of flowers with gold.

‘Just a little longer’, he thinks. Please.

“Hey, Jimin.”

“... You asked me before,” you suddenly speak up again, voice falling lower as if you’re sleepy. “If I was afraid to die.”

“Even after countless lifetimes, I’ve always been afraid to die,” you reveal. “But I was more afraid to die without seeing you at least once.”

“Were you happy, this past year?” He abruptly asks. The answer should be obvious- you’ve done so much just to find him, just to stay by him, so obviously you should, but he can’t help asking. Were you? Were you happy? Was he able to make you feel that the pain was worth it in any way?

Maybe it isn’t for you as much as it is for him. I’m sorry. The words are laced in every touch and he wonders if you can hear it.

You chuckle. “Of course I am.”

“... Jimin,” you call out his name again, when the silence drags him down to where his thoughts fester. He shivers- feeling your presence slowly wither away beside him, as you struggle to speak, your voice becoming more and more quiet. “Jimin...”

“Yes?”

“If there’s a life beyond this one, and the other one, and beyond… I’d still want to spend all of it with you.”

Jimin laughs, but it’s strange.

His voice… it really isn’t as smooth as it used to be. The trembling, choked up feeling in his throat- they turn his words into ones filled with tears. “Really, YN? That’s a promise then, alright? After all, I still haven’t paid you back for all the lifetimes I’ve caused you grief… I don’t think I ever will, no matter how much I try.”

He looks at you then- at your eyes that hold nothing but fondness in them, to the gentle slope of your lips, the smooth space between your eyebrows. Dipping his head low, he cups your face, pressing a kiss on your forehead. Your grip on him would be painful if there was any force behind it. As it is, he only grasps your hand in turn to make sure that at least you know you are together until the end.

A moment passes, and then another.

An evening breeze brushes by, making the trees sway, leaves falling down to the ground.

Jimin’s hands barely tremble as he closes your eyes for you. 

Like this, it’s easy to pretend you’re just sleeping. 

“... Goodnight, YN.”

Flower petals dance through the air, and Jimin thinks that is probably the send off that you would like. Surrounded by what you love.

He hopes that your smile carries on wherever you may go.

“I’ll meet you soon.”

Only the wind is there to hear him now, only the rising moon there to witness the tears that follow yet again.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Hic… hic…”

It’s the sound of something that draws him to the place hidden behind the playground. He’s not scared- no, really!- but the other kids are too busy playing, enough that they couldn’t hear him when he said he wanted to join, so they definitely wouldn’t notice if something interesting was happening somewhere!

He’s a big boy though, so he can wait until they’re done, whenever that is. In the meantime, he can hear something weird, and he’s curious, so he can go investigate that!

So he walks carefully to just the veeeeery edge of the sandbox, looking around and trying to find out where the noise is coming from.

When he looks through the bushes, it’s when he finds himself what’s making the noise.

“What the- hey, are you okay?”

It’s a crying boy. 

For a moment, the two of them look at each other, surprised- before he awkwardly smiles at the other. When they don’t say anything, just staring at him, he patiently waits for them to say something. That’s what his mother always told him to do, after all. 

“Are you okay?” He repeats. The other nods a little. “What happened? I heard this strange noise but you seem and sound like you were crying!”

At that, they begin to tear up again.

“... I-I got lost, and I can’t find my mommy or my daddy…”

“Oh,” he says, before smiling. “That’s okay! I’ll help you find them!”

“... Really?”

He grins, eyes turning into crescent moons as he holds out his hand for the other to take. “Yeah, really! I’m kinda new here, so my mom told me where to go if I’m ever lost! I can take you there!”

They hesitate, face sad, before they seem to decide- and they take his hand.

And in that moment, he feels something wet on his cheeks.

“... a-are you crying!? I’m sorry!”

“Um- no, it’s okay… I just got really happy for no reason!” He hastily wipes away the tears, feeling really happy and sad for some reason. “Um… sorry… um.”

“What’s your name? Do you want to be friends? You’re really cute!”

“H-Huh?” They blush. “... My name is YN. And you are?”

“It’s Jimin! From now on, we’re friends, okay?”

They smile, and his chest feels a little funny. A little warm too. Just- he’s really, really happy, more than he’s ever been!

“Sure!”

Behind them both, a feather falls onto the ground.

[owillofthewisps]

portraits hung in empty halls - part one

notes: fun fact i am about ten times more nervous about writing jaskier than i am about geralt, idk why! also daylights saving time is a farce and a personal attack on me, a humble woman trying to not have a destroyed sleep schedule.

rating: still teen, somehow!

pairing: geralt of rivia/female reader

word count: 3.5k

prologue

there is an odd little portrait tucked away in an alcove. at night, the canvas lies empty. most never notice it.

the Witcher does.

The sun sets, and you rise.

The silk sheet that shrouds you slips to the floor. In the dim glow of the candlelight, it glimmers like snow in the moonlight, the creamy white of it cooled to prismatic ice. You leave it puddled on the stained wood floor. You pad barefoot to the washbasin, adjusting to the lively hum of the inn, to the jolt of noise after so long without. It is never an easy transition.

The cool water trickles down your neck as you splash your face, the droplets rolling over your bare skin like an early spring rain, collecting in the dip of your navel before spilling onward. You turn to the tiny nook that shelves your clothing, your stiff joints moaning as they stretch and pop.

Rose, you think, spotting the verdant sprig of fresh mint placed carefully on the small stool. The bundle you’d pulled a leaf from yesterday had been wilting at the edges, the leaves curling in under themselves, like shy children covering their faces. You’ll have to make her something. Embroider her favorite gown, maybe, weave delicate little morning glories around the bells of her sleeves so they sway with her, as if she’s the dawn wind.

The mint tears under your teeth. It burns cold, searing away the heavy, oily coating that lays rotting on your tongue. You chew slowly, rolling the leaf through your mouth as you unfold your chemise and drape it across the stool.

Unwinding the thin golden chain looped messily around your neck and shoulders takes time. You tease at it, slip your fingers beneath the delicate, tangled thread of it. It is the daintiest tether you have ever seen, a golden, gossamer little thing, a strand of a spider’s web lit by the sun. You dump it onto the thin wood stand the washbin rests on.

Your earrings clink as you set them down next to the chain. It’s a relief to have them off, to let your lobes rest from the sharp pull of their hefty weight.

The homespun wool of your skirts rustles against the floorboards as you dress. You sweep the discarded jewelry into your palm; you dump it onto the silk sheet, watch as the gold sinks into the folds of the fabric.

You leave it all on the floor.

A few travelers tip their heads to you as you sweep down the inn’s halls. You sail past the small alcove that had so entranced Geralt last night, stepping carefully away from the shadowed niche.

Johan is waiting for you at the archway to the tavern. You’ve never thought of him as large, with his wiry frame, thin but strong, like a bowstring pulled tight, but he fills the archway. There’s still a faint hint of rot to him, something acidic tinting his strong, handsome features. You slow your pace, come to a halt before him, just shy of nose to nose, your skirts frothing over his feet like a wave breaking on the sand. The scowl knitting his brow deepens.

“If your intent is anything other than apology, save your breath.”

The flush flares into life. It spills crimson across his skin like wine, spreading wide. “Apologize?” Johan snarls. “When you’re the one who defended that mutant?”

“Did I not just say to save your breath?”

His hand flexes. You watch as his fingers curl into a fist, the knuckles gone bone white, and wait. There’s fear cut sharp into his visage, barely blanketed by the veil of anger on the surface.

“If you’ve nothing to say,” you tell him, “please move.”

That fist of his tightens again, his knuckles a ridge of mountains. The tendons in his jaw cord. “The Witcher cannot stay.”

“He paid his coin, just like the rest.”

Johan’s jaw works. “Stubborn bitch.”

“Careful,” you say, and there is crackling frost in your tone, winter come early. “I won’t tell you to save your breath again.”

He considers you, those green eyes burning incandescent, all sparking St. Elmo’s fire. Johan has often reminded you of a dog with a bone, setting his teeth into the marrow of his irritant and worrying it until he breaks it.

“Move,” you say, pleasantly enough, but with that ice still threaded through your voice. “Malinka’s expecting me.”

Johan lingers in the door frame for a moment more, a shadow of a threat, but he steps aside. You brush by him without a care; if you clip him with an elbow, well, he should have moved further. He’ll just add it to the list of wrongs you’ve done him, you think, and gods know that’s the least of your concerns.

The sounds of the tavern sweep over you. The clank of tankards, that thick hollow thud of wood against wood; the spitting crackle of the fire; chatter punctuated by uproarious laughter, rising to fill the rafters. It is a balm against you. Noise has long been something to steady yourself on.

You scan the room as you enter, and do not glimpse the Witcher’s broad shoulders. Nor do you see a hint of the bard. Your shoulders loosen, the tension melting out of them like winter yielding to spring. Malinka is behind the bar, her ebony curls flowing like a wild river to her shoulders, gleaming in the candlelight. She presses a quick kiss to your cheek as you join her.  Worried, you think. She is not alone in that.

“Ale!” Wren calls from the end of the bar.

“Coin!” you retort, sashaying over to him and leaning against the pitted wood counter. You pull a tankard from nearby, wincing as you flex your stiff fingers. They always take the longest to grow limber once more.

“Fair enough,” he laughs.

“Truly, Wren,” Annika says as she slides past with a tray of empty tankards. “Your mother would faint to hear your lack of manners. Tell me, how do the village girls stand your voice?”

“Yes, Wren, you’re lucky you’re charming when your mouth is closed,” you add.

“Beautiful and cruel, the both of you!”

You reach across the bar and pat his cheek. “Just a little,” you say with a laugh.

Annika snorts, passing you a tray. You nestle it into the crook of your hip and get to work.

The tavern only grows more lively, the gleam of light spilling from the doors cracking the darkness outside open. You whirl about, dipping around tipsy patrons, carrying plates of food high to drop them at tables.

It’s one of the busier nights, considering tomorrow is traditionally a day of rest, and you revel in the tumult, in the show of overflowing life. It keeps you light on your feet, moving until there’s sweat gleaming at the hollow of your throat. You dodge Elias’s hands with a laugh as you make your way back to the bar.

“So,” Annika says. “A Witcher, then?” Her slim hands move like water, smooth and flowing, pouring tankard after tankard between slicing off fat hunks of brown bread, still wisping steam even in the heated air of the tavern.

You sigh and duck beneath the bar to pull a few sausages from the small larder. “Yes,” you say. “Don’t you start.”

“There’s little for me to say.”

“And yet you so often say things anyway.”

She laughs. “True,” she says. “I’ve no quarrel with the Witcher, so long as he keeps his sword sheathed."

If Rose were here, that would not leave untouched - ‘which one,’ she’d say, her grin impish, her voice dropping into something sultry - but she is not, and you think you should try to keep thoughts like that from your head. At least until Geralt is gone, when there’s no danger to considering the thickness of his thighs and the knife of his golden gaze.

“I doubt he’s the one you should worry about,” you say, thinking of the way many men’s eyes had followed Geralt last night, malicious and hungry.

“Probably not.”

Someone calls to Annika from down the bar; she shoves the knife into your hand and gestures towards a loaf. You drop the sausages onto a nearby plate and start to slice the bread.

“I looked for you earlier. I didn’t think it would be so hard to locate such a pretty woman in the crowd.”

You glance up. The bard is smiling at you, his blue, blue eyes catching the light. You cast your gaze to the side, but Geralt is nowhere to be seen. Your grip on the knife’s handle loosens.

“I work nights,” you tell him, and if your smile is a little brittle, he doesn’t seem to notice. “Makes it hard to find me early. What can I get you?”

“Your name?”

“It’s a bit out of your price range, I think.”

He gasps, one hand flying to his chest. “Will you not take pity on a poor bard? How am I meant to write a song praising this inn and its lovely innkeeper?”

You arch a brow. “Why would you need my name for that, bard?”

He blinks. “Jaskier,” he tells you, and it takes you a moment to realize that he’s given you his name. “And because you are the innkeeper?”

“I’m not.”

“Are you certain?”

You stifle a laugh. “Quite,” you say, but then you take pity on him and give him your name. “Why did you think I was the innkeeper?”

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “You were...forceful, last night, not that Geralt was particularly forthcoming about it. Also the serving girl said you were.”

Betony, you think, following Jaskier’s long, nimble fingers as he gestures towards the far side of the tavern. Betony glances up just then, and from the cheeky grin she flashes, she’s unrepentant. It’s harmless enough, nothing worth even getting irritated over, so you blow her a kiss.

“I’m not,” you repeat. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m not sure you could disappoint, love,” Jaskier says.

You fumble with your knife, the tip of it sinking into the wooden board beneath the sausage with a hollow thunk.

My love, Dymitr murmurs, his lips brushing against the curving shell of your ear.

“Isn’t that what you called me this morning?” Rose chirps. She swings over the bar in a flurry of crimson skirts and wraps an arm around your waist. She still carries the chill of the night air on her skin. She presses herself against you, lets you use her as an anchor against the wave pulling you under. “Aren’t bards meant to be inventive?”

Jaskier gapes.

“Be nice, Rose,” you say.

“Rose?” Jaskier says, “Funny, I took her for a bramble.”

Rose snorts. “Be careful not to be caught on thorns, bard,” she says. She tugs at her shawl, lets it flow from her shoulders to the crook of her elbows like a waterfall. It catches against you. “You were looking for the innkeeper? What is it you want from me?”

You sink your elbow into her side. Her curse is blistering; down the counter, Wren cackles at her creativity.

“She’s not the innkeeper,” you tell Jaskier, who is looking somewhere between distraught and combative. “Rose, will you please get more bread?”

She laughs, the sound like woodfire smoke, billowing out in slow, low tones. “I suppose,” she says. Rose dips away from you, giving your waist one last squeeze, and heads towards Wren.

“Gods, do all women here worship a trickster god?” Jaskier asks. “If not, you should consider it. I imagine most would excel.”

“Probably.”

“Is there a test I have to pass to get the innkeeper’s name? If it’s a physical one, can I have a champion? Geralt would do nicely at that.”

You pull the knife free of the board and set it to the side. Someone calls for ale; you sigh and pour a tankard of it. “You can play,” you tell Jaskier. “We’ll give you coin at the end of the night in addition to any earnings you may get from the crowd. That’s why you were looking for the innkeeper, yes?”

Jaskier sets his hands on his hips, his long fingers drumming against the fine material of his clothes. “Do you just use some title other than innkeeper to confuse people?”

“Malinka’s the innkeeper,” you say, nodding towards her. She’s laughing at a nearby table, men drawn in a knot around her, an unknowing queen speaking to her court.

“Right,” Jaskier says. “You just make all the decisions.”

“She listens to me, yes, when she chooses to do so,” you tell him.  I raised her, taught her as much as I could as best I could, and she tends to honor that, you don’t say, trapping the words behind the gate of your teeth. It would only bring questions.

He chews at his bottom lip, bites the flesh pinker still.

“You’ll be paid,” you say. “No tricks, not about that. For last night, too.”

You wonder if other inns see the value in Jaskier, not just in his talent, but in his ability to reassure. There’s little doubt in your mind that his music has soothed many a ruffled feather that Geralt’s presence has caused. From the tongue on him, though, you think he’s also caused his fair share of trouble, too.

“You are a treasure despite your company of treacherous women.”

“Go play, bard, before I change my mind.”

Rose reappears as Jaskier heads towards where the fiddlers usually sit, his lute cradled against his stomach. He’s already plucking at it, discordant notes being corralled into something musical, something pretty.

“Do you think they’ll stay long?” you ask.

She lifts a shoulder in a lazily elegant shrug. “Hard to say,” she says. “I’ve had rocks speak to me more than the Witcher did.”

“Rose.”

“I know,” she tells you, cupping your cheek. Her palm is warm and callused against your skin. “It will be fine. No sense in worrying unless it’s needed.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It’s not,” she says sharply, all thorn instead of her usual soft petals. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that I do not have fear.”

Jaskier starts to play. The music blooms to life, unfolds delicate and sweet. It seems an odd choice for the rowdy tavern, but the melody is a haunting one, one that slips beneath your skin and hooks deep.

Rose pats your cheek. “Don’t fret,” she says, an echo of last night. “Go help Betony, she’s such a distracted little thing.”

You snort, but there’s more than a measure of truth to it, so you wipe your hands free of breadcrumbs and pick up a nearby tray. Betony is half on Delythe’s lap. She’s plucking at Delythe’s thick braid, coiling it around her wrist and giggling. For her part, Del seems tolerant, the grin on her lips fondly indulgent.

“Betony,” you say.

“You’re no fun,” she says, but she gets to her feet, tugging on Delythe’s braid and pressing a kiss against her cheek. Her lip paint leaves a mark the color of a bruise, deep plum. The two of you gather empty tankards and plates, stacking them high on the tray. With Jaskier playing, everyone seems to fall into a rhythm. You duck between patrons with delicate precision. Each step is practically a dance, Betony matching you as the two of you dash around.

You can feel the night lengthening, can sense the moon tracing a path across the velvet sky. The moon always seems brighter as winter creeps forward. As if the coming snow reflects the light the moon sheds, makes it a disc of shining ice.

Elias catches you in a dance or two between servings; Wren pulls you along for a quick jig when you duck into the back room for supplies. Malinka sweeps you off your feet as well, laughing as she leads you before she twirls you into Betony’s arms. Jaskier’s music rises and falls, a piper’s call to the crowd’s mood. You let it envelop you.

Geralt appears as it grows late enough to perhaps be called early. Patrons are starting to stagger home, though there are a few gatherings tightly knit around tables, still nursing their tankards. Even with fewer present, there are still murmurs that follow the Witcher, little whispers that haunt his steps like an angry wraith. It makes your chest tighten. How quickly people turn on what they don’t understand. On what they don’t even try to understand.

He seems unbothered by it. You think again of stone, of the jutting mountain peaks, for Geralt’s face could be that of a statue’s. He has the jawline for it. Mostly, though, he has the smoothed expression of a marble bust, one just shy of human, as if the artist couldn’t quite settle on mood, caught between emotion and emptiness. It feels a false face. A shield, a barricade for humanity’s siege against his very presence to break upon.

You should leave, let one of the others serve him. You know that. Betony retired home earlier, but Malinka is just in the store room. Rose is not far, either. You should call for them. You know that. But Geralt finds you behind the bar, his amber eyes like firelight, and you stay.

The tankard clanks against the wood as you set it down in front of him. “Would you like something to eat?”

“If there’s something available.”

“I wouldn’t offer something I am unable to give.”

He pauses, the tankard halfway to his mouth, and you cannot look away from his parted lips. Your hands twist in the wool of your skirts, draw the fabric tight against your fingers. “Yes, then,” he says. His eyes flicker, and you think that is not what he wanted to say, that he has swallowed something down.

The plate is a simple one. Geralt seems a man who consumes only to continue, who does not yearn for flavor on his tongue. You keep it to a thick slice of brown bread and some salted meat. You wipe down some tankards as he eats, caught between the compulsion to stay and the whispering nerves that beg you to flee.

“What brings you here?”

Geralt pauses again, those golden eyes lifting to you. You feel heat rise in your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you say. “It’s habit to chat with patrons.”

He grunts.

You bite at your lip and scrub harder at the tankard, twisting the old cleaning cloth around your fingers until it is cutting into your flesh, until it almost hurts.

“There’s a village to the north,” Geralt says. “It has rumors of a beast, and they have coin. This inn is the closest. The village is small.”

“And by that,” Jaskier says, sliding onto the stool next to his friend and gesturing wildly, “he means it is a hovel of a town, more a collection of houses than a village.”

“I see.”

“Luckily,” Jaskier says, leaning forward until you think he will overbalance, “that means we have found ourselves here. It is a charming inn, innkeeper-who-is-not.”

“It’s just an inn.”

“An inn with good ale and food, and most importantly, appreciative crowds.”

“It’s just an inn,” you repeat, but from the way Jaskier’s smile lights up, he can hear the laughter hiding just beneath your tongue.

Jaskier starts weaving a tale for you, his hands fluttering about as he speaks, his voice falling into a cantering cadence that lulls you into the story. Geralt eats in silence, grunting here and there as Jaskier tries to reel him into the story. The bard elbows him once, lightly, and the withering look Geralt gives him could rust a sword.

It is not long after Geralt finishes eating that the two men rise. It is truly late now, the time when nocturnal creatures begin to slink back to their burrows, the time when the starlight goes cold and strange.

“Good night,” you tell them.

Jaskier chirps something back to you, but his words are washed away by the weight of Geralt’s gaze on you. It peels at the layers of you, cuts through to the bone, until all of you is laid bare before him. Your fingers tremble.

They tremble still when you trace their path to the hallway, pulled after them like a pebble caught spinning in the tide. You catch yourself before you follow them further. From your place just beyond the door, you hear Jaskier heave a sigh.

“Geralt,” the bard says, and you’ve never heard a tone that sounds like someone putting their hands on their hips in reprimand before, “will you hurry up? The painting will be there when it’s not a time when even the gods are asleep.”

The bite of your fingernails startles you. They cut into your flesh, tiny sickle moons against the map of your palm, constellations amid the lined sky of your hand. There are footsteps, then, receding down the hall. They ring in your ears long after the men are gone.

Rose finds you sitting near the hearth, your knees tucked up against your chest.

“I’m frightened,” you tell her.

She kneels at your side, a priestess at your altar, her face turned up to you like a flower to the sun.

“I know,” she says.

She waits for sunrise with you, lets you gaze into the fire’s light in silence.

You feel it when daybreak approaches. You close your eyes and surrender to the dark, to the velvet night that lives behind your eyelids. It feels easier like this. Gods, you miss the sun.

The sun rises, and you set.

taglist: @fairytale07​ @stretchkingblog97​ @nonamejustshame​ @1950schick​ @sageandberries-png​ @peachy-aisha​ @msgeorgiarae​ @alwayshave-faith​ @bumblingandblooming 

[natpashdesign]

The Breathing World ___________________________

The shot that had taken his sight and hearing on the left hand side had imparted also a pale and disfigured visage, and he wore the peak of a cloth cap low over his face. Draped in a tattered and stained weathercape he entered town, a stooped figure among many. He had slept in corners and doorways. He had walked long weeks and begged rides from cargo carriages on their routes and though many were keen and willing to assist a wounded songbird there were those who watched with mistrust and contempt. Now among the quiet spaces of his hometown the contrast of the last three years left a thrumming emptiness. He walked the streets of his earliest memories and they washed over him as only form and colour in the fading evening light. At the end of the street the house they had shared together stood dark and empty.

She had died last winter, some anonymous disease that was insignificant until it wasn’t. The house had lain dormant since, its wooden joists expanding and contracting in the passing seasons, breathing in the heat and cold. Waxed paper flowers festooned her stone. Her perfume lay stale on her pillow. He had dreamed of her so many times, lying cradled in caustic dust, when the fear of the day gave way to the fear of the dark in the rotting sprawl of acidic trenches. He dreamed of her hands and her low, even voice as they talked by the hearth in the evening. Her hair. Her figure beneath the sparing linen dresses she made. Her profile, at peace, reading by the lake in summer.

In the morning he left the house as he had found it, the key on the table. He took the intersteppe north until it could go no further, for fear of the partizans and their seizure of the rail ahead. He crossed the Triumverate and slept in a birch grove among falling leaves and woke to slanted light and dew in the air. In the river he examined his ruined face, softened by the distortion and darkness of the water, and saw the glazed eye peering from a mass of scar tissue and the puckered, trailing lines that traced from mouth to brow. He hailed a mail carriage and paid for passage, bent under his ragged uniform against the cold. He wandered the streets of Arese in the afternoon light and walked the halls of the libraries and colleges. A student bent at study watched him furtively as he moved among the aisles.

In La'Cella he saw a man with broken hands hung in the city square. He purchased bread and wine with the last of the pittance of his severance pay and lay in the waterways to sleep, and he looked with both eyes, ruined and whole, listened with both ears, ruined and whole, and with his right hand covered his uninjured senses, blocked out the remnants of sight and hearing, and he wondered if by their ruination those destroyed faculties might awaken to some darker, deeper perception discarded in humanity’s evolution eons past, where crimson shapes shift in the vast dark and a hollow sea surges without end and pale moons sing in the sky.

In the ditchtown of Dredgecote he shot a man in the street on a night of rain. The man followed him from the doorway of a bar and haunted him through the shrouded, twisting alleys. The noise of the deluge masked their footsteps and disconnected them from the brief visions of other travelers in the distant night. Passing around a corner the songbird slid into the shadows and watched as his stalker stepped into the relief of the dim, guttering oil lamps, a small silver pocketgun leveled at his waist, sheltered beneath a tarnished coat to save the flint and pan. The songbird drew his longpistol in the dark and put a bullet through the man and left him bleeding in crimson whorls in the pool of falling rain.

The further north he went the colder and darker the world became, until night and day bled one into the other and the people in the scant towns he passed through were withdrawn and silent. He crossed endless waterways on endless tolled rafts and footbridges, great washes of timber among the isles. He saw another songbird facedown in the water, his throat cut. On his sleeve he bore the brass arrow of a loyalist of the inner colonies. The waygates sheltered men tired and wan, resigned to their distant and violent posts. They looked with scorn as he passed, fingering their stamped metal longrifles and idling in the streets in attitudes of apathy. He watched three of them break down a door and drag a young man away while a woman sobbed unseen in some corner of the house. They stopped him once, looking over his armament, his clothing, the torn places where he had cut away the badges on his cap and collar. They stared openly at his wounds and murmured behind their hands. They asked him why he was here.

He made his way into lands empty of people entire, distant mountains and waving reeds. He inhaled in its stillness and the quiet trickle of the water underfoot. Crossing a wide fen he descended with the waters into a deepened valley where the black cliffs rose far above, passing through until a great, ancient forest of primordial, petrified pine stood before him. It’s darkened halls echoed with a cool stillness. Cracks ran up and down the pillars and branches of stone, trees older than the foundations of the earth. Within the forest a quiet of a different kind took root, and he wondered at the distinct sensation of encroaching upon a place unmeant for his beating heart and breathing body. He walked and drank its water. Within a week those trees fell away to reveal a broad and ashen land of planar dunes and crumbling stone.

He slept on cracked and fissured clay and even the stars above seemed distorted in the firmament, some malformation of the fabric of the sky itself, as if folded or curved towards a singular point on the horizon, some point of the world as yet hidden by haze and low, grey hills. He walked through river beds dry untold ages, among the dust and remains of creatures that had not walked or flown or swum since before man’s coming, creatures unworldly and vast and alien, many eyed and limbed. Their bones sang in the wind, their dry hollow ribcages and cavernous, empty skulls humming woodenly in the vastness, tinged with frost. He rested among them and found in the dust by his hand a single fingerbone much the same length, weight and width as one of his own, and he wondered at the howling, unfathomable cathedral of the history of life. He wondered how many times a traveler had lain where he now lay, in some shrouded previous version of humanity long, long ago. Like the wooden house in his hometown breathed in the seasons so too did the world, its breast rising and falling, continents shattering and seas poured out again and again. And gazing upwards far, far away he felt he saw faded behind the stars other lands in the sky, and for a moment he percieved the shape of the world and the sunken well he was descending within, as the world distorted and drew down to its final point of geometry.

He came, finally, to the pale shoreline at the utter north of the world and followed its white sands to a peninsula that reached far into a hazy sea. He entered that same mist and in time around him felt the presence of many others, heard their footsteps and whispers and felt their breath on his cheek as they crowded along the length of the cape together, to some inexorable destination. He looked around among the faded forms for the one he searched for, but he knew if she were anywhere she would be at that utter end, waiting for him. Among that procession of shadowed pilgrims he walked, slowly, until the mists cleared in a low breath of wind and before him lay the sea and sky, finally met on the horizon in a cataclysmic display. The stars and skies and waters flowed and blended together into a great lensed and luminous cosmos that consumed the skyline entire, and around him the others he had walked with stood and drank in that vision for a moment before treading down the crystalline sands to the gently lapping water and stepping like leaves upon its surface made their way across the sea to that utter finality. The songbird looked around him, desperately. Other figures stood by and looked southwards, seated on stones or in the sand. He looked for hours, and searched the peninsula entire, grasping in the fog like his blindness had become complete, but she was not there, and the bitterness of that finality suddenly took him in a way it had yet not since his entrance into that cold, dark house so long ago and he wept on his knees on the sand among the quiet figures, against the painted untellable sky and the low roar of the last sea.

After a time he stood again and faced that unworldly horizon, and it beckoned to him like a passage, and he stepped among the others to pass with them over the waters. His foot sank with his first step, and he pushed onwards, wading through the low waves scented with copper and ash. To his waist he came, then his chest, and finally his footing gave way, and his head descended beneath the surface. And beneath that surface he saw littered upon the sands beneath the waves piled deep, deep into the dark the countless bones of multitudes in twisted, contorted array and endless numbers. Panic gripped him and he struggled and broke his head above the water and he gasped and labored back to the shore and collapsed in the shallows. His sodden and desolate appearance made no effect on the others nearby as he lay in the waters and watched them walk around him, their feet making not a ripple upon its surface and their eyes fixed entire on that sky. He turned his face from them.

He left that land then, though his memories of that return journey were sparse. He retraced his steps through the dead, quiet world and its abyssal forest and returned among places where people lived and the sun rose. He walked the edges of the isles and drifted alone, passing through cities like a shadow. He ate scraps and drank rainwater and slept among trees. He stood in place as if carven in stone and watched the sky and water for hours. He sheltered in wayhouses and the remains of abandoned homes. In time rumours came about in certain places of a wounded vagabond, some conscript that went mad from the war and walked the archipelago in a ragged songbird’s garb. A man with strange disquieting countenance and an uncanny timbre to his voice, as if he were speaking not just his own words. He spoke low and sparingly about a place at the end of everything, past the final parallels. He spoke of the shape of the world, a world that lived and changed and died and lived again. He spoke of a doorway. He spoke of a radiance. They said he had one eye dead and the other filled with stars.

[allycryz]

Apodyopis for Nerys and Thancred? (Or for Nerys and Haurche if that fits better for you)

Set during the Astral Era quests, probably some time between Ramuh and Leviathan

PG-13 for sexual thoughts/implications and an implied foursome; brief food mention

WoL x Thancred

--

It takes the better part of an hour to end up perched on Ahtstahl's lap with Greinswyf seated beside them.

Contrary to rumor, being Warrior of Light does not lead to a flood of eager would-be lovers. It leads to some, she won’t lie. But most respond with deference, caution, careful handling. As if at any point someone else will notice and they shall be in trouble.

What helps is that she knows these two somewhat. They have all worked together on settlement construction efforts, trapping creatures for meat and parts, being invited to the same revels in the pub. There is the easy familiarity of those who have seen each other often without deeper intimacy, save appreciative glances between her and the couple.

Nerys now leans against Ahtstahl's broad chest, watching the circle of dancers about the aetheryte. A breeze whispers cold into her bare arms, causing the fine hairs to stand up on end. The combined warmth of her companions helps some against the chill.

It isn't correct to call it unseasonal for a Spring Festival. The last calamity changed Mor Dhona to where it’s possible to experience all the climates in a single day.

Ahtstahl runs the backs of his large sage-colored hands over her arms. “And where is your coat, Warrior of Light?” His tone is light, caressing around the syllables of the title.

“What need have I of a coat?” She asks, smirking. “With two such fine companions to keep me warm.”

Greinswyf laughs, low and throaty. She gathers the end of one of the pink ribbons streaming from Nerys’ flower crown, wrapping it about her index finger. “Smoothly done.”

The merriment produces her own chuckle. “I thought so. I haven’t lost my touch?”

“Not as far as I can tell. Though I would be convinced if you buy the next round of mulled wine…”

“Absolutely not,” says Ahtstahl, his voice rumbling through his chest and into Nerys. “Don’t let her guilt you, Nerys-”

“Damn.” The Roegadyn woman grins at them both. “You two shall not let me have any fun.”

“-because,” he continues as if his partner hasn’t interjected. “I plan on her buying us breakfast.”

They all break into laughter. Three pairs of hands slide upon each other, finding palms and skin to fit against.  Nothing too indiscreet, as they sit on one of the benches dragged out in front of The Seventh Heaven. Not that the dancers or onlookers pay them much mind. The glances her way are more likely to be curiosity about the Slayer of Primals than anything else.

A pleasing, scandalous thrill goes through her all the same as Grienswyf rubs a gentle circle into her knee.

“Do you two dance?” She asks. “Not that I am inclined to get up any time soon.”

“Only to welcome the King,” Ahtstahl says. One of his hands wanders to smooth against her hip over the fluttery linen dress she bought for the occasion. The warmth of his palm is steady and strong against the layers of pink fabric and white petticoats

“...Beg pardon?” Nerys glances about the gathered crowd, at the mingling throng up near the markets. Most decked in their best clothes with crowns of flowers or leaves upon their heads. A fine assortment of shining faces but no King among them. As the only King I know is Moogle Mog XII, surely they don’t mean…

“The King of Spring,” says Greinswyf. “They pick someone every year to usher in the season and lead us all in dance. And if he, she, or they pick you as their first dance partner; your year shall be a blessed one.”

“Oh.” ‘Tis not at all like the equinox festivities in the Shroud, given to somber offerings during the day and a raucous bacchanal during the night. There is no figurehead or even a singular master of ceremonies.

There is a masked committee of twelve Gridanians who watch over the festivities. They ensure no ill comes to anyone celebrating as the frenzy of liquor and dance reaches its zenith. Usually they are Wood Wallers or high-ranking Lancer’s Guild members.

“Who is it this year?”

“We find out together. I had my money on your Minfilia, but I see that is not to be.” Greinswyf gestures to one of the stalls set-up along the walkway between aetheryte and market. Minfilia–resplendent in an artfully draped blue gown and matching blooms in her hair–peruses the wares. Beside her, Papalymo speaks with emphatic hand gestures. He wears his usual mode of dress, but she can just make out a red flower pinned to his collar.

Between duties, she had been somewhat aware of the residents descending upon the wilds for the last moon. Bringing back as many flowers as they could find. Demand fast outpaced supply, though.

Her own carnations and lilacs are from the Weaver’s Guild, created in Ul’dah before arriving here. She has Yda to thank for it, one day rousing everyone at dawn to stumble to the market and make their reservations. Not really understanding what was happening, Nerys had gone along for the chance to buy some pretty. 

Hm. Perhaps it’s her? I haven’t seen her all day.

“There’s so much activity,” says Nerys. “I cannot tell yet who is missing and not just out of view near Rowena’s.”

“And the King has a court, to keep people guessing. Money rides on it, of course.”

Soon as the words leave Greinswyf, the musicians ease their song to an end. The dancing slows with it, the concentric circles of linked hands shifting into a teeming mass. From her vantage point, Nerys sees the pan flute player set down his instrument. Up he stands, picking up a large, curling ram’s horn. It gleams in the sunlight, ivy twined about it.

He raises it to his lips. What emerges are notes so clear and strong and loud, they ring out across the settlement. A hush settles over the crowds. The only sounds, the horn and the steps of festival-goers answering the summons; descending from the upper markets to join the rest.

“There,” Ahtstahl says, nudging her chin to look at the North Silvertear entrance.

A procession marches in, the crowds parting to give space and everyone else a better view. Nerys hears snatches of conversation as eight attendants lead the way. The court then, their presence ruining several bets placed on the King’s identity. Both Yda and Hoary Boulder are among them (she in scarlet and white, he in black and gold), their linked hands swinging merrily. 

Two yellow Chocobos enter, bridles festooned with ribbon and ivy. Behind them, they pull a cart upon which is a magnificently carved chair. It looks like it was hewn directly from an ancient tree, the branches of its back reaching into the heavens. And upon it-

“Knew it,” says Ahtstahl.

Thancred lounges upon the chair, one leg thrown over an arm. An elegant crown of bare twigs and verdant ivy perches upon his white hair, an apt combination representing the meeting of winter and spring. As they near the aetheryte, he sits up and gets to his feet in front of the throne.

Oh.

Nerys has seen Thancred naked a dozen times now. She saw him so yesterday. She has near memorized every ilm of his body. And yet. And yet.

Unlike the loose clothes he favors, his emerald tunic conforms to the line of his chest and nips in at the waist. The high collar brushes the ends of his hair and opens enough to show off throat and collarbone. He turns and the umber trousers could better be called a second skin for the way they fit him, showing off the pert curve of his rump and the muscles of his thighs. The fawn-colored boots cannot mold to his calves but they do whatever the closest thing is.

Her mouth goes dry. She cannot look away. Cannot do anything but imagine sliding her hands between the tight fit of cloth and abdomen. Peeling down those trousers and baring the curve of hip, pressing her mouth against it.

“You as well?” Ahtstahl murmurs. “The way that man attracts all eligible persons is downright uncanny.”

“You are one to talk,” says Greinswyf. 

“I did not say it was a bad thing.”

Nerys is somewhat aware of the world moving around her, of three hands clasping her waist and keeping her balance. Only when her feet touch the ground, does she realise her companions have stood and brought her up with them.

Thancred’s gaze turns, catching her just as she loses herself again in the tantalizing skin over his pulse. His smirk turns knowing, and he winks. She shall never hear the end of this. (If he promises to wear this outfit often and let her imagine doing all sorts of things to him in it...he may tease her for the rest of time.)

“Go,” Ahtstahl touches her shoulder. “See if you might claim a dance.”

She turns to them, mortified. “I’m not about to drop the two of you.”

“And you shan’t.” Greinswyf leans in to kiss her cheek. “Should you not make it back, we shall have you for breakfast some other time. I promise.” 

Nerys walks towards the cart, guilt lingering. But their smiles are so encouraging and she does not doubt their sincerity and...yes, she does want to dance with the King. This King with his insouciant smirk and arrogant lift to his chin. This King who looks at her now in a way that says of course I shall be rewarded with a dance from you. Such is my due.

He jumps down from the cart and strides towards her. She fixes her resolute gaze on the blinding beauty of his visage rather than the temptations below his chin. She must look too determined because his shoulders shake with barely suppressed laughter.

“Your majesty,” she says, curtsying before him. Her skirts and petticoats swish about her knees.

“Fair warrior,” he purrs, extending a hand. “Will you usher in spring with me?”

“I am honored.” She takes his hand and he pulls her close, his other arm curling about her waist. It is the cue the musicians need and there is a scramble as pairs and groups form, trying to make room for each other while also watching the King and his partner.

It is all a bit chaotic, more teeming mass than field of dancers. For a long while they hover confined to one spot, her close against him, The velveteen of his tunic soft against her arm. Nerys recognizes the song, that the musicians are tripling the verse’s length. Likely aware that no one shall be ready to dance before the song’s usual end.

“Well,” Thancred says, looking up at her. “You have not told me how well I look.”

Nerys clears her throat. “Green suits you, and the crown is quite nice. I think you make a handsome King.”

His brown eyes dance. “Somehow that does not match the molten heat of your gaze when you first beheld me. Tell me, what was your initial reaction?”

“I have not seen you in clothes so well tailored before.” If he is going to tease her, she will tease back. One cannot be bullied, even when speaking to royalty. “My compliments to your weaver.”

Space opens at last, allowing his highness to begin the dance in earnest, as is his duty. They whirl around the aetheryte, him leading her in a complicated figure she did not know herself capable of. There is an art to guiding your partner when they are unfamiliar with the steps. Whoever taught him should be proud.

He spins her away and catches her again, hands about her waist and sliding north and his knees bending just so. She follows his cue and hops straight upward, helping him lift her twirling into the air. Down she comes, wrapping her arms about his shoulders.

“Are my clothes why,” he says, touching her cheek to tilt her face down while he rises up on tiptoe. “You were imagining all sorts of wicked things when you saw me? Don’t deny it. All this time, I only needed to wear such garments to stir such naughty thoughts.” 

“I wasn’t-I didn’t-” She sputters. Drops her voice to a whisper “I have told you far naughtier things. I have done far naughtier things-”

“I know.” He kisses her cheek and spins her again. Catches her again. “But never so publicly. I rather like it.”

Nerys laughs, shaking her head. “His majesty is wicked. But I find I don’t mind, even when he tries to fluster me in public.”

“Your highness is glad.” The music, stretched out as long as possible, winds down. Thancred bends over her hand, kissing the air above it. Drops his voice. “My duties call me away. Wickedly, I like the idea of leaving you in suspense.”

“Cruel, cruel king.” And he is not far off, because she would like to pull him into some dark corner or into their rooms to pay private homage to his royal beauty. That she cannot is maddening. “What shall I do?”

He steps back and bows. “You still have your eyes and imagination. I hope this helps.”

The King of Spring walks away in such a manner that brings attention to legs and rump, molded so perfectly by his clothing. She is not the only appreciative glance. Ahtstahl is correct: it truly is uncanny how easily he can attract all and sundry.

The trick is, deciding just how she will pay him back.

--

The door is unlocked when she returns, arms full of a morning feast fit for an army. She finds Ahtstahl and Grienswyf in their kitchen, blearily watching a kettle boil. Neither have dressed beyond pants. 

It's a lovely sight.

"I recognize those bags," Ahtstahl says, gesturing. The blue paper bags are streaked with grease and she quickly places them upon the table. Yael’s foodstuffs cost double anyone else’s and require waiting in a long line. But it has always, always been worth it.

Grienswyf sets to work pulling the crimped pastries bursting with egg and cheese from the bags and putting them on plates. As the aromas flood the kitchen, she moans aloud in delight.

"Now that, dear Grienswyf, is a sound I shall never tire of..."

Thancred steps out of the bedroom, hair damp from a shower. He has redonned his royal garments and they are just as delectable now as they were yesterday. Perhaps moreso. Until last evening, he did not have bite marks decorating his throat and clavicle.

The sight of them is near enough to reawaken her desires, even after the night’s exertions.

Thancred smirks. "Poor Nerys, running errands to satiate our hunger while she looks at us ravenous."

"I can scarce believe it," Ahtstahl says, wandering over to Thancred. Rubbing his hip. The Hyur man leans into the touch. "After all the ways she had you screaming last night, Thancred, and still ready to go."

"One must give the king his due," Nerys says, unable to keep from smirking. Very aware of Greinswyf herding her towards the others. "Wait, won't the food get cold?"

"Let it get cold," says Thancred. "You danced with me, you are meant to have a blessed year. We must start it off right." 

Far be it from me to defy a king, she thinks, submitting to his will as he tugs her down to his mouth. 

Breakfast can wait.

[chrysalispen]

xxi. on us the doors are closed

GARLEMALD, 6AE 1565

The storm's fury had not lessened in severity with nightfall. Ice spattered in fits and starts like grain scattered over stone, lashing against tempered glass and reinforced steel as the wind whistled around eaves and the sharp edges of decorative iron contrivance.

To have heard her uncle tell it, this was merely the first blizzard of the season; there would be many more to come. Winters in this part of Ilsabard lingered far into the spring months.

Aurelia bas Laskaris opened her eyes to stare at the patterns imprinted into the tin-plated ceiling for what must have been the tenth time in the past quarter-hour. This guest room her aunt had set aside for her - austere by the standards of the rest of the family villa - was despite its modest status still lavish, still enormous, and it made her home in the Administrative District of Ala Mhigo seem positively rustic by comparison. The canopied four-poster bed in which she lay, with its fine weighted sheets and soft down pillows, was large enough for three people. It was the softest, most comfortable bed she’d ever laid in.

She couldn’t sleep.

She flung aside the blankets in one motion to push herself upright- and immediately had cause to regret the impulse. A bone-numbing chill, one that made the bitterest Gyr Abanian winter seem but a balmy spring breeze, prickled its way over her skin until her entire body was as one giant patch of gooseflesh.

Shivering violently, she yanked one of the heavy quilts from the massive bed and drew it around her shoulders, then paused to allow herself a glance through the large window with its decorative panes. Earlier in the day as the transport had entered the capitol’s airspace, the city had still been visible, if only just. Falling snow had shrouded the massive sprawl of steel and stone, all of it backlit dimly by the magitek lamps on every street corner and the running lights that marked the outline of the imperial palace grounds: cold and alien and forboding.

Even that had vanished once night had fallen. She could hear and see naught now save screaming wind and wicked white.

Aurelia chewed on her lip for a moment before sliding her feet out into the cold air and over the lip of the mattress, onto the stepping stool and down to the plush throw rug where a pair of hastily appropriated house-shoes sat waiting. If anyone asks, I just want some tea. Or warm milk. Something to cut this godsdamned chill.

She cast a furtive glance over one shoulder, as if L’haiya lurked in the shadows to chastise her for her unseemly language even in the relative sanctity of her own mind. But the room sat as empty as it had before. Save for the soft rhythmic ticking of the ceruleum-powered radiator’s valiant efforts to warm the room despite all odds - and the sound of falling sleet - all was silent.

The girl opened the door as quietly as she could manage and let herself into the hallway, padding along the cold floorboards on cotton-clad feet as she made her way towards the balcony that overlooked the main entrance. Black crepe draped in graceful loops over the banisters and the curtain rods: all done upon her aunt’s orders, preparations for her father’s burial tomorrow afternoon.

In the downstairs drawing-room, she knew, there sat an aged daguerreotype of her father. She hadn’t recognized him when she first laid eyes upon the picture until she had asked her uncle, for that picture was not of the aging tribunus militum of the XIVth that Aurelia recalled. The picture she’d seen boasted the grimly determined visage of a much younger man, freshly graduated from the military school both he and his brother were made to attend when they were of a suitable age.

Looking upon that face, a man who was her father but one she had never seen in her life- that had brought with it a queer sense of displacement, the nagging sensation that she stood at the intersection and within the twin shadows of two entirely separate lives that could not be reconciled. As if by will alone the family patriarch had found a way to turn back time and ensure the last epoch had never transpired, that Julian rem Laskaris had never met his wife upon the player’s stage, had never fallen in love with her, had never married, had never left Garlemald for the distant provinces of the south.

To ensure that Aurelia herself had never been born at all.

You don’t belong here, that picture said. You are a blemish upon their perfect order.  

Her fingers twitched upon the railing.

Pulling the edges of the quilt taut about her slim shoulders, she made to descend the carpeted stairs while trying to remember the layout her aunt had briefly shown her earlier that day - if the kitchen entrance was on the far side of the courtyard peristyle then she would have to go without. If her luck held then perhaps she could simply help herself to a warm drink and slip back into her room and no one would be the wiser. She’d managed it countless times over the years, after all.

Aurelia had barely taken two steps down the stairs when the sound of familiar voices caused her to freeze in place. A man and a woman, somewhere not too distant; the sound of it echoed strident and angry from the bowels of the foyer.

Arguing about something. Arguing about her.

“It’s criminal,” her aunt’s voice had lost its delicate fluted tones now that there was no need for a public show of ladylike charm, “absolutely and utterly unconscionable. I cannot imagine what your brother could have been thinking to deny his own child the fundamentals of a proper upbringing, let alone one that would befit a young lady of her station.”

“It is not within my power to gainsay His Radiance. Well do you know that.”

“You should have petitioned the courts to grant us custody of the girl years ago.”

“If my brother was already granted permission-”

“Julian has done that poor child no favors,” came the hissed response. Aurelia could imagine her aunt: pacing to and fro just out of sight, her carefully coiffed blonde hair slowly coming unfurled from its confines. “None whatsoever.”

“Keep your voice down, woman! Do you want to wake her?”

“I just can’t fathom it! All those years letting her play in the dirt and doing as she pleases? She can’t sing, she can’t draw, she can’t arrange the flowers she grows, can’t make polite conversation, her penmanship is barely passable.”

“Marcella-”

“Dare I even make mention of her speech? She sounds like one of those dreadful Ala Mhigan savages every time she opens her mouth-”

“The girl is clever enough, Marcella. She can easily be rehabilitated with proper oversight.” Her uncle’s voice was a deep and forceful rumble that reminded her of summer thunderstorms over Loch Seld, the ones that had scared her when she was small. “Lord van Baelsar confirmed that she has qualified to sit the entrance exams to the Academy’s Valetudinarium, and that is no mean feat for a lass with no formal education.”

“And if she doesn’t pass the exams?”

“Then the army will sort her out as we agreed,” Janus van Laskaris snapped, growing irritation with his wife’s questioning laid bare. “You worry far too much. Given time and training she will be as polished as any of her peers.”

“That girl is not suited for a military career, and you know it as well as I do. The one hope she has is to marry well, and that is easier said than done when-” 

The voices retreated down the long downstairs hallway, towards the master’s bedchambers. Aurelia didn’t even try to listen to the rest of their argument, the cadence of it becoming little more than background noise as she tried to breathe. 

She felt as though someone had punched her in the chest.

Welcome home, her Aunt Marcella had said. But this wasn’t home. Home was zelkova trees under an endless expanse of starlit sky, the sounds of roosting water birds on the lochs, the Althyk lavender in her little garden, the cardamom and rose-hip scent of L’haiya’s hands as they brushed out her hair until it shone like gold in the lamplight.

Home was not Garlemald; it was Ala Mhigo. L’haiya. Sazha. Even her father. She wanted to go home, wanted it so desperately the desire for comfort left her chest aching. Sixteen winters old, and Aurelia slept alone in a bed she didn't know in a house that wasn’t hers, legally the property of a family that saw naught of value in her. Only a wild animal in need of their taming touch.

Home was--

Home was an impossible dream and her father was dead.

The harsh truth of it shook her to her core, and at long last, the grief she’d so carefully set aside for later consideration found its opportunity. Anguish reached its icy fingers through the dull, cottony veil she’d drawn about her mind for protection, grasped her by the back of her neck, and seemed to squeeze until her breath would not come and her stomach turned. She slid down the wall with its flocked scarlet paper until she was sitting in the stairwell and drew her knees up to her chest, pulled her stolen blanket over her head.

In the close darkness, once she was certain her tears could not be heard, she gave voice to her grief in earnest. 

Without her uncle’s villa the storm raged on.

~*~

Gridania was long behind them.

All around the path upon which the flightless bird ran, the South Shroud was a blur of white and stark grey, the bare branches of the trees like bony fingers in the pall of the overcast afternoon sky. A handful still bore browned leaves, clinging stubbornly to the branches in the last throes of the winter before spring’s green sent them to their final resting place.

Slowly Aurelia righted herself in the saddle, realizing she’d fallen asleep: lulled into lassitude by the still, cold air and the monotony of the road’s scenery. She lay half-draped over Keveh’to’s back as though he were a giant yellow bedroll. At her stirring her companion’s ears flickered, swiveling briefly in her direction.

“Rise and shine,” he said with a note of false cheerfulness. “Did you know that you snore?”

“Mmf,” was all she could muster. She sat up a bit straighter and had to catch herself before she fell off the chocobo’s back; she’d drifted off to one side as she dozed. “Are we close?”

“Went through the Druthers and turned off the main roads not quite a half-bell past. I’d say we should be close, aye.”

With some effort Aurelia shook herself out of the remainder of her doze and craned her neck upwards. They were in a much deeper, darker part of the Twelveswood. The trees here were far taller and far older: cloistering the land beneath their boughs and largely away from the sun save for the odd patch of filtered late afternoon light that descended upon snow and bare earth.

“This place is strange,” she said softly, eyes fixed upon the interlaced branches of the canopy overhead. “It feels… I don’t know. Untouched, somehow.”

“Untouched? Well, could be you’re right. They say some of the trees in the deeper reaches of the Twelveswood were ancient back in the time of Amdapor, though who knows how true that is. Still- folk don’t venture far off the paths out here, and for good reason.” Keveh’to’s gaze followed hers upward. “You’ll find the depths and fringes of the wood very different from Gridania.”

She felt a sharp chill prickle the length of her spine, and shuddered. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his chin tilt.

“Thought you said the cold didn’t bother you?”

“It’s not the cold.”

“Are you feeling poorly?”

They were being watched, she thought. It was little more than a gut feeling, a disconcerting something on the far edge of her own perception, but she could feel the hackles raised upon the back of her neck nonetheless.

“No, it’s- … no. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

He looked as if he wanted to press her, but seemed to think better of it, and shrugged. “...Might want to see to yourself, then, if you’re awake enough to manage it. That eye of yours needs to be covered before we’re too close.”

“Would anyone in such a remote place have any idea-”

“No idea if this lot has ever seen one of your kind before if that’s what you mean, but I’d rather not take the chance. We’ve little recourse if things go poorly with the locals as it is.”

Aurelia bit her lower lip and busied herself with covering her brow. It seemed imprudent to raise the alarum over something that could be easily attributed to her own anxiety. Still, it wasn’t until the crudely fashioned curve of a watchtower spire peeked through the foliage ahead that she could allow herself to relax. Almost at once, the sensation of eyes boring into her back disappeared, and she felt a palpable sense of relief.

She had just finished raking her fingers through her tangled locks to confirm that her third eye was hidden, when the settlement came fully into view.

At first glance there was little to distinguish it from the more densely populated townships she’d seen on her jaunts through the forest with E-Sumi-Yan and the other novice conjurers. A simple wall of wood and stone framed the perimeter, meant to deter bandits and beastmen from any notions of raiding the settlement. It appeared surprisingly old, the bulk of it a mossy white marble that could not have come from anywhere local- salvaged from ruins, perhaps.

A small handful of men and women in worn gambesons and leathers stood watch atop the length of the wall with bows drawn and arrows nocked, observing the two newcomers with watchful eyes and grimly set mouths - some of them wore the ubiquitous half-masks of the Wood Wailers, but some few did not. None of them looked particularly well-fed, and the shabby state of their armor and their cloaks bespoke a similar hardship as that which had beset Gridania in the wake of the crimson moon’s fall.

“Halt,” one of the Wailers barked, the note of command unmistakable. Keveh’to hastily drew in the reins and Aurelia kept her head bowed and eyes downcast as the chocobo’s pace slowed to a stop. “What business do two outsiders have here?”

“Hardly a warm welcome,” her minder muttered, in a voice clearly meant for her ears only. “Not that I’d expected one. Stay here and let me do the talking.”

He swung one leg out of the chocobo’s saddle and dropped to the ground with a lash of his tail to correct his balance, offering a hand to Aurelia without a glance in her direction. She could see his sour mood in the flat swivel of his ears, accepted his gesture in silence and managed to slide out of the saddle with something approaching grace.

“Well met,” he said, with the selfsame note of false cheer she had heard before. “I am come on behalf of the Twin Adder, along with my companion here, at the request of your Hearer. Is he about?”

“That information is-”

“I'll take matters from here, Lieutenant.” A stooped old man in purple robes and a wide-brimmed felt hat shuffled forward, the gathering of armed villagers parting to let him pass. He leaned heavily upon the gnarled and well-worn length of his rosewood staff, the expression on his age-seamed face utterly neutral. “You and your lady friend must be Brother E-Sumi-Yan’s promised assistance.”

“Brother Ewain,” Keveh’to said, his tone almost painfully polite.

Hearer Ewain was the oldest man she had ever seen. What little she could see of his hair glistened silver and white in the diffuse daylight, like new-fallen snow upon the forest floor. He smiled, but there was a shrewd sharpness in his faded blue eyes Aurelia did not miss. “That's Hearer to you, though you have my thanks for your timely arrival. And you are called…?”

“Sergeant Keveh’to Epocan. I represent the Order of the Twin Adder, Gridania’s Grand Company.” His hand fell upon Aurelia’s shoulder and squeezed, even as he nudged her forward.” This is my charge, Miss Aurelia Laskaris, a novitiate sent to you by the Con-”

“I know who she is,” the Hearer said coolly. “We can talk at further length in private. Come with me.”

“Hearer,” the Wailer began, “you know we have to search-”

“I'll vouch for them, Lieutenant. Let them pass, if you would, pray.”

For a moment he did not seem as if he meant to respond. The wooden mask was so unbending and the man’s eyes so deep-set that Aurelia could see no reaction in them, but after a heartbeat she spied the slight relaxation of his fingers in the fletching of the arrow. His lips pursed in a sort of displeased acquiescence, and he turned towards the figures standing ready upon the wall.

“Let them in,” he shouted. “Open the gate.”

Trying to ignore the suspicious stares boring into them as they passed through the open gates, Aurelia turned her attention instead to their fortifications. She couldn’t help but notice how much of the south wall had been recently replaced: there were visible seams where char met fresh-cut yew and salvaged stone and new mortar. Burnt timbers thrust upwards through the scaffolding in places like broken bones that could not be properly set.

There was no stone set into the ground here as there was in Gridania. All of the paths that meandered through the town were dirt, long since turned to frigid slush and thick mud from ice and snowmelt. Her toes felt numb with cold even through the protection of the boots and hempen stockings she wore.

The houses were wooden, their roof mostly made of thatched river-reeds or cut cedar shingles, and it was impossible not to notice the holes in the rows of houses like missing teeth.

“Dalamud’s fall reached even in this place,” she muttered. “Your people have rebuilt quickly.”

“We were given little choice. Most fled to Quarrymill, then to Gridania when Quarrymill would not have them.” The old man coughed, turned his head, and spat into a nearby puddle. “This way.”

The house was a modest affair, large by the village’s standards, half-cloistered from the main road down a path into a small ring of trees. A large grey dog lay in a listless doze upon the rickety front porch, paws twitching. Its ears, white-tipped like snow-dusted mountains, flickered at the sound and smell of the intruders but rather than growl or move at all, it cringed away making querulous and uneasy whining sounds at the newcomers - until their host gently nudged the animal’s flank with his staff.

“Get on with you, Aubin,” he said gruffly. “They’re with me.”

Aurelia squinted. ‘Aubin’ looked rather suspiciously like-- “Is that a wolf?”

“Aye, but he’s meek as a lamb. He’s just a weary old man like his caretaker.”

“There were some animals sheltered in the Fane, but most have been released back into the woods. Can he not survive on his own?”

“Might could be, but it’s doubtful. He barely survived the fires, and with those injuries, his hunting days are past him. He’s too feeble, wouldn’t last long in the Twelveswood without someone to feed him. So I’ve been caring for him instead.”

“I thought you had-”

“An apprentice? I do. He’s making the rounds as we speak. Here, you- what was your name again?” he asked her minder, who stiffened visibly.

“Sergeant Epocan.”

“...If you want to stand on ceremony, I suppose that’s your call. Hold the door so the lady and the old man can enter, would you, there’s a lad.”

Grumbling, he caught the door as the man carelessly worked the latch and flung it open, crossing the threshold without even a cursory glance to make sure he was being followed. The interior of the cottage was a single large space, with bedrolls tucked into one corner of the cabin and cabinets of food and medicines in another. A simple wooden tub clearly meant for washing stood on the far side, half-hidden behind hemp cloth draped over rope to make a crude partition.

The corner just north of it was fully enclosed behind a partition of its own. “You’ll be in that back area over there,” Hearer Ewain said with a jerk of his chin. “It’s neither pretty nor large but it’s adequate.”

Aurelia and Keveh’to exchanged doubtful glances.

“Not you, Sergeant. I know what you sorts get up to after dark and I’ll have none of it under my roof,” the old Hearer snorted. “The lady gets the guest bed. Now go and get yourselves situated and once you’re ready we can have a talk about what to expect. There’s a pot of stew on and I’ve got tea.”

Too uncomfortable now to spare another look at her minder, she made her way towards the worn cloth and tugged it open. Ewain hadn’t exaggerated: there was enough space for her, a cot with a thin straw mattress and homespun blanket, and one small cabinet and that was all.

She opened it and tucked her field kit within, then sat down on the lumpy mattress. The enclosure made by the curtain didn’t even have a window, just an old wood-plank wall, stained with age. The arrangement made her simple room at the Canopy look like a luxury suite, and she realized just as she began to remove her muddy shoes that the floor was… well, there wasn’t one. The floor was dirt, and it was very cold.

Shivering, Aurelia changed into a fresh robe and stockings, wondering what to do with her soiled clothing before giving up and setting them on top of the cabinet next to the earthen washbasin, then stepping out into the common area once again. Her new mentor was pouring hot water into a tin cup.

Keveh’to (likewise very carefully not looking at her) was rolling out a pallet next to the other two in the opposite corner of the cottage. His yellow hat and coat both hung on two pegs near the tiny window, and his dirty boots sat by the door.

“Not used to the way we savages live, are you, Garlean?” Ewain said bluntly, watching her pick her way across the room in stocking feet. “Your imperial capitol had big houses with heated floors and such, and fancy machina that did all of the washing for you too, no doubt- oh, don’t give me that doe-in-lights look, girl. You can cover that third eye of yours all you like, I already know what you are. Heard all the talk about your kind from the lads that make their patrols. I’m old, not ignorant. Now go get that wet cloak and them muddy shoes you came in with and you put ‘em by the godsdamned door where they bloody well belong.”

Flushing and embarrassed, Aurelia stammered, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t think-”

“Aye, you didn’t think, that much is obvious. The floor may be dirt but that’s no call for either of us to be slovenly. I’ll not have you tracking mud about my house- such as it is.”

Quickly she did as she was told, placing her boots alongside Keveh’to’s and grimacing at the chill that fair radiated from between the gaps in the wooden door. It was the damp sort of cold that quickly sank into the skin, and she realized as she hung her cloak on an empty peg that she was shivering.

“Much better. Now come sit and have some tea, lass. The fire will keep your toes plenty warm.”

A cup was shoved into her hands almost as soon as her rear sank into the well-worn dip of the wicker seat. Chamomile, and weak at that. She sipped it anyway, thankful for the heat.

There was no conversation, not even to ask about their journey, just the old man drinking his tea and periodically hobbling over to the pot over the fire to poke and mutter at its contents. After some indeterminable amount of time had passed she felt a rough tap on her shoulder as Keveh’to pushed a wooden trencher into her hands.

“Now that’s my granddaddy’s recipe,” Ewain said. “Antelope stew. Not much other than meat in it this time of year, and I had to cook it down to get the meat tender enough. But something to fill the belly is better than nothing. You eat, I’ll talk.”

“Don’t you want to wait for-”

“He’ll be in when he’s in, girl. I told you he’s on his rounds. Won’t be back until late probably and you’ll go hungry waiting for him just to be polite. Eat.”

She looked down at the contents of the trencher in her hands. The stew didn’t look all that appetizing but it smelled wonderful after so many weeks on bare rations, and soon enough she found herself eating ravenously. Some of the broth burned her tongue but that wasn’t enough to deter her. Nor Keveh’to, if the way the man helped himself to a second bowl was any indication.

“Right,” Ewain grunted as he reached across the table to set the teapot back upon its crocheted trivet, “well, I suppose I might as well get to the point. I don’t particularly want you. Naught against you, mind. The Guildmaster talked you up but good before telling me he was sending you over, and he’s a good judge of character so I know that for a Garlean you’re like as not to be perfectly lovely. But being a conjurer’s more than just tending the needs of the forest. Being able to minister to the everyday needs of the people is just as important. For you to even start to do that part of the job properly, your flock has to know they can trust you.”

“You think she isn’t suited for the position,” Keveh’to said, his voice flat. “Say what you mean and have done with it, oldtimer.”

Unimpressed, Ewain responded with a derisive snort.

“Think you’ll shame me into softening the blow, Sergeant Epocan? Well, you’ll not. I don’t want you here and I don’t want her here, and that’s as plain as I can say it. An untested novice from the city is a poor enough choice, a foreigner who’s got little knowledge of magic and even less understanding of our people is a worse one. That may sound harsh, but it’s how I feel.”

Aurelia stared into her trencher as if she found the remnants of her stew fascinating.

“But what I feel is beside the point,” the Hearer continued. “Fact is, you’re what I have rather than what I want, girl, and that’s where matters stand. So first things first. You’re going to settle in here, and then starting tomorrow I’m sending you on rounds with the lad, and you’re going to be meeting every bloody man, woman, and child in Willowsbend, and after that I’m sending you out to the Druthers.”

“But-”

“No buts. Not the village folk nor the Wailers are going to want to work with some foreigner they’ve never met. That’s just how things are done about these parts.” Ewain coughed and spat again, this time into the fire, which flared briefly at the spittle before subsiding once more. “Strongarm knows the score and he has his way of watching out for outliers like us that the city don’t care about unless it has to, so it’s important you earn his trust too.”

Abruptly she stood, her spoon rattling in its trencher. “I think I need some air,” she said. “Will your dog-”

“Wolf. Aubin.”

“Yes, wolf, sorry. Will Aubin be all right if I step outside for a moment?”

“Should be. Though he might think you’re there to feed him- in fact, let’s make that your first task, lass.” Ewain pointed with a gnarled hand towards the cabinetry with its hanging root vegetables and preserved leaves. “I usually have my apprentice give him his meal every night. The coney’s over there, or what’s left of it. You can just give him the bowl and take the other from him, he’ll not take your hand off while he’s occupied.”

She shuffled towards the corner and picked up the bowl full of bones and offal.

“Aurelia, never you mind,” Keveh’to began, setting his own trencher aside. “That’s no work for-”

“Sit down and let her be,” Ewain snapped, startling the Miqo’te. “Under my roof she’s a conjurer first and a lady second. If she can’t make friends with an animal there’s no way she’ll be fit for this work. Leave your trencher here and bring back the bowl, novice. Your friend here can make himself useful and do the washing.”

Barely heeding her minder’s protests, she stuck her feet back into the boots and threw her cloak back on, then let herself outside. The cold struck her cheeks as she’d expected but this time the shock of it jolted her back into a sense of immediacy.

Not moving for a moment, Aurelia stared dully down at the bowl in her hands until the whine from the far corner of the porch caught her attention.

“Hello, boy,” she said awkwardly. “Hungry?”

The response was a flicker of the ears, a smack of the bottle-brush tail, a lick of the lips.

He continued to whine as she approached but didn’t run away. She set the bowl of scraps down on the wooden planks and true to her mentor’s word, the wolf’s muzzle was almost immediately buried in it. Careful not to distract him, she reached to his other side and retrieved the bowl, then took a few steps away to give him space.

On her way back to the door Aurelia decided she didn’t want to go inside just yet, and so she did what she’d have done as a child: she dawdled instead.

There was a railing built along the length of the porch steps, and rather than return inside she leaned on it and stared up at the clusters of stars in the night sky, a small stray breeze ruffling her fringe. With the house far enough removed from the road that someone would have to make their presence known before they approached, she wasn’t worried about her third eye giving her away. She could hear dogs barking and someone up on the wall singing tonelessly, see the flicker of spaced torches, but otherwise all was quiet.

She stared at the empty vessel in her hands and tried, not for the first time in the last few months, to figure out just how the twists and turns of circumstance had put her here.

A year ago she’d been ensconced comfortably in the Castrum Novum infirmary, a junior medicus, just one of the rank-and-file organizing potions and treating mild ailments and assisting in the surgery. Secretly wishing her superiors would loosen the reins and give her an opportunity to lead instead of assist, show her mettle and skill as a chirurgeon.

Anything to break the monotony of her life as an enlisted recruit in the imperial war machine. And now-

“Should have been careful what you bloody well wished for, Laskaris,” she whispered to herself, and had to fight back the angry laughter that threatened to escape her lips.

The stars overhead, distant and impersonal, held no answers. She hadn’t expected one, and this was far from the first time she had felt alone and desperately homesick. Even the formal, chilly stateliness of her uncle’s villa would have been a welcome sight, and that was now beyond her too. No use wishing for things she couldn’t have.

Suddenly she wanted to weep.

“None of that,” she muttered to herself even as her vision blurred. No crying. She refused to cry. She’d shed enough tears, wallowed in enough self-pity. Tomorrow would be better, she told herself. Morning would bring with it clarity and a sense of purpose, or at least the promise of a new routine. She was simply fatigued from travel and stung by Ewain’s open dismissal, that was all. She’d simply do what she’d done in Gridania, and forge a place for herself, and prove she had a right to be here no matter what anyone thought.

She was well accustomed to being unwanted, after all.

Resolutely she turned her back on the stars and went inside to face her new reality.

[lady-duskveil]

The Basics ––– –

NAME: Aleyria Duskveil. AGE: An inappropriate question. BIRTHDAY: Late winter. RACE: Ren'dorei. GENDER: Female. SEXUALITY: Pansexual. MARITAL STATUS: In an open arrangement.

Physical Appearance ––– –

HAIR:

Once a cascading curtain of spun gold, the ravages of the void have leeched color and luster from the waves of Aleyria’s hair, its softly roiling silver waves reminiscent of the glint of spider silk in the witching hour. Left loose to be tossed by the whims of the mercurial winds, she somehow always manages to maintain elegant curls and a certain grace that sees it caress the curve of her spine in a way most provocative.

EYE:

Faintly bruised at their sockets by the wonders of her scholarly pursuits, Aleyria’s eyes are gently swept into feline intrigue by a careful application of stiletto sharp liner and smoky powder. Her gaze lightens only at the twilit violet points that illuminate the shadow's incursion into her dark sclera, parting with an unearthly glow that yet defies the corruption of her practices.

HEIGHT:

Five feet, eight inches.

BUILD:

Curvaceous, in a word -- atypical for elven standards of beauty, in others. Though she hardly lacks for the elegance that the timeless blood of the elves gifted her, a certain softness clings to the fullness of her hips, the swell of her bust. While there is much to be admired of her, she favors intimation and subtlety over outright provocation: the peek of a long, shapely leg from the slit of a slip of figure-hugging silk that otherwise maintains her modesty is all that can be expected of this scholar.

DISTINGUISHING MARKS:

An oddity or a trick of the light, the perceptive note that her shadow moves independently of her, shifting outwards in tenebrous tendrils or otherwise mirroring whatever so amuses it in play. At the most dire, that shade might reveal itself to be something more than benign mockery - with good luck, one will never have to see that day.

Whether swept up into preternatural magicks or practicing some eldritch, long forgotten ritual, thin, runic scarring comes to life on her pale skin when her power is motivated to come to the surface. At its height, the lambent light of those foci are no different than the color of her eyes.

Her powerful grip upon the void has been as much a damnation as it is a blessing. That shadowplay has chased much of the living color from her, leaving her a specter of her former self. Accordingly, the cut and color of all of her clothing tends towards that which will flatter her most - black on black on black.

COMMON ACCESSORIES:

Aleyria is fond of creature comforts and accessorizing the otherwise plain gowns that she dons, indulging in a wealth of rings, necklaces and earrings that dangle from the lobes or curve to the sharp points of her elven ears. Her hands - rarely without gloves - often favor the silken fur of a black shroud that hugs her shoulders. Though plain, a curious rosary woven of black beads hangs at her breast, the visage of a veiled maiden at its end. 

Personal ––– –

PROFESSION: Dark Sister of the Cult of Forgotten Shadows. Scholar. Sorceress. In all things magically inclined towards subversive shade and the madness it imparts in the mind, she is an expert. HOBBIES: Making music (harp), painting, fine embroidery, insect collecting, reading, oneiromancy, gardening and archery. LANGUAGES: Polyglot, though particular to Darnassian and Thalassian. RESIDENCE: Hardly a woman of little means, Aleyria keeps a quaint little estate that favors practicality and comfort over the riches that she had accrued in her life. The decor is antiquated, austere and subdued, and the walls are scattered with countless paintings whose haunting depictions are spawned straight from the reaches of her dreams. The Duskveil estate is at once a work of art, a sanctuary for a scholar’s mind and an homage to her studies in the shadow. BIRTHPLACE: Southern Quel'thalas. RELIGION: The Void. FEARS: Loss of control; being robbed of freedom; total and utter loneliness; certain breeds of the Scourge.

Relationships ––– –

SPOUSE:  Deceased. CHILDREN: Deceased. PARENTS: Deceased. SIBLINGS: None. OTHER RELATIVES: Plenty. ACQUAINTANCES: Plenty.

Traits ––– –

extroverted / introverted / in between disorganized / organized / in between close minded / open-minded / in between calm / anxious / in between disagreeable / agreeable / in between cautious / reckless / in between patient / impatient / in between outspoken / reserved / in between leader / follower / in between empathic / unempathic / in between optimistic / pessimistic / in between traditional / modern / in between hard-working / lazy / in between cultured / uncultured / in between loyal / disloyal / unknown / in between faithful / unfaithful / unknown / in between

Additional Information ––– –

SMOKING HABIT: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess DRUGS: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess ALCOHOL: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

Flaws

moody | short-tempered | emotionally unstable | whiny controlling | conceited | possessive | paranoid | liar impatient | cowardly | bitter | selfish | power-hungry greedy | lazy | judgmental | forgetful | impulsive spiteful | stubborn | sadistic | petty | unlucky

Strengths

honest | trustworthy | thoughtful | caring | brave patient | selfless | ambitious | tolerant | lucky intelligent | confident | focused | humble | generous merciful | observant | wise | clever | charming cheerful | optimistic | decisive | adaptive | calm | loyal

RP Hooks ––– –

Lady of Ruin

Once a lady of an esteemed noble house within Quel’thalas, the fall of the house of Dawnveil’s foremost southern estate was a source of ruin that led her to the grace of the Light long ago. Those particularly embroiled in the politicking of Silvermoon’s most esteemed court may remember her as as one of the devout brides of the Radiant Flame, a cloister of high elven priestesses and a far cry from the shadowy scholar she has become. Some may even seek to reconnect with her in a search for understanding - what could have possibly led her so far from the path of righteousness?

Scholar of Shadow

Particular to studies of the shadow arts and their intersection with the deplorable whispers of the Old Gods, Aleyria’s specialization in the exploration of the realm of madness has been cause for criticism by some. As such, her inquisitive mind is ever in search of lucrative partnerships with other enterprising individuals that might lend a hand to the often dangerous ordeals she puts herself through in pursuit of knowledge. Those of fragile mind need not apply - or do, if you’ve an interest in serving as the perfect subject she needs.

Forgotten Sister

Not all that Aleyria pledges herself to are wild romps through forgotten ruins in search of artifact and antiquity. The Cult of Forgotten Shadows, the conclave of shadow priesthood that praises and idolizes the absence of the Light, is paid due pittance in her travels as a priestess. To those less inclined to seek the embrace of the Light’s warmth in healing the wounds beaten into their ragged flesh, Shadow may prove an apt companion - if you don’t mind listening to the soft whisper of her proselytizing and opening yourself to greater corruption.

OOC ––– –

Hey! I'm Nika. I'm a 28 year old witchy lady living in northeast America in the middle of the woods. I'm an amateur artist, decent writer and avid roleplayer. I'm also a gigantic goofball and a huge introvert, but if I like you, you'll know it. I’m looking for more connections for my sultry shadow priestess, Aleyria.

As I don’t find myself playing much World of Warcraft anymore, most of my RP is done through Discord. I prefer multi-paragraph roleplay but can and will adjust to my partner, and plot lines and long term RP are loved. I'm more than willing to work together on or run story arcs. I am lore-compliant, but appreciate fanon and flexibility.

► Please be 18+. I will not roleplay with you if you are not of age. Sorry, but this is to protect myself and to protect you. ► IC is not OOC. I'm not interested in being the target for frustration or sexual interest. I will block you if you make me uncomfortable. ► My time is limited. This isn't to say that I won't have time, but I have a very active life. Please be patient if I don't respond right away. ► I will play mature content and themes (violence, gore, sexuality, drug or alcohol usage, temporary imprisonment, temporary injury, etcetera). ►Please ask about long term injury or disfigurement, captivity or imprisonment and character death. (These themes should have plot associated with them, as I love my character dearly!)

If you’re interested in plotting with me, I can be contacted at Scowlet#7417.