#I am dreaming. i am imagining. i am getting wistful desires | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rom-e-o · 1 year ago

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☆Selfish of Me☆ (Cullen Rutherford/Inquisitor Trevelyan)

"The Commander of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste. That will get people talking."

An interpretation of The SceneTM. PG-13 and non-explicit.

He noticed her staring immediately.

General Cullen Stanton Rutherford glanced up from his strategy meeting with the new recruits to glimpse up and see who else but Inquisitor Trevelyan watching him from the shadow of the back wall.

The stare of her cinnamon eyes was incredibly distracting, enough for him to stumble over his words the moment he noticed her.

Life was too short, he thought, and he heaved a sigh.

"That will be all," he said.

"Yes, sir!" an underling saluted. The officer turned to the orders and nodded for them to take their leave. The soldiers collectively spun 180-degrees and marched toward the door unison.

Cullen didn't hesitate to close the door to its entirety, placing his palms firmly against the wooden pane as his head drooped with fatigue.

"There's always something more, isn't there?" He sighed, not yet removing his stance against the door as he gave his body a moment to rest.

Inquisitor Camilla Trevelyan eyed him from her post, her smile small but sad. She agreed with him, in many ways. It was impossible to escape the flood of work within the stone walls of Skyhold.

"Wishing we were somewhere else?" she asked fondly, laying a hand upon his shoulder with tender compassion.

"Always," Cullen murmured after a long pause, unable to resist the touch of her fingers against his back. It was simple - a gesture he saw as quite chaste, yet despite that, he savored it far more than he should have.

"Someplace far enough from the politics, the constant threats, the stress. Somewhere we could just... be."

Camilla nodded softly. The mage edged closer, desiring to close the space between them, especially now that they were alone.

"Do you...ever picture what such a place would be like?" she asked with soft, yet genuine interest. "What do you picture when you think of it?"

The blond man allowed his eyes to fall shut again, and he took an intentional yet deep breath.

"A cottage," he finally whispered. "An overlook on the sea, somewhere not too far from civilization but far away enough to find peace."

Cullen's eyes remained closed, his vision filling with the mental image of a picture in his mind.

"An ocean-breeze in the windows when I waken, fresh air and the smell of pines through the trees. A day spent fishing, gathering food to cook. My family would be nearby, perhaps a day's trip. My sister Mia would be there, teasing me like always…”

He ended the vision there, letting the rest evaporate with a wistful sigh. “It sounds silly, doesn't it?"

"Not at all," Camilla said. "It sounds ... wonderful. Dream-like."

After a beat of silence, Camilla peered up at him from beneath her dark mahogany lashes. "When you picture that scene, am I ... there with you?"

This honor and integrity as a general and devout follower of Andraste would not allow him to hesitate when giving his answer.

"In fact, you're the only one I can imagine in it."

Cullen felt his face flush as he met her gaze. "Is that... is that so strange?"

"No," Camilla answered, perhaps too quickly. "It's not strange at all. Not to me."

Her reply made him puff his chest in excitement. There was no mistaking it, then. The quiet tension he'd felt the past months since arriving at Skyhold could not be denied - there was far more to their relationship than a duty or respect for one another's authority.

Camilla allowed herself to grin. After checking to make sure the door was locked, she drifted forward and laid a hand on his heart.

"Once this is all over, once the Inquisition accomplishes its goals and we seal the breach, I ... want to get away. To go somewhere. To escape prying eyes."

She tightened her grip slightly.

In fact, if...you wouldn't mind me joining you, I'd be incredibly honored."

Cullen's mind struggled to formulate the words, yet he didn't feel the need for any grand gestures. A simple statement would do.

"That... that is also what I want." His eyes shifted to meet hers. "Can I ask you something?"

He paused, awaiting her answer, before whispering, "Do you believe in fate?"

The mage shut her eyes and pondered the question.

"I...do," she finally answered.

A warm laughter, like summer thunder, rumbled in his chest. She felt its vibrations through her fingertips. "You sound so certain."

"When I was little, I don't think I did. I didn't like the idea that I couldn't master my destiny. I hated the idea of being resigned to a life I never wanted. But, after everything that's happened, I...want to believe in it."

She paused, her brown hair changing shades in the flickering firelight. Mahogany once second, walnut the next.

"I think fate must be real, at least in some capacity," she answered.

"I think we can choose our destiny, to some extent," Cullen whispered, glancing down at Camilla's hand laid against his chest. "Yet sometimes... no matter how hard we try, our choices might not be ours to make."

He met her gaze again with a smile. "But, I truly mean this... whatever choice we make, I hope we face it together. Whatever fate has in store for us, I want to experience it with you by my side."

Camilla was still, her hands still resting on the man's broad, armored chest.

"It'll be dangerous, Cullen," she said softly, as if she didn't want to speak the words into existence.

"I think we're past that, don't you think?" he asked, daring to smile even as she glanced up at him, eyes brimming with concern. Not corner for herself, but concern for him.

"My status as Inquisitor, the mark on my hand...we don't know what the future holds," she said, "I used to not care if I perished as the leader of the Inquisition. Now..."

She looked up into his amber eyes, seeking solace. "I don't want to leave you. Is...that selfish of me?"

"It is certainly not," Cullen said, reaching a hand up and laying it over hers. "You deserve happiness after everything you've done for this world."

He lifted his other hand as well, gently taking her face in his, looking deep into her eyes. His voice was as quiet as the first time they spoke, yet there was no denying its intensity.

"I don't want to leave you, either," he murmured, leaning closer. "Camilla..."

"Cullen."

She spoke his name only once before leaning forward, matching his movements.

A second later, she shut her eyes and pressed a kiss to his lips.

Their lips didn't linger for long - less than a second passed and then they parted. Cullen's eyes fluttered open, his gaze falling to Camilla's hands still clasped around his chest. His breathing had grown heavier, a hand resting against the nape of her neck as the tension had become tangible between them.

His mind wondered to places he shouldn't have, yet he was unable to stop it from happening. His heart fluttered inside his chest, beating fast, almost painfully so. A warm sensation filled his cheeks as a warm heat passed between them.

Noticing the way Cullen's eyes fluttered open and his breath quickened, she smiled to herself. His reaction pleased her.

"Was...that alright of me to do?" she asked.

It was a small gesture, yet, he couldn't quite explain it. It felt more than just a kiss, more of an unspoken connection and a hope for what could be.

"I should certainly say so," he said, his smirk and tone impish. "Although it was ... a bit brief, don't you think?"

Watching how his eyes licked over her form made her own heart flutter in her chest.

"You know, I think you're right. That...last kiss was a bit of a blur to me," she said teasingly, hands rising to cup his face. "May I do it again?"

"I can think of nothing else I'd rather have you do," Cullen murmured, placing his hand atop hers before they made contact once more. Her touch was light; she was soft against him, and she always felt like silk.

Camilla obliged, leaning in and angling her face to kiss him fully.

Gods, his lips felt perfect. Warm, soft, and the scratch of his stubble against her cheek was euphoric. All the times she had dreamed of him before and after their first kiss on the battlements, she felt felt the delightful scratch of his stubble or the cold burn of his armor against her bare skin in her dreams.

In this moment, she was dizzy with glee to feel his body beneath the layers of leather armor, and wished suddenly that there were no layers of clothing to separate them.

After giving his lips a playful nip, she back away slowly, her eyes glazed and dreamy.

Cullen's hands grasped at the back of her head, his fingers digging into her dark hair when she bit his lower lip. His breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as she backed away. With it came a rush of emotions - a blend of desire and something else he couldn't quite define.

The second they parted, he felt her hands grip his biceps and squeeze them.

"Cullen...can we...?"

She flicked her gaze toward his desk, watching his eyes glow bright with realization of what she wanted.

The general couldn't oblige fast enough, and thankfully, his lover had already latched the door.

#dragon age inquisition #cullen rutherford #dai #da inquisition #cullen x trevelyan

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nagaficat · 2 years ago

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virtuoustyrfing:

A Dream is A Wish

it’s the long-waited day he knew would arrive at belhalla castle’s doorstep. yet despite eighteen years of preparing & studying, anticipation grows into unrest / thinly veiled behind each of the prince’s movements. his hand reaches to adjust the collar of his tunic for the tenth time. careful. seliph is conscious enough not to wrinkle the expensive garment. it’s his ceremonial outfit, after all. the seamstress must’ve taken great care measuring and sewing it.

he realizes there’s nothing he can do except wait and take one last wistful look around his room. or rather, what would become his childhood room in a matter of hours. a good number of his personal belongings have already been stripped away & moved to the king’s chambers by servants in advance.

yes, seliph supposes as the gloved fingers trace over the wooden surface of his desk. some things will be left behind with his ascension to grannvale’s throne. it’s only natural.

the young man’s hand stills. strange. shouldn’t this room be——

wherever that thought would have led him becomes soon forgotten. he looks up, wondering if it’s time already. if one of the servants has come to fetch him. seliph knows how busy his parents are with all the preparations. but much to his pleasant surprise, it’s his mother.

“mother! i didn’t think i would have a chance to see you before the ceremony.” his mouth softens into a smile over the attention he receives ——— only for it to freeze. for a fleeting moment, mother’s words repeat themselves in his mind. seliph stands there, saying nothing. & the scion asks himself: is this what he truly desires?

“of course.” he shakes those thoughts away. it must be his nerves. “i want nothing more than serve the people as their king.” it’s his most heartfelt sentiment despite the strange feeling that washes over him, as though something is wrong. (it doesn’t make any sense.)

“and i couldn’t have asked for better guidance from father and you,” he continues with a far more strained smile. “but shouldn’t you be getting ready yourself, mother?”

"I have been getting ready for the past eighteen years!" Gentle hands smooth down his hair as she tries to imagine her grandfather's crown sitting on her son's brow. Has it truly been eighteen years? It barely feels as though one has past.

Deirdre tries to remember moments of her son's life but it is hard to recall. She can picture him so vividly as an infant, nestled against her breast, while Sigurd wraps his strong arms around them both. She can see him roll over for the first time to reach for her and how bright he smiled when Ayra would join them with her twins. But she cannot remember his first steps or the first time he wrote his own name or when his voice began to drop.

She frowns. This is supposed to be a happy day. She must simply be overwhelmed by all of the preparations. Yes. That has to be it.

"Forgive me, darling. There has been so much work to be done. I am afraid it is a bit overwhelming, even if your father has been doing his best to look after me." She sits down on the edge of his bed and pats the seat next to her with a smile. "Come. Sit with me. Grannvale had waited long enough for their king, surely they can wait just a little longer. Tell me what you are thinking."

#virtuoustyrfing #| thread | a dream is a wish

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rotworld · 3 years ago

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The Truth in Masquerade

usurpers part 7. previous | next

derek gives in. izsák reaps the rewards.

->derek/oc. explicit; contains d/s dynamics, degradation, biting/blood drinking, descriptions of violence and torture, and the usual derek things.

It takes less than a week for curiosity to eat through Derek’s resolve completely. Izsák speeds things along by bringing up weird shit every chance he gets and then waiting, perfectly poised, for a shift in Derek’s expression. It’s always some off-handed mention when it’s just the two of them. Izsák will help him prepare for another guest appearance at another dreadful party, presenting him with a fresh towel after a shower, tying his tie, and then he’ll sigh in a wistful way and say, “You never have liked these little soirees. It was much easier when Ferenc was here, wasn’t it? He bore the burden of public scrutiny with such ease.”

And what the fuck is Derek supposed to do? Not ask questions? Not think about why Izsák will stare, studying his face expectantly, and then suddenly laugh and mutter, “Pay me no mind, sir.” He tells himself it’s just Izsák being his usual freaky self, but has he always been so strangely in tune with Derek? Did he always stand so close and act so concerned over every little thing? Fussing over him when he bangs his knee on a table, or after a particularly public breakup? It’s fucking weird. Derek tells him it’s weird, and Izsák just smiles peaceably and goes about his business.

Three days after the museum, Izsák is drinking tea at the kitchen table while Derek eats lunch. His father is out with Clarice and the house is blissfully quiet. Derek is texting Emilia, who is hysterical and wants to break up with him again over some new bullshit that Derek can’t remember and doesn’t care to figure out from the vague hints she’s dropping. He’s sure he can talk her into a night out and a quick fuck with the right combination of sweet talking and apology gifts. He wouldn’t bother, but his father chewed him out about how it looks when he brings a new girl to every social function. People notice, his father claimed, and people talk. Derek rolls his eyes just thinking about it. His father keeps a girlfriend for a few months and now he thinks he’s some kind of fucking expert on monogamy.

And then, out of nowhere, Izsák breaks him out of his thoughts. “Are you feeling restless, sir? I had something in mind, if you are interested.”

“Unless it’s something to get Emilia to calm the fuck down, I’m not interested,” Derek says. He only looks up from his phone when he hears the scrape of Izsák’s chair across the table and sees him coming closer. He stands behind Derek, rests a hand on his shoulder, and leans in to peer at the phone screen. His touch, light, weightless, totally innocent, makes Derek burn with desire.

“I see. She’s upset that you have taken other partners.”

Derek rolls his eyes. Of course it’s that. Nobody can keep a goddamn secret anymore. He wonders which one of them couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Regina? Francine? Couldn’t have been Laney, because Laney...

Derek swallows hard at the thought, the memory. Standing here in the kitchen when Emilia called him sobbing, saying her two-faced bitch of a friend was comatose in the hospital. Car accident. She never woke up. Izsák had looked up from organizing his father’s day and watched as Derek took in the news. There was something knowing in his eyes, and Derek remembered suddenly how Izsák had uncorked a vial of chicken blood and flicked it after Laney.

There’s no way. Derek repeated that in his head like a mantra whenever he caught himself starting to believe it. The blood of a black-feathered hen. No fucking way. He looks over his shoulder at Izsák, at the eyes gazing back at him and awaiting—something.

“You got a spell for this?” Derek says. He’s perturbed when Izsák smiles, like he’s delighted to be asked.

“Of course, sir,” he says. He retrieves his tea and strides quickly to the kitchen sink, dumping the rest of it down the drain. Derek watches him pluck the damp bag of herbs out of the cup, shaking the rest of the water out, and setting it on a plate. “You may watch if you’d like,” Izsák says.

“I don’t care,” Derek says. And he shouldn’t. But his gaze is drawn back when he sees Izsák pull a lighter from his pocket and flick it until a little wavering flame appears. It looks like he’s trying to light the tea bag on fire, but it’s too damp to catch. Some foul-smelling smoke sizzles to the ceiling. Izsák whispers something, not in English, and Derek just stares.

That’s when Emilia messages him back after a solid ten minutes of the silent treatment. She says she can’t stay mad at him and asks to meet up later that night. Derek stares at the text in disbelief, then looks up and finds Izsák standing there, watching him. Smiling.

“You may ask me questions, if you have any,” Izsák says. “I wonder if you remember this one.”

“Where exactly am I supposed to remember it from? I’ve never seen that shit before.”

Izsák answers automatically, like he’s been waiting for this. “Csejte, 1578. I performed this spell for you for the first time.”

Derek doesn’t know how to react, so he doesn’t. “You did not.”

“I did,” Izsák insists.

“You fucking didn’t. That doesn’t make sense.” Izsák frowns, opening his mouth to disagree, but Derek gets up, leaves the table, and goes out to the pool to soak his feet and avoid whatever it is that’s happening. Izsák knows better than to pursue him and gives him space, but it’s too late. Derek is thinking about chicken blood. He’s thinking about headless girls encased in ice. Which is weird because he’s never seen that before, but something about the statue at the museum, about the things Izsák said, put a distinct image in his head. He’s hungry. He wants to taste somebody’s blood. He feels himself salivating when he remembers biting Izsák’s neck and he wants to feel skin give beneath his teeth.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to nobody. He kicks at the water until dusk, until his erection is gone and his father comes home with Clarice and Izsák is busy with other things so Derek can avoid his eyes and that look that knows too much.

Four days after the art museum, Derek wakes up and his dick is so hard it hurts. The dream snaps out of place and tries slipping away before he can remember it, but he holds tight to everything that’s left;

A castle. Stained glass windows. Stone archways. The snow-covered courtyard with its frozen women like grotesque, grasping trees. Long corridors and echoing screams. He stood eclipsed by flickering candlelight and writhing shadow, walking barefoot through puddles of blood. There were bodies dangling from the dungeon ceiling, hung from meathooks and impaled in iron cages. Slit throats. Dangling entrails. They wept and moaned above him, and their blood rained on his skin. These were his kills. He hunted them himself, hung them like trophies. He reveled in their pain. Silhouettes played across the walls, human and beastly shapes that grew and warped and twined together in obscene dance. Derek felt these shades watching, but he didn’t fear their gazes. There was no need to perform for them.

And Izsák was there, smiling gently. He wore nothing. He was deathly pale, unmarked as though the blood couldn’t touch him. Derek was possessed by the need to dirty him. He reached desperately, his grasp leaving bruises, dragging Izsák through red rain and filth. He was tainted slowly, a splatter across his shoulder, a rivulet dripping down from his scalp. It fell in heavy clots in his lashes. Derek pressed him against the cold stone wall, his wandering hands smearing abstract shapes over Izsák’s skin, and then he licked it off of him with long, slow drags of his tongue.

It was so fucking stupid. He’d never do that in real life. But just thinking about it gets him even harder. Derek palms himself through silk pajama pants, shivering, leaning back against the headboard. He’d never be so tender and gentle. But in the dream, Izsák looked at him with this passion, this reverence, like Derek was God and that castle dungeon was their private, depraved heaven. It was so vivid. The musk of all that flesh and blood was heady and visceral. He slips his hand beneath the waistband of his clothes. It’s pathetic. Jacking off has never been so disappointing. He can see it when he closes his eyes, dreamlike and hazy; bodies and darkness. Izsák beneath him, his hands framing Derek’s face, his eyes glazed with wanting. He twists his palm around the head of his cock and imagines it’s Izsák doing it, Izsák between his legs and covered in blood.

It’s not the first time he’s fantasized about Izsák, but it was always different before. More impersonal. Izsák’s mouth around his cock. Izsák’s hips moving against his. The way Izsák’s back arches and his muscles all go taut while Derek fucks him raw over his father’s desk. But this is so much more heated and detailed. It’s not just the sensation or the view, it’s how Izsák looks at him, how he talks to him. It’s how he knows Derek in intimate and frightening ways, and doesn’t expect anything more of him.

In the dream, Izsák worshiped him. He got to his knees and the sight of Derek’s body, his apparent desire, the hard cock swollen against his abdomen, seemed to mesmerize him. He looked up at Derek as he pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, drool and precum on his lips. His tongue caressed Derek’s length from base to tip and his hands smoothed along his thighs. He moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating against Derek’s flesh as he suckled on the sensitive underside. He mumbled something, unwilling to pull away and cease pleasuring Derek for even a moment, but Derek understood somehow. He knew what he was trying to say; I’m yours.

Derek bites his lip so hard it bleeds, desperately fucking his fist. It’s too hot. He has to throw off the sheets and pull his pants down around his thighs but he’s still sweating, his head pounding. He still feels the stagnant dungeon air, the blood drying to his skin. He remembers the way Izsák bobbed his head, the hot slide of his lips and his tongue at the base of Derek’s cock when he started to deepthroat him. Izsák gagged and squirmed but he didn’t pull off, didn’t even try. Derek wasn’t holding him still because he didn’t have to. They didn’t speak to each other, but he understood in that moment the depths of Izsák’s devotion to him. He knew Izsák would do anything for him. Would kill for him. Would give his own blood, his own body, if it would satisfy Derek.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, panting. Izsák is too hot and wet and perfect around his cock. He thrusts deep, feels his balls slap Izsák’s chin and he grinds against the back of his throat, and Izsák chokes on a moan. His worship becomes even more fervent. His hands grip the back of Derek’s thighs, squeezing his ass, spurring him into more violent movements and keeping them locked together. He wants everything Derek has to give him. He accepts it all, the hunger and brutality, his every whim and desire. When Derek cums down his throat, Izsák gags on it, his hands tightening on Derek’s legs, but he stays. He looks up at Derek through hazy eyes and swallows obediently. He lets Derek soften in his throat, sucking gently as though to milk him of the last of his climax.

Derek lays there, dazed and confused, realizing he’s alone and his sheets are soiled. It takes time to catch his breath. He lies in his own mess, eyes closed. He’s still there, in the castle dungeon. The dreamfog begins to clear. He isn’t standing anymore. He’s reclining, encased in liquid warmth. When he moves his hands, red swirls around them. He licks it off his fingers. It’s hot, metallic, and sickly sweet. It’s so clear, so detailed and real, that Derek is startled to open his eyes to the dark ceiling of his own room again.

Just a dream, he tells himself. His heart is still racing.

Five days after the art museum, Derek’s determination to ignore all the strangeness is shot. Pretending that everything is fine and he isn’t turning into a fucking vampire goes from a chore to a battle of epic proportions against his own body. He’s hungry all the time, his libido is out of control, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from sinking his teeth into anyone else. He takes Emilia out to see a movie and he can’t focus on anything but her neck. The way the light plays across it, the moving shadows, the outline of her muscles every time she swallows or laughs. He imagines himself biting her, his jaw clamping down on her throat like a wild animal. He tells her he has to use the bathroom halfway through and jacks off in a stall fantasizing about tasting her carotid artery.

Asking Izsák is out of the question. His pride won’t allow it. Izsák is already smug as fuck about all of this, sneaking up on Derek constantly and asking very pointed questions about how he’s feeling or whether he’s had enough to drink, all with that fucking smile on his face. He retreats to his room in his father’s house, blessed with a rare moment of privacy, and gets online. The tentative approach doesn’t get him far; a quick online diagnosis gives him two types of cancer. In desperation, he starts trying the things he’s heard Izsák casually mention, names he can’t remember right and places he can’t spell.

Inevitably, he finds her. Frozen in time, she gazes back at him from her lofty position atop a webpage detailing her atrocities. One hand rests daintily upon a faded red tablecloth, the other holding an embroidered handkerchief. She isn’t smiling and there’s a weariness to her regality, a thinly veiled disdain in her eyes. Derek feels that he knows her, that he recognizes that quiet sneer. He’s seen it in the mirror before. A strange, twisting feeling knots up his stomach, and he doesn’t fully understand it, doesn’t know what all of this means, but he knows something has happened to him. Some change has taken root.

He skims the page absently, the words washing over him both exhilarating and deeply familiar. Torture. Mutilation. Bloodbaths. The stories are fantastical, too incredible to be true, and yet there is no shortage of them. Derek searches further, needing to find her, needing to know exactly who she was. Elizabeth, Erzsébet, the Bloody Countess—no matter what she’s called, Derek finds kinship in the morbid details. Born into wealth and excess, thrust into the noble’s spotlight, and utterly disinterested in it all. She was on a quest for timelessness, to escape the mundane world. She performed as Derek does, marrying, attending to her courtly duties, wearing the mask of contented civility, but she also indulged and hunted, relishing in the viciousness of it all. Derek looks at her portrait with newfound emotion, something heavy yet freeing.

He almost isn’t surprised when Izsák speaks as though suddenly materialized behind his chair, “Your father sent me, sir. I am to prepare you for this evening.” Derek turns and examines Izsák, searching for things he hasn’t noticed before, or things he didn’t want to notice. His easy, eager submission. His smile. His eyes that know Derek, know what he wants, what he needs before Derek himself is even aware. Eyes that have seen centuries.

“Which one?” Derek asks.

Izsák tilts his head, silently seeking clarification. He’s smiling very slightly. Did the Blood Countess see this same smile? Did it greet her before grand balls, assuring her of the safety of her secrets? Did it welcome her to the dungeon, her private sanctuary?

“She had accomplices,” Derek says. “Servants who helped her keep things quiet. Some of them were questioned at the trial.” He doesn’t clarify; doesn’t have to. Izsák listens patiently, his smile widening as though this is precisely what he’s been waiting for. How long has he waited? Derek wonders. How much longer was he willing to wait? “There was one man who helped her torture her victims, but the rest were women. One was her old wetnurse, and one was one of her personal servants. The other two were witches or something. Right?” Dorottya and Darvulia. He didn’t bother to learn the rest of the names, but he memorized those. One of them was important. One of them mattered more than all the rest.

Izsák hums thoughtfully. “That is what many people say, yes.”

Derek stands up and hits him. It’s sudden, impulsive, happening so quickly that he doesn’t realize he’s done it until his hand starts to sting. Izsák touches his reddened cheek with soft, uncertain strokes, as though he’s just as surprised. The way he looks at Derek is wrong. Not disdain. Not disappointment. Elation. The joy of a long-awaited reunion.

“Which one are you?” Derek asks.

Just like in the dream, Izsák sinks to his knees before Derek. The movement is slow and graceful, as though he’s done it a thousand times before. He takes one of Derek’s hands in his and holds it as though it’s something precious. “I am the one who did not betray you,” he says, pressing his lips to the back of Derek’s hand. The gesture is gentle and intimate, stirring something violent within him. He wants to hurt Izsák. He wants to dirty him. He wants to thank him for coming back after all this time, saving him from suffocating in his own constant performance, but he only knows how to lie about gratitude, not show it for real.

The one who didn’t betray him. Derek turns the words over in his mind to admire like precious stones. He remembers—did he read it somewhere, or does the knowledge come from somewhere else?—that the countess’ servants were called to stand trial. Each one confessed to the atrocities, the beatings, the bloodletting. The man. The wetnurse. The servant. Even Dorottya broke her vow of silence and servitude to testify against her mistress. They all betrayed her.

All but loyal Darvulia, her devotion unending. She wasn’t there that day. Already dead, some stories say. It doesn’t matter. Derek knows what became of her now. He threads his fingers through Izsák’s hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admits. “I don’t get how it works. But I believe you. I see pictures of her, and I know we’re the same.”

Izsák nuzzles against Derek’s palm like an animal, a pet seeking affection. It’s intoxicating, the power he holds, the total submission Izsák gives him, unchanged by the centuries. It feels right. It makes sense the way a dream does in the midst of it. “I couldn’t save you,” Izsák murmurs. “I was not strong enough then. This time will be different.”

Derek is too caught up in the thick need in Izsák’s voice, the curve of his spine as he leans into Derek’s touch, to understand the words right away. “Save me from what?” he asks, but Izsák is already standing, stepping away from him. Derek isn’t done with him. He yanks him back by the forearm and bites him without warning, leaving the shape of his teeth in his earlobe. “Save. Me. From. What,” Derek growls, each word punctuated with a nip to Izsák’s delicate skin. He bruises so easily.

“From your family,” Izsák gasps. He holds onto Derek, moves against him shamelessly. Derek feels how hard Izsák is and smirks against the fluttering flesh of his throat. He slides his thigh between Izsák’s legs, giving him the privilege of rutting against it. Izsák is so needy, so desperate to serve and explain as he chases his own pleasure, his words coming in breathless pants and whines. “Just as it was before, your own blood plots against you. Your father, he—oh, sir, please!”

Derek can’t pay attention to whatever Izsák is trying to tell him. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is more important right now than getting inside of Izsák and tasting him. “On the bed,” he demands, and Izsák obeys without question. They’re all over each other. Derek savors the roaming worship of Izsák’s hands down his biceps and across his chest. It feels good. It feels right. He can’t get undressed fast enough, still shedding clothes as he nips and licks at Izsák’s tempting neck, and Izsák is so good and obedient, turning his head to give Derek better access. “You really are mine,” Derek says.

“All yours, sir,” Izsák says. Derek has barely touched him and he looks blissed out already, eyes glazed, a delirious smile on his face as though just being in Derek’s presence is the greatest of pleasures. He unbuttons his shirt further, exposing a tantalizing flash of his collarbones and old, faded marks Derek left days ago. “Take me. Drink from me. Do with me whatever pleases you.” Izsák’s nails sink into his shoulders as he pulls himself up enough to whisper against Derek’s ear, “Please, master. I’ve waited for you.”

The final, worn string of Derek’s self-control snaps. He bites into Izsák like he’s meat. He hears skin and tissue give beneath his teeth, splitting, squelching open, tastes the tangy burst of Izsák’s lifeblood on his tongue. He ruts against Izsák’s hard, twitching cock, trapped between their bodies, and Izsák’s head falls back in ecstasy. Derek sucks at the wound and tastes Izsák’s tenderness, the sharp sweetness of him. It’s so good, so right and familiar. Izsák was born for this, born for him. He would never belong to anyone the way he belonged to Derek, would never know anyone as deeply, would never want anyone as wholly. Somehow, arched and gasping, Izsák moves himself, grinds slowly against Derek’s achingly hard cock. He reaches between them and guides Derek to his twitching, anticipating hole. Derek slams inside of his welcoming, tight heat and his eyes roll back in his head. Nothing has ever felt so good.

“You’re mine. My loyal little toy. My cockslut,” Derek hisses, unclamping his jaws from Izsák’s neck just to find a new, fresh spot to taste. Izsák shudders around him, beneath him. His legs open wider. Derek hooks Izsák’s ankles over his shoulders and bends him in half. It’s new, doing it like this. He’s fucked Izsák while looking at him a couple times but never staring like this, never pressed chest to chest and sharing breath. Izsák’s lips are right there and he moves without thinking, swooping in, crushing their mouths together. So soft and tender. His teeth crunch through Izsák’s lower lip and blood gushes into his mouth, heady and intoxicating. “Can’t get enough of you,” he moans into Izsák’s mouth.

Izsák’s nails rake down his back hard enough to draw blood. Derek lets him. It’s better that way, more raw, more wonderful. He pulls back to admire the blood and saliva smeared across Izsák’s lips, dripping down his chin. It feels like the desert in his room, the heat, the intensity, a soft body surrendering beneath him. He slams his cock into Izsák’s helpless body over and over again, relishing the sensations, the sounds, the desperate raggedness of Izsák’s breathing. He crushes Izsák against the bed and this time he kisses him. He should’ve done it earlier. Izsák’s mouth is so hot, so soft and slutty and wanting him. He sucks on Izsák’s tongue as he fucks him into the mattress, hips pistoning, cock drilling into his pliant, shaking body.

Izsák has been wanton and shameless before, but this is more than that. This is devotion, Derek thinks. This is what he’s always deserved. Izsák’s thighs quiver as Derek pounds into him, so hard and fast his own legs are straining but he can’t bring himself to stop. The pleasure is blinding, a liquid heat in the pit of his stomach. He’s kissing Izsák in filthy, hungry ways that he’s never done with any of his girlfriends, licking into him, tangling their tongues together, sucking on the bite he left for every bead of blood that bubbles to the surface. He’s going to cum. He’s going to claim Izsák so thoroughly, so completely, that he’ll never be satisfied by anyone else ever again. He’ll worship Derek’s cock just like this with his whole body. He’ll beg for it. He’ll beg for a chance to suck his dick under the table at dinner parties. He’ll thank Derek when he cums down his throat and swallow every drop.

Izsák is his. He might be Derek’s father’s assistant on paper, he might spread his legs for him sometimes, but he’s Derek’s. He’s been Derek’s across centuries, across continents. He’s come all this way just to get on his knees before Derek, where he belongs. Derek squeezes Izsák’s ass, digs his nails in. This is mine, he thinks. This body, this mind, this entire being. He stops kissing Izsák to nose against the other side of his neck, licking and teasing the unbroken skin.

Derek smirks against Izsák’s hammering pulse. He’s close. He’s going to cum. He fucks Izsák deep, grinds against him, feels his balls roll over Izsák’s smooth skin. “Beg me to bite you,” he purrs.

Izsák clings even more tightly, begs even more sweetly. “Please, give me your bite,” Izsák cries for him. “I need it. I was born to receive it. Please use me, make me yours. I should always belong to you, master.”

Derek cums hard, buried deep inside of Izsák. Everything whites out, sight and sound and understanding consumed by orgasm. There’s a sharp stinging sensation somewhere on his body, a pain that crests with the pleasure, intermingled too tightly to process on its own. Izsák writhes and whimpers through his own orgasm, his own cum splattering across his chest and Derek fills him. It feels like the aftershocks last forever, heat rushing through him, waves and pulses.

Derek is trembling when he pulls out of Izsák, watching Izsák’s hole clench obscenely around emptiness as cum leaks out of him. Neither of them speaks for some time, basking in the completion of it all. Derek feels the world swaying as though he’s riding a metronome, the call of sleep smothering and irresistible. He can’t believe how hard he came. There’s still blood on his mouth and he licks his lips, humming at the taste. He feels someone touch him; Izsák, gentle and reverent. Tracing his muscles. Caressing his chest. He doesn’t cuddle, but when he’s this tired, teetering on the edge of oblivion, he can’t complain.

He wonders if they did this before. If Countess Bathory laid with sweet, loyal Darvulia, cuddled like lovers. Just this once, he thinks, he’ll let Izsák get away with it. For old times’ sake.

—murmurs. Someone calling him. Calling his name. Softly and distantly, then loud. Close. Not Izsák. Not respectful enough.

“Derek. Get up.”

A rustling sound, the scrape of curtains rising. Blinding, burning light assaults Derek’s eyes and he groans, rolling over. God, what time is it? Sleep clings stubbornly to his mind, clouding his thoughts. He’s sore, mostly in his legs and back. Right, it’s coming back to him. He and Izsák fucked last night. Izsák, Darvulia, hundred year old Hungarian witch, whatever. It was some of the best sex of his life. But usually, it’d be Izsák who comes and gets him in the morning, so why is his father here, looming over Derek’s bed and refusing to leave?

“What?” he says, groggy. His father is frowning in that tense, disappointed way that turns Derek’s stomach. He sees it directed at other people mostly, former business partners, overambitious rivals, people who really, really fuck up. Derek’s mouth goes dry. “What?” he says again, struggling to sit up straight. What happened? What did he do? He can’t be mad about Izsák, right, it’s not like they were being subtle. Did he forget something?

Derek looks at the window and fuck, it’s late,he must’ve slept through an event he was supposed to go to or some shit. He rubs his eyes, pushing himself to remember. He thinks, maybe, there was some kind of afternoon social he was supposed to make an appearance at, but the details are foggy. Why is his head pounding like that? It’s like having a hangover. He feels like he slept for decades.

His father paces halfway across the room. Derek follows the movement with his eyes and spots something at the foot of the bed. Is that blood? Dirt? Some kind of ugly stain on the sheets. They really got carried away last night, he thinks, but then he sees an arm.

Just an arm.

Not Izsák’s. He’s not sure why his mind goes there immediately, but it’s not, he knows it isn’t. Izsák doesn’t wear flaking pink nail enamel with glitter. He just knows there’s a severed human arm on his bed and a bunch of stains around it. Definitely dried blood, but there’s dirt, too, like someone dug up a grave, and.

That’s cum. That’s definitely a cum stain. Derek’s eyes slowly trail up to meet his father’s. His father looks down at him and doesn’t say a word. Derek swallows hard and tries to think of something, anything, that he can say. Nothing comes to mind.

“I’ve had concerns,” his father says. Derek can barely hold his gaze. That judgment, that cold scrutiny—he works tirelessly to escape it, to put on the most convincing performance he can. “You don’t know the first thing about discretion. That’s one thing. It’s another that you think I’ll clean up all of your messes for you.”

Derek glances at the arm, sprawled grotesquely over his sheets. “I don’t know what that is,” he says hoarsely. Obviously he knows what it is, but he doesn’t know how it got there.

“I’ve been lenient,” his father goes on, as if Derek never spoke. “Too lenient. I’ve turned a blind eye to most of your deviancy. But this? This crosses the line. I should have listened to Izsák sooner.”

Derek’s blood goes cold in his veins. “What does that mean?” he demands. His father turns his back on him. Derek throws himself out of bed, rushing after him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re cut off,” his father says. He doesn’t even look at him when he speaks. “I want your things out of here by tonight, but don’t go too far. The police want to speak with you. Something about graverobbing and desecration of a corpse.”

Derek stands there numbly, watching his father walk out and the door slam shut behind him. No. He didn’t do it. He didn’t do any of this. He looks back at the arm hatefully. What the fuck is it doing there, ruining his life? Heat rises to his face, shame, humiliation. Maybe he was getting a little arrogant, brazenly packing his bags for his desert outings, leaving things lying around in plain sight, but it was always so easy to explain away. He’s good at his performance. No one suspected anything. If he’s going to get caught, it’s not going to be for some bullshit he didn’t even do. He wipes angry, helpless tears out of his eyes and storms downstairs. Izsák. He needs to find Izsák.

He runs into other housekeepers who pale and dart out of his way. Derek ignores them. He doesn’t care about any of them, his gaze lingering only if they’re the right height, wearing the right uniform. No sign of Izsák in any of the usual places. No one in the kitchen. Not a soul out by the pool. He scares a gardener when he comes storming through but finds nobody else. His father has retreated elsewhere in the house and Derek finds his office abandoned, paperwork strewn across his desk. Derek sees several financial forms and summaries, land deeds, company assets, stocks and bonds. A copy of his father’s will sits in the corner and Derek’s heart stops.

Under the section for inheritors, his name isn’t listed. Neither are any of his siblings or cousins. Not even Clarice shows up anywhere. But one name does appear, getting absolutely everything his father could possibly leave behind.

Izsák Varga.

There is one moment of silence. A lack of comprehension. Derek reads the name several times before it makes sense. Then comes the storm building, the fire and venom churning inside of him, a tight, clenching pain in his chest. Disbelief. Bitter humor. A hatred so powerful it makes him lightheaded and hot in the face. He goes through the stages of grief in the span of a millisecond, mourning something he didn’t realize he even wanted, and a crazed smile stretches across his face.

Calmly and quietly, he goes upstairs and begins going through his things. He shoves his dresser out of the way and pushes aside a false wall panel concealing a large, musty-smelling duffel bag. He unzips it, checks the contents. Grains of sand trickle from an open compartment. Good. Everything he needs. He’s angry. He can’t remember the last time he was this angry, his hands shaking, his whole body seeming to vibrate with the need to stab and strangle. But there’s an excited edge to it, the sort of anticipation that comes with his vacations.

I’m going to fucking kill him, he thinks. I’m going to make him beg for death.

He’s smiling too big, too honestly. He feels giddy and he can’t hide it. A woman dusting in the hall gives him a wide berth when he passes, plastering herself against the wall. He’s a predator passing, a wolf with better things to do and bigger prey in mind. He licks his lips. His mask fails him. He doesn’t even try to pretend anymore.

#rotpeach writes #usurpers #tpof #derek #izsak #i feel like i should apologize in advance lol brace yourself for this one #i'll do my best not to make you guys wait another year for the followup lmfao

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lovelivingmydreams · 4 years ago

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What is a happy ending?

So someone (looks sternly at @rondoel) thought giving me insight in a certain OC of theirs and making me feel things is an okay thing to do. That I won't proceed to write a heartbreaking epilogue to my two part Virgil king story. This one not as long. But still. Enjoy:

What is a happy ending?

"Why happily ever after?" King wondered aloud as He studied their latest piece of art.

No one had ever answered that question for Him. Not in a meaningful way at least. And it never truly stopped bothering Him.

"Your majesty?" Anxiety asked carefully. Probably not sure if he had been meant to hear. King wasn't so sure Himself.

Oh well. He might as well finish the thought. Something interesting might come from it.

"Happily ever after. It's so... boring. Why does everyone like it so much?" He had wondered so often...

Anxiety shrugged. "Princey loved that crap. He hated it when I called out the flaws, though he could be just as bad with plot holes.

It's not realistic at all and... well boring is one word for it." His tone and face could almost be mistaken for dismissive, but King could swear He spotted fondness in the upturn of Anxiety's mouth and a slight wistfulness in the shine of his eyes.

King however was more interested in this more nuanced perspective on the story trope. Answers at last?

Anxiety noticed his king desired for him to elaborate and immediately started fidgeting as he tried to find the words to express his thoughts sufficiently.

"I suppose... everyone thinks that's what they want?" His nerves turn the sentence into a question. "When they are little it's an easy goal. You find the one who'll make you whole, or defeat the villain, or both. And then nothing ever bothers you again.

It's not how life works though... and growing up... I think everyone still has a part of them that wants to hold on to things being that... simple..." Anxiety trailed off and looked up at king curiously. His face strangely focused as if he was looking for an answer himself.

"Simple?" King urged wanting to hear more. Anxiety was so close to making sense. So close to bringing about that wonderful feeling when curiosity was sated. A story complete at last.

"Um... yeah... I mean even I feel a little... I don’t know... it feels right?

When you do the right thing, even when it's hard and you get the stuff you want anyway. And when people who hurt you don’t win. You want the world to work like that. If not for you then at least for the servant girl, who just wanted a night off, or the waitress who just wanted to buy her father's dream restaurant. Hard work, kindness, patience... they should be rewarded right?" Anxiety explained. Sounding frustrated. "And..." he let out a resigned sigh before straightening up and continued more decidedly. "Since the world doesn't work that way... why not escape somewhere where it does?" It was passionate. Perhaps in defense of Roman's favorite thing in the world. Then that fight and righteous defiance fell away in favor of a nostalgic fondness. "Thomas did it all the time growing up," Anxiety sighed before returning his attention to the painting that had prompted the question. A Father's Day movie night.

Hugs and snacks and movies with happily ever afters galore. All of Morality's favorite things.

King had to admit it had... stung to discover that Morality had taken up the role He'd given him even after he betrayed everything that title stood for.

Had he ever felt even the slightest bit conflicted when hearing Roman calling him 'Padre'?

Or was it supposed to be fine, since he thought Roman was the only half of Him who felt attached to him that way?

Had it truly never occurred to him that while he took in the confused Roman, he left behind a disoriented and heartbroken Remus who didn't understand why daddy was ignoring him.

What had he done wrong?

Why did he never get bedtime stories or hugs from dad? Why was he shoved away, scolded, ignored?

Why was he not allowed to play in the imagination with his brother?

The last thought had plagued both halves for years.

Even Roman who had stopped admitting to it to please Morality felt conflicted during story times and hugs to this day.

Telling Thomas that he didn't want anything to do with his brother had hurt more than the bump on his head...

But all of that was in the past. They were gone and their unresolved issues were a waste of His time. He had berated, tormented, Anxiety over this. He would not fall victim to such sentimentalities Himself.

"I see... escapism then?" He muttered, trying to get back on topic and not to show the... somewhat emotional turn His thoughts had taken.

Like His halves, His 'Padre' was gone. He probably never existed in the first place.

And Morality would pay for that betrayal and the way he abandoned Remus and how he made Roman fight to earn his love, only to abandon him as well. His suffering had only just begun.

Not because it still mattered. But... any excuse to justify and fuel His wrath even a little bit more was good enough for Him.

He'd probably avenge slights against his minister simply to feign kinship and watch the traitors squirm under his rule just a bit more. Not that he needed a reason to do anything. But justified rage was so much more satisfying to set loose. Because the targets would feel, deep down, they brought this upon themselves.

"Yeah... there's enough crappy stuff going on in the world right? Thomas... wants to use his talents to make people smile. And while that's cheesy, it's also... well it's him," Anxiety shrugged. King hummed in agreement as He framed the picture and put it away. He'd barely paid attention honestly. The answer was satisfactory. But there was a new question on His mind. As He mused over His minister's attachments to His enemies and how to sever them He recalled something intriguing about his recent behavior.

Anxiety had been pulling away from Morality. Why? What had caused a crack in 'the bestest most dynamicest duoest duo'?

And was this something he could use to forge an allegiance. Or to hurt Morality as deeply as He'd been hurt. Or, ideally, both?

King smirked to Himself as He laid a gentle hand on Anxiety's shoulder. He asked about a drawing of the young side and Thomas. He was pleased to note that His minister no longer shrank away every time He moved in his general direction. He might not be comfortable with His touch yet, but he was getting used to it. Something that would surely get to the others who still tiptoed around Anxiety's boundaries.

Maybe, at some point, he could be made to truly see things His way. To see the traitors for the villains they were. Just the thought of the chaos that this realization would unleash... It would be magnificent.

Morality had forgotten something important about 'happily ever after's.

Bad guys don’t get them. And the victor is always the hero.

It was only right that King reminded him of the shadow side of his favourite ending.

By making him live it.

Virgil knew that it was a bad thing that he found himself enjoying talking about his memories to the king and watching them turn into pretty cool paintings.

He was Anxiety, this was definitely a crisis. He can't relax now, not around the reason of said crisis... but if he doesn't relax a little his thoughts might do something really bad. And if he doesn't do whatever the king wants, then the king might do something bad.

So he had to balance on this weird edge of anxious, but cool with it.

The others were counting on him. To stay safe, to keep it together, to keep King distracted, to find a way to get him to lay off a little...

"Worthless." And... the thing is back.

"Dude, seriously, not now!" He snapped at his... shadow.

King just looked on intrigued. Great. Now the shadow had King's attention.

"Failure," it hissed. Right... King is not his biggest problem right now.

So far the shadow had only been mildly annoying even quiet for the most part. But clearly anxious thoughts made it remember it could be a pain in the behind. And worst thing is it got to Virgil even more because it laid out his true fears for King to see and use against him.

"You... you are just... you're just a thought. You can't hurt me." Virgil insisted.

Thomas could deal with his irrational fits. Surely he could manage this thing, right?

"Monsssster," the shadow hissed. No he didn't think that anymore!

"Guardian!" Virgil bit back. Patton said so, Logan said so, Roman said so, Thomas said so... why cant he just believe them?

He found himself struggling to breath again. The thoughts... they were real now... what if they could hurt him...? Can he die? What would happen to Thomas?

"Begone!" Virgil snapped out of his near attack at the sudden outburst from King.

What...?

He looked up just in time to see a flash of metal and shadow's dissolving figure.

"It'll reform later," King muttered as he sheeted his sword.

"It became too bothersome. You should not let your creations have power over you young one. You are their master, don't forget that," he instructed calmly, not looking at him.

Did he just...?

"Return to your business now, I find that I am in need of a break," he then declared as he walked away, still not looking back.

"But..." he came to a halt. "Should you wish to finish our gallery... I might be willing to indulge your presence later."

Virgil didn't quiet know what to do, so he bowed, just in case the king could see it somehow. "Y-yes my king. Thank you," he stammered hurriedly.

When he looked up, the king was gone.

And Virgil ran. He needed to find Lo and Pat before the shadows returned.

His thoughts were a confused mess... he hadn't imagined that right?

King had really stepped in to save him instead of letting Virgil's punishment, gift, curse, whatever run its course...

And then he left it up to Virgil to decide if and when they'd finish up.

There was probably some messed up reason behind it... but still.

Virgil wasn't stupid though. Even if saving him had been a purely noble impulse, King hadn't undone his 'gift' to make sure it wouldn't happen again. Telling him to put his foot down with 'his own creations' didn't really count.

King still messed up real bad and would have to do something pretty impressive to make up for all of that.

And Virgil was pretty sure that it wasn't just his pessimism talking when he thought that the king was no where close to wanting to make nice with any of them.

Or not for the right reasons anyway.

He shook his head. He can worry about all that later. Right now he has to find the others. Before King runs into one of them.

Virgil's trip down memory lane might've been deemed 'entertaining' or whatever, but he hadn't be around for whatever had happened to make the king be out for blood in the first place.

He didn't want to find out what King's idea of 'having fun' was when it came to Pat, Lo or even Janus. Whatever they did, it was still his duty to protect Thomas. Physically, socially, mentally and emotionally. Whether he wanted him to or not.

And not even King was going to stop him from fulfilling his purpose.

@antiredhuman you wanted to be tagged if I wrote more for this au so here you go! Hope you like it!

#ts sides #sanders sides #king au #honestly i think Thomas is having a burnout #everything is too complicated to think about #and he escapes in a mindset of when things were easy #but he cant not have anxiety #it makes sense

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officialleehadan · 3 years ago

Text

Fall Over Fall Back

Today's story was brought to you by Brandon! Darling, thank you so much for all your support. I love seeing your comments!

Prompt: Stone Kisses

+++

Alivir wasn’t thrilled with the attention Dainea’s escape from the statue was bringing.

Oh, he was delighted she was free, and more delighted to discover that she was just as kind as he always imagined, but well…

When a mysterious, magical, beautiful woman appeared in the middle of a mage school, it got attention. A lot of attention. Mostly from people who were interested in taking up as much of her attention as they could.

Alivir was doing his best not to be jealous. His best wasn’t very good.

“You never spoke of having so many friends,” Dainea said when the latest gaggle of admirers finally packed up and left them alone. She was recovering in the healers’ rooms, but the rooms were open to anyone who cared to visit, and that meant pretty much everyone in the school. Dainea was baffled but pleased. Alivir was not baffled, and most decidedly displeased. “During our talks by the pond.”

“They’re not my friends,” Alivir muttered uncomfortably. He was somewhat reassured by the way Dainea kept her hand firmly wrapped around his during the visits. “They’re not here for me; they’re here for you.”

“Me?” she asked with a curious tilt to her head as her brows furrowed. “But I’m not a mage.”

“You’re a magical mystery,” he explained, only a little bitter about the whole thing. “Which would already be enough, but you’re also beautiful and new. Of course they’re flocking here to meet you.”

“Oh,” she said with some consternation. “That’s silly. They don’t know I’m your lady?”

Her calm statement, as if it were a fact, and not simply a wistful dream, snapped Alivir out of his self-pity spiral. “You’re… I mean, I didn’t want to lay a claim on you. You’re your own person.”

She laughed, distractingly perfect even bundled in a loose healer’s robe with her hair messily braided back.

“You woke me with true love’s kiss,” she chided him, a smile playing about her lips as she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. Two of the healers had taken her to the baths and helped her wash the marble dust from her skin, but she was almost as pale as the stone had been. A lack of sun, she joked wryly of her long captivity. “Why in all the world would I bother with anyone else?”

Alivir didn’t have a good answer for that, so he just smiled and squeezed her hand. She looked at him for another minute, more familiar with his ways than he was with hers. Then again, she had most of a year listening to everything that he bothered to tell her, and he had only a few days to return the favor.

The door opened again, this time without even the fiction of a polite knock, and Alivir sighed. When he saw who had came in, he did his best to school his face into neutrality. It didn’t work very well and Dainea pursed her lips at the new arrival, just the slightest hint of disapproval on her face before she ever got a look at them.

“My lady, I am Tallinvar Wishtain,” He was the finest mage-student in the school. He was tall, handsome, and incredibly talented. He already had offers of employment from half a dozen crowns, promises of wealth from half a dozen warlords, and the power to take any of them he desired. It was said that he had cast his first spell while still in the cradle, and could argue magic theory with half the masters of the school. Alivir hated him. “Word has spread of your appearance in our humble school. I wish to offer my service to any task you might set my unworthy self. When I heard that you were attended only by Alivir, I knew you must have need of… more competent assistance.”

Dainea, her lips still tight, looked him up and down once and lifted her chin in a way that suggested a very fragile grip on her temper. Alivir was surprised to see it. So far, she had displayed little but endless patience. She hadn’t even gotten mad when Alivir spilled tea all down her arm when he was startled by a vision in the water. Now, however, she was annoyed.

“You may do me only one service,” she said primly in a sharp, noble tone. She didn’t remember much of her past, or how she got cursed into being a statue, but there was no question that she had once been of the nobility. Her words, while accented, were crisp and clean, and her manners were exquisite. “Leave immediately.”

“To do what?” Tallinvar asked, surprised enough for his polished facade to slip. He was, Alivir knew, not nobility. In fact, he was born of farmers out on the edge of the grass sea. Not that Tallinvar knew that Alivir knew that, although he should have guessed. There was no such thing as a secret where Alivir’s Sight was concerned. “Shall I retrieve some treasure to please you? Or some magical wonder? How may I grant you your heart’s desire?”

“You may retrieve good manners,” Dainea told him flatly, much to Alivir’s surprised amusement and Tallinvar’s stunned shock. “I should expect that a mage student would know better than to barge into a lady’s room without invitation. You have insulted my rescuer and friend, and proven precisely what sort of assistance you desire to provide. I do not want it. Now, get out, and do not return.”

“But-“

“Did I stutter?”

Her frosty gaze held Tallinvar’s in blatant challenge, noble pride against magical prowess. Tallinvar, totally unprepared for such a challenge, folded like a stack of wet cards.

“No, my lady,” he mumbled between gritted teeth. “Pray, excuse my poor manners.”

“Leave.”

He left in a whirl of flowing blue robes. Alivir managed to keep from laughing until the door closed behind him.

“You’re amazing,” he told Dainea when she looked over at him to see why he was laughing. When he only laughed harder, she cracked a smile for him. “No one ever tells him off.”

“He was very rude,” she said, and started to giggle. “I recognize his name from your stories. Did he really think I would fall all over him?”

“He’s handsome, powerful, talented, and charming. Of course he did. He can have anyone he wants.”

“Not me,” she said with stony certainty. “Now, tell me about what’s happening in the Westfold. I know you’re still having dreams, and now I can actually talk back when you tell me about them.”

+++

Stone Kisses:

He always kissed her, the statue who sat beside his favorite pond. He never thought that she might kiss him back.

Save Me

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bailey-reaper · 3 years ago

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The Lord of the Manor (5)

Summary: It is said that you 'reap what you sow', apparently that saying is no different for Grim Reapers...

Content Warnings: angst, xenophobia reference / imperialist thinking + me taking artistic liberties re: the van Zieks family

Other parts: (1) | (2) | (3) | (4) |

In the distance Barok could hear voices talking, which only served to confuse him. He was inside Klint's burial chamber, no one else should be here. He opened his eyes, head pounding, and found his confusion grew all the more.

This was not his brother's crypt. It was his own room, yet he had no recollection of leaving the family cemetery or the journey home.

He felt warm and dizzy, and that feeling intensified when he tried to sit up, "...Ugh..." it was slowly dawning on him that he was feverish. Most likely due to the reckless trip he took during a fierce storm.

"My Lord, are you awake?" he heard Harvey's voice.

"... Yes," his croaked, as though his vocal chords had rusted, "... What... happened, Harvey?" no doubt the butler could elucidate him.

"The groundskeeper was tending to the cemetery after the storm and found you collapsed on the floor. He came back to the estate and informed me, I then arranged to have you brought home so that the physician could assess you. Thankfully he does not think it's anything serious, most likely fatigue."

".... I see," Barok laid back in the bed and closed his eyes, his vision was already starting to swim, "... Thank you, Harvey."

"It is my pleasure, my lord, I am glad you are safe... the physician thinks you may have a fever but that you should recover after a few days of rest. Please let me know if you need anything."

"I will..." his consciousness was already slipping; soon enough he drifted to sleep.

──────≪⊰✥⊱≫───────

His sleep was fitful; drifting in and out of consciousness for several hours while his body wracked with freezing shivers and unbearable flashes of warmth. He writhed and groaned as the fever took a firmer hold of his faculties.

"Truly you seem to be suffering, little brother..."

Barok opened his eyes and stared in disbelief at the man sitting on his bed -- Klint. He was sat there, looking over at him with face marred by concern, "... K...Klint?" he uttered, before trying to sit up only to think better of it when his head throbbed sharply.

"Mmm," his older brother nodded, "Truth be told you're hallucinating, but I suppose that's to be expected when you neglect yourself in this manner."

A wry smile tugged his lips; it seemed his own mind was set upon chastising him for his earlier impulsiveness, "... Of course... a figment of my imagination."

"Yes... you've pushed yourself too hard of late, no wonder things have gotten on top of you and now you're feverish and hallucinating."

"..." he felt a strong surge of sadness in the pit of his stomach, "My mind couldn't at least trick me into thinking you were a ghost..."

"You're too cynical for that," the mirage pointed out, "No doubt you'd have tried to cross-examine this situation and forced the truth out of yourself."

It was irksome how accurate that statement was, and how he was incapable of formulating a witty reply to it. Eventually he gave up and muttered, "... Perhaps."

"Undoubtedly," the figment said, "Now, I suppose we'd best get to the bottom of why you're having this moment of delirium..."

"Clearly because I'm feverish," he retorted dryly.

"No..." Klint shook his head, "Clearly you need to do some soul searching. You've lost your way, your feelings of hopelessness have driven you to be reckless and now you don't know what to do with yourself. Perhaps you need to take a step back and re-calibrate, little wolf."

"Nonsense..." he muttered as he draped a hand over his eyes; his forehead was burning, "I... I know precisely what I need to do..."

"Oh really? Well I assure you that clinging to the past isn't it."

".... I know that," but how could he resist? This house was full of memories; it was the last place in all the world where Klint's memory was still a tangible thing that he could hold on to. It was all he had left of him.

"Find something to live for, Barok. You have a chance to turn a new page, to step out of your brother's shadow. You don't have to be a prosecutor. You don't have to be a lawyer. You can be whatever you want."

"Whatever I want..." he mumbled to himself as a wave of tiredness washed over him; he relinquished himself to it and drifted into a deep sleep

──────≪⊰✥⊱≫───────

For several days, Barok continued to drift in and out of delirious conversations with a mimicry of his brother. Until his body recovered and he overcame the fever; there was a dull pang in his chest when it dawned on him that he could not longer hallucinate his brother's presence watching over him, but, it was a familiar grief and one he continued to hold in his core.

He decided to take the fever dreams to heart, rather than wallowing, and set about busying himself with numerous distractions; a main one being repairing the old family estate. It had been refurbished sometime during his grandfather's lifetime, but it seemed the work had been rather shoddy.

In between the renovations, he engaged in correspondence with a few individuals in London, including members of the Prosecutor's Office, and dabbled in stocks to maintain the family's wealth. His employment as a Prosecutor was hardly a king's ransom, but it had been an impressive wage and he was conscious to avoid squandering his family's assets while he languished in a malaise.

For a few years that became his routine, and it was a reasonably comfortable one. He enjoyed the Devon countryside atop Black Gale and distracted himself with a mix of physical and cerebral activities. Yet, it felt profoundly empty to him; there was an acute sense of wistfulness at his core and he knew precisely what it related to.

He had geared his entire life for a career as a lawyer, and the part of his mind that had enjoyed the intellectual rigour found his current life far too humdrum. Of course he still read the Legal Reports not long after they were handed down by the Courts, out of a 'healthy curiosity', he told himself, but reading about the law was nothing when compared to actually practising it.

The anecdotes he received from his peers in the Prosecutor's Office did little to slake that innermost wish, in fact they only stoked it more. But he resisted by reminding himself why he left in the first place.

Should he return, the Capital would once more be swept up in its 'Reaper fever'; the press would fixate on his every move, the criminal underbelly of London would sharpen its knifes and perhaps this time manage to get his eyes... Fear had no part of it, for he did not fear death, but it grew wearisome to be so fetishised by the world at large and all it did was remind him all the more that Klint was not here.

Klint was the one who had inspired such a fervent love of the law in him; his righteousness, his acumen, his talent for public speaking... every time he'd watched his brother in court he'd fallen in love with the law a little more, for it embodied the very things his brother stood for. Or, that's what he'd wanted to believe.

The truth had been a bitter pill to swallow – for, while the law had the best of intentions, it was a clunky machine that often failed to work at the moment where individuals and society at large most needed it. Loopholes and the unjust were constantly undermining it. He felt the dichotomy between reality and idealism keenly. He had often equated the Law with Justice, but sadly the two things were not synonymous.

Sometimes he wondered how Klint had coped with that knowledge, for he saw his brother as a bastion of justice and a man of integrity who would no doubt have been just as aware of the law's failings as he. How he longed to ask his brother now that he had the benefit of practical experience.

For several years he maintained his distance from London and the law; many among the aristocracy gossiped, from rumours about his death to wild theories about his having eloped to America to marry into some wealthy entrepreneurial family, but for the most part he ignored them too. The only time he deigned to mingle with the other noble families was when such was demanded of him as master of the house.

One day, however, a letter arrived from London that piqued his interest to the point he could no longer resist it.

Magnus McGilded was becoming an increasingly brazen problem for the capital. He knew the moneylender had something of a reputation, one that caused misery among the desperate and unfortunate who had fallen upon hardtimes; but it sounded as though his activities were causing more angst than ever before, not least of all because he continued to evade the Courts through underhanded means.

Of course, his friend opined, it was not possible to prove that Magnus McGilded was bribing the Jury, buying witnesses and a catalogue of other dubious evasive tactics; but nor could anyone explain why entire cases were dropped at the last minute or why the police had failed to locate key witnesses until they themselves appeared from nowhere with vital information (in McGilded's favour).

It irked him to his core as he read of the various trials that had collapsed, and for the first time in a long while he felt a strong desire to do something. To bring the rodent out of his labyrinth of deceptions and into the light of day. He knew full well it was something that he would be capable of, were he to oversee a future investigation...

His mind raced with thoughts about how to outwit the Irish Shylock at his own game...

Another thing that piqued his interest was a throwaway postscript:

[Ps. We've had word from Lord Stronghart to expect some Nipponese student in a few months time. Apparently there is some cultural exchange afoot and the young man will be studying British law. I can't say I see the necessity, but I suppose our great nation ought to be charitable to those from more impoverished places...]

Seeing that word roused ugly feelings in his core, things that he had managed to keep his distance from for some time; but the anger was never far away. The resentment, like rot, was deep in his soul and it had been left alone but not eradicated.

The near-five years he had spent in the ancestral home was a welcomed reprieve, and served to focus his mind to some degree. He had never lost his passion for the law, and now it seemed there were reasons to pull him back into the foray.

Perhaps it was high time the Reaper returned London...

─────── Fin.

#barok van zieks #klint van zieks #angst #drabble #cw: xenophobia #cw: imperialism

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springtimebat · 4 years ago

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The Autumn Meeting (Part 4/4)

{The Unicorn and The Moon}

This is the story of my parents; of how they lived and died, and how my mother met my father as she danced along with the moon.

It all began a long, long time ago. When the world was just dust. When the woods were rivers. My mother was a child and she was told of unicorns who returned to virtuous girls when the full moon arrived each month. She heard of it from her mother, as they watched the stars in the sky.

“If you wait for long enough at a time like this,” My grandmother explained, and her voice didn’t just come from her throat, but from the earth, the air and the trees, “The creature will find its way to your lap. It’ll raise its head to the stars, just as you young maidens raise your heads to the moon and the sun. Then it’ll settle down and let you pet it. Just like that. No cages required.”

“I will catch the unicorn,” My mother decided, “I will tame them with a silver tongue.”

A week later, my mother set herself in the moss and the grass, her hands hidden in her dress pockets, fingers fastened tightly around a pair of scissors.

Predictably, the unicorn arrived and began its maddening dance. My mother shot up and dropped her scissors in the dirt. This creature, this sublime creature, was the most precious thing she had ever seen. Regrettably, she fell in love.

My mother slipped beside it and twirled its mane in her fingers. It was all smoke and reflected the soft creases of the moon. The creature's eyes were milky and opaque, yet my mother looked at them with admiration. She wished to be hidden too. God she wished that she could hide. She wished she could practice the creature’s dance and shield herself with the magic of the moon’s tide.

They danced along the moss and frogs for hours, my mother and the unicorn. They appeared to fly up into the sky on imaginary stairs. The unicorn let its muzzle fall to my mothers neck. It closed its eyes. My mother closed her eyes. They let each other sink. By dawn, the myth was gone and the young maiden was left alone on tired feet that hummed. Nine months later, I arrived, my eyes silver like the stars that fall. And that’s all she had left. She told me that she had cut the unicorn’s hair that night, but she never showed me the locks, tied with a ribbon in a pocketbook. I think she only wishes she had taken her scissors to the unicorn that night.

And so my mother and father met. And so my mother and father parted.

“The end,” The Queen opens her eyes to the circle and gives a small smile. Emillian picks his jaw off the forest floor. Guy turns his head to his old friend, apparently confused.

“Do you have any notes?”

“You’re not human,” Emillian states, his voice low and scratchy. The Queen shivers and lowers her gaze to the ground.

“I suppose not.” She hesitates for a moment, but continues, “I am but a leaf in the wind, being pulled to and fro by various mysterious figures.”

“Are these forces familiar or unfamiliar?”

“They are both. Simultaneously.”

“How does that work then?”

“It doesn't. I’m a mess.”

“I wonder about you.”

“Why do you wonder?”

“I try to imagine where you would be if you hadn’t grasped power in that once in a lifetime moment.”

“I don’t know and I don’t particularly care. That’s not who I am anymore.”

“How convenient.”

“I could have you beheaded, you know.”

“I know. But you won’t. You’re a coward.”

“I find you interesting. The world’s better with you here. When I consider killing things, those are my terms.”

“What did I miss?” Asks a voice from the shadows. Abram stands by the camp entrance in the oaks, his scales greased.

“Unicorns Abram,” Emil chuckles, “You missed unicorns.”

“Aw I missed the whole story?” He turns to the queen and gives her a bow, “I’m sure it was wonderful, your majesty.”

“Come and sit with us again Abram,” Emil requests, patting a rock beside him, “Come and long with us.”

“I would love to but…there’s something coming.”

“Something’s coming?”

“Yep. It’s this...castle, or town...it’s something okay? It’s a building crawling through the trees. It’s heading this way.”

“It’s the corridors.”

The three storytellers turn to the Queen, who pats down her skirts and rises from her throne.

“It’s coming for you?” Abram asks.

“Yes. My husband’s realised I’m missing.”

“Huh the man himself,” Emil mutters, drawing lines in the grit below him.

“Indeed.”

“He’ll be here soon.”

“Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”

“Not to be rude, your highness, but none of us were worried. How can you be worried about a man you’ve never seen?”

“Very easily,” The Queen winced, “Though, I suppose it's hard for Emillian. He doesn’t have a soul.”

“Of course I own a soul! I am a soul! How do I talk? How do I move? All with the assistance of a soul.”

“Are those rhetorical questions?”

“They’re whatever you want them to be.”

“I see a spark in that empty eye socket of yours. It’s an occasional flash. That’s all that remains of you.”

“Of me?”

“Of your soul”

“That idiot just wanders off and does what he wants.”

“Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t have a soul. Not really. He just likes to complain.”

“You don’t say?”

“Hmph, you’re one to talk about souls,” Emil growls, “I suppose your heir will dance in the light of the moon.”

The Queen frowns, “Our baby will be fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Do people wish for more?”

“From a future king? A future immortal? Yes.”

“You really shouldn’t get involved with other people’s children. It gives you wrinkles-”

“Uh guys its-”

“-I am composed of creases and grooves, plain and simple. Babes make no difference to my complexion.”

“I’ll be happy if the baby’s fine. If they’re simply ordinary.”

“Will the king be pleased?”

“Ecstatic. His son will have something he can never have.”

“A soul?”

“Yes. A soul in the shades.”

“How loathsome.”

“How tragic.”

“Such a waste," Abram sighs, "But fellas, that creepy crawly thing is here.”

The town made on the backs of the devoured came to a stand still, its eyes straining in the shade. After a few moments, it finds its monarch in the dark and gives a tired groan. The Queen sighs and gives a little wave.

Slowly, a door unhinges itself from the city’s brow, curling like the strip of tongue. The king appears in a blur of yellow, grinning down at the storyteller’s guild sitting in the Autumn leaves. He focuses on his bride, who is trying to suppress a similar smirk. Raising a bony hand, The King beckons her to follow him into the city’s gut. His Queen nods and smiles at the rest of the group.

“I really enjoyed talking with you all. Thank you for tolerating me at your meeting.”

Abram grins, Gus waves an arm and a leg and Emil gives a curt nod as their guest returns to their nest. All three men watch as the city of tomorrow engulfs its figureheads and disappears back into the never ending woods.

“Well that was something huh?” Abram gasps.

“Abe?”

“Yep Emillian?”

“Remind me to never invite royalty to our meetings.”

“The air was different there.”

The King and Queen sit inside their screen porch, peering out at the world on its side. The Queen whistles a lullaby long forgotten by time, smiling at her husband’s confusion.

“It would be love. You’re a long way from home now. A long way from the bones and the cold.”

“Not far enough it appears. How far have we travelled?”

“Hmm, if I had to estimate we are about two hundred miles from the mountains.”

“Huh. Is that far?”

“Very, very far for you and I. To some, two hundred miles is a single step.”

“Is “Some” Your friends down there.”

“No. They’re like us.”

“Like the corridors?”

“No. Not like the corridors at all. They have...something in there with all the flesh and the bones and the metal-”

“Souls?” The King’s eyes flash in the dying sun.

“Maybe. I’m not too sure.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yes it was very...beneficial,”

“Did you tell them about your ma?”

“Yes and my father,”

The King gives a wistful sigh and rests his thin face in his palms. The Queen relaxes in her throne, her feet tired from the day’s work. Her husband gives her a small smile.

“I wonder what colour my soul would be.”

“Silver. A flickering silver that disappears every so often.”

“I hate being read.”

“I’m not reading you. I’m simply analysing.”

“Ah! Simple analysis, you old, old fool! What started this conversation again? I’ve forgotten love.”

“We were discussing souls, as we always seem to do.”

“Hmm, silver. Grey even? Grey like feathers.”

“Like your aura.” The Queen giggles.

“Auras? You think we have auras? Auras are distractions,”

“Oh? What do we have then?”

“Phantoms are what we have. The world moved on from enjoyment and left it as just a string of words and moments. Much like what the world did to me. It abandoned me.”

“You are not abandoned. You still have an old, old fool, right by your side.” His wife reaches for his arm and places her hand in his, finger intertwined.

“That’s true. The world left me with phantoms, to contemplate in the dark. It left me in the lonely corners to wait for you. And now that’s all I desire. My old, old fool with a soul made of gold.”

“You know, you really should have gone to the meeting in my place. My friends would have loved you.”

“Maybe so. But it was your quest to complete. And I’m very proud of you. Now you can let the past go and look towards the future.” He lowers his gaze to his wife’s stomach and gives her fingers a squeeze.

“It was helpful. I had fun.”

“I’m glad. The corridors were getting anxious,”

“They’re always anxious,”

“They thought you’d leave me,”

The Queen sighs, “You shouldn’t listen to them all the time. They don’t live and they never have. You wish for a soul and they loathe consciousness,”

“We were lonely. I was lonely.”

“I know. I could hear you. But I came back, didn't I?”

“Yes. Yes you did. But sometimes-”

“Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes... I dream of that unicorn,”

“My unicorn?”

“Yes. I dream of you and me. You’re a unicorn, all smoke and mirrors, and I try to cut your mane. I startle you and you run away from me,”

“That will never happen love. I would never do that to you. Or him,” The Queen pats her stomach fondly.

“The corridors don’t help,” The King sighs.

“Don’t listen to them. Just sit here with me.”

“Things will get better,” The King whispers, and he tries to relax on his chair, tries to appreciate his family’s return.

The screaming walls make it difficult.

#my writing #creative writing #ongoing series #part 4 of 4 #a devil's palm story #fantasy #surreal #storytelling #parallel worlds #monsters #cryptids #cryptidcore #oddcore #weirdcore #american gothic #southern gothic #last part of a series #sorry this took a really long time #rough draft

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mae-gi-writes · 4 years ago

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Kiss Me Slowly - Kim Taehyung (Short Imagine)

Inspired by the song “Kiss Me Slowly” by Parachute.

Words: around 2K

Genre: FLUUUUUFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

--------

"I had a lot of fun tonight."

My eyes flicker upwards to Taehyung's face. He's beautiful, ephemerally so and it always amazes me how I hadn't noticed until only recently.

Quickly averting my eyes so that he won't catch me staring, my hands fist around my pouch and I tug at it in a bout of nervousness. The air still lingers with the aftertaste of sweetness from our date; which had been a simple casual dinner picnic by the Han River. We had watched the sunset go down, gazed up as the sky degraded form a pale baby blue to a vibrant scarlet that bathed everything in a golden light, as though I was watching the scene unfold like a romantic fairytale that I'd usually find in little children's books.

I gazed at Taehyung's beautifully sharp side profile, traced his features with my eyes and skimmed over his long lashes casting shadows upon his skin that glowed with a pink tinted hue, his lips that were the colour of peach that seemed to have peaked in its maturity, his chiselled jaw and strong nose and his beautifully framed, dark brown orbs that sparkled with such depth it made me giddy every time our eyes met.

And then when he'd turned to catch me staring, he'd only grinned boyishly when I jolted and quickly averted my eyes in growing humiliation at having been caught red-handed, cheeks ablaze with fire.

"Are you blushing?" he'd asked with a chuckle so deep it rumbled through his chest.

"No," I stuttered out, not wanting to divulge how magically effective his presence was on my sanity.

Our conversations had been more than comfortable, so comfortable that it was easy to forget, at times, that this was even a date. We talked out life, about our friends and about growing up. He recounted stories of his childhood with his grandmother, running through the fields as a young boy and planting rice because they had been too poor to afford anything else. And I listened, listened to his beautifully rich alto that was filled with such love and affection for his only living family member that it made something tug inside my heartstrings.

"Are you happy here?" he asked as we sat a little closer, his jacket draped around our shoulders. I had taken this as an excuse of course, to snuggle up close to his heat.

I allowed my eyes to linger over the multitude of stars dotting the sky, before murmuring, "I wouldn't say I'm happy. I guess I'm content with my life here."

"Do you miss home?" he'd asked gently, while one of his hands reached up to flick a hair away from my face. It lingered there for a little too long to be coincidental, causing another troop of well-trained butterflies to flutter across my chest.

"I do," I let out a wistful sigh, "but god knows when I'll be able to go back."

"How about this summer?"

"The plane ticket's too expensive and I really don't want to make my parents pay. I'd like to try and pay for the ticket myself, at least."

He hummed in response and his shoulder nudged mine, as though trying to give me some semblance of comfort. It worked. With Taehyung, I felt like everything was easy, as though all my troubles seemed to fade away into background noise.

"Are you happy?" I'd asked him when we were gathering up our belongings and trodding over to our bicycles.

He looked at me, surprise flashing through his face for an instant. He lifted his shoulder into a one-armed shrug, "I would say that I am. I don't have a reason not to be."

"I guess that's true," I said quietly.

"That doesn't mean I don't get sad. I do," he leaned against his bicycle while watching me unhook mine from its support, "but I always think, 'what if I didn't have all this? What if all this was taken away?' When I think about these things, I can't help but feel grateful. You know what I mean?"

"I get that," I swung a leg over my bike, testing my balance, "I think about that a lot too. Sometimes, I think it's selfish of me to be sad about anything when there are a lot of people that are in a worse position than I am. It's not fair and I shouldn't be complaining." "That's normal though," his eyes were gentle maroon pools of brown, like wet mother earth on a warm summer's day and softening with understanding, "you're not responsible either, for all the things that happen to people. Shit happens."

"And then we die."

"And then we die," he chuckled and swung onto his bike, "jesus, that's dark."

"You think that's dark? Wait till we get to talk until three in the morning."

"Wow, that's poetic. Really, totally unlike every cliché trope out there on Tumblr." "It's a trope for a reason," I said as I stuck my tongue out at him.

He accompanied me back home and insisted on accompanying me up to my floor, even when I flat out told him that it was unnecessary and completely useless of his part. He'd only thrown me a look that clearly stated this wasn't a subject of discussion, and it wasn't until we reached halfway up the staircase that I felt the back of his hand brush mine. Thinking it was accidental, I made a move to pull away, only for him to grab onto and interlock our fingers.

I thought my heart would've given out at this point. My cheeks were burning as red as a fire extinguisher and I adamantly avoided his gaze at all costs, knowing that what I'd find would be his teasing smile and the glint of smugness across his lips.

So here we are, standing before my door with the moonlight casting shadows over Taehyung's features and highlighting his the height of his nose, the beautiful clarity of his skin reflecting moonlight as though he'd been carved out as intricately as greek statues, and his dark eyes, pools of inky darkness that are presently holding my gaze with such an intensity, smouldering and causing my breath to stutter inside my throat.

He's all too much. He's perfection, and I don't understand what he finds in me to be his equal.

"Can we," he hesitates for a few beats of silence. He licks his lips, eyes flitting back and forth, "can we do this? Again?"

My lips threaten into a smile as I take in his words. Oh god, he's adorable. My heart is practically tumbling all over my ribcage at this point.

"Yes," I say a little too breathlessly for my liking, "I--I'd like that."

He flashes a crooked, rectangular smile and my knees feel like they're about to give out from underneath me.

We shuffle for a few awkward moments of silence, and while I don't want the evening to end, the desire to make my exit as quickly and efficiently as possible is more important. I really don't want to make a fool of myself, especially not on a first date.

In my experience, there are very few guys that I've kissed on first dates. It's usually just a friendly peck on the cheek, nothing more.

"Well," I try to keep my voice light when I turn around, hand already finding its way to my keypad. I push it upwards with a soft click, "text me when you get home, will you?"

"Wait," Taehyung's hand suddenly encloses around my wrist and before I know it, I'm swivelled around and pressed against my front door, his chest mere millimetres from mine and his face dipping down so that our eyes clash. They're darker now, swimming with an intensity that causes something to coil inside my stomach. It's an unsettling feeling, albeit not unpleasant. I can feel the warmth rolling off him in waves, can smell the mint and pinewood scent of his natural odour, the tingles shooting down my spine at how close he is.

It's almost like the world has stumbled to a stop, a movie placed on pause. Our eyes are locked on each other, unmoving. Unflinching.

Our breaths mingle together. I see his lips part softly, and I my throat suddenly turns dry.

I feel his hand, ghosting over my middle before wrapping around my waist. Electricity skittles up my spine as I breathe him in, barely moving for fear that doing so will cause this dream to shatter.

"Tae--" his name dies on my lips when I feel his nose nudging mine softly, gazing at me through heavy-lidded eyes and in a way that causes my insides to curl up in anticipation. I haven't realized that my hands have settled across his chest and are now fisting over his shirt.

The tension is so thick that one can cut it with a knife. A few more moments pass, him watching me, I watching him. He shifts closer, body heat against mine, just barely. Enough for me to produce a silent gasp.

When he speaks next, his voice is rough, laced with desire that makes my toes curl:

"Can I kiss you?"

I don't even have time to nod before he's already dipping down and claiming my lips.

It's a soft pressure of mouth to mouth, it's gentle and hesitant, just like Taehyung. My mind takes a moment to take in the sensation of his lips working against mine, but when I do realize it, my lips move on their own accord and I slowly kiss back, unsure whether he's going to judge my lack of kissing experience. But if he does, he doesn't complain. Instead, his hand reaches up to cup my cheek and brushes over my skin with his thumb, and a warm fire bursts through my chest.

I gasp upon feeling his hard frame press mine against the door, fitting snuggly in-between my curves. He swallows up any sound I make and as the pressure of his kisses intensifies, so does the small fire that seems to be bursting with fireworks behind my eyelids. I feel like I've been submerged in water, drowning in Taehyung's lips and his sweetness that I can't help but crave for. Hands automatically traveling up his broad shoulders and wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, a soft rumble that sounds like a growl echoes through his chest before his lips part and nibble onto mine in a way that causes a moan to stifle at the back of my throat.

I can feel him smiling in victory, even through our kiss, but while I just want to pay him back for being so cocky, I feel his hand skim under the material of my shirt and I gasp softly at the warm trailing heat of desire he leaves in his wake. My hands skim up to grasp his locks and I don't hesitate to pull him down, angle my head more firmly to kiss him deeper, longer, tongue poking out to flick across his mouth. He lets out a slow moan, grip tightening onto my waist as he does so, and it's my turn to smile.

Dim sounds echo at the back of my subconscious as we keep kissing into the night, the moonlight bathing us in its dewy glow and the sound of ongoing traffic blaring underneath, the softest echoes that aren't loud enough to be a distraction.

It feels all too real. it feels magical, and I don't want it to end.

Unfortunately it does. All too soon, the said young man pulls back, flashing a mischievous smile when a breathless whine leaves me at the sudden rush of air between us. Heat explodes through my cheeks in embarrassment. Of course he knows that he's a walking greek god and could have any woman he wanted. But that doesn't mean I want him to know how badly I want him, how badly it physically hurts to pull myself away from devil's temptation standing just two feet away from me.

"Lua."

My eyes flutter upwards to meet his dark mahogany. They are swirling with a tenderness, a soft affection glimmering with specks of silver in the light of the moon. I watch his lips tilt up into the barest hint of a fond smile.

His hand clasps around mine and he entangles our fingers together. Bringing them up to his lips, he kisses my knuckles softly while his eyes never stray from mine, "let's do this again?"

"The date, or the kiss?"

"Haha," he rolls his eyes, "funny, very funny."

I can't help but grin back as I feel my heart squeeze in happiness, "I would love to do this again," I squeeze his hand to further emphasize my point and his grin only widens into that rectangular-boxed smile I'm so used to seeing.

I can get used to this.

----

IDK WHAT I WROTE. BUT I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.

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tessiete · 4 years ago

Text

Korkie Time

What’s that? Another Korkie prompt fill? Yes. This was based on a discussion about what happened to Korkie in The Lawless, and what if he saw Satine die. So uh, TW: character death, and the beginnings of gaslighting (he’s found by Gar Saxon)

THIS IS THE WAY

Korkie Kryze is running.

Not in the halls, not in the halls, he hears the voice of his aunt (his mother, now. She had confessed it) calling out to him. But he runs anyway.

Some decorum, Master Kryze, says the Almec in his head. You are a kih’alor now. Still he runs.

Some respect, says Pre Viszla, his voice thick with disgust. Some respect for the history of your people, boy.

Some peace, little Kryze, says Gar Saxon, and Korkie feels his blood pour hot over his brow, and sees it stain the joints of Saxon’s gauntlet. Surrender. Ibic cuyir te ara.

His lungs heave, and he runs as fast as he can.

He runs as though the huin’dush of Concordia were at his heels, but he knows they are what await him as he races to his doom, and dreams of the hallways of his childhood.

The floors of Sundari were always polished to a perfect shine, so smooth and sleek that looking over them was like looking over an ocean of dead calm. He could see his face in the reflection of the tiles, and if he squinted and tilted his head, the stone would turn to glass and he could almost believe that there were fathoms of water beneath his feet. Beneath the dome of the city, the earth and the sky were made of the same thing.

He used to take off his shoes, and stand in his stockings, slipping and sliding over the floors like an ice dancer on Krownest. With no one watching, he’d start to run, building momentum before locking his legs and gliding, his arms out for balance, his heart pounding, and holding back his laughter ever conscious of drawing the attention of the guards who dogged his every step.

Once, when he was very young, his Aunt (his mother, his mother, his mother), had persuaded him from the nursery with the promise of a special treat, and he had gone eagerly, affections as quickly gained and lost as any child with the memory of only kindness. She had brought him here, to these halls, broken her own rules, and shown him how to skate. He remembers the way her dress tickled his skin, the fabric soft, and feather light, crumpled in his fist as he held on to her for dear life. He remembers her hair falling across her face, her smile, her eyes, turning back, reaching back for him. He remembers the way she smelled, as she held him close, so he wouldn’t fall - like sunlight, and flowers, and salt. He remembers the way she looked at him then, when their play time was done, the way she’d swept his hair back from his forehead, damp with sweet, childish sweat. Her wild grin of delight had turned soft, and marvelous as though she stood in the presence of something impossibly divine. She took his hand, and kissed his brow, and said, “Te goyust cuyir munit, ner Kiorkicek, a ibic cuyir te ara.”

And he’d nodded and said, “Ibic cuyir te ara.”

He doesn’t remember what happened next. He doesn’t remember if she laughed, or cried, if he got pudding, or if they went to the park, but he remembers that the sun shone through the dome, and past the buildings, and poured through the windows behind her -

The windows, which lie smashed, and shattered now, crunching beneath the beat of his feet, slipping like sand, and slowing him down.

Down the hall, and past the windows, he comes to the investiture chamber, and darts by.

He’d stood there once, under the glare of Prime Minister Almec, and taken the most vicious tongue lashing of his life. He’d only just completed his first semester at the Academy, and his marks, his performance, his behaviour had not been up to the exacting standards of his Aunt’s minister.

“You are a princeling, now,” he’d said. “There are expectations of you. You are a public figure. You are an example. The people look to you for guidance, and what do you give them? A spoiled brat.”

The floor had shimmered beneath his feet, the gloss wavering in the dim light of the room.

“You have been capricious, and selfish, and demonstrated the very worst of what a dynastic leader can be. You have proved the naysayers right. You have fuelled the fears of the centrists, and have shaken the faithful. You have disappointed your people, and what’s more, you have disappointed your Aunt.”

He bowed his head, and blinked, and the floor blurred and shimmered again. Almec’s tone softened.

“You may think I am being unfair, Kiorkicek, or overreacting. But you are the hope of our people, just as your Aunt is our foundation. It is a heavy burden, but it must be borne. Ibic cuyir te ara.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” he’d agreed. “Ibic cuyir te ara.”

He thinks of Almec now, again, and wonders if he’s still alive, and wonders if he deserves to be, and wonders if he understands how thoroughly and completely he has let down their people. How hopeless they are. How lost.

But the investiture chamber is behind him, and he knows his way from here. The twists and turns of the palace are so familiar as to be instinct. He does not think. He follows his feet, and the pulse of his heart, and the breath of his lungs, and lets them pull him faster, and faster to where he needs to be.

He remembers when the night burned, and he woke knowing he was alone, and his mother needed him. He remembers racing through these rooms like wildfire, desperate to find her, and only finding her absence. But Bo-Katan had found him. He had no real memories of her, only vague images that may or may not be imagined. His mother had spoken of her. Not often, but enough that Korkie knew of her, and knew she was gone, and that it pained Satine, still. He kept those wistful looks, and distant smiles, and from them conjured the image of the woman who’d come to him, and offered him an escape.

But he had refused. Instead, he’d gone to Viszla alone, and unarmed.

He’d humbled himself. He’d tried to bargain for the release of Satine. He’d appealed to a gentler nature, a kinder grace. He’d tried to negotiate a peace. Pre Viszla had hated him for it.

“Get up off your knees, boy,” Pre spat. “And don’t grovel. Have some respect for the history of your people. Never beg. Ibic cuyir te ara.”

And so, he fought.

“Ibic cuyir te ara,” he vowed.

He’d returned to Bo-Katan, and even though he hadn’t trusted her then, and he doesn’t trust her now, he’d done as she said, and he’d followed her, and they had freed his mother, and he’d lead her through the city, and had her back, and -

He’s still running to her, even now. He’s always running, and he knows he’s nearly there.

The air around him tightens in his lungs, something electric spinning in the wake of his passage, as though the whole atmosphere stands upon the precipice of ignition, waiting for a spark. Waiting for him. She’s waiting for him.

And at last, he finds her.

Through the grand windows of stained claricrystalline, and by the light of distant ships, he sees her. She kneels beside her throne, and a monster sits upon it. Before them, a man painted for the love of a parent, is bowed in supplication.

Korkie reaches out. She is so close.

And then, as though by magic, as though by the force of his own desire, she is swept through the air towards him, like a leaf spun out upon a breeze.

And then, she stops.

And then, she falls.

And then, she dies.

A cold wind courses through him, and strips away his flesh, and muscles, and bones, until all that is left is the marrow, bitter and heavy. He cannot move, for he has no legs. He cannot hear, for he has no ears. He cannot breathe, for he has no lungs. He cannot see. The foundation of Mandalore trembles beneath his feet, and he sways. Everything is dark. This is the end.

His mother.

And then…

He wakes in the arms of someone wearing beskar’gam. It is red, like blood, but it cannot be his because he feels so light, so insubstantial. There is no blood left within him, and so he cannot be bleeding. His mother...she died in the arms of a man in red beskar. Perhaps, he is dying with her.

There is a voice, whispering in his ear, stroking his face, and holding him close.

“Sh, sh,” it says. “There, there. Don’t cry. Don’t worry. You are safe now. I have you.”

“No,” cries Korkie, his voice like broken sticks. “My mother, my mother -”

He rails against the arms which bind him, and the voice which he knows but cannot place.

“Surrender,” it says. “Udesii, udesii. Gaanader naak. Your mother is dead. Your aunt is a traitor, and the Jedi has left without you. But I am here, little Kryze. I am here, and I will protect you. As long as you do exactly as I say.”

And in the arms of Gar Saxon, he stills. His race is run, and Korkie, at last, gives in.

His lips move, but no sound comes out. “Ibic cuyir te ara,” he agrees.

#my fic #gffa #korkie kryze #star wars #fic

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shewhobefuddles · 4 years ago

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Jordelia Playlist

Okay, here's the playlist of Jordelia songs (and their explanations) I've compiled over quarantine through sheer boredom, and starvation of more TSC content. Feel free to skip the explanations, I just have too much time on my hands and wanted to get my thoughts out. I put a shortlist below to skip the writing.

Add songs in the comments!!!

Shortlist

Heather- Conan Gray

All I Ask- Adele

Wildest Dreams- Taylor Swift

Stone Cold- Demi Lovato

Like We Never Loved At All- Faith Hill, Tim McGraw

Make You Feel My Love- Adele

Apologize- One Republic

The Last Time- Taylor Swift

Moral of the Story (slowed) - Ashe

Burning- Sam Smith

Without a Word- Birdy

Kiss Me- Ed Sheeran

Salvation- Gabrielle Aplin

Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007: I. Prelude- Bach

Heather- Conan Gray

We all saw this one coming, but it really is a good song that I think goes well with Cordelia’s situation. “But I watch your eyes as she walks by; what a sight for sore eyes.” The song quite beautifully describes a classic case of unrequited love, and how it feels to watch the person you care about be obsessed with someone else. Cordelia spends the book watching James follow Grace around, and pushing aside her romantic feelings for him, as she believes that he does not return them. Even after they’re engaged, she accepts that he will never love her, and his feelings for Grace will remain. Of course, we all know there are magical, manipulative forces at play here, but James and Cordelia don’t yet.

All I Ask- Adele

“So don’t get me wrong I know, there is no tomorrow, all I ask is if this is my last night with you, hold me like I’m more than just a friend.” This song is absolutely beautiful, and if you listen to nothing else on this playlist, listen to this. An underrated Adele masterpiece. Anyways, it again relates to unreciprocated love, and the desire to have one last good memory with the person you love before you have to leave. This makes me think of the desperation of time running out in James and Cordelia’s fake engagement, and Cordelia trying to savor each moment, even though she thinks James isn’t doing the same. It makes me picture her trying to memorize how it feels to be held in his arms as his fiancee/wife, with their inevitable divorce looming over her. I don’t know if they will actually divorce, or even end up getting married. Who knows how their fake engagement will play out. But still, she’d be anticipating divorce, and feeling these things all the same.

Wildest Dreams- Taylor Swift (listen to the slowed version for even more feels; idk why but slowed versions always have more tension)

“Say you’ll remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe. Red lips and rosy cheeks; say you’ll see me again even if it’s just in your wildest dreams.” To me, these are the silent pleas of Cordelia as she prepares to leave James, hoping that he’ll still think of her, remember her fondly, even if it’s just in his wildest dreams. It’s also James. James will eventually wake up from his enchantment, and when he does I’m sure he’ll be filled with regret over what he could’ve had with Cordelia, remembering only once the enchantment is off how beautiful she was, how much of a wonderful person she was that he connected with so strongly. This song adds a layer of wistfulness and time gone by between the couple’s memories, and where the couple is now, recollecting them, which hopefully won’t happen in the books. I hope that years don’t go by between Cordelia and James seeing each other, after everything with their engagement. But it’s an interesting thought.

Stone Cold- Demi Lovato (her live/acoustic versions are also worth a listen!)

“I’m happy for you, know that I am, even if I can’t understand. I’ll take the pain, give me the truth. Me and my heart, we’ll make it through. If happy is her, I’m happy for you.” Tears. Tears. Cordelia is so kind, mature, and understanding, and she has never once blamed James for his feelings for Grace, or wished Grace any ill will. She just wants to see James happy, even if it’s not with her. She will continue to love him, and bravely, quietly endure the pain of watching him with someone else, because she cares for him so deeply that just having him close to her, in her life is enough (for now). I sense trouble and discontent, and think that the pain will eat away at her over time, but she really does want the best for James, and wishes him and Grace well.

Like We Never Loved At All- Faith Hill, Tim McGraw (yes it’s country, but hear me out it’s a good song, and I don’t even usually like country music!)

“How can you just walk on by, without one tear in your eye? Don’t you have the slightest feelings left for me?” This one reminds me of how James and Cordelia had about a week or so where he wasn’t under an enchantment; they had a passionate moment in the Whispering Room, James was all enamored and calling her Daisy, and they talked about reading together. And then, the return of the bracelet, and James’ feelings for Cordelia seemingly disappeared. I understand that Cordelia had already had reason to believe James liked Grace, as she’d seen them together before the enchantment was off, and she was probably never that secure in James’ feelings for her, as he only partially professed them very briefly before going back to being in love with Grace, but I have to believe there was a moment where she was very confused. Like, “James and I passionately made out in the Whispering Room, and then he told me he’d never wanted anything more than to kiss me, and now he’s back with Grace? Huh?” So, this song reflects that: having something with someone, only for them to act as if it never happened at all, leaving you with the memories and pain.

Make You Feel My Love- Adele

“Nothing that I wouldn’t do; go to the ends of the earth for you. To make you feel my love.” A song of deep love and devotion. I imagine Cordelia’s selfless love for James, that burns brightly despite his lack of returned affection, or James’ eventual realization of his love for Cordelia. Him being devastated that he has hurt her, that she doesn’t believe he loves her, that he was never able to recognize his feelings before. I see it as James professing how he feels to Cordelia, baring his soul to her and showing her his devotion, trying to erase her pain and earn her trust.

Apologize- OneRepublic (again, I kinda like the slowed version; you can so clear hear the violin, piano, and tension)

“You tell me that you need me then you go and cut me down, but wait. You tell me that you’re sorry, didn’t think I’d turn around. And say, that it’s too late to apologize.” How I picture some Chain of Iron angst, as a result of the confusion and miscommunication that will be going on with James and Cordelia, due to the enchantment. James will give her mixed signals as his true feelings battle with the feelings brought on by the enchantment, and there will be chaos and pain. James will have a lot to explain to Cordelia at some point, and we’ll see how receptive she is to what he has to say. Cordelia is forgiving and understanding, but she will not tolerate being toyed with, disrespected, or neglected by anyone, not even James, and the bracelet may make it seem like James is mistreating her. No matter which way the story goes, drama will ensue, feelings will be hurt, and amends will have to be made.

The Last Time- Taylor Swift, Gary Lightbody

“This is the last time I’m asking you this, to put my name at the top of your list. This is the last time I’m asking you why. You broke my heart in the blink of an eye.” This song is similar to All I Ask in that it describes the last, bittersweet moment of a relationship, and the desire to preserve that moment to keep with you after the end, and give you a reprieve from the pain. Again, it makes me think of Cordelia trying to savor the moments she gets with James before they have to split.

Moral of the Story- Ashe (SLOWED!!)

I don’t know if it’s just me but I can’t stand the normal version of the song, it sounds a little too poppy. Go listen to the slowed and reverb one on YouTube, it’s so much prettier and more haunting. Anyways, some little quotes that remind me of James’s situation are: “So I never really knew you. God, I really tried to. Blindsided, addicted.” and “You can think that you’re in love, when you’re really just in pain.” To me, in the context of TLH, this song is about James’s deep regret at being caught up in delusions about Grace for years, and ruining things with Cordelia, the love of his life. Also, reflecting on how he’s been held back from truly being himself and experiencing emotions for much of his life, which is devastating. The piano alone at the beginning sounds like melancholy and regret, James pondering the things that have happened to him and the decisions he’s made, and the pain that all of this has caused him, as well as everyone else (I’m guessing Grace will use him to do some scary, dangerous sh*t).

Burning- Sam Smith

“I’ve been burning, yes I’ve been burning. Such a burden, this flame on my chest.” This song instantly reminded me of them, because of the chapter Burn in ChOG, where Cordelia says something like, “For a year I will be close to him, and know what it means to burn.” The actual verses and lyrics of this song don’t apply perfectly to James and Cordelia, but it’s a song about the pain love can bring, how it can burn, so I thought the essence of it fit them.

Without a Word- Birdy

“Stand there and look into my eyes, and tell me that all we had were lies. Show me that you don’t care. And I’ll stay here, if you prefer. Yes, I’ll leave you. Without a word.” Again, I feel this relates to the concept of “Am I imagining everything that happened between us?” that was present with Cordelia after the bracelet was put back on James, only, Cordelia never confronted James. She just assumed she had been reading things wrong, making things up in her mind, and so she accepted it when James went back to Grace. But this song explores the confrontation of two people whose relationship/romance has ended, in which one person is demanding that the other be honest about what happened with them, what their true feelings are. While Cordelia accepted James’ return to Grace fairly easily, this song makes me imagine James confronting Cordelia, once the enchantment has been broken. I can imagine that Cordelia might not be forthright about her feelings for him, after everything she’s been through, but James will only just be realizing his deep love and affection for her, and will likely be wanting to know if she felt what he felt during their moments together that he’d forgotten, like the Whispering Room, or when she read to him. James will want to know how Cordelia feels, and this song is how I picture him wondering about it, and possibly approaching her.

Kiss Me- Ed Sheeran

“So kiss me like you want to be loved.” This one is just a soft, romantic love song. I’m all for the angst and drama, but I do hope that James and Cordelia eventually get time where their feelings have been requited, they are secure in their love, and they can just enjoy being together. This song makes me imagine them slow dancing in a dimly lit room by a dying fire. Sigh.

Salvation- Gabrielle Aplin

“Just a trick of light, to bring me back around again. Those wild eyes, a psychedelic silhouette.” I like all the different metaphors and details this song uses to describe the way that someone you love lives in your head. It reminds me of all the times Cordelia is distracted by James, or is thinking about little details of his, like his eyes or dimples. Her love for him has refused to go away, even through the difficult situations they’ve been put in, and thoughts of him are always floating around somewhere in her mind. James will likely be the same, once the enchantment is broken.

Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007: I. Prelude- Bach

This is a piece of classical music with no lyrics or tangible relation to James and Cordelia, but it gives me moody, dramatic ballroom vibes, and I imagine it playing in the background of a scene in TLH.

#jordelia #james herondale #cordelia carstairs #Chain of gold #Chog #the last hours #tlh #the shadowhunter chronicles #tsc #James x Cordelia #playlist #my musings #i can do this but not homework

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blissicle · 4 years ago

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The Raven

————————————

Roman centred, brief appearance/mentions of Remus

Tw: none? (Let me know if there is one that I’m not aware about)

Word count: 1,250

Author’s Note: Hey! So it’s been a bit since I lasted posted anything writing-wise and I just wanna quickly apologise for that. DnDy is paused for now, and most likely will be paused for a good while. I just didn’t feel happy with how it was going, and honestly I’d rather give myself more time to experiment and grow in my writing before jumping headfirst into a multi-chapter story. So I’ll most likely be posting more writings like this, just little drabbles. And I might expand on some, who knows.

But anyways, I hope you like this! Let me know if you guys want more like this! ((Also sorry for the awkward ending, I didn’t know how exactly to end it))

—————————————

Roman laid there face-up, staring at the ceiling. The dim streetlights of the suburban street phased through Roman’s blinds next to his bed, casting long stripes against the wall beside his bed.

The room was coloured in deep blues and blacks, shadows being drawn in its corners, a drastic difference to the warm golds and reds of his room during the day.

The darkness flowed and eased into his room, and while it had been easy for his eyes to adjust to, it still made his vision bleak and dense.

The shrouded shadows gave an unnatural dreariness to his surroundings, a reflection of the dread held in the deepest quarters of his mind.

There was no nightlight to take any warm comfort in, no one having the TV on downstairs, not even the usual loud obnoxious snoring of his twin brother that could be heard through the wall their rooms shared.

Roman was never too keen on the idea of being in the dark, he liked to think of it as more of a hatred for it rather than having a fear of it. But either way, Roman always found... discomfort in it... to say the least.

What he did have was some glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across his ceiling. But most have faded through the years, the little admission of light being only visible if you squint hard enough.

So for now roman was left alone, in consuming everlasting darkness, and him only.

His alarm clock blared a soft red, reading 12:57 am.

Roman sighed, his future self would have to deal with the lack of beauty sleep later.

He flopped back to his bed and positioned himself on his back once more, staring at the ceiling dazedly.

What was he even doing?

Roman should be asleep, most likely enjoying a lovely dream about some kingdom he needed to save, or exploring wondrous caverns and landscapes.

To have a well, full-rested night to be energised when morning came.

But... he couldn’t.

Something in his mind was refusing to settle, persistent in fighting his own need to get sleep. And no it wasn’t the discomfort of being in darkness, this was different, it felt like it was calling Roman, like a sense of yearn in his gut.

Something was trying to tell Roman a message, or even a realisation, maybe an idea that he was just nearly there in figuring out.

Or maybe, he was just delirious, and this all was just his imagination deciding it would be fun to play tricks on him late on a school night.

But Roman couldn’t explain it, nor the odd desire to uncover this internal mystery, all he knew is that he felt it in his heart to search for it.

He knew that it must be important. There had to be something he was missing here...

So what is it then?

Roman closed his eyes, trying to find anything that could help, whatever his heart was telling him. He begged for an answer, some sort of sign, a reason, anything.

Nothing.

Roman sighed again, he should really just get to bed already. But his eyes remain wide open, tracing out the shadows of stars on the bedroom ceiling.

Suddenly, Roman noticed the stripes of the streetlight disappearing out of the corner of his eye, the light no longer peaking through his bedside window.

Huh...

Roman sat up and turned to his window, pulling the blinds slightly away to get a better look, as he peered through.

The pearl white snow glistened faintly under the moonlight, houses and lawns blanketed with plush white everywhere under the inky blackness of the clear night sky, not a single bit uncovered.

Roman would have took a moment to appreciate it if it weren’t for the raven resting on the small accident of the lamppost, blocking the light from reaching Roman’s window.

Ravens were uncommon in this sort of area, right? And weren’t birds supposed to normally be awake during the day?? Maybe he would ask Logan later...

He stared at it in curiosity, with its beautiful dark coal feathers shining directly under the street lamp, the edges ending in wistful tips.

Either way, it still didn’t take away from the fact that the raven was most certainly something unique.

Roman found himself wondering if perhaps the raven could be what his mind was searching for.

But it couldn’t possibly be though, as seeing the raven did nothing to satisfy Roman’s questions, honestly it could have been easily just a coincidence. Roman was just lucky to accidentally stumble upon witnessing one.

But... was it though?

Could the raven be the sign he was look for?

Roman sighed, as he let go of the blinds and turned back, settling himself down comfortably in bed again.

Luckily though, after a while the need for sleep seemed to finally outweigh any racing questions left over in his mind, and found himself yawning quietly as Roman closed his eyes.

His last grasping thoughts drifting towards the image of shining gorgeous black feathers, floating gracefully through the wind and snow.

...

Roman stood to find himself in a forest, snow delicately falling around him, but he didn’t feel cold in his sweatpants and T-shirt

There was also those feathers again, strikingly bold over the white sheeted ground, soaring past roman in gentle waves.

He could see a figure of a person far off in the distance being revealed as the source black feathers. Roman felt himself run towards them eagerly.

He felt the distance between him and the figure closing in, and he could just make out the face and appearance of them...

Roman shot up from his bed, with much brighter surroundings now.

He turned and leaned over to his nightstand, slamming his blaring alarm clock as he groaned. It was 5:30am.

How was it morning already?

The realisation of Roman now having to deal with the criminal lack of beauty sleep created a sense of dread to get up and face the day.

maybe he can just stay like this for the rest of the day, to comfortably exist under the mountain of comforters and soft silk pillows and sheets.

Yeah... that sounds nice...

He felt himself immediately drift off to his dream from earlier as he nuzzled into a pillow. The image of some dark feathers of a crow- no, raven- flying... Roman was wanting to run to something...

What was it again?

“WAKE UP SLEEPING NUDY!” Remus yelled, bursting his bedroom door open, causing for Roman to jolt up awkwardly in fright. He slid off the bed, falling on the floor on his side.

“Ok good, you’re wake now!” Remus said, in which Roman dramatically and loudly groaned in response to express the woeful pain that his twin brother had inflicted upon him.

“Ma’s got chocolate chips pancakes going, so you better get your ass up before I eat them all.” Remus said.

His brother quickly left the doorway and started downstairs, making loud thuds as he did so.

To which Roman could hear the sound of their other mother (they called her mom instead of ma) fussing at Remus for being too rough with the staircase.

What followed in the conversation was being drowned out by the loud ambiance of ma handling the pots and pans, opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen.

Roman groaned again quietly to himself as he slowly got up from the fallen avalanche of blankets, and headed towards his closet to get ready for the day.

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Taglist: @manyfandomsonelog @count-woe-laf @creweemmaeec11 @booknerd-23

I believe that’s all the tags? Also let me know if you want to be added in the taglist for my writing!

#ts roman sanders #ts roman #ts fanfic #ts Remus mention #blissful writing #sander sides #Drabble

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alicemitch09writes · 3 years ago

Note

someone said song recs for outsider looking in? say less! i found that this song is givin very outsider looking in type of vibe. and it helps that the lyrics are also a bit, what can i say... fitting? it’s a very soft, languid song that makes you feel.

“all this is not a coincidence, i know it just because, just by my feeling. the world is different from yesterday; it is so just because, just with your joy” / “ever since the universe was first created, everything has been destined. just let me love, let me love you”

a couple years down the road after he ran away and abandoned all hope; he was suddenly face to face with his first love. the person who made his heart grow, as much as it aches. and immediately, he saw how in those couple of years, time seem to only made his first love better. stronger. even more compelling. from a casually cool and collected facade to this. now, she’s openly smiling, gracing the world with an amazing spark on her eye. and god, the universe must be mocking him, really. cos no matter how much he wanted to destroy his feelings, he can’t help but think that maybe, even if it’s just a very minuscule maybe, this is their time now.

“when you called me, i became your flower”

i just adored the sentiment for this line, it reminds me of how soft rin is to reader. if you’re interested to know the meaning behind it, you can find it here.

“as if we have been waiting, we bloom painfully beautifully. perhaps it’s the providence of the universe, it just had to be like this (you know, i know). you’re me, i’m you” / “just let me love you”

did someone say growth? because that’s what they did; like flowers, they have both delicately blossomed beautifully but in the most painstaking way imaginable. but they both did it. as if they were always destined to find each other when they have both grown to be more mature and more open in terms of their heart.

“the universe has moved for us, there wasn’t anything even slightly out of place. our happiness has been destined. cause you love me, and i love you” / “you’re my penicillin, that saved me” / “i am your calico cat that came to meet you. (love me now, touch me now)”

and when they did open their hearts, after long, they both found the solace they both needed, from each other. and oh, how the two of them can confidently say how utterly glad they are to choose each other. because he is hers as much as she is his. and suna, the whipped man that he is, feels like he’s on cloud nine whenever she’s just within his vicinity. with how much her presence alone could mellow with the brooding storm that resides in his soul.

“now please be by my side, please be us. i don’t wanna let go, no. we can just leave it to date. we can feel it even if we don’t talk.” / “the stars are hanging in the sky, and we are flying. it’s not a dream at all. don’t be afraid and hold my hand, now we are becoming us. let me love you”

as suna said, being with reader was a dream that he did not want to wake up from; that being with her made him feel like he was lucid dreaming— from standing next to her, talking to her, holding her, kissing her— where he even has his eyes half-lidded open, to that that wasn’t a dream, and most importantly, nights and days where he made her his. because when emotions run high and he can’t put his desires and devotion into words; touch connects the both of them and takes them on a feverish, dizzying high. and true to his thoughts; truly, there was no better feeling in the world.

“as much as my heart flutters, i’m afraid because destiny keeps getting jealous of us. as much scared as you are. i, too, am scared. (when you see me, when you touch me)”

evidently, in this fic, we are shown of the vulnerabilities of suna rintarou. who, despite loving with his entire heart, is living in the shadow of his own insecurities as well as the past. especially when he got reminded of the long history between his first love and her own first love. when he was faced with atsumu’s longing, wistful gaze and the soft, adoring look he sends first love’s way. then, even four years down the road of a beautifully yet carefully and delicately built relationship, he was still so, so terrified of her seeing him in his darkest times.

“my angel, my world”

because in his eyes, reader is truly his saving grace. from the way her presence alone could ease the darkest shadows in his mind to the way that she chose to stay even when he slowly pushed her away. and true to his very own thoughts, despite having the power to do whatever she wanted to him; all she ever did was love him.

[disclaimer: none of this was proofread and since outsider looking in was only 16k words, i pretty much have the fic semi-memorised, though, not word for word so if i gave in context where it doesn’t 100% match in the fic itself, then im sorry hdjdhdjd but i think if you know the part, you’ll still get it? hopefully.... and also, i just typed this down like... freestyle. this is completely unplanned and unprepared so um if it doesn’t convey my feelings well, im sorry haha. also, if there are mistakes, close ur eyes. no there isn’t <333 anywaysss yup that’s it]

Ummm, I hope you know that this ask was sent to me 19 times, and I think there's some more on the way.

But thanks so much for the song and your essay to explain it, it's amazingly profound! I'll try to check it out when I have time :3

#alicemitch09 answers #fic reviews #music stuff

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spacecrone · 4 years ago

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Sorry, Cassandra.

So, it's definite then

It's written in the stars, darlings

Everything must come to an end - Susanne Sundfør

I first learned about the climate crisis in 2008, as an undergrad at Hunter College, in a class called The History and Science of Climate Change. For the next decade I would struggle with how to process and act on the scientific paradigm shift climate change required: that human activity could disrupt the climate system and create a planetary ecosystem shift making Earth uninhabitable to human life. I became a climate justice activist and attempted to work directly on The Problem which was actually, as philosopher Timothy Morton writes, a hyperobject, something so systemic and enormous in size and scope as to be almost unintelligible to human awareness. I’ve cycled through probably every single response a person could have to this knowledge, despair, ecstasy, rage, hope. I’ve landed somewhere close to what I might call engaged bewilderment. For me, his particular locale has a soundtrack, and it’s Susanne Sundfør’s cinematic dance dystopia Ten Love Songs, an album that tells a story of love and loss in the Anthropocene. Sundfør is a sonic death doula for the Neoliberal project, with a uniquely Scandinavian version of bleak optimism. To truly grapple with this time of escalating transition, we need to really face what is, not what we hope or fear will be, but what is actually happening. A throbbing beat with shimmering synths around which to orient your dancing mortal envelope can’t hurt.

Susanne Sundfør’s Ten Love Songs was released a few days after Valentine’s Day in February of 2015, six months after I had been organizing Buddhists and meditators for the Peoples Climate March. I was already a fan, having first heard her voice as part of her collaboration with dreamy synth-pop outfit m83 on the Oblivion soundtrack. Oblivion was visually striking but felt like a long music video. The soaring synths and Sundfør’s powerful voice drove the plot more than the acting, though I loved how Andrea Riseborough played the tragic character Vika, whose story could have been more central to the plot but was sidelined for a traditional Tom Cruise romantic centerpiece. But since the movie was almost proud of its style over investment in substance, the music stood out. The soundscapes were as expansive as the green-screened vistas of 2077 in the movie. It was just nostalgic enough while also feeling totally new, a paradox encapsulated in the name of m83’s similarly wistful and sweeping Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming. I am not exempt from taking comfort in style that signifies a previous era, and I am also not alone in it. It’s a huge industry, and while the MAGA-style yearning for a previous era is one manifestation, maybe there are ways to acknowledge culture as cyclical in a way that doesn’t sacrifice traditional knowledge to some imagined myth of perpetual progress.

When Ten Love Songs came out the following year, I listened to it on repeat for days. Sundfør seemed to have absorbed the music-driven sci-fi into a concept album, with m83 providing her with a whole new panopoly of sounds at her disposal. Like Oblivion, Ten Love Songs told the story of a future dystopia with high speed chases, nihilistic pleasure-seeking and operatic decadence against a backdrop of technocratic inequality. It mixed electro-pop with chamber music and I listened to it on a Greyhound ride to Atlantic City in the middle of snowy February. I hadn’t felt like this since high school, that a full album was a sort of soundtrack to my own life, which I could experience as cinematic in some way while the music was playing. This situated me in my own story, of studying climate change as an undergrad and graduating into a financial collapse, working as a personal assistant to an author writing about ecological collapse and ritual use of psychedelics, to joining a Buddhist community and organizing spiritual activists around climate justice.

Ten Love Songs is a breakup album, with lyrics telling of endings and running out of time. But it didn’t read to me as an album about a single human romantic relationship coming to an end. It felt like a series of vignettes about the planet and its ecosphere breaking up with us, all of us. People. Some songs like Accelerate, one of the album’s singles, throb in an anthem to nihilistic numbness and speeding up into a catastrophe that feels inevitable. Fade Away is a bit lighter, tonally and lyrically, (and if you listen, please note the exquisitely perfect placement of what sounds like a toaster “ding!”), but is still about fading away, falling apart. The way the songs seem to drive a narrative of anthropocenic collapse built on science fiction film scores, the combination of orchestra and techno-pop, absolutely draws on Sundfør’s experience collaborating with m83 for the Oblivion soundtrack, which itself combined Anthony Gonzalez’s love for the adult-scripted teen dramas of his own 80’s adolescence. In Ten Love Songs, Sundfør takes what she learned from this collaboration and scores not a movie but a life experience of living through ecological collapse and all of the heartbreak and desire that erupts in a time when everything seems so close to the knife’s edge.

I am reminded of another Scandinavian dance album that was extremely danceable yet harbored within it a sense of foreboding. The Visitors, ABBA’s eighth studio album, was considered their venture into more mature and complex music. The two couples who comprised the band had divorced the year before it was released, and the entire atmosphere of the album is paranoid, gloomy, and tense. The cover shows the four musicians, on opposite sides of a dark room, ignoring each other. Each song is melancholy and strange in its own way, unique for a pop ensemble like Abba. One song in particular showcases their ability to use an archetype of narrative tragedy and prophesy to tell the story of regret. Cassandra is sung from the perspective of those who didn’t heed the woman cursed by Zeus to foretell the future but never be believed.

I have always considered myself a pretty big Abba fan, something my high school choir instructor thought was riotously funny. I was born in the 80’s and nobody in my family liked disco, so I seemed like something of an anachronism. But pop music, especially synth-oriented pop, has always felt like a brain massage to me. It could get my inner motor moving when I felt utterly collapsed in resignation to the scary chaos of my early life. But I only discovered the song Cassandra in 2017, while giving The Visitors a full listen. It felt like I had never heard the song before, though, as a fan I must have. But something about 2015 made the song stand out more. It starts with piano, soft tambourine, and the ambient sound of a harbor. It has a coastal Mediterranean vibe, as some Abba songs do, foreshadowing Cassandra’s removal from her home city, an event she foretold but could not get anyone to believe. It’s a farewell song of regret, echoing the regret the members of Abba felt about their own breakups.

We feel so full of promise at the dawn of a new relationship. Only after the split can we look back and say we saw the fissures in the bond. The signs were there. Why did we ignore them? This happens on an individual level but the Cassandra paradox is an archetype that climate scientists and journalists are very familiar with. This particular Abba song, and the Visitors album overall, uses this archetype to tell the story of a breakup in retrospect. With climate change, the warnings have been there, even before science discovered the rising carbon in the atmosphere. Indigenous peoples have been warning of ecological collapse since colonization began. Because of white supremacy and an unwavering belief in “progress,” perpetual economic and technological development and growth, warnings from any source but especially marginalized sources have been noise to those who benefit from that perpetual growth model and from white supremacy itself. Is there a way to undo the Cassandra curse and render warnings signal BEFORE some major event turns us all into the chorus from Abba’s song, singing “some of us wanted- but none of us could-- listen to words of warning?” Composer Pauline Oliveros called listening a radical act. It is especially so when we listen actively to the sounds and signals of those we would otherwise overlook.

When I look back at my life in the time that Sundfør’s Ten Love Songs and m83’s movie music seems nostalgic for, the late 1980’s in New Jersey, I was a child with deeply dissociative and escapist tendencies, which helped me survive unresolved grief, loss, and chaos. I recognize my love for Abba’s hypnotic synth music as a surrendering to the precise and driving rhythm of an all-encompassing sound experience. I also see how my early life prepared me to be sensitized to the story climate science was telling when I finally discovered it in 2008. I had already grown up with Save the Whales assemblies and poster-making contests, with a heavy emphasis on cutting six-pack rings so that sea life would not be strangled to death. I knew what it was like to see something terrible happening all around you and to feel powerless to stop it, because of the way my parents seemed incapable of and unsupported in their acting out their own traumatic dysregulation. Wounds, unable to heal, sucking other people into the abyss. I escaped through reading science fiction, listening to music like Abba and Aphex Twin loud enough to rattle my bones. I wanted to overwhelm my own dysregulated nervous system. I dreamed of solitude on other planets, sweeping grey vistas, being the protagonist of my own story where nothing ever hurt because ice ran through my veins and the fjords around me. My home planet was dying, and nobody could hear those of us screaming into the wind about it.

Ten Love Songs woke up that lost cosmic child who had banished herself to another solar system. Songs of decadence, songs of endings, songs of loss. Though that album was not overtly about climate change, Sundfør did talk about ecological collapse in interviews for her radically different follow-up album Music For People In Trouble. After the success of Ten Love Songs, Sundfør chose to travel to places that she said “might not be around much longer” in order to chronicle the loss of the biosphere for her new album. It is more expressly and urgently about the current global political moment, but the seeds for those themes were present and in my opinion much more potent in the poppier album. But maybe that’s the escapist in me.

The old forms that brought us to this point are in need of end-of-life care. Capitalism, white supremacy, patriarchal theocratic nationalism, neoliberalism, they all need death doulas. Escapism makes sense in response to traumatic stimulus, and for many of us it may have helped us survive difficult circumstances. But if we are to face what it means to be alive on this planet at this moment, we might be here to be present to and help facilitate and ease the process of putting these systems to rest. And maybe this work is not at odds with a dance party. The ability to be visionary about shared alternatives to these dying systems is not inherently escapist, when we are willing to take the steps together to live into those new stories. What would happen if cursed Cassandras, instead of pleading with existing power structures to heed warnings that sound like noise to them, turned to each other to restore the civic body through listening, through bearing witness to each others unacknowledged and thwarted grief over losses unacknowledged by those same systems of coercive power?

Engaged bewilderment means my version of hope, informed by Rebecca Solnit’s work on the topic, comes from the acceptance that things will happen that I could never have imagined possible. Climate change is happening and there are certain scientific certainties built into that trajectory. Some of it is written in the stars. But as with any dynamic system change, we do not know exactly how it will all shake out. These unknowns can be sources of fear and despair, but there is also the possibility for agency, choice and experimentation. The trajectory of my individual life was always going to end in death. Does that make it a failure? Or does it render each choice and engagement of movement towards the unknown an ecstatic act? As the old forms collapse, no need to apologize to the oracles. At this point they are dancing, and hope you’ll join.

#susanne sundfør #abba #anthropocene #hope #climate crisis #climate change #ecological collapse #scandinavian music #dystopia #utopia

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amyscascadingtabs · 5 years ago

Text

when i’m feeling alone, you remind me of home

Three different years, three different Christmasses, and three different reasons Jake's awake all too early in the morning on December 25th.

(or, did anyone say CHRISTMAS FLUFF???)

read on ao3

december 25th, 2014.

06.08 a.m.

“Oh my god, have you been here all night?”

Jake's not sure whether Amy’s about to laugh at him or tell him off about how he needs to take better care of himself. From the incredulous look on her face, like she can’t believe her eyes when he nods at her from behind his desk, it could be either.

“Jake, that’s insane. Have you ever heard of, I don't know, sleeping during the night?”

(It's the second alternative.)

He has heard of sleep, and he’ll confess the thought of his bed with its good mattress lump and too-soft pillows is more tempting now than when he first considered going home about eight hours ago, but he also just drank a can of artificially blue energy drink and might never sleep again. All the better - it’ll give him more time to catch his arch-nemesis, who sent him yet another rant about omelets yesterday that left Jake none the wiser and all the more frustrated.

“I’m trying to get a trail on Doug Judy,” he shrugs in response to Amy. “You think a person can disappear into thin air?”

“I’ll go with no on that one.”

Jake groans. “I swear that’s what he’s done. It’s infuriating.”

“I’m sorry he got away,” Amy tilts her head to the side with sympathy, “but I promise you’ll catch him. Just go home and get some sleep.”

“You go home and get some sleep.”

“I have! I’m just stopping by to get a couple of hours of work done before I have to go back to my brother’s place.”

“Why are you going to your brother’s place -” He makes note of the red and green stripes on her knitted sweater and her red bauble earrings. “Oh, right. Christmas.”

Never one for family-centered holidays or one with a particular skill for keeping track of time, Jake could have sworn the occasion wasn’t happening for another few days at least, but Amy nods. Her earrings sway with the movement.

“So you’re working on Christmas?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re working on Christmas,” she retorts simply.

“Yeah, but I don’t celebrate it. You like being with your family.” Jake snaps his computer shut and leans over his desk instead, hands clasped together and chin resting on them. “What’s the mysterious deal here? Has there been a juicy scandal in the Santiago family? Please spill.”

Amy sighs, her cheeks turning a shade of pink he recognizes from the last time Captain Holt complimented her work on a case in front of the bullpen. “There’s nothing juicy. I just needed some time away from my brothers if I’m going to survive today.”

“I thought you liked your brothers?”

“I have seven brothers, Jake, and I like all of them. Except for David. Perfect David,” she says, screwing up her face like it pains her to say the name. “David is planning to take the Sergeant’s exam this year. David is looking at buying a house. David’s proposing to his girlfriend. Aren’t you thinking of getting married to your boyfriend, Amy? Oh, that’s right - you two broke up! Such a shame. You two made an adorable couple!”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “Sure. Ouch.”

She starts writing on her computer, fingers tapping over the keyboard with speed and only stopping for brief moments when she looks out the window like she’s taking a break to think. Jake decides to give her a moment alone and dives back into his own poorly structured document of barely existent and equally far-fetched leads. He doubts he’s writing anything coherent at this point, but the thought of Doug Judy out there taunts him too much to allow himself to stop.

He feels guilty whenever Amy mentions her breakup with Teddy. It’s been three weeks since the most catastrophic double-date in history, and most of the time, they’re cool, but then there are moments where he’ll mention Sophia and notice how Amy’s eyes will turn away and her expression will morph into a smile so different from her natural one. He can’t decipher what it means, or if it’s nothing and his mind’s playing tricks on him from when he had a little bit of a crush on her. It’s not like it would matter, he reminds himself. He’s with someone, he’s happy, and Amy’s over him anyway.

It doesn't stop him from wishing he could read her thoughts sometimes.

“Are you having dinner with your mom tonight?” Amy asks, jolting him back to reality. The tapping of her fingers against the keyboard has slowed down, and the tension that radiated from her before seems milder. Jake thinks he can note the hint of a smile on her lips.

“How do you know I’m having dinner with my mom?”

“You told me last year?”

His memory flashes back to a late-night, dead-end stakeout last December. “Right. Right, yeah, I am - Sophia’s away visiting family, so.”

Either Amy's smile turns more wistful, forced, or he’s imagining it. “That sounds nice. Are you planning to get any sleep before then?”

“Sleep is for the weak,” he tries joking, but because his body is cruel, moving his face triggers a massive yawn that makes Amy giggle.

“Actually, sleep deprivation is linked to a weaker immune system, higher risk of cardiovascular diseases and trouble with concentration,” she lists, ignoring his eye-roll. “Seriously, Jake. Go home and rest, then come back with a clear head tomorrow.”

“Nah,” he shrugs. “Just need more coffee.”

“I pity your doctor.” Amy shakes her head. “But hey, it’s Christmas - if you promise me you’ll go home and sleep after, coffee’s my treat.”

“Really?”

“Consider it my Christmas gift for you. “ She’s out of her seat and taking on her coat before he’s even had a shot to ask why he’s willingly going outside in the cold when there’s perfectly acceptable, free coffee in the break room. Then again, he’s not one to say no to a surprise. Especially not when the words on his computer are getting blurrier by the second, and he’s lost nearly all faith in his own skills as a Detective thanks to the failed capture of Doug Judy three days ago. Caffeine will help him stay awake; maybe long enough to come up with at least one more idea. Something - anything - and he’ll let himself go home. As soon as he’s made progress, he’ll rest.

“Gingerbread lattes. Sickly sweet, so suits you perfectly.” He gives Amy a quizzical look as she puts down the red and white Starbucks cup in front of him. She blushes. “I mean, because you eat what I believe is a dangerous amount of sugar. Nothing else.”

Jake grins. “That difficult to hide your crush on me, huh?”

“I don’t have a crush on you. If you’d like to give me a Christmas gift, I’d very much appreciate you quitting bringing that up.”

“Uh-uh, it’s a no-can-do.” He unscrews the lid from his cup, licking up the sweet foam. “This is great, though. Thanks, Amy.”

“You’re welcome. Merry Christmas,” she says, and he thinks he sees a glint of that shy, covert smile again. “For what it’s worth, I really think you’ll catch him. I believe in you. Just get some sleep first.”

“Merry Christmas.” He lifts his cup like he’s making a toast. “I believe you can survive Christmas lunch with your family. Maybe even without strangling anyone.”

Amy snorts. “Now that would be a Christmas miracle.”

“So would Doug Judy surfacing again be at this point.”

She holds up her own takeaway cup, touching it to his. “Cheers to Christmas miracles, then.”

“Cheers,” he laughs.

In the corner of his eye, he sees his phone light up with a Merry Christmas-text from Sophia. He can’t fully explain the guilt that follows when he waits a few minutes to reply, or why he’s struck with a sudden desire to tell Amy another joke first so he can make her laugh again, but it's probably just sleep-deprivation.

december 25th, 2017.

05.33 a.m.

Jake wakes up not knowing how to breathe.

It’s not happening as often anymore - not nearly as frequently as it did during his first weeks home - but often enough for it to no longer surprise him. The dreams before he wakes up are almost indistinguishable from each other, always another version of Romero’s gang having him backed into a corner with their shivs pointed at him. Melanie Hawkins is watching the whole thing go down from the other side of the cell, her laugh nefarious and causing his blood to freeze to ice. In every dream, he screams for help, but no one ever comes to save him.

It’s fine, he tries to tell himself, forcing in air through his mouth. His chest hurts, his heartbeat’s far over the healthy bpm and a sense of instinctive dread is pooling in his stomach, but he’s fine. He’s home.

He listens for the sound of cars driving past outside her window, a trick he’s learned after too many of these nights, and reaches out his right hand to touch his nightstand. A second wave of fear floods him when he realizes he can't hear a single car, and when he reaches out his hand, all he feels is a wall that doesn't belong to his bedroom.

He sits up so quickly it makes him dizzy. He doesn't remember where he is, and can't distinguish the room in its encapsulating darkness, but if he's back in prison or Romero or Hawkins have somehow manifested in his real life, he's all too aware he doesn’t have anything to fight with except his bare, trembling, hands.

This is where you die, a voice in his head wheezes, and his lungs feel tighter. This is where it ends.

The sound of another person’s breathing sharpens his focus. It could be someone from Romero’s gang standing behind him, breathing down his neck, but the only thing he feels is droplets of sweat trickling down his back. It could be Hawkins, standing somewhere in the room watching him, but this breathing seems too slow and peaceful. Nervously, he looks to the side, and even in the darkness of this room, he recognizes the silhouette of his fiancée sleeping next to him in bed.

The puzzle pieces seem to fall into place, mitigating the waves of panic as they go. He’s not at home, because he’s with the Santiagos, celebrating Christmas upstate with his in-laws-to-be and their many kids and grandkids. He and Amy drove here yesterday, celebrated Nochebuena with all her family, and they’re staying for Christmas dinner today.

Everything’s fine, he tells himself instead, and finds that he’s able to force his breath into the pattern Amy taught him after one of his first attacks. In, out. You’re not in prison. Inhale. You’re okay. Exhale. Repeat until it works.

As his eyes become more and more used to the darkness, he’s able to make out the contours of Amy’s face. She’s on her side facing him, her hair draped across the pillow and her hands holding onto her part of the blanket. It doesn’t seem like he’s managed to wake her up. She’s fast asleep, and Jake pats himself on the shoulder for having learned to ride out the panic attacks on his own. It’s bad enough that he can’t sleep; he’s wrecked with guilt when it affects her, too.

He presses a kiss to her forehead. The corners of her mouth twitch into a small smile, and the aching in his chest is replaced by a comfortable warmth.

He’s careful not to try and disturb her when he gets out of the bed they’re sharing, finding a hoodie and a pair of pajama pants he’s thrown on a nearby chair, and sneaks outside.

The snow shocks him. He’s used to a gray, rainy Brooklyn during December, a polar opposite to the Winter Wonderland surrounding their rented cabin. It's still a couple of hours away from daylight, but the porch lighting and bright snow are enough to make him feel safe. He scrapes clean a spot on the edge of the porch and sits down.

The air is cold in his lungs, but it’s the refreshing kind of cold, the kind that feels healthy and makes you realize how polluted the air you breathe on a daily basis is. It’s far from the signature prison smell of mildew and fear, far from the stuffy atmosphere in the courtroom during their trials, far from any of the memories that haunt him during nightmares and nocturnal panic attacks.

He’s safe. He’s free. He’s okay.

He grabs a handful of snow, squeezing it and feeling it shape after his palm. If someone had asked him during a night he laid awake in his cell, whether he thought he’d ever see snow again as a free man, Jake’s not sure what his reply would’ve been. There were a lot of things he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to experience, but here he is, living them. He forms the snow to an imperfect snowball, then throws it against a tree. It gives him an odd, childish sense of having achieved something, so he does it again.

“Having a snowball fight with yourself, are you?”

He turns around to see Amy standing in the door opening. She’s in pajamas, bathrobe, and her winter coat, but despite her Michelin-man-like appearance, she still looks like she’s shivering when she sits down next to him, handing him one of two steaming mugs of coffee.

“I just needed to get some fresh air. Sorry, I tried not to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I only noticed when the bed got cold. You’re an excellent source of heat.”

“Where would you be without me?”

“I’d be colder,” she states simply. “And sadder. Worse in every possible way. But you know that. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Yeah. Let’s not.” He takes a sip from his mug. The coffee burns the roof of his mouth, but he can tell his cup has been doused with the perfect amount of sugar, so he keeps drinking. “What time is it?”

“Nearly six. I bet all the kids will wake up soon, and the quiet in this house will turn into chaos as everyone’s opening their gifts and trying to capture reactions and thanking each other,” she laughs. “Get ready for the annual Santiago Christmas chaos.”

“I’m excited,” he says with full honesty. If he had to think of a good opposite for prison, a crowded living room of families with children opening gifts on Christmas morning is a strong contender, and it’s made even stronger by the fact that he’ll have Amy by his side for it. “Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Merry Christmas.” Her face is cold, but her lips are warm from the coffee when she kisses him. “Now do you think we can go back in and snuggle under our comforter until we actually have to get up?”

Jake doesn’t know if he’ll ever be free of the nightmares, but he knows that for as long as he’s laying forehead to forehead with Amy Santiago, pretending to complain when she rubs her ice-cold feet against his, tickling her as revenge just so he can make her laugh, they seem further and further away from reality.

december 25th, 2020.

05.17 a.m.

Although she's only been born for a mere five weeks, Jake’s already certain his daughter is a flat-out genius. For example, even though it's her first time celebrating, she's got one of the staples of Christmas celebrations down to a T; she's waking up far earlier than should be allowed.

“She's way too excited about her presents to sleep,” he suggests with a yawn as the infant’s crying wakes them up for a third time that night. “Truly my daughter.”

“More like she's hungry and wanting attention,” Amy mumbles as she reaches for the nursing pillow, trying to find a comfortable position for both her and baby. “Still your daughter, then.”

“Guilty as charged,” he says, and in the low shine of the table lamp on her nightstand, he can see her rolling her eyes at him. Leah’s grunting in complaint as Amy takes a few seconds to unhook the strap of her nursing bra, bordering dangerously close to a cry when she can't seem to figure it out, but then it works. The sound of Leah's content suckling fills the room, bringing with it a novel feeling of peace they've come to know in the last weeks.

When she's crying, their hearts are shattering. When she's happy, they're floating on air. And because their daughter is barely a month old, they're on a constant rollercoaster between the two absolutes.

“You can go back to sleep if you want,” Amy offers, not for the first time that night. “I’ve got this under -” She yawns. “Control.”

“I know.” He could, and considering the low total amount of sleep he's gotten this week, he probably should, but he has another idea. “This is nice, though.” Leah’s pajamas has reindeer heads on the feet, and he holds them in his hand. “I can’t believe it’s her first Christmas.”

“I think you’re more excited than she is,” Amy laughs. “We’ll see what she thinks about it after the two-hour car-ride to my brother’s place.” “She’ll sleep through it. You’ll worry.”

She grimaces, stroking her fingers over the tiny hand Leah is holding on her chest. “Touché.”

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Merry Christmas.” Amy stifles yet another yawn. “You don’t mind getting up with her while I close my eyes for just a little bit longer, do you? Or else I might actually fall asleep in the middle of Christmas dinner.”

“No, of course not.” Jake doesn’t tell her he was hoping she’d ask. He can’t risk ruining the surprise he came up with at work two days ago. For someone so sleep-deprived he almost took Charles’ lunchbox from the precinct fridge two days ago and was about to start chewing before Terry stopped him, he feels it’s some of his finest idea-work.

Leah finishes eating and Amy burps her, handing her over to Jake like she’s the most precious of goods - which, to be fair, is accurate. Their daughter finds her favorite spot with her head on his shoulder near immediately and he gets out of bed almost as fast, only stopping to give his wife a kiss on the cheek before leaving their bedroom.

Even a year ago, he would have laughed in the face of whoever had told him he’d ever willingly wake up at 5.30. He would have called them insane if they’d suggested it would become the routine it has, or that he would like it. Every morning when he gets up for work, he’ll wake up extra early and take Leah for a couple of hours, giving Amy some undisturbed sleep and himself some quality time with his daughter. She is, without exception, in her happiest mood in the mornings. Sometimes she’ll give him what sort of resembles a smile if he makes a funny enough face, or she’ll wave her hands when he sings to her. Jake can’t imagine a better way to start his day - if he has to spend a whole workday away from her, at least he gets these moments first.

He’s not going to work today, but he still has plans for their morning together. It’s the first-ever Christmas they’re celebrating as parents, which he figures calls for a more luxurious breakfast than their usual coffee and toast, and Amy may have suggested no big gifts this year, but she didn’t say anything about ones addressed from their daughter - loophole. She insisted they’d get a tree, though, so now there’s an over-the-top decorated fake tree in the corner of their living room with a whole of three Baby’s First Christmas-ornaments. Two of them were gifted by Charles. As was five other gifts, and he only stopped because Amy made him.

“This is the Christmas tree,” Jake tells his daughter as he shows it to her for the one-hundredth time, only for the way her eyes light up when she gets close enough to see the lights and baubles. “It’s not real, because your mom’s allergic to those, but it looks pretty nice, right?” Leah coos. “Yeah, I know. We’re being extra this Christmas. It’s all for you, you know.”

“But it’s what you deserve,” he adds, kissing the top of her head and breathing in the baby scent he just can't get enough of. “Even though you’ll never remember this. I guess it’s mostly for us. But you’re a great excuse.”

She whimpers like she understands and is offended by what he’s saying, and he laughs at the timing.

“Don’t worry. It’s been fun. You’re going to have amazing Christmasses. I’m kind of jealous, actually.”

He sits down with her in the armchair placed in front of the three, putting his feet on the footstool so Leah can lay against his knees. “I never liked celebrating holidays much, because my dad was either drunk or just wouldn’t show up, so me and my mom were alone for most of them, which sucked.” Jake pouts his lip, and Leah moves her head in a way he decides to interpret as nodding. “You’re never going to have that. You’ll have gifts and people everywhere, a billion cousins to play with and food for days because your grandmother is an amazing cook. You’ll love it. I sort of feel like I’m getting revenge for all of my failed holidays by making sure yours are perfect.” He rubs his nose against hers in an eskimo kiss. She makes a noise that is not quite a laugh but leaning towards it, like she’s trying to figure the motions out. “I guess you could say we’re discovering the traditions together, huh?”

The beauty of being an adult is you can make a new family with new traditions, a memory of Holt’s words from a Thanksgiving seven years ago comes to mind. Jake’s always considered the squad his family, and he’s made traditions with Amy in their years together, but he’s never been this excited about them before. He’s already humming to himself when he plays the Taylor Swift Christmas album on his phone, putting Leah in the baby bouncer and pushing it so it moves by itself. He googles the recipe and narrates his actions to her as he goes, mixing eggs with sugar and melting butter and stopping every now and then to bounce her seat again. He takes an involuntary break to change his daughter’s outfit, finding an even more festive one he couldn’t stop himself from purchasing when he walked past it in the store last week. It’s a baby Santa suit, complete with hat and all, and he takes about twenty-or-so pictures of her in it before remembering what he was doing before.

It takes twice as long as the recipe suggests, but eventually, Jake’s looking at two plates of saffron french toast that’s only a little burnt, matching Super-Mom and Super-Dad mugs - also gifted to them by Charles - filled with an attempt at a gingerbread latte that he’s sure will taste decent with enough whipped cream, and the Christmas gift addressed from Leah is imperfectly wrapped sitting next to Amy’s plate. It might well be one of the proudest moments of his life, and he gives himself a mental pat on the back for being such a natural talent at the whole festive traditions-thing.

He contemplates singing as they enter the bedroom. The idea falls flat, because he doesn’t know any Christmas songs well enough to avoid completely butchering them, and the act of balancing a baby, a gift and a coffee cup without dropping either is enough of a challenge, but he does manage some humming as they go to wake up Amy.

He wonders if she’s heard them, because she sits up in bed way too fast for someone who just woke up, but she’s smiling at them with a glee that seems to erase all traces of exhaustion when he sits down on the side of the bed, handing her the coffee.

“You dressed her as Santa,” she laughs, tickling Leah’s belly with her free hand. “Oh my god, she looks so cute.”

“Bought the outfit myself,” he grins. “Merry First Christmas as a mother, babe.”

“I’m loving it. I thought we said no gifts, though?”

“It’s not from me, it’s from Leah. Loophole!” Jake half expects his wife to roll her eyes at him, but she simply grins wider.

“She might have one for you, too.”

“Oh, Lee. You shouldn’t have!” He shakes his head at his daughter, getting a confused look in return. “You’re too nice to us.”

“Well, she does keep us up all night.”

“True, true. She’s lucky she’s the cutest.” He kisses his daughter’s cheeks not for the first time that day. “She might have fixed another little surprise for you out in the kitchen. Well, her and I. Mostly me. But she was very supportive!”

This time Amy does roll her eyes at him, but affectionately, before putting down the coffee on her nightstand and reaching over to kiss him.

“Merry First Christmas as a dad, Jake.”

He still considers himself a beginner in the area of Christmas traditions, but as he and Amy take turns eating their French toast and unwrapping their Leah-themed gifts while the other one bounces a suddenly fussy baby in their arms and Taylor Swift’s Christmas album keeps playing on a loop in the background, he’s certain he’ll be able to learn.

He’ll do anything for the two people who are already his greatest gift of all.

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