#Somnolent au
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OMGOMGOGMKGKFMFMMFMFJFJJDJDNDJDNND
BROVO MY FRIEND THIS IS ABSOLUTELY PERFECT! YOU CAPTURED HIM PERFECTLY!!!
Cobalt from Somnolent
Here’s some fan art of Cobalt from @currentlyreadingawesomefanfics’s fanfiction, Somnolent! :D
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I gave him a slushie :)
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it-happened-one-fic · 9 months ago
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Hours in the Moonlight Master-List
Most believe that vampires do not exist. That their just an old tale that has been reused countless times in the forms of horror in romance. But you know otherwise. After all, vampires do have a special affection for you for reasons unknown. Delving into the world of the night is something totally different though. Especially for someone who’s been trying to avoid these creatures that practically hunt you.
But then, one step closer in the form of a vampire you accidentally befriend and the slope becomes slippery.
It’s time you learned what happens during hours in the moonlight by the side of vampires who come in the form of friends, allies, and potentially foes.
Here it is! My Twisted Wonderland Vampire AU! I hope you all enjoy!!
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Vampires Don't Eat Potatoes
Getting Late
The Same Red
A Vampire Hunter or Something
Far More Charming
Shatter to a Billion Piece
Can't Control Others' Actions
Questions to be Asked
Nothing Good
Of All People
Holy Water, Stakes, and Other Such Things
The Start Line
The New Hunter
A Return to Normalcy
Mirrors
Continue As Planned
New to this World
The Masked Man
Aesthetic for Fairest Midnight Playlist for Fairest Midnight
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First Night on the Job
A Lion's Den
An Untamed Predator
Working Together
See This Through
Something to Prove
Were-vampires
A Word of Advice
Tougher Than You Seemed
Protect Our Own
Six Hours
Hunter Becomes The Hunted
Promise
Time With You
The Last of Me
Aesthetic for Persevering Afterlight Playlist for Persevering Afterlight
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Good Question
An Oddity
I Must Insist
No Harm in Being Cautious
A Sort of Game Plan
Hypnosis
Memories
Hard Evidence
Chained
Trust
Pinkie Swear
Steamroll Into a Situation
Better to be Safe Than Sorry
Power and Control
Ready To Move On
Aesthetic for Guileful Nightfall Playlist for Guileful Nightfall
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Aesthetic for Somnolent Gloaming Playlist for Somnolent Gloaming
Dead Memories and the Undead
A Strange One
More and More Questions
Someone of Incredible Importance
Quite the Interesting Endeavor
Stick With the Stairs
Alike in This Regard
A Nickname or Something
Strange Characters
Befitting a Knight
Need Only Wish
New Questions
Sounds of Fighting
Properly Cared For
Indebted
Come Back Tomorrow
Coming Soon!
If you would like to read more fics like these, my Twisted Wonderland Master-List can be found here: Twisted Wonderland Master-List.
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psid99 · 2 months ago
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[PRE-ORDER CLOSED]
Fanbook SOMNOLENCE
Cp Diluc x Tartaglia.
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Of Endless Nights, 🌙
Of Sweet Delight. 🌹
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nnight-dances · 5 months ago
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ONE KISS, ONE LOVE
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PAIRING: park wonbin x fem!reader
GENRE: fluff, hurt/comfort, suggestive dialogue but nothing explicit
TROPES: established relationship!au, idol!wonbin, age gap vibes but no real mention, reader babies wonbin like he deserves to be, texts at the end, just sickening sweet stuff
WATCH: wonbin's night routine
NOTE: inspired by the video above! once again, these wonbin fics write themselves ... he might be my favorite boy to write rn or maybe that's just my way of coping!! anyway don't be surprised if i just start spamming u with the wonbin fics i just have too many good ideas. but they're all gonna be set in this same established relationship style, he's just so bf coded lol... anyway, enjoy <3
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you've been in bed for a good twenty, clad in cream pyjamas and skincare intact, when you hear the frontdoor open – signalling your boyfriend, wonbin's arrival. you pause the video you're watching on your phone and sit up to greet him, "bin? welcome home." his heavy footsteps stop where his figure finally comes into your view.
wonbin looks wiped out, no doubt, eyes shadowed by his somnolent lashes. he stares at you for a moment before humming, the sound halfway between a thank god you're here and i could die right now. he peels his layers off with speed, black leather jacket hung up on the tree-shaped rack near your closet and his other outerwear finding its place on the small cabinet next to it.
you watch fondly as even in his fatigue, he patiently makes sure no outside clothes pollute the bed. as soon as he's in nothing but his white tee and boxers though, he jumps onto you, deflating the air out of you like a body pillow.
"hello," he mumbles, face disappearing into your chest where he snuggles closer. 
"hi, love," you welcome him warmly, fingers carding through his hair as a force of habit. you breathe against his limp body, letting him unwind on top of you as he often does. it's a silent activity, a night routine of sorts for wonbin on his longest days. he'd trudge home and settle close to you, wordlessly like a cat looking for soothing. 
sometimes, you talked to him about your day and he'd hum along, eyes on yours telling all you needed to hear. other times, you would go back to doing whatever you were doing – watching a show, playing a game, or talking to a friend – while he recharged. he even insisted it worked best when you were just doing your own thing.
today, you do neither. setting your phone aside, you occupy yourself with wonbin himself, first meandering through his charcoal hair and then trailing down to his neck, tracing hearts and stars into his skin. you can feel him relaxing under your touch, his face finally coming back into your vision. 
"tired," wonbin says, voice coarser than ever. "need to sleep." 
"i know, baby," you croon, "wanna wash up first?"
he shakes his head adamantly, "no. sleepy."
you laugh softly, "angel, i'm sure you are but you can't sleep with your makeup on, can you?"
"had a few drinks with taro hyung," he murmurs as if that explains his behavior.
"really? you had time after practice?"
"he snuck it into practice. beer after all that sweating was nice."
"wow, look at you," you muse, hand brushing his bangs out of his eyes, "you sound like an old man."
"i am," wonbin pouts, "let the old man go to sleep."
"sorry, love, i can't do that," you say.
"rude."
"say what you will," you sit up fully, pulling your sluggish boyfriend with you. ignoring his groans, you kiss his nose, "wash up, okay? can't have my rockstar breaking out because he was too lazy to wash his face before bed."
he groans again but this time it's an endearment, his kiss on your cheek disguising his smile. "but i can't move, y/n. please."
"i'll help you," you snake out of the sheets, squatting as you heave wonbin out as well. he stands up unwillingly, head wilting like a sad flower. you laugh, pulling him toward the washroom, "will you listen if i do all the work?"
that gets the job done alright because two minutes later, wonbin's settled against the sink with you between his legs. you crane around his tall limbs to reach for his products, having memorized his night skincare by now. 
cleansing balm in hand, you carefully cover every inch of his face, the makeup turning into oil gradually. "okay, babe, now rinse your face for me."
"you said you'd do all the work!" he complains without missing a beat. 
you glare at him, "i can't possibly wash your face without making a mess of both of us."
"sounds like an excuse to me."
sulking, he turns around, washing the balm off. next, you go in with his foam cleanser, gently circling his cheeks and forehead. despite all his earlier declarations, he watches you attentively, his hand loosely clasped around your waist to keep you in place. you have to scold him midway at one point when he gets cheeky and sneaks a hand down your pyjamas, feeling the hem of your panties. 
eventually, you dry his face off with a hand towel. "there," you peck his cheek, "all clean."
when he doesn't let go of your waist, you raise a brow at him. "you only love me when i'm clean," he scowls, "don't you?"
you narrow your eyes at his tantrum, "i think you're forgetting how i'm sacrificing my screen time before bed to clean you up right now."
he looks unconvinced as he tails you out of the bathroom. he's about to throw himself back onto the bed when you stop him by his hand. "change first," you explain, pulling out fresh pyjamas and throwing them at him. 
wonbin stands idly and it's only when he starts raising his arms up that you realize he wants you to do it. you sigh, "bin, you're such a baby today." but you smile as you pull his shirt off, disregarding the way he instantly flexes when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. slipping his pyjamas on, a piece at a time, you clap when he's done.
"i would make a great mother," you pat yourself on the back.
"you can adopt me if you want," he shrugs and you snicker, "i don't think i need to." 
"you want anything to eat before you sleep?" you ask as if you hadn't quite literally brushed his teeth. "chocolate," he says without any conviction and you roll your eyes at him, watching as he launches himself at the bed.
"quick, come here," wonbin whines. you pad over to your side of the bed and join him, giggling when his body curls around you instantly. his nose finds its indent against your neck this time, cold and fresh. 
for a minute, you think that's all you'll hear out of your boyfriend for the night. but it's just as you're about to reach for your phone when he speaks up again, "sorry if i'm boring."
you're not sure if your ears hear right, "what?"
but his voice is solemn, "...i'm probably kinda boring lately. so i'm sorry."
you turn on your side to face him completely, hand coming to rest against his cheek. "bin, you idiot. you coming home is the best part of my day."
"really? even though i'm too dead to do anything?" he perks up but his eyes gloomy, "we don't even fuck anymore. or go to the movies. or go out at all."
you laugh, "you're making us sound like an old couple on the verge of divorce, baby. you're just busier because of your comeback! i'm so excited and you should be, too."
"i am. but i don't want bore you."
"you don't, though. i'm lucky enough i get to see you at night and take care of you when i can. plus, it's not like you won't have more time after your promotions, right? we can do everything you want then."
wonbin blinks at you, his cool hand finally coming to meet yours where it was still caressing his cheek. he kisses your palm, "thank you. i'm glad."
"of course, love. now, go to sleep or you'll regret it tomorrow," you chirp, rolling over and shutting the lights off quickly.
"...you really would be a great mom," wonbin laughs at your behavior. 
"good night, wonbin."
"good night, mom."
you hit his arm at his brazenness but when he just laughs again, the sound is too sweet for you to even pretend to be mad. so instead, you hug him closer, hand on his bicep and his legs tangled with yours. 
bin: I AM FREE AT LAST
bin: FROM THE SHACKLES OF IT
you: …
you: how would ur fans react if i leaked our texts
you: so much for being mysterious
you: "shackles of it" boy have you ever touched a book
bin: okay so you're rude today
bin: i miss y/n mom version
you: ew?? if u have a kink i dont think this is gonna work
bin: because…? 
you: is sungchan still single
bin: i was kidding! haha!
you: ok.
bin: seriously tho let's do smth fun 2nite
you: i get off work late today :(
bin: whatttt you have a life outside of me :0
you: do you WANT me to break up with you???
bin: what i meant was i will be there to pick you up <3
you: wtv man idgaf anymore
bin: noooo
bin: i'll do anything you want don't be mad
you: anything?
bin: well other than leaking our texts ofc
you: i want to live together
bin: ???
bin: we alr do
you: wonbin 
you: baby
you: you just always come over to my place
bin: i sleep there it's my home wdym
you: and you still pay the bills for your place?
bin: i don't make that bag for nothing
you: ok so what if we lived together instead
bin: but i really like your place!!
you: i do too
you: let's make it our place 
bin: shit
bin: i just actually blushed irl
you: :) 
you: is that a yes
bin: i want to marry you
you: okay well let's calm down
bin: did u just reject me
you: i'm telling u that you're gonna regret proposing through text
bin: i love u and i want u to be my wife
bin: omg i just shed a tear at the thought of calling u that
bin: wife…. im changing ur contact name
bin: or should i change it to fiancée? since we havent yet tied the knot
you: park wonbin
you: we are 20 years old
bin: untrue
bin: im 22 
you: i am not marrying you right now
bin: … is there someone else
you: i'm not marrying anyone right now
bin: ok so i'm not husband material
you: you are
bin: i'm not father material? you: no comment
you: but we aren't ready babe
you: let's take it slow k?
you: just move in first
you: we have so many memories to make
bin: you're such a flirt
you: ??? u just asked me to marry you but sure
bin: i'll be moved in by the time you come back home
you: i thought you were picking me up
bin: that was before u asked me to move in
bin: now i have to bring all my stuff over
bin: which side of your closet can i use? bin: also thoughts on letting me keep my rock collection next to your figurines?
you: right side and no
bin: wow u didnt even think about it
you: imagine we get into a fight
bin: i refuse to
you: i'm just saying i would be tempted to throw them rocks at u
bin: you would do that????
you: depending on what u do
bin: why are you expecting me to do anything at all????
you: …experience
bin: wow
you: to be loved is to be known
bin: you can't flatter me now
you: i love you 
bin: …
bin: i love you too
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kykyonthemoon · 5 months ago
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Till The Break Of Dawn
That girl was Death, and she came to see me on my twenty-seventh birthday.
── .✦ Zayne (Dawnbreaker) x MC (Female Reader)
── .✦ Tags: oneshot, angst, open ending, multiverse, AU, loops, MC is referred to as "Dawn" in this fic, first pov (Zayne's), side characters: Jas, Astra.
── .✦ Word count: ~3k
── .✦ Ky Ky's note: This fic is for my friend Le Juan, and all the Zayne's girlies out there. Happy Moonlit Orchid Day (or Qixi)! <3
It's also my very first time writing for Dawnbreaker.
── .✦ Masterlist ♡ Request a fic - closed for the time being.
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when death
takes my hand
i will hold you with the other
and promise to find you
in every lifetime
— commitment (Rupi Kaur)
Rain. Tiny translucent and frigid particles plummeted into this dark world. The rain fell from the opulent downtown area to the deteriorating, abandoned structures. Under the torrent of water, be it human or monster, it was all the same.
Slow, worn-out steps came to a halt in front of a building that had long since fallen asleep in nature's embrace. Blood trickled over the ground and spread a poisonous tint in the water, yet it had no stain on the pristine white jasmine blossoms flourishing in that desolate place.
Jasmine bid me farewell in my last moments. Perhaps this life was not that dreadful to me after all.
My body crumbled. The rain welcomed me. Cold. The sweet scent of jasmine soared throughout the wind. With my final breath, I extended my hand forward. The hand was smeared with so much blood, from both human and Wanderers, and I knew I was not deserving of it. But I had just the desire to touch it once. My pure jasmine petals.
I had simply sought for one favor; let me dwell in those tranquil dreams with the girl I had always revered.
It appeared as if I heard her voice in the breeze; such melodies to my ears, lulling me into somnolence. I was determined to find her this time, forever.
“Zayne?… Zayne?…”
Someone ran to me from the other side, behind the jasmine bush. She was waiting for me. Just a little more…
“Zayne!”
Her warm fingers connected with mine. I awoke at that very time. Was she calling me, or someone who looked identically to me in the dream?
I opened my eyes and saw her there. She donned a dark robe that swept above the street. She sat down beside me and turned my cold body over. That was her. It was truly her.
Each drop of rain landed on her hair, which had barely emerged from the hood of her cloak, wiping the blood stains from my face. My lips moved silently. I ached to tell her how long I had been waiting for this moment. I had always waited for her. And my wish came true.
That girl was akin to my dream. Her eyes fixed on mine, revealing a mix of astonishment and sadness. But her expression was cold. Where was the brilliant smile that brought luminescence into my otherwise miserable life? I desired it.
Trembling. My fingers moved towards her lips. I begged for her mercy  and to grant me this one wish. Yet she spoke before I could touch her: 
"Zayne." Yes, it was my name. But I knew she was calling me, not the Zayne she had loved in her dream. "Dawnbreaker."
This was the real me, in this world.
"I came here to take you away." Her voice was quite sorrowful. Had I disregarded her with my unkempt appearance and stained hands? This was not the meeting I had hoped for, but I was delighted to have found her. Or it was she who found me.
Winds. The bell chimed midnight. The cold seeped into my thick layers of clothing. The girl's scarlet lips parted again as she drew closer and murmured:
"Take my hand."
She seized mine. There was something in her eyes. Death. Then I suddenly realized something.
That girl was Death, and she came to see me on my twenty-seventh birthday.
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It is said that when a person dies, their entire life flashes before their eyes. For me, there was more than just one.
Countless sights that resembled fractured, patched recollections flashed before my eyes. They were my life, yet not really. I knew them well yet felt as if we were complete strangers. I was once a foreseer on the icy throne, I was once a god hidden in the deep mountains, I was once a doctor in the modern day,... Among countless variables, there was only one thing that remained constant: her. 
In each piece of memory, I always found her, my girl. It was always her dying heart, and I was fighting against fate to save her. The instant my life ended, our jasmine flower withered. Then everything went back to where it started.
As midnight was also the time when a new day began.
At first, I could not comprehend what was happening. Everything happened in the same order: I met her, loved her, she was going to die, and I sacrificed my life for her. Our identities might differ, and our decisions might not be precisely the same, yet the ending never changed. I began to vaguely feel that a certain hand had intervened in the flow of our life, driving her and me to follow such a predetermined path.
And suddenly I was Dawnbreaker. In this life, I failed to find her. I had always assumed she just existed in my fantasies. It was not until my death that I discovered she had been seeking for me all along.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in the midst of a thriving jasmine garden. A person's fuzzy shadow appeared ahead of me. At first, I believed it was her, yet as I drew closer, I noticed it was a boy who seemed quite familiar.
"Georgie?"
No, that was not Georgie. The boy with that name had abruptly vanished before my eyes. The individual standing here was someone else who resembled Georgie.
"Hello, Zayne." The small child spoke. I had no idea who he was. However, I got the feeling that we had known each other for a long time, since innumerable lifetimes ago.
"I'm not Georgie." The boy added. "I only took the shape of someone you used to know so that I could communicate to you without causing any disturbance in this reality. If you don't like it, I can turn into a snowflake, a cat or something else.”
“You are?”
"Jas." He responded. "I am Jas. Perhaps you forgot about me. But I remember you, and her."
The name rang like a bell, reawakening something that had been asleep inside me. I asked:
“She… And you. Have we known each other before?”
Jas grinned mysteriously. “Shouldn't all the answers be right in front of you at this point?”
“Who are you exactly?”
The child went around the garden like a butterfly. A moment later, he replied:
“I am nobody. I am merely an illusion created by her and you a long, long time ago.”
“So… this garden is also an illusion?”
“It's all an illusion.” Jas replied. “This garden and all the flowers here are.”
I looked around. Each blooming jasmine brought back memories of a lifetime spent with her. I found myself ready to ask Jas a few questions about the flowers, but as if reading my thoughts, he immediately replied:
"That's right. Every jasmine here represents a life you once shared with her.”
I cast a gaze across the seemingly endless garden. There was no evidence of the girl anywhere. I wanted to find her, to call her name. Yet, I had no comprehension of what she was dubbed in this life.
"She is Death. In this realm, she has no name." Jas said as if he could read the thoughts written on my face. "But you may call her anything you want. She permits you to."
Hence, from that moment on, I decided that she would be my Dawn.
Dawn represented Death in this world. Her duty was to send the deceased to their proper resting place. She had seen me in the abandoned street, where I drained a soul out of torment before they were hauled into eternal darkness, and their body became a monster. She was always watching me, yet I could only see her when life left me. Dawn, like me, had spent her countless existences in this garden. 
Jas spoke again, directing my attention back to him:
“Stop looking. She's not here. But before you go mad and run to find her, listen to the remainder of the story first. Shall we?”
I had no alternative since Jas began shortly before I could say anything. Following along the boy's footsteps, I felt as if I were lost in another garden similar to this one, but in a distant timeline.
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In the past, this jasmine garden was once the residence of a goddess. Although she was merely a minor deity, her fate was tied to the survival of that world. That divine being was Dawn.
She was born from the purest energies of heaven and earth. That was why, with each cycle, she would have to sacrifice her life, offering her flesh and blood to continue nourishing that world. Then she would be reincarnated in her former body, forgetting all about her previous life. Just as the end of day gives way to darkness, and the breaking of dawn marks the start of a new day.
Things were always going to be like this, then one day, she fell in love.
The person she loved was chosen by Astra - the god of creation - to inherit his power and pass on his will to humanity. She was originally sent by Astra to assist him in training, but in the end, she proved to be his greatest challenge.
"Zayne…" She cried out his name, the person who had always been at her side. They traveled the world together, battled side by side, and defended each other. In the end, they arrived at Mt. Eternal, which marked the boundary between the human and divine realms. Overcoming many obstacles, they learned the mystery that Astra had kept concealed for so long.
Astra, the deity that Dawn considered her father, turned out to want nothing more than to take away the power of heaven and earth that she possessed. Every time she died, he became stronger by taking her energies. Every time she reincarnated, he would bring her back and care for her as if she were his daughter, earning her trust until she ultimately sacrificed herself for a false greater cause. But in this existence, she met Zayne.
"If divine power can't protect those important to me, then I shall need nothing from it."
Zayne had made a decision. Dawn went with him to search for Astra, pretending that he would personally sacrifice her as a present to him while they plotted for the murder of the god. However, they were unaware that they were sliding into Astra's predetermined trap.
How did both of his instruments slip out of his grasp so easily? Astra separated the two, robbed their memories and encased those in jasmine. The new Zayne and Dawn began a new life, unaware of each other and with no memory of their preceding love.
But they still found each other. The thread of fate had long ago bound both of them. Dawn, like in her previous life, must die in accordance with Astra's wishes. And Zayne was always trying to save her. The moment he surrendered his life for hers, the flow of time halted. The entire world came to an abrupt end, then it started all over again.
Astra experimented thousands and thousands of times. The jasmine garden housed every existence of the star-crossed lovers, trapping them eternally in the cycle of love and death. They appeared to have discovered this secret after their first few lifetimes. Every time the flow of time was reestablished, their memories were erased. However, simply encountering each other again caused them to fall in love anew; and whether Zayne remembered or forgot, he would always give his life to the one he loved.
"Don't cry…" Zayne was lying in her arms. He was standing before her. He was leaning onto her shoulder... Their circumstances would alter, but there was always that final moment when she wept and grasped his hand.
They had just recently retrieved some recollections of their past lives before being forced to part ways again.
"Don't cry…" This time, Zayne had her in his arms. His back was against the debris of the collapsed research room. The blanket of snow sprayed over, bringing chilling temperatures. They were on Mt. Eternal in another timeline. Yet even this time, Zayne gave up his life to save Dawn.
She shook her head, tears flowing. They were so close to discovering the truth they had been seeking for so long. They had almost broken this curse of eternal reincarnation. Yet in the end, Astra was one step ahead.
"Hold my hand…" Zayne clasped hers. Death reached his remaining arm and froze it. "As long as you hold my hand like this… I will be able to find you… in the next life…"
"Do you promise?"
"Yes…"
Zayne had not once broken his vow to her. However, if she did not truly die, Astra could not obtain the power he sought. The jasmine garden grew wider with each new life and reboot. He must put an end to this.
As a result, he designed a life in which she became Death, and Zayne could only find her at his very last breath.
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"Astra believes that if you die before meeting her, you won't be able to die for her anymore."
Jas' voice sounded out. We returned to the Jasmine Garden. Although the location was the same, this was not Astra's first garden. Dawn and I had poured our powers into this garden. Many eons ago, we had uncovered Astra's secret and secretly created this place as a safe haven away from the wicked deity. Jas was the spirit that guarded the garden and guided Dawn and me back here anytime we recalled something critical. Dawn discovered Jas before I did.
"There were two mistakes Astra made." He said. "First, he tried to control and take her power, unaware that each time she was reborn, the energy source within her grew stronger as well. Second, he was naive to believe he could separate the two of you. Even if you can't see her, the bond between you two still exists in a different way.”
At that point, I instantly realized something. "Our dreams?"
"That's right." Jas confirmed. "Even if the person you dreamed about was an alternate version of her, it seemed like all the versions in all of your lives knew each other in one way or another. She, as Death, has always dreamed of you and sought you out."
I halted to reflect on what I had just discovered, or recalled.
"Zayne, listen... Astra made another great mistake. That is giving her the status of Death. It implies she now has your life in her hands.
"Does that mean this time, she saved me?"
Jas' nod reaffirmed my doubts, my fears. "You should have died and Astra could have her again... However, she utilized the power of Death to stop your time. Zayne, you are still alive."
I already knew that. The truth was, my life only begun when she arrived.
"I have to find Dawn."
"Wait." Jas spoke up. Almost immediately, vines from the garden seized my limbs. "You cannot go yet."
"Why?"
"She used all of her current power to prevent you from dying. If Astra finds you, she will no longer be able to defend you. She brought you here to keep you safe, Zayne."
Dawn wanted to confront Astra alone. I expected this when old memories resurfaced. I told Jas:
“Then it’s another reason to find her. I cannot bear to lose her again.”
I strained with the vines that were becoming increasingly tight around me, even using Evol to break free of them.
At that point, the garden started to tremble severely. The pure blue sky above broke into fragments and decreased. The jasmine petals detached from the stems, drifted in the air and eventually vanished.
"Jas?"
“I have… completed my mission…” His voice seemed to resonate from far away. His entire body perished before my eyes. “I exist… so that one day… you and she can… find what you've lost… Now… you both have made your own decisions… So I will… disappear… and return… the source of power that you both… gave me before… But remember… If you and she fail in… this timeline… there will be no more Jas, no more… jasmine garden…”
Jas in front of me appeared as surreal as a mist. I knew I had to find Dawn before Astra made a move on her. This was the last chance we had.
“Go, Zayne… I can only… help you get to… her…”
In the middle of the garden, an archway made of plants and jasmine opened. I hurled myself through it, not forgetting to gaze back at the smiling boy Jas, whose body transformed into thousands of jasmine petals before vanishing.
I heard Dawn whisper to me at that moment of life and death: 
“This time, I will protect you…” 
My hand reached out to where she was waiting. My chest ached as I screamed with everything I had:
“Dawn, take my hand!”
And I awoke. Rain splashed over my face. Cold. I was lying on the roadside next to a jasmine with each flower falling and gently dissolving in the water. 
I lifted myself up. In the black of night, I went after her traces. I knew she was so close to me. I knew she was calling my name. And the world would awaken at dawn, once again.
I will find you, in every lifetime.
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kittttycakes · 5 months ago
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I'll take Dreamling with #8 in secrecy because i'm curious of where that could go 👀
Please enjoy this vaguely heist-y AU!
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Hob said with a smile, aiming for charming and casual and only succeeding on one count. He leaned against the bar next to Dream, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, if only for something to do with his hands. Something about the other man made him nervous, threw his decades of professional experience out the nearest window so that it lay, writhing, on the sidewalk, far from him.
Dream, as stunning as ever in a sleek black-on-black suit, took a drink of his wine before setting the near full glass down. He thought he saw the hint of a smile, hiding at the edges of his lips. “Have we met before?” he asked instead, that all too familiar, somnolent voice too close to Hob’s ear to be strictly polite.
If that was the game he wanted to play, Hob could go along with him. “Only in my dreams,” he replied with a wink. That earned him something that might have been a laugh, if Dream had let it develop. As it was, Hob recognized an amused huff of air when he heard one, especially when it came from Dream.
He startled slightly when Dream took his elbow, steering him away from the open bar and back towards the floor of the exhibit hall. It had taken more than a few strings pulled for Hob’s name to be added to the guest list; the museum had increased security since the last time he had set foot in it, and it had taken rather more of Johanna’s skills than it had before, but she had pulled it off: Hob’s name appeared on the guest list as one of the highest tier donors of the year. It was only natural that he should be invited. In three hours, all records of his chosen pseudonym for the evening would disappear. He would never have existed. For the moment, however—
Dream was pulling him through the hall, walking at a pace that would not arouse any kind of suspicion: two men, having a friendly walk through the exhibit, the light refracting through an inconceivable amount of gemstones and gold, platinum, and silver. He took a sharp turn, taking Hob with him, disappearing behind a column and then down a corridor that Hob had mentally designated as a possible exit route if his first four choices failed.
It was only when they were out of earshot of anyone else, and decidedly out of range of any cameras, firmly hidden in a dead spot that Johanna had specifically noted for him, that Dream spoke to him again.
“I’m afraid you and I are after the same target,” he said in that same steady, even tone. “I would advise you to pick a new one.”
Hob nearly laughed. As if it were that simple. He had a buyer lined up for specific pieces, which Dream undoubtedly knew. He was in the same position, although Hob could never be sure of just how much their particular circumstances overlapped.
“And what target would that be?” he asked lightly, watching Dream’s face in the dim light of the service hallway.
“I do not care what else you spirit away, but that ruby is mine.”
He hadn’t thought he’d been that obvious, and he nearly said as much before thinking better of it.
“Ask me for anything else and it’s yours, love, but that’s the one thing I cannot do,” Hob replied, not without genuine regret. His job was regrettably lonely, his only real point of contact Johanna, and whoever pulled her strings was a complete mystery to him. Being a contract for hire specialist had its advantages and disadvantages, and the solitary nature of the work was both at once. It was a miracle that he had ever even met Dream, let alone run into him on more than one occasion. It should not have happened at all, and yet they kept colliding, showing up where the other least expected it. He didn’t even know if Dream was, like himself, working for someone else, or if this was all for his own gain. He could picture him, surrounded by beautiful things like a dragon in its hoard.
When Dream did not respond, Hob continued, recklessly, “This is it for me. I’m out of the game after this, getting too old for it. Can’t botch the last run, can I?”
“You’re retiring?” Dream asked, amusement coloring his voice.
“Something like that. Need to lay low for awhile, might go on holiday. I’d invite you to join me, but—”
“Men like you do not simply give up, Hob Gadling,” Dream said, and Hob froze. He had never, not once, told the other man his actual name, not even during the very memorable weekend they had spent in a penthouse suite in Paris after having independently taken more than €1 million worth of art from a well established and taste making gallery. A relatively low take for both of them, but it had been rather fun. Johanna didn’t even know his name, and certainly not his nickname.
“Seems a little unfair that you have my name and I don’t have yours.” He had little doubt that Dream was an alias, and had never minded that he didn’t know what he might be called otherwise, until that very moment.
Dream smiled slightly. “Perhaps I might give it to you in exchange for your assurance that you will not attempt to take what is mine.”
“It isn’t quite yours yet, though, is it? Really, Dream, I would love to, but the buyer that’s lined up for it is rather keen on it and nothing else, if you take my meaning.”
“I am afraid your buyer must prepare to be disappointed.”
“We’ll see,” Hob said lightly, smoothing one hand down the front of Dream’s lapel. “Lovely seeing you again. I’m sure we’ll do this again soon?”
“Sooner than you might imagine.” As quickly as he had led Hob away, Dream disappeared, slipping further down the hall into the less lit shadows. He thought briefly of going after him before dismissing it; he had his own concerns, and the clock was starting very soon.
-
Hob did not see Dream when he stepped quietly out into the now empty exhibit hall. He had a finite window in which the entire camera system would be run on a loop: Johanna had promised him three minutes, and he was confident he could manage it in two and a half. She had assured him that the alarm system would be temporarily disabled during this window, but Hob never took such things for granted. He had mapped out no less than seven potential exit routes, should he be interrupted, and had timed each to ensure he knew which would be fastest.
His secondary targets could wait. Best to start with the biggest and work his way down. The ruby sat in its own case, nestled in a bed of black velvet. It was uncut, the dull color of dried blood, and as large as his fist. When he carefully picked it up, it flashed with a hidden fire: it could be stunning, in the hands of the right jeweler, crafted to exquisite perfection. Hob dropped it in one of many silk lined pockets, and moved on.
He had added two paired sapphires and a pigeon egg sized opal to his take when he saw the first hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. Hob turned, alert, only to see Dream, still dressed in his suit from the gala, leaning against the empty display case and watching him intently.
His voice echoed in the empty hall. “You’re certain I cannot convince you to part with that ruby?”
Hob had one minute and forty-five seconds left. “I’m sure you’re very convincing, love. But I’m afraid not.”
“A pity,” Dream said, standing up. “I would very much have liked to try. And I don’t imagine I’ll see you again?”
One minute and thirty-two seconds. Hob smiled, a little sadly. He would have rather liked to see him again. “I don’t imagine you will.”
“In that case,” Dream began, crossing the little space between them with a speed and grace that Hob should have expected, but somehow never did.
One minute and twenty-seven seconds. This was somehow both the most exposed and the most private place that they had ever kissed. Hob could mentally catalogue them all: pressed against the wall on a darkened side street in Madrid, laying back against the ridiculous sheets of the king size bed in the Paris penthouse, in the back room of a club in Monte Carlo—this was different. It felt different; it felt like the most important thing in the world, a moment just for the two of them, in secret, in the middle of the museum floor.
Hob had lost count of the time by the time Dream’s mouth left his. For a moment, that had been all that mattered. He would be sad to see him go.
Abruptly, three very important things happened in quick succession: there was a faint shuffling, the sound of feet in non-slip shoes walking down a tiled hallway and the distant thud of a door swinging closed on its own; Dream nearly disappeared, passing through the room like a shadow in a direction that Hob had never considered and idly wondered how exactly he planned to leave by it; and a soft red light began flashing in the case nearest to him as the system armed itself once again. It was past time to go.
Hob was, he could admit, very, very good at his job. He exited the museum entirely without incident, making it back to the flat he was currently using as his home base without being seen or followed. After ensuring that the rooms were still secure, he at last allowed himself to relax, only slightly. He sat at the table, and began to empty his pockets. The opal had survived in perfect condition; he had been concerned that it could be damaged, as relatively soft as it was, but it caught the low light of the flat in its smooth surface, perfectly whole. The sapphires, unsurprisingly, were also intact; he knew he would see them dangling from the earlobes of some minor princess or billionaire’s wife within a month, but couldn’t bring himself to care.
He had deliberately left the ruby for last; everything else, even missing the yellow diamond he was meant to have taken, was infinitesimally small compared to it. He withdrew it, and nearly laughed.
In his palm sat a paperweight of the approximate size and shape of the ruby, along with a small, folded piece of paper. He hadn’t even noticed Dream’s hand move, hadn’t felt a thing as he had, clearly, made the exchange. He set the paperweight down, and unfolded the note.
Hob had not been expecting an apology. What he received was a command: Burn after reading. What followed, in sharp, spidery handwriting, was an address in, of all places, Wales. The note was signed with a capital M. It wasn’t quite a name, but it would do.
He stood, leaving the gemstones on the table. He had so much to do: a bag to pack, travel plans to make, a note to burn. Hob had wanted to go on holiday. He was certain Wales would be lovely.
Send me a kiss prompt!
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missluthorwillseeyounow · 3 months ago
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Supercorptober: Dress
From my Wed By Candlelight AU:
Slender fingers smooth over her arm, and Kara has to suppress a shiver. “I told you this dress would bring out the blue in your eyes.”
Kara finds her mouth too dry to speak. The dress is still warm from Lena’s skin, and it makes her pulse pound knowing that the same heavy fabric had lain on her lady’s body and touched it intimately in a way Kara never could.
The laces are snug but comfortable on her back, secured with the same knot Kara uses to tie Lena’s own corset laces. Kara can feel her fingers at the small of her back, Lena’s touch light, almost nervous, if the minute trembling at their tips is anything to go by.
If only Lena knew how many times Kara’s own fingers had hesitated before, lingering at Lena’s corset laces every time she dressed her lady.
Her fear freezes her hand every night, keeping her from reaching further than what she is allowed — Lena is the scion of an old family, a lady destined for an advantageous marriage to a man who can offer her security and stability. What can Kara give her? She is a maid, with no money or prospects. The only thing she can offer her lady is her loyalty and her love, hidden though it may be.
And yet her yearning keeps her hand frozen as well, the secret hope that she may one day be allowed to touch. It doesn’t allow her to pull away.
For one second — one breathtaking, tantalizing second — Lena’s hand presses closer, braver than Kara has ever been. She can feel Lena’s feather-light touch trail ever so softly from the small of her back to her waist.
It’s such a small thing, yet this is the most intimate that Kara has ever been touched.
She’s had the privilege and secret pleasure of undressing her lady every night, but the line between them prevents Lena from touching Kara in the same way. Kara doesn’t even know if Lena would want to.
Yet with Kara wearing her dress, it’s as if they have momentarily switched roles. Now Lena is the one touching her, and she is bolder than Kara ever could be. Her hand settles over Kara’s waist, fingers spreading with impunity as if she is trying to grasp as much of Kara as she can before they must return to their roles.
Lena presses closer behind her, and Kara can’t help herself. Her lips part on a shaky exhale of Lena’s name.
Even she is surprised by the hunger in her voice. In the mirror, their eyes meet.
They stare at each other for a long moment. Lena’s eyes, made glassy by candlelight, are half-lidded and somnolent, as if she’s in trance. She is the most tempting sight Kara has ever seen in her life.
But… she can’t.
Kara sees the moment Lena realizes her decision. Clarity returns to her gaze, but her eyes dim, making Kara want to take her choice back almost immediately. She never wants to be the reason why those eyes lose their light.
Lena moves away, but Kara catches her wrist in time. She rubs at the strong and steady pulse beneath her thumb until Lena relaxes, a fond smile returning to her face and eyes.
And Kara hopes that Lena understands. There is nothing that she wants more than Lena.
But not tonight. Not like this.
One day, she will prove herself worthy of her lady. One day, she will take Lena far from this place and love her the way she is meant to be loved.
Later, she will lead her lady to bed and retire to her own — alone and full of longing and regret — but for now, Kara gazes at Lena’s smile and makes the promise into her steady pulse.
One day.
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duskandstarlight · 6 days ago
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A Golden Opportunity - Part Five
Nessian Modern AU
Notes: Hi fandom friends, I hope you all had a nice festive period. It's so nice to be back again and to see how many of you still want to read my Nessian unstructured ramblings! I actually had this written before Christmas and intended this to be a Christmas present. And although @noirshadow edited it with her usual speed and prowess, it took a while for me to finalise everything. So, consider this a NYE present instead! I hope you enjoy it and let me know your thoughts <3 xx
Part Five Nesta
Waking was like resurfacing from somewhere unknown, a secret pocket in the fabric of the world carved out just for Nesta. Her sleep had been dreamless, but even so, there had been a sentience to the somnolence. Dark and untroubled, quietly blissful in the empty waters - yet somehow still breathing with intent, in and out, the buoyancy like lungs drawing and exhaling breath.
Yet whilst it beckoned her - the lulling disconnect of sleep - Nesta had known that to stay in it would be cowardice.
For hours, Nesta had felt herself intermittently break the surface as she shifted in her sleep - as she came to recall loosely what had happened, the reason why the sheets smelt different, the very air - only to be dragged back under before her consciousness was able to fight it. It had been out of her control, a protective move that almost scared her. But now, with her consciousness awake and her senses creeping back into cognisance - the waters arousing, growing choppy - Nesta made herself force her eyes open. 
At first, the room was as lightless as the place she’d emerged from. Flat on her back, her arm stiff and extended above her head, bent at the elbow, forearm resting beneath the pillow. Wincing, Nesta tried to move and as she did so, she felt a sharp pain in her head. The sense that her brain had come untethered and was rattling around in her skull. 
There was a throbbing, bruising pain to her right temple. A waft of laundry detergent that was not hers, reminding her again of why she was here. Of what had happened. Tomas reclining in a chair. The stabbing fear that came from hearing his voice. Her proximity to him. His musky amber aroma choking her from where she sat behind him. 
Then, Cassian kneeling beside her. The worry in his hazel eyes as he stared up at her, the warmth of his hand, the strand of hair escaped from its tie. The sharp spikes of pebbledash, the splintering pain. Blood on her fingers. The glare of torchlight. A burgundy high-neck jumper. Slim, deft fingers turning her chin this way and that, rubber against her skin—
Scattering the images with a sharp exhale, Nesta waited for the reality of what had happened the day prior to come as a punch to the gut. Yet whilst the emotions Nesta knew she should be feeling were at the forefront of her mind - fear, shame, embarrassment - nothing came. Not even a glimmer, as if they had dissolved into the ether, thankfully melting before they had the chance to fully form.
After a beat, Nesta propped herself up onto an elbow. Then, when the lancing pain in her head subsided to that pulsing thud, she resignedly rubbed the grit from her eyes with her free hand and willed the room into focus.
At first, everything remained pitch black. Then, shapes grew in the darkness as their surroundings lightened, her eyes adjusting. Stark outlines sharpened into furniture: the chest of drawers opposite the foot of the bed, an armchair hosting some folded clothes on its seat in the corner, a desk across the length of the window. 
A foreign room she’d never set foot in before yesterday. Cassian’s sanctuary, where he slept, where he read, somewhere he’d realistically shared with other women. And here Nesta was in it, dressed yet vulnerable, stripped bare, all defences down.
She had thought she’d end up here in different circumstances. Now, it wasn’t something Nesta could even entertain. Her mind only threatened to sabotage her with yesterday. To remind her of how she’d been so thoroughly consumed by the fear of Tomas that she had forgotten to hide herself. And Cassian had seen all of her. Fragile, shaken, brittle. Ultimately weak.
And so had Azriel. Mor. 
Nesta needed to move, to get out of her head and the panic she knew would eventually set in. Away from yesterday and all the people she’d exposed herself to.
Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, she slid cautiously off the bed. Her feet sunk into the soft pile of the carpet and she blindly groped for the headboard, levering herself up only to sit back down again, light-headed. Dark swept over Nesta in a wave, threatening to carry her off, but she gripped the wood hard, squeezed her eyes tightly shut and fought the sensation.
It took a while for the crackling static behind her eyelids to clear, for Nesta to feel her way to the door and pull it open.
Natural daylight poured into the dark bedroom from the large living room windows ahead of her. The flood of light was so sudden that Nesta found herself disorientated all over again. Wincing, she blinked rapidly to rid herself of the pressurised ache behind her eyes in the face of the overwhelming white. Grabbed sightlessly for the doorframe as that dizziness hit her again.
When the world had righted itself, her vision slowly bleeding back into colour, Cassian was there in side-profile. Sat up on the U-shaped length of couch facing the kitchen, a duvet over his legs, his laptop balanced on his knees. What she saw first was bed hair loose and tangled. It fell shadowily over his tan skin. What with that and the stubble shading his face, the dark startled eyes, it struck Nesta that this was a Cassian she had never seen before - untouched by performance or presentation, the pressure to remain upbeat and light. 
If it had not been for the worry etching itself deep amongst the grooves of sleep, Cassian would have painted a picture that was sleepy and soft. Before the morning coffee, the rigour of the day that wiped away the gentle light of dawn, the muskiness of sleep faint against his skin. 
But instead, his eyes widened further - panicked - as she swayed. 
His laptop clattered against the surface of the coffee table as he moved to stand until, just as abruptly, he seemed to decide against it. 
Cassian sank back into the cushions with a stricken sort of hesitancy that had Nesta’s breath hitching up an octave, fluttering unsurely, as if it had lost its footing, stumbled.
“Ok?” 
Cassian’s voice was a concerned rasp, scratchy in her throat, reaching across the room towards her, like an arm outstretched.
Nesta wanted to reply, but found suddenly that she couldn’t. Instead, she fisted her hands into the wrists of the long-sleeved jersey she’d found the night prior and fought the temptation to rub her eyes. Went to nod but then immediately regretted it when her head bleated in protest.
The consternation etched on Cassian’s face intensified, carving into ravines of guilt. The worry in his voice surfaced again. “Is it your head, Nesta?”
He was still half-sunk into the couch, the position awkward and unnatural, as if he was halfway between standing and sitting. That sharpness in Nesta’s throat pierced deeper at the sight - his awkwardness - her breath growing thinner. 
And that? That she could feel. 
And Nesta wished she couldn’t, wished she could make it all go away. That they could pretend yesterday hadn’t happened, but Cassian continued - as if he couldn’t stop himself, “I’m sorry about that.”
As he spoke, his eyes shifted to a spot on the wall beside her - as if he couldn’t meet her eye.
And there was such suppressed grief in his apology, a devastation that was further wreckage to Nesta’s insides, that she finally found herself impelled to speak, the words a rasped truth. “Don’t be.”
There was a bob of his Adam’s apple. A painful tug at the corners of his mouth; the curved and unconvincing attempt at a smile. Eyes sliding back to hers, vulnerable, troubled and achingly sad to look at. Snagging at the spot at her temple that pulsed before they locked with hers. “Hard not to be.”
The subsequent silence was as painful and brittle as Cassian’s weak smile. He seemed to realise this and attempted to hitch one corner of his mouth higher into a ghost of his signature crooked grin. 
The feeble sight of it was too much. Sensations crowded Nesta as abruptly as something dropping from the sky. 
She couldn’t talk about yesterday. Not now, not yet.
Tearing her gaze away from him, Nesta intended to look towards the kitchenette. But she only made it a fraction, her eyes catching on the coffee table, drawn unwillingly to the laptop abandoned askew atop it.
“Do you have my laptop?”
The question was clearly not one Cassian had been expecting. Nesta could tell because it took him a moment too long to reply. It added to the stilted interaction, another brick added to the wall between them. 
His concern grew stricken. “Mor said to gradually increase your exposure to the screen over time…”
Awkwardness transfigured into something else, the only outlet Nesta could summon. A muted sort of anger that he was continuing to talk of yesterday, when all she wanted to do was run, stay numb. That for once, he hadn’t read her. Hadn’t understood that her laptop was her income, her livelihood. A story unfurled and coaxed from inside of her head. The strike of letters against a keyboard. The expectant blink of a cursor. “But do you have it?”
A frown knotted Cassian’s brow, but then his expression smoothed, understanding dawning - too late. “Your satchel is hanging by the door.”
Nesta sagged in relief. The doorframe held her up like a spine. “I couldn’t remember…”
She never could, not when it came to Tomas and events like yesterday. It was like her memory was wiped in snatches, huge fragments missing, jagged holes that cut through skin like butter when you tried to recall them.
Cassian’s head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze watchful, his eyes swallowing the light in the room rather than reflecting it. “I carried it out for you, that’s probably why.” 
Nesta tried to remember leaving the cafe, but when she tried to cast her mind back, it was only in physical sensations she could remember. The way she had begun to shake as she stood, the adrenaline coursing through her veins, making her jittery. The desire to break into a sprint, to outrun it all, her breath, her lungs burning, so fierce that she barely recalled the phantom pressure of a hand on her lower back, light but steady as it guided her out. 
“Are you hungry?”
The sudden change in conversation had Nesta blinking. Despite the fact that Cassian’s expression was clean, careful, neutral, she got the impression that she’d been very far away. That he was disquieted. Or perhaps it was what Nesta expected from him. Her mind jumping ahead a step, waiting for the next thing, reading him so she couldn’t be surprised or caught out by anything ever again.
That had happened before, too.  
If Nesta could, she’d allow herself to press the button on the remote and skip her life forward so she was privy to what was going to happen before anyone else. That would rid herself of the fear she knew would inevitably set in, solid and immovable until suddenly it lurched, a weight in your stomach, panic clawing up your throat, heart in your mouth, racing, racing—
Swallowing, Nesta went to shake her head, but stopped herself before she came to regret it. “Just a shower.”
Again, she dissected an emotion in Cassian even though his relaxed countenance didn’t change - disappointment. 
But all Cassian did was nod. Slowly, he made to stand as if she might spook.
And the worst thing about it all, was that if he lurched forward, if he even just moved at a normal speed, Nesta knew she would.
“I’ll grab you a towel.”
***
The bathroom was as clean as the rest of Cassian’s apartment. Now Nesta was fully awake, she could see what she hadn’t been able to the day before. Then, she’d only seen the reflection of her pale face in the mirror, the cool metal of the black tap, the underfloor heating warming the floor beneath her socked feet. 
Now, she took it all in. Straight ahead, an exposed brick wall housed a charcoal grey sink unit and the mirror above it. Large warehouse windows, just like in the living room, flooded the room with natural daylight including the free-standing bath beside it. There was a large climbing Devil’s Ivy that Nesta only recognised because Elain had gifted it to her a few years earlier. Then, to her right, a walk-in shower partitioned by a black grid glass screen. 
Somehow, the room balanced the industrial-style of the warehouse loft without seeming cold. Nor did it give off the aura of a bachelor pad - the latter of which, Nesta didn’t want to think about.
Stripping off, she stood in the shower and brushed her teeth with the toothbrush Cassian had pointed her to the day before. Water cascaded down like warm rain and Nesta closed her eyes to it, gave way to the sensation as heat crept over her scalp, her shoulders, her stomach. The taste of mint in her mouth, the scent of warm wood, sweet notes of spice and resin, suds down the drain.
When she finally shut off the water, Nesta wrapped herself tightly in a towel that smelt like his bedding. Studied her face blankly in the mirror. Drawn, ashen, like she wasn’t really there. How she felt, really. 
She tugged on yesterday’s clothes, turned her underwear inside out, put the jersey that she’d taken from his drawers the night before into the rattan laundry basket. Ran her fingers through her hair, fingers snagging on the knots. 
Cassian was in the kitchen when she stepped out of the bathroom, her hair wet around her shoulders. His back was to her, and items clanked in the sink. A theme, it seemed.
The bedding was gone from the couch, his laptop was now closed on the dining table. He had changed into fresh clothes, ready for the day, the world, the people in it, like the Cassian she was acquainted with rather than the barer version of himself she’d seen moments before. Only his hair remained down, loose and wavy rather than tangled back into a topknot.
On the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living room was her satchel. Her phone charging to the right of it, the screen lit up.
Nesta began to move towards it when Cassian spoke over his shoulder— 
“I spoke to Emerie yesterday.”
Nesta had known he might speak. Had expected it, yet, the deepness of his voice startled her all the same. Quickly, she tried to recover herself, swallow down the heart pounding in her throat, even though she knew it was too late. Made her way round to the dining table side of the countertop, so there was something between them, something concrete, even though she knew he’d never hurt her. Never harm her like Tomas had.
But her body wasn’t cooperating with reason. She knew it and Cassian seemed to know it too - with his sad, troubled eyes and the way he’d grown very still, his hands still submerged in the bubbles. 
Reaching for the bag, unable to look at him, Nesta felt for the shape of her laptop within the material. Tried to calm the adrenaline that wanted to chase her out of breath. 
She didn’t touch her phone, even though she could see Emerie’s name lighting up the screen, message upon message upon message.
So, she replied. “You did.” 
It should have been a question, but it came out more like a statement, lifeless and unchanging.  
Cassian swallowed. Nesta watched his Adam’s apple bob, the way it travelled up and down the column of his throat. “I did. She’s back today.”
“I’m aware.”
There was a stilted movement, a dip of his chin as he processed the lack of bite in her delivery. He placed a mug on the drying rack, the expected clink of porcelain against metal. Him carefully reaching for the tea towel, casually drying his hands. “Well, she said she could swing by and get you.”
Dread was setting in now. The awful reality of it concrete in Nesta’s stomach. Here it was, a whole operation around her, the weak link. The person that was such a mess that everyone had to organise her life. Scared and brittle, pieces chipping away from her bit by bit until Nesta was nothing but that fearful girl from before, afraid to live her life, terrified to leave someone who treated her so abhorrently.
Nesta saw it all unfold in the same moment that she was dragged back in time, to a place she thought she’d clawed her way out of - painstakingly, agonisingly and utterly destroying in its slowness - as she tried to heal. To weather the storm that physically battered her, shaped her anew.
Consumed by it all, Nesta only realised it was too long since Cassian had spoken until the silence had carried on too long. He was watching her again in a way she recognised, reading all of her, too much, knowing that she was in her in head, too deep and couldn’t get out. 
The words came out even more limp now. If the way she spoke before was lifeless. Now, her words were dead, buried in the cemetery, lost to an unmarked grave. “She did.”
“Or if you want to stay…” Cassian began, even more unsure now, but Nesta didn’t allow him to continue.
“It’s fine.”
An uncomfortable silence issued and Nesta couldn’t bear it. So, she picked up her phone, moved to the couch. Sat in the exact corner that she’d been in yesterday, when Mor had sat on the coffee table opposite her and rifled through her medical bag. 
“Was it wrong of me to get in touch with her?” Cassian’s voice again, closer than the kitchenette. “I thought you might prefer her or Gwyn to me…”
He trailed off, uncertain. 
Was it wrong, Nesta wondered, as she stared blankly ahead at the television screen? For him to try and do what was he thought was right by her. To make sure she had her found family around her when she was like this - spooked and fearful. Even now, in his home, when he’d rescued her, looked after her, given her a bed, a warm place to stay when she’d treated him the way she had.
A sudden emotion clogged in her throat. Something she was unable to swallow down. The time in the alleyway, the coffee shop before it, was still a fragmented blur. But she remembered the wall. The jerk of her body as she’d been sick, her stomach lurching painfully. The violence of it. How she’d seen movement out of the corner of her eye and her body had reacted without her will. The all-consuming fear, the sudden terror screaming inside of her that made her bolt straight into the concrete. The way the pain that had come after it was nothing compared to the horror on Cassian’s face as he held his hands up in surrender and stepped back.
And Nesta already had so many ghosts in the closet she couldn’t keep track of them. But this would be one that haunted her as life continued to unfold around her. Something her mind would keep coming back to. 
Kind, dependable Cassian who would never, ever hurt her. 
Nesta wanted to die of shame but she was too tired.
So, she just said, “It was right.”
Cassian nodded, relieved and then neither of them said anything. He joined her on the couch, in her periphery, on the length that ran to her left, just far enough away that she didn’t feel the fenced in.
The television screen played out softly in the background and Nesta took that moment to finally check her phone. Sure enough, Emerie had left her more than one message. The first barrage had been cursing Tomas to a fate worse than death and declaring her love for Nesta. The second had been about reporting the incident to Nesta’s lawyer. The third set was all specifics, the tone carefully light:
Emerie-Board, 22:12: Plane gets in at ten, Loch Nessie. Shall I pick you up from Cassian’s? I can come straight from the airport and you can stay with me for a few days.
Emerie-Board, 22:13: Or would you like to stay in his bed apartment for the foreseeable future? Let a girl know when you can. Love you. 
Emerie-Board, 23:07: I’m taking your silence as a ‘yes, I would like picking up’. So, I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning.
Emerie-Board, 09:31: Just getting in the car from the airport. See you soon.
Quickly, Nesta replied to Emerie telling her to drive safe. Then, she messaged Gwyn wishing her luck for her exam, before discarding her phone beside her.
“All ok?”
Nesta swallowed again, but that emotion remained stuck, lodged in her throat.
“Emerie is on her way.” There was a pause, a beat where she tried to remain silent. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, just as she couldn’t help but steal a glance his way. “Did you have to cancel clients?”
For an instant, Cassian studied her. And Nesta could tell by his hesitation that he was considering whether to lie. Thought better of it. 
Steadily he met her gaze, locked onto her, those hazel eyes boring into her. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry—”
Slowly, Cassian tilted his head back until it met the couch cushion, but he was still looking right at her, when he echoed her words from earlier, “Don’t be.”
Nesta looked resolutely down. Played with a stray thread of fabric on the sleeve of her jumper that had come loose, out of place. Thought of herself, woven out of the fabric of her life again, another deep pothole in the road she needed to patch up, to mend.
And it was that thought, coupled with Cassian’s earnest expression, that made it happen. The stark, beautiful line of his eyebrows, the way the dark in them made his hazel eyes appear like sincere pools of swimming gold. 
It all happened without warning. A new wave of emotion surmounted inside of her, a deluge that was more forceful than before. It rose like a tide from her stomach up to her throat, the pressure of it dislodging what was already stuck there and suddenly Nesta’s eyes felt hot. Her eyelids burned, limned with tears even though she couldn’t feel the fullness of the emotions attached to them - the sadness, the shame, the guilt - just the force of it that wanted, needed to get out. 
Everything inside of Nesta tensed, clamped down. Ready to lock down that sharp rush of breath, the tears that were about to swell and spill over, slide down her cheeks like rivers.
But then Cassian said her name and it was all over. 
It was the weight in his voice that broke her—the unspoken understanding, the quiet knowledge that she now stood on the edge of something vast and terrifying. She was here, truly here, in this moment, even though the full gravity of it was still muted, muffled.
And still, it was too much.
Control slipped through Nesta’s fingers, and there was no point in chasing it. The tears came unbidden, silent and unrelenting, falling down her cheeks like lifeless rivers.
And she knew Cassian had clocked them. Knew because the silence carried too much weight to it. As if it were bulging at the seams, ready to spill open.
“I’m sorry.” 
The words slipped out of Nesta on a wavering exhale, pitchy and uncontrolled. And Nesta’s face crumpled at the sound. She dragged in another breath, trying to stop the flow of tears, but they were flowing independently from her will, her body and mind two separate entities, the latter unable to control the former. 
She raised her hands to cover her face, but Nesta forgot about her head and the painful reminder of it just made the tears come faster. Her breath hitched, sharp and strained, the pain twisting it into a higher pitch as her head throbbed relentlessly.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. Followed it with another strangled intake of breath that sounded too like a sob.
“Don’t be. Hey, you’re ok.” Cassian’s voice now, urgently quiet, desperately soothing. 
There was the rustle of fabric, the sound of the cushions moving beneath his weight, but Nesta didn’t look up. She knew he wanted to get to her, to comfort her but wasn’t sure if she’d flinch. 
That only made the tears come faster. 
“Nesta.” His voice even closer now. Pained. “Can I hug you?”
And again, that gentle patience undid her. She buried her face further into her left hand, her right hovering over the sore and bruised skin at her temple as she nodded, forgetting again, the pain it brought.
Then he was there. The couch cushions moving under his weight, as he sat down beside her. It was the heat of him first, then the scent of him winding around her. But then his calloused fingers were at her wrists, prying her hands from her face. Cassian’s arms came around her, the fibres of his sweater tickling her skin, his nose in her hair.
They stayed like that even when Nesta’s phone rang, her focus solely on the lulling rise and fall of his chest. When the ringing stopped, there was only a short reprieve, and then Cassian’s phone sounded. 
They ignored it all. Waited until Nesta had a semblance of control again, that surging wave inside of her having crested into quieter waters. 
Even so, Nesta couldn’t bear to answer Emerie. Instead, she groped blindly for her, handed it to Cassian when it rang again. Allowed him to answer, one arm still around her, holding her close. 
His chin moved against the crown of Nesta’s head as he spoke but she just squeezed her eyes tightly shut, allowed the last of the tears to escape. “Hey. Ok, one second. We’ll be down.”
Silence descended as he hung up. He didn’t pull away from her, didn’t do anything but give her time. 
Eventually, when her breathing had evened out to match his, Nesta straightened a little, pulled away, turned her head. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not when they were this close, even though his chin was purposefully tilted down to look at her, to try and catch her in the serious concern of his gaze. 
He gave her a beat. Two. But then his hands rose to cup her face. The movement was purposefully slow, giving her time to acknowledge his intention, to pull away, but Nesta found that she didn’t want to stop him. Tenderly, he brushed his thumbs over her cheeks, swiping away the tear tracks and the action was so pure, so gentle, so Cassian that Nesta found herself doing the thing she’d been so afraid of.
This close up, his eyes weren’t as gold. Amongst the amber, she could see the threads of green in them, the hazel, and she found herself leaning into his touch, wanting more of it. Needing to be reeled into the sudden reminder of the comfort he had always brought her, the safety. Something solid to hold onto, something dependable, something she wasn’t afraid of.
“Sorry.”
It came out hoarse. Cassian’s brows knit together but that calloused thumb continued to stroke at her cheek. 
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
His breath fluttered over her skin, another caress.  
“I can’t do it again.”
That thumb at her cheek stilled. Somehow, Cassian’s voice dipped into something even lower. “Do what?”
But the truth of it had hit Nesta now. Of what was to come. The thing she had not wanted to truly accept. Her isolating herself, ruled by a fear she couldn’t control. She heaved a breath, a suppressed, shaky sob stuttering out of her. Pressed her hands into her stomach, trying to hold in that fear. Stop it from spilling out of her.
“Put myself back together again. I’ve barely just done it and now I’ve got to do it all over and I just…” She stopped, tried to wrangle her breathing under control so she could continue speaking, but it turned out that she had run out of words. And what else was there to say, other than, “I can’t.”
There was a stillness, a few heartbeats where Cassian seemed to remain frozen.
And Nesta didn’t know what she expected from him now. By the end of her speech, she had mainly been talking to herself. Confessing this truth, this understanding that she had to begin anew. 
Gently, Cassian layered his hands over hers. And that was his only response. Silent support rather than a verbal one. Helping her to cage in the terror that resided in her stomach, lurking, waiting to leap out at her at any moment. 
Together, they walked down in silence. Down the hall, into the lift. Nesta focussed on the sensation of her feet on the ground, ignoring the dizziness, the way the world seemed to streak and whirl around her, unstable. 
As soon as Cassian opened the door to the front entrance of the apartments, fresh air rushed in on a fierce wind. It sobered Nesta up and she blinked, once, twice.
Patiently, Cassian waited, one hand propping the door. He raised the other in greeting to Emerie, who was just getting out of the car, before he turned his focus back to Nesta.
For a moment, he just stared down at her. Deliberated.
But then he said, quietly, fervently, “For what it’s worth, I know you can do this.”
Those eyes searched hers as if he was looking for something. A glimpse of who she’d been before yesterday, perhaps. 
“Can I—” He began, but then he broke off, unsure. His hair, snagged by the fierce wind, was pulled behind him. Nesta’s own wet strands whipped around her, across her face. It was punishingly cold, but she didn’t care. “Can I text you?”
Nesta bit her lip hard before she released it. Looked away. “Ok.”
“Ok, sweetheart.” His hand inched across the space between them. It hovered over her arm, tentative unsure, before it fell away.
The saddest of smiles ghosted Cassian’s lips, tugging at the corners but failing to blossom into something true. “Be kind to yourself.”
And that was it. 
Nesta walked away and didn’t look back.
Tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @wannawriteyouabook @lovelynest @melphss @a-trifling-matter @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @lavendergoomsltd @princessofmerchants-reads @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @amelie775 @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side
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cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year ago
Text
Hello, Mr. Monster (Six. Somnolence)
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Summary: Eros and Psyche inspired Soulmate!AU, Morpheus x female OC/reader
Masterlist
Chapter warnings: trauma, A/N: This is literally half of what I planned on for this chapter. Soooo. Yeah. One of the teasers for this chapter applies to chapter seven, lol. But the wait will be worth it! Thank all of you who've stuck around. <3 You are all dears and deserve big cups of tea and cuddles. Dream’s creations brought him stories.
6: Somnolence
They groveled before his throne by the dozen, sharing tales of the child Aisling – in need, protected by his arcana as she moved through the mortal plane, jetsam in the wake of a better life she should’ve lived. Hundreds more, many of them nightmares, told epics of the woman Aisling – tearing their anchors from the dreams of innocent mortals, protecting the most fragile dreams from harsh reality in quiet corners of the world where fantasy still thrived.
His creations brought these stories to trade for forgiveness the subject of their tales had already secured. Only a few shared their memories because they cared for her. They wanted their lord to see her as they’d found her, and how could the Prince of Stories not love a timely hero in a grand tale?
Some told him what they thought he needed to know. Facts about the mortal with his name and power etched in her soul.
He had his own story, one of a cage and a strange woman with true sight and curious magic. A woman who looked too hard at all the wrong things and freed him without promise or threat.
When he first saw her from his prison, when his restraints shattered and he could see properly for the first time in over a century, hope and loss nearly consumed him. He’d been aware of the place in his essence where a mark might grow before Earth gathered into a planet. Every time he fell in love, he waited for the name to appear. Trapped in his glass prison, cut off from anything that made him more than a fragile facsimile of a human shape, he hadn’t felt anything fill the empty space. He lacked the awareness.
How had he imagined meeting a soulmate? Not like that. Not as that – a nameless monster in a cage. She fled the moment she found him, and he imagined he could see Nada’s footprints in the sand as his true soulmate’s steps echoed over stone.
Perhaps it was for the best. The quaint hell of Burgess’s basement was no place for introductions, and he brought all his bereaved fury to bear in his escape. Even as he found his freedom, he found yet another treasure the magus and his son had stolen from him.
She had been hurt. Badly. And he had not been there. If Alexander Burgess hadn’t already earned his punishment, seeing the crude letters cut into Aisling Hunt’s heart over her own mark clinched his doom.
When she finally slept, he showed himself as everything he was not upon their first meeting. Her clever eyes, blinded by fear and expectation, did not see him. Did not know him.
Though he ached to be with her since the moment he truly saw her, though he yearned to repay her for ending his captivity, a hundred years of helplessness festered like a dark canker in the depths of his passion.
When she did not recognize him in that first dream, he did not rush to correct her ignorance. He welcomed it, and with her oblivious naivety, he took control. In the second dream, it was even intentional. So long as she did not know him, he was… safe. So was she. Or he liked to believe so. Safe from fear and confusion at the clear weft of their wyrds knotting them together through actions she believed entirely her own.
But now she knew him.
She’d seen his face, and the budding trust he’d savored as she came apart under his hands and tongue shattered like the finest glass. He imagined it like shards coursing through her blood. He’d seen as much in her eyes as she looked up from the hand of her captors, brought in silken chains to her monster, the entity she’d readily freed from Fawney Rig. Her growing faith, possibly even affection, cut her from the inside out, glittering in her eyes as she fought against the pain his face brought her.
Once again, he was shown to her as a monster, as a frightful king who might accept such a gift from the unseelie court. His lip curled at the thought.
He could not bear it. Though the two parts of him stood at war – the lover and the wounded king – neither exalted in her fear. Deep within, the mark cut him, too. Soothing her pain when she fell into his hands in their first dream together was far from selfless.
He wanted to chart her, like a star-filled sky, or an endless ocean reflecting those stars. He could sense the elements in her, the base reality of every living thing bound up in her tattered mortality. Wildfires and oceans. Sweeping winds and green fields.
And beyond that? She’d done more with the powers the fae cursed her with than he would’ve thought to ask. A touch of eternity beyond anything human tangled so deep in her soul he could never take it back, not without killing her.
He wanted to do terrible things. To pluck out her heart and wear it in a locket, sundering her from the waking world forever. To wrap her up in splendid charms and spells to make her forget anything she might miss outside the bounds of the Dreaming. To pull her deeper and deeper into himself until they were truly one, until she became a part of every aspect, even if it would destroy her. His desire ached to maul her in some way, to sate his hunger and leave a mark even mortal eyes could see.
At the same time, he’d gladly hand his nightmares the broken remains of any other – mortal, god, or angel – who threatened so much as the ease of her smile.
He yearned for her entirely, and he was not all light.
She felt so right in his grasp when he caught her up in the throne room. safe at last in the circle of his arms. But he was not free to hold her. He required her permission, her clear consent, a reciprocal yearning in word and deed, and until he had that, he must prove himself. He could not fail her again.
And so Lord Morpheus, dread King of Nightmares and ruler of the Dreaming slouched low in his seat, watching Aisling Hunt breathe, at rest in the perfect silence of oblivion as he waited at her side.
He hadn’t brought her to the rooms he began crafting as he rebuilt his kingdom from ruins. The bed was no less grand, the space fit for a goddess, but it was a thoughtless grandeur. Perhaps it was selfish, but he did not want her fear to spoil the joy he’d hoped she’d find… in her home. He did not want her first memories there to echo with terror and doubt.
“My lord?”
Lucienne hesitated in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back and brow furrowed with care. Though he wanted to close the doors and keep these quiet moments entirely for his own, his librarian had been the one to remind him of his soulmate’s fragility, and although she often provided insights he did not like, they were all the more invaluable for his distaste.
“I do not know what to do.” He looked from his love to his librarian, nearly as lost as he’d been when he first returned from his imprisonment, sitting below a throne governing nothing but broken glass and crumbled stone. Then he’d had a course to follow, a realm to repair, even if he hadn’t known where to begin. “There is no quest to fulfill. No correction to make. She is not even mine to repair, even where I am at fault.”
His former raven watched, shifting in place, but never taking her eyes from her master and the mortal he would love.
“Perhaps…” She paused, and Morpheus looked to her searchingly, grasping for hope in the wake of this latest failure. Taking it permission, she continued delicately, handling her ruler like the delicate pages of the library’s oldest tomes. “Perhaps a king is not what she needs at this time.”
He already knew that, but he could not accept it.
“Is my name not carved on her heart?”
“Morpheus, my lord.” Lucienne offered the correction like a balm to a blistered wound. “Not Dream of the Endless. You assume you know what her reaction will be when she wakes, but how can you predict someone you barely know? She knows even less of you, and I’m sure she has plenty of assumptions.”
He bristled. He already knew her, as he knew all dreamers. The facts of her life flowed through the Dreaming, but he only understood them as a mortal would know printed words on a page. They’d shared precious little time. Three dreams.
Would she ever trust him like that again, or had he lost her entirely in his carelessness?
He didn’t wish to agree with his librarian’s suggestion, but he had no ideas of his own, and he would not fail his little hero once again. Could not.
“What do you suggest, then?”
Drawing herself up, Lucienne unclasped her hands and folded them anew in the front, clearly itching for a book or ledger to occupy herself. “I don’t know her any better than you do, sire, but there are some who do. Why not… invite them to share their insights?”
Morpheus closed his eyes, calling to mind the many subjects who flocked to offer pieces of Aisling’s story. Most clasped nothing but small gems, scattered fragments of a grander jewel. But the ones she called friend, that walked the Waking world beside her…
He opened his eyes and looked through the Dreaming, reaching to the shores of Nightmare, where a beast with pretty manners turned at his call.
“Fine Gentleman. I summon you. Come to me.”
The nightmare followed his order, appearing in the room at the foot of Aisling’s bed as the shape of the realm bent to accommodate Dream’s will. Despite his decades in the Waking world, the nightmare had taken up his old duties admirably, and Dream expected Fin, as so many called him, would return the loyalty Aisling had shown him. She risked her freedom to safeguard the nightmare’s path home, after all.
Fin knelt, bowing to his king, but his eyes flicked to the bed, and Dream dismissed his respects. “Rise. You have leave to speak. There are answers I would have of you.”
The nightmare didn’t need to be told twice. Back on his feet, he gingerly touched the edge of the blue coverlet, and asked, “It’s true? The unseelie, they – Is she alright?”
“In body, yes.” Lucienne approached the far side of the bed, closing a semicircle around the sleeping mortal who’d caused so much concern. “But she had an attack of some kind, and none of us are sure what to expect when she wakes. Perhaps you have some experience with similar episodes?”
“I do.” The nightmare kept his attention on Lucienne and his hand a few inches from Aisling’s feet. History and affection bound them closer than oaths and debts. Rot green ghosted through Dream’s thoughts, and he wrestled the specter away as the nightmare explained. “She hasn’t had one in a long time, but she used to have panic attacks when she was younger. Bad ones.”
“And how did she treat them?” Morpheus demanded his creation’s attention. It would do the nightmare well to remember whose soulmate he’d been called to aid. It would do him well to remember his king.
Nothing of the beast faced the King of Dreams, only the gentleman, and though he kept his head down, his gaze fixed on Morpheus with iron determination.
“My lord, I have a suggestion you won’t like.”
There was much in the past hours Morpheus had not liked. He’d cut his throat to ease her thirst if need be or burn every star in the Dreaming’s sky to keep her warm. Sitting up in his chair, he prepared himself to bleed.
“What is it? What does she need of me?”
The nightmare didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch.
“Your distance, sire.”
Morpheus recalled the scene in the great hall. His destined soulmate. Alone, collapsing on his throne room floor, shaking and afraid. He wouldn’t have it.
“I will not leave her. She will not be alone.”
Her friend, the nightmare, shook his head. “She wouldn’t be alone. Any of us she knows could stay and mind her, but…”
Ah. Morpheus sat back in his seat, expression cooling as he realized they had only just reached the part of the suggestion he would not like.
“Speak.”
The nightmare took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and forged ahead like a soldier facing down a dragon.
“She was never afraid of you because you were powerful. She lived in fear that you’d take her choice.”
He gave his king a moment to consider the revelation, though even in his brief acquaintance, Morpheus had learned that much. But it was only a reminder, and he spooled out deeper knowledge like a bandage he could pull his friend together with.
“When she wakes up,” he said, “she’ll need to feel in control. Even in the Waking she took space for herself – to find the truth, redraw the borders around what she’d chosen and what she’d been told to choose. The greatest gifts you can give her are time and space.”
Drawing his hand back, letting his fingers drag over the covers, the nightmare bowed. Morpheus read more than respect in his creation’s bent spine. This was the obeisance of a supplicant, one begging for grace rather than offering fealty.
“She’s resilient, but give her a chance to find her feet before you ask her to be brave again.”
Dream of the Endless did not smile down on his creation. The nightmare had been right. He did not like this plan at all, but he had asked, and the nightmare spoke truly. As a true friend.
Loathe as he was to banish himself, he would abide by the counsel of one who knew his soulmate well in the hope that he, too, may someday be allowed to know her.
“Very well.” He rose, and the chair crumbled to sand. “You and those of your choosing will serve as companions, guides, aides. The One Beneath will guard her.”
The nightmare took his orders and departed to gather his fellows. Lucienne waited for her lord, offering him silent company and support as he pulled himself from his little hero’s side.
He craved her faith. Her willing trust and all that would follow. It seemed, however, that he must first give her his own.
“When she is ready, she will come to me.”
.O.O.O.
She roused from the dreamless ocean to meet a crush of memories.
The fae delivered her. Morpheus took her. And now she woke in a bed she didn’t recognize.
He’d watched as the fae threatened to strip her of her own mind. And he’d – he’d always been –
She ripped the sheets back and fought her way off the plush mattress. Not awake enough to land on her feet, she fell to all fours, and the impact jarred her knees, sparked little agonies up her wrists. She dropped flat, belly-down beside the impossibly soft sheets and a blanket that looked like rolling waves caught the threads. She looked at the wonderous bedding with dull eyes. Then closed them, so she wouldn’t have to.
Everything here was his. Even… even she was. Now. Maybe.
She hated every beautiful thing in the room, but she hated herself more.
It was her fault. She let herself believe she was safe, and she paid in flesh and scars.
How many years of her life would she voluntarily trade to the fae to erase the past… however long they kept her, from the moment she passed through the mirror til now? And how long was that? Did she sleep for a few hours? Days? Had the Waking world seen a hundred years as her monster bundled her up in his castle?
Her breath caught like a sleeve on a doorknob, sudden and jarring.
It hadn’t really happened.
It had.
He’d promised her he wouldn’t steal her away or exploit what she offered. He helped with her pain and brought her pleasure, and she’d –
A cold hand with scabby skin and broken nails wrapped around her fingers.
She didn’t need to open her eyes to recognize Jeff.
She rubbed her thumb along an exposed tendon to assure him she was alive, and he squeezed back to prove he was listening, that he had her, that he would stay. That everything was alright and nothing truly terrible had happened as she slept.
That all was still as she remembered.
Despite what she’d seen.
Maybe it meant something that her monster let her oldest friend comfort her instead of demanding the burden of care himself.
But if the first promises had been lies, and his excuses for the mask must’ve been, then she couldn’t trust any peace offerings, either.
The nightmare held her hand, but he couldn’t ground her. She refused to settle in her skin. She knew what would happen when she did. Whole people wore skin – filled with pain, and regret, and longing. Nothing hurt more than that.
She’d been here before. Not on this floor, in this plane, within her monster’s domain. But a floor, and in the end, polished marble or scratchy, threadbare carpet, it didn’t matter once she landed. A floor was a floor. She became hollow enough to forget she was alive, bleeding from a war no one else could see or save her from.
She had to get up. Had to move. Had to save herself. No one else could, not even Jeff, or Fin, or Gault, or
– Morpheus.
The floor had warmed under her cheek, proof of a beating heart she didn’t want to feel, and she turned to press the other side of her face to a new, cooler patch of marble. Maybe the stone floor could leach enough heat to freeze her mind. Numb it. So she could forget.
Forget his face. His expression when she broke the seal in the basement of Fawney Rig and the way he looked down from his throne as the pansy swung above her eyes.
Forget his careful, beautiful hands, and how it felt to dissolve with him between the stars.
Forget the smell of earth. The feel of claws. Of spider silk… The dress. She was still wearing the damn dress.
Inspiration couldn’t lift her from the floor, but fear and disgust launched her upright as she sank her fingernails into the delicate lace and pulled.
The left sleeve tore from her shoulder like tissue paper. Just as it was meant to. A pretty thing for her soulmate to rip off her body. Titillating scraps of fabric that wouldn’t impede a lover. That offered even less protection than she’d thought.
She froze again. Her breath caught on a lump in her throat as visions of another destiny crept like a snake through her thoughts. One where the graceful fingers she was coming to adore destroyed the dress. Where she’d lost herself entirely. Where her monster became everything she feared.
She blinked furiously. Her wet eyelashes stuck together. The air in her lungs turned thick with agony she wouldn’t voice, and the elegant room turned to a blur as she crashed to her knees, clutching her arms close to keep from shaking apart. To protect herself. To hide the body the fae tortured into gleaming perfection for a monster’s pleasure.
She wanted the dress off.
She couldn’t stomach the thought of baring any more skin.
She couldn’t think beyond the tearing pain in her chest.
This is what came of leaving the floor and becoming a person again.
Hands cut through the fog, urgently curling around her shoulders. She jerked back, shouting wordless protest, and a voice reached out to find her where the hands could not reach.
“Aisling, you’re safe. We’re here. Can you hear me?” The voice plucked on memories. Dust and sunshine and green stains on her skin from cheap jewelry stewing in sweat.
“Gwen?” She only realized she’d asked when she heard her own voice. It didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right.
“Yes.” A smile behind hands offered in support, palms up, begging to be accepted. “It’s just me and Jeff. Can I – Are you…” The dream looked her like she was holding a knife to her lover’s throat. “Can you tell me what you need?”
No. She really couldn’t. It wasn’t safe, and she didn’t know.
But the fucking dress…
She pulled at the fabric. Carefully. Trying to express herself as words failed to coalesce.
“I want it off. I feel…”
She felt like she needed to scrape her skin off all over again, but even in her confusion, she knew Gwen wouldn’t help that far.
But Gwen knew her, and Gwen knew how to listen, even when dreamers struggled to speak. “I’ll draw a bath and find you something to wear.”
Aisling knelt where she’d landed and swallowed down rising bile. Even she forgot, on her better days, how physically painful fear could be. Jeff took her ankle, so she knew she wasn’t alone as Gwen swept out of sight to do as she’d promised. Her most loyal nightmare.
She didn’t mean to scare him.
Her chest ached with an old burn, and she knew she couldn’t turn to the same cure that soothed it last time.
Gwen returned swiftly, before Aisling even had time to miss her, offering her soft hands again for her friend to accept.
She still couldn’t stand the idea. Jeff was different. Jeff needed the comfort as much as she did, and there was no mistaking his hand for anyone else’s.
She found her feet on her own, still hugging herself, eyes on the floor. Her stomach ached. Her skin crawled under the sticky lace. As she followed Gwen into a side chamber, she couldn’t help noticing the view outside the great, arched windows. A whole world stretched beyond the glass – worlds upon worlds, even.
Her ordeal wasn’t over.
She couldn’t just jump in her van and leave the Dreaming. Boundless as the fears and fantasies of every living thing, aware of her presence as its monarch, it would hold her until he gave her permission to leave. As she walked through her – ostensibly – private rooms, she might as well be sitting in her monster’s palm again.
Gwen showed her to a sunken tub behind a screen, an indoor pond that scented the air with clouds of lavender. An indistinct set of clothes sat on a low table beside a stack of towels, and a small collection of soaps and bottles stood within reach of the water.
Gwen wrung her hands, fighting to smile. “Would you like help? I can wait outside if you prefer.”
“I’ll be fine on my own. Thanks.” Getting the dress off would end in a fit. Big, ugly tears and hacking sobs. She just knew it. She couldn’t stomach someone sitting beside her, trying to comfort her as she came to terms with everything the fae had done.
She had to wash this new skin alone. She needed to mourn. She needed to figure out which way to swim before she drowned in aimless grief, and worrying what she looked like or how she made a loved one feel would only pull her deeper. Fortunately, Gwen understood.
Her friend left. She stood alone in the opulent ensuite, pulling apart what was meant to be her dreaded wedding gown, trembling as she tried shielding herself from eyes that simply weren’t there.
She took her bleeding heart into the bath, and the warm water tried to swallow her pain. Washing and scrubbing until she couldn’t feel the faeries’ touch under her raw flesh brought a little relief, but missed her scars. The little marks on her fingers from careless accidents in the kitchen, places she cut for spell work, and a hundred incidental bumps and nicks. It looked alien now. Too smooth. Perfect in a way even a birth-bruised baby’s wasn’t. Her true sight detected residual magic that wouldn’t fade in her lifetime from the unicorn’s horn. It made her beautiful. The kind of beauty she could use as a weapon if she wanted. If she was dealing with a lesser creature than an Endless.
When her cuticles bled, she gave up trying to erase the potion’s effects.
And she cried.
She cried so much she was surprised the water level didn’t rise. The bath stayed hot and fresh as she tried flaying herself, and she wondered if had some secret healing power. Hardly shocking, all things considered, but she wished it was plain water she could turn pink with her human blood.  
She stayed too long, cleaning her hair, her face, the spaces between her toes. Her intention worked the scrubbing into a ritual. Not all the magic would leave, but she banished the traces of her captors’ essence. She peeled away their staring eyes and casual violence.
She was her own self, and she would make it so.
At last, cleansed in body if not in mind, she climbed out and began the process of becoming a whole person again, with feelings and all. Feelings, and legs, and wet hair.
The towels were so soft she nearly cried again, but she felt ridiculous enough to sniffle down her hysterics and start getting dressed. Gwen had brought something like elegant loungewear. Better than any sweatpants or old t-shirt, they draped around her without clinging or threatening to fall off. Comfortable. Woven from some fabric she’d never touched before but maybe dreamed of, like the plush toy she slept with as a child and the silky ripple of a stream over her fingers. A shawl waited at the bottom of the stack, and she pulled the extra shield around her shoulders like armor. Everything fit. Nothing pinched, or chafed. It couldn’t be the most attractive ensemble, but it felt like a promise. Reassurance stitched into the loose fit that covered her so well.
It wasn’t for display. She wasn’t for display. It was consideration. Patience. A tender embrace offered from a safe distance.
And she was beginning to doubt Gwen had chosen these clothes at all.
She shivered, pulling the shawl tight across her chest, and returned to the bedroom. Gwen rose, uncertain but ready for anything. Aisling waved her down.
“I still… I’m going on a walk.” The world beyond the windows was all Dream’s, but she needed an open sky and a breeze on her face. The screaming child in the back of her head wailed the polished marble felt like raw slate and the close air smelled like soil and mildew. It didn’t, but she wanted to break the association before it took root.
Twisting her hands again, Gwen nodded, and Aisling didn’t wait for someone to tell her she wasn’t allowed, or that she really needed to stop and put on shoes, or that she should act like a delicate lady and keep to the garden. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.
So many of her friends told her stories about the Dreaming. She wanted to love it.
She would outrun her fear, literally if she had to.
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Cobalt!
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ladamedusoif · 2 years ago
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Visiting - Chapter Four: Save Me
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(Moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
Chapter summary: It's the morning after the night before, as the guests at Evan's Halloween party try to process his (alarmingly strong) cocktails - and Lydia tries to understand what her brain and body are trying to tell her about her feelings towards Ben.
Word Count: 3k
Rating: Explicit (18+) - from the start.
Content (chapter specific): SMUT (oral sex, f receiving; fingering); Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (she is 41, about to turn 42, and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; reference to relationship breakdown.
A/N: This chapter is shorter than usual - originally chapters 3 and 4 were going to be a single chapter but it makes more sense to separate them. Further A/Ns at the end, to avoid spoilers.
I'm not kidding when I say this is straight into smut.
The title of the chapter is inspired by Aimee Mann's song Save Me, which I've thought of as a very Lydia-coded song for a while:
See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.
Thanks, as ever, to @lunapascal and @julesonrecord for being so supportive and screaming along about these Beloved Dorky Idiots.
Taglist: @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal, @khindahra
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“I know you have another one in you, baby. For me?”
You don’t know how many times you’ve come. All you know is the wet heat pooling between your legs, the throbbing of your clit, and the tongue licking lightly at your soaking folds.
In the distance, there’s a furious sound, repeated over and over. 
“I can’t…”
He slips a long, thick finger into you, then another, sending your hips thrusting from the bed. “It’s okay, baby, come on now.”
His voice is so reassuring and calm, as if he wasn’t completely taking you apart for the umpteenth time. 
The noise continues, becoming rhythmic and more irritated. Even with this frustrating soundtrack, you can feel yourself becoming more and more aroused. 
“That’s it. That’s it, Lyddie.” 
At the sound of the nickname you steal a glance downwards. His dark eyes twinkle as he winks at you, and you let out a gasping cry as your body jerks upright and your eyes snap wide open. 
Daylight.
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Your head is pounding and the sunlight hurts your eyes as you turn, squinting, to look at the time on your sunrise alarm clock. 
There’s a needy ache between your legs. You peek down the bed, part of you half-expecting to see him there. It had all been so fucking vivid, so real. You gently put your hand between your legs, immediately feeling a soaking wetness. 
As your brain starts to wake up properly, you pause and fall back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell was going on in your unconscious mind. 
The noise that had provided the rhythmic soundtrack to your somnolent sexual scenario has resumed. You realise with a jolt that it’s the buzzer from your intercom, and leap out of bed.
Ani’s scowling face peers at you through the camera. Their grey morning suit has been replaced by a pair of gym leggings and their enormous tie-dye hoodie, and they’re holding two huge paper bags from McDonald’s. 
They’re still wearing the tiny Dracula tinted spectacles.
“I’m so sorry! I’m letting you in now, door’s open!”
You’ve hauled on a pair of lounge pants and a soft, ancient sweatshirt by the time Ani has made their way up the stairs and into your apartment. Your rumination over the meaning of your dream would have to wait, and you push the impossibly strong visual image of those brown eyes looking up at you from between your thighs out of your mind.
“Where the fuck were you? I thought something had happened to you. You weren’t picking up your phone, you weren’t answering the door, and I’m fucking so hungover oh my god.”
“I was asleep. You want some coffee or something? What’s in the bags?” 
Ani nods towards your tiny kitchen, and you lead the way. “I don’t normally do this, Lyd, but when I feel this bad the only solution is to eat too much McDonald’s breakfast and then regret it.” They plop the two big bags of food onto your counter. “I couldn’t remember if you were a veggie or not so I ordered two of every McMuffin variation.”
You hug them gratefully. “You’re a star, Ani. My body is screaming for this.”
That’s not the only thing your body was screaming for this morning. 
No. Nope. Push it away.
You put on a pot of coffee (there are two coffees with the breakfast order, but you suspect you’ll need much more) and grab some plates and paper towels. Ani unpacks the food, plucking a hash brown out of the bag and eating it as they do so.
“How did you get this, by the way? Surely you aren’t in a fit state to drive?”
Ani shakes their head and swallows a bite of fried potato. “McDelivery. Walked over, ordered it on the way, got it for here. Come on, girl, I need to sit on your sofa and let the carbs heal me.”
You carry the food the short distance to the living area and settle in, handing Ani a spare blanket as you wrap your crocheted granny throw around you. Then you remember last night.
“Where’s Cass?!”
Ani licks a glob of tomato ketchup from their finger. “Had to head back early to the city. We got to hold each other’s hair while throwing up this morning though, it was pretty special.”
You glance down at the egg and cheese McMuffin you’ve unwrapped, deciding to pause before they resume their story.
“She’s really sweet, though. And funny. And so, so fucking hot. That mouth! Jesus Christ. Sorry if that was TMI.”
You shift slightly, feeling yourself heating up, and smile over at your friend. “So you’ll see each other again?”
Ani shrugs, looking a little awkward. “Yeah, I mean…it’s a distance. But - yeah. I’d like to.” They nod to themselves. “Even if it’s just a hooking up thing. For now. We’ll see.”
For a moment you consider telling Ani about your dream. You decide to wait.
They sip from their paper cup of coffee. “You hear anything from Ben?”
Your voice is a little too high, too casual, but in their hungover state Ani doesn’t seem to notice.
“No, don’t think so? Should I have done?”
Ani reaches for another hash brown. “Nah, that’s not what I mean, it’s just cos he’s probably feeling it too this morning, and you were together pretty much all night and all… so I thought maybe he’d messaged you to check in.”
“I haven’t actually looked at my phone yet.” You get off the couch and go to retrieve it from your room.
“No shit, Sherlock. Ignore the ten missed calls from me.”
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“Hey, Lydia?”
Ben stands by the back door of Evan’s car, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted as he looks at you. The streetlight above is reflected in his glasses.
“Yes, Detective?”
He smiles and walks up to you. “Let me walk you to the door of the building, okay?” You start walking in step.
“You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s right there.” 
“Yeah, I know, but…what if the Zodiac’s around?” He raises his eyebrows over the frame of his glasses and you giggle quietly, still feeling the effects of the Spooky Margs somewhat as you reach the front door of the apartment block and key in your code.
He waits until you’re safely inside and about to close the door. 
“Thanks for making sure I got home safe, Detective. Message me to say you got home, okay? And thank you for saving me earlier.”
“Saving you?”
“From the fall? You got me just in time.” He casts his eyes to the ground for a moment before looking up and smiling. 
“Any time. Say the word, and I’ve got you. G’night, Lyddie.”
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BEN: sdlkhgiudflahlw!jkdh (1.30am)
BEN: what (1.50am)
BEN: so zzzzzzzzz right now sdfdkg 😴 (2.00am)
BEN: I’m so sorry, Lydia! Was trying to message you to say I got in okay and I was so tired and sleepy*. I’m so sorry, this is so embarrassing. *tired and drunk on Spooky Margs (8:45am)
BEN: Hope you aren’t feeling too bad this morning (8:55am)
BEN: Me right now (9:00am)
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He’s sent you a gif of Cameron Frye in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, tucked up in bed and saying “I’m dying”.
You giggle as you walk back into the living room, holding your phone. It’s a relief that you are able to communicate as normal with the real man, as opposed to whatever fictional avatar your sleeping brain cooked up.
LYDIA: I’m on my way over to borrow your dad’s fancy car!! (I’m not. I’m in no fit state. May never process those Spooky Margs. Welp.)
LYDIA: Dracula just showed up and I don’t know how they haven’t crumbled to dust in direct sunlight. 
BEN: *consults Bram Stoker* No, he’s got nothing on that scenario.
LYDIA: They’ve come equipped with McMuffins. Stoker didn’t count on that. Anyway, drink all the water! Have some coffee! But mostly water. 😊
“He’s alive, I’m guessing.” Ani has put back on the tiny dark glasses and is curled up in a corner of the couch.
You hold out your phone with the gif. “Sent me this at 9am. Poor Ben.”
Ani rolls their eyes. “Poor Ben?? He’s not the only one.” They reach for their coffee. “Though I think he must have crossed the line from ‘merry and tired’ into ‘praying for the sweet release of death’ after we dropped you off last night. He was fine when you were there and then he was all quiet and leaning against the window and shit. I think Evan was afraid he was gonna hurl in the back seat of his car.”
“I know you have another one in you, baby. For me?”
The heat surges in you, hangover or no hangover. You push the memory of your dream away again. You’re no Freudian, but you read enough “what does my dream mean” magazine articles as a teenager to know that dreams are often symbolic, not literal. 
A sex dream does not mean you want to have sex with someone, for example. 
You rationalise it quickly in your brain. It's been a while since you've had the kind of comfortable, safe physical closeness you had with Ben last night. He was obviously on your mind. Makes sense that he might turn up in a random situation in your unconscious.
And it wasn't like you hadn't had the odd, harmless, platonic crush on friends in the past. Right? All good.
Ani looks at their phone and looks over at you. “Evan says hi. Wants to know if you’re okay. Said you were chatting shit about moustaches or something to Poor Hungover Benjamin last night.” They cackle to themselves.
“The fuck? I don’t remember doing that. What does he mean?” 
Ani looks up and proceeds to deftly tap out a reply to Evan. The response is immediate. “I have no idea what he’s on about.”
You glare, head thumping. “Just fucking tell me.”
“He says: ‘Just tell her In The Cut, the female gaze, moustaches.’” “What?” And the memories start to clear through the haze. “That’s not…oh FUCK.”
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After the lipsync, Ani and Cass had disappeared. You had gratefully moved from the arm of the couch to stretch out at one end. Ben had turned his body to face you from the other end, resting his legs on the sofa. 
“Holy shit, are those Halloween socks?” 
Having discarded his black lace-ups, the full extent of the pattern became clear: little white ghosts dotted across a black background, interspersed with grinning pumpkins and skeletons.
Ben blushed a little, but wriggled his toes contentedly. “They’re thematic! I like it. I like a good thematic sock.” 
You raised an eyebrow, leaning back into the sofa, still buzzed from the cocktails. “I am pretty sure those aren’t canonical for the costume, cute and all as they are.”
He pulled an “I am so affronted” face, feigning total indignation. “You don’t know. Maybe you just haven’t watched Zodiac closely enough, Lyddie.”
You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. “Well, I’ll just have to watch it again, won’t I? ‘M gonna check the director’s cut and everything.”
He couldn’t sustain the playacting and chuckled, deep and warm. “Should actually watch that movie again. ‘S so fucking good.”
You nodded along, eyes closed and humming in agreement. “Mmmhmm. Though, let’s be real,” you said, shifting yourself forward slightly, “the best cop Ruffalo? In The Cut.” You sat back against the sofa again. “So, so hot.”
Ben exhaled in agreement. “So hot. Whew.”
It was at this point that, in hindsight, your mouth was in gear before your brain was properly engaged.
“‘S like, perfect example of the erotic female gaze, right? But also about the vulnerability of the women?”
You always did struggle to stop talking when you were off on one about cinema. Or books. Or art. Or specific episodes of 30 Rock. Or anything you were passionate about.
Throw in a couple of Spooky Margs, and your mouth was going to run and run.
You raised an eyebrow and looked dreamily into the middle distance.
“And then there’s the ’tache.” You sighed. “Swear to god, that movie gave me a ‘dodgy cop with moustache’ thing. Whewww, he could get it. So hot. And kind of a form of feminist praxis.”
“Hot praxis,” Ben echoed.
Other than that, his only response was to distractedly start running a finger over the hair on his upper lip, a pensive look on his face, as if he was pondering a very deep question. 
You hadn’t realised Evan and David were watching and listening attentively from an armchair, a couple of feet away.
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You sit with your head in your hands as Ani pats you on the back with one hand, another McMuffin in their other.
“I honestly don’t know why you’re so stressed about this. It’s not like you said ‘y’know what Benjamin, I love your moustache and you could get it’. You were specifically referring to a movie and an actor. You weren’t even saying ‘I like all fictional moustachioed cops.’”
You moan into your hand as the cringe and hungover paranoia threaten to break you.
“It’s just so mortifying. First I nearly fall on the goddamn floor, then I start talking shit at him about cops with moustaches and hot feminist praxis and - why am I fucking like this?”
Ani chews thoughtfully. “Why are any of us like this?” They sip their (second) cup of coffee. “He’s not wrong, though, it would be hot praxis.”
It would probably feel less embarrassing if you hadn’t woken up thinking about…that. The sensation. The feeling of his (imaginary) mouth on you. The look in his (imaginary) eyes. The smile.
You pick up your phone and grimace. “Should I message him and explain?”
Ani looks horrified. “And explain what, exactly? I’m sorry I told you I thought Mark Ruffalo was hot with a moustache in In The Cut, and I’m worried you think I’m weird because you also have a moustache and I wasn’t being weird? Jesus, Lyd, be real.” They pause, and ask quietly: “You weren’t, like, actually trying to…suggest…?”
Their meaning hits you and your jaw drops. “No, I obviously wasn’t suggesting anything!”
‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks’, pipes up your inner Queen Gertrude.
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Ani helps you clean up and then heads back home for a long bath. Cass has been sending them messages all morning, and Ani’s little smile each time they get one makes you very happy indeed.
Not too far from your place, Evan and David are doing a final tidy up while their last few guests get ready to go for brunch.
“Is it wrong that I feel smug about not being hungover?” Evan asks, putting away the bottles of tequila and crème de menthe.
David chuckles, stacking plates in the dishwasher. “I hope the others aren’t too sick, though.” He closes the door of the appliance and sets the cycle going. “I meant to say, I didn’t know Barrow was so strict about discretion and staff relationships.”
Evan turns to look at him, expression confused, running a hand through his bright blue locks. “Discretion? Are you talking about us, or…?”
“No, I mean - I only realised after the fact that they didn’t go home together, and I wondered if that was some weird rule.” He closes his eyes and tries to recall names. “The scientist and the detective… Lydia and Ben?”
Evan pauses and then doubles over, laughing. “Oh, babe, no. They’re not together.” He continues wiping down the countertop. “They’re just close, he was the first person she met here, they’re total nerds together, they can get the nerding out without disrupting the rest of us, it’s just a whole vibe.” He motions with his hand, as if brushing the notion away.
David continues to look at him, arching an eyebrow. “Maybe. I guess everyone’s got friendships like that, huh. It was just…” He inhales. “There was just something. But then maybe I’m overthinking it.”
Evan nods, patting David’s arm. “I think you might be. Just because we're coupled up doesn’t mean everyone else is - or wants to be.”
David smiles and reaches for Evan’s hand, twining their fingers together. “Oh, so it’s ‘coupled up now’? Not just a ‘thing’?”
Evan plants a soft kiss on David’s mouth, and grins, before returning to the clean-up operation. David looks pensive.
“I don’t want to be crude about your colleagues, but - are you absolutely sure they aren’t even fucking?”
“Ex-cuse me?” Evan wheels around, horrified. “Yes, I am sure. Babe, if that was happening I would fucking know.”
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Your Sunday plans primarily involve putting on some laundry, and then napping in front of a comfort movie, accompanied by a huge bottle of water and strong, hot, sweet tea served in your biggest mug. And some cookies, of course.
“I’m allowed, I’m hungover,” you say out loud, to no one in particular.
By late afternoon, the laundry is done and haphazardly folded - anything neater was too taxing for your hungover brain to process. Wrapped up in your crochet blanket, you are starting to doze off in front of The Muppets when you notice your phone light up.
BEN: Was ‘Hurdy-Gurdy Man’ always this sinister or is it just because of this movie?
He’s included a photograph of what you presume is his TV, and you recognise one of the early scenes in Zodiac.
LYDIA: I’m gonna go with both? But I definitely didn’t associate it with serial killing before the film. Thanks Fincher!
Later, another picture: this time, Mark Ruffalo as Dave Tosche, complete with shoulder holsters.
BEN: Who the hell is this guy??
LYDIA: A really bad impersonator.
BEN: His hair is a lot better than mine though.
You pause as you consider your reply.
LYDIA: Hmmm
BEN: Hmmm?
LYDIA: It’s…of its time. A little heavy for my liking. Don’t sell yourself short.
BEN:
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LYDIA: Whoa. Uncanny.
The little dots indicating that Ben is composing a message flash intermittently. Eventually, you think he’s decided not to reply, and snuggle back into your blanket.
The screen lights again.
BEN: Maybe you're right about not selling myself too short.
BEN: I mean, he doesn’t even have a moustache. 😉
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(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)
Further A/N: I don't think there's a need for as many explanations or annotations on this chapter, but for reasons, I should probably provide some evidence of what Lydia's thinking of when she refers to the morally-dodgy, moustachioed cop (Det. Giovanni Malloy) played by Mark Ruffalo in Jane Campion's In The Cut (2003).
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(What do you mean, I think you have a type?)
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it-happened-one-fic · 2 months ago
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Hours in the Moonlight: Somnolent Gloaming - 1. Dead Memories and the Undead
Summary: You’d only just started getting used to the slight sleepiness that filled your evenings as you waited for Crowley’s next orders when they finally came. But the time has come for you to meet the oldest clan in this district as well as the multitude of vampires it houses.
Series Type: Gender-neutral reader/ Vampire AU/ series/ romantic/ angst/ angst with comfort/ fluff/ sfw/ platonic interactions too!
Trigger Warning: Vampire
Word Count: 2371
Hours in the Moonlight Master-List
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I didn’t even really know how much time had passed since Vargas had told me he would see if he could get Crowley to send me to the Diasomnia clan next. But it had been enough time that I was starting to get rather bored and had even pulled out one of my old books that I had read countless times in the past.
At first, it had been nice not having to go to a clan and evaluate potentially aggressive vampires. I had plenty of money to last me with the funds Crowley sent as payment for my job as his Hunter. But soon things had become dull, and I’d started visiting my friends.
I’d told both Vil and Leona about my hopes for evaluating the Diasomnia clan next and the reasoning behind it, but neither had seemed terribly happy. In fact, Leona seemed downright annoyed by the very name of the clan, while Vil had cautioned me to be extra careful if I did get to go there.
Kalim, for his part, had suggested I bring a gift when I got to go.
And in all honesty, we all knew that rather than a question of ‘if’ it really was a matter of ‘when.’
 Crowley had made it pretty clear that I was going to be evaluating all of the clans. The only one that might not be on that list would be the Pomefiore clan since they’d only just been formed.
For better or worse, I was going to end up at the Diasomnia clan at some point. Whatever that might entail.
I looked up from my book at the quiet sound of knocking on my window, wondering which one of the guys it was. Perhaps Vil?
I sat the book down and walked over, unhurriedly to the window, and pulled back the curtains only to find bright pink eyes staring back at me.
Sam’s face split into a grin as my own eyes widened and I hurriedly opened the window, “Sam?!” 
I couldn’t even keep my surprise at seeing him out of my voice, but he merely held up a hand, waving at me with a wide grin, “Long time no see, Little Imp. We had to decide if you were ready to evaluate the Diasomnia Clan, so sorry for the wait.”
His eyes were alight with amusement, but I found myself faltering as his words fully registered.
They’d had to decide if I was ready for the Diasomnia Clan? 
It brought to mind Vil’s warnings and had me frowning as I stepped back, giving Sam ample room if he decided he wanted to come in, even though I pretty well knew he was just going to lounge in my window like he usually did.
“And? What was decided?” I eyed him closely, and Sam chuckled slightly at my wary words.
“Well, you’re in luck, Little Imp. In light of what a good job you’ve been doing and your reasons for suggesting it, Crowley’s decided to grant your request. They’re already expecting you at the clan, so when can you be ready to go?” My eyes widened slightly at his words before I gestured to my bag that stayed packed with my various tools.
“Just give me a sec, I’ll be right down,” Sam nodded, an amicable bobbing of his head before he disappeared from my window.
I glanced down at the street in time to see him land lightly on his feet and begin strolling along as if nothing were amiss. I shook my head slightly, wondering if I would ever get used to that before I darted over to my nightstand.
My hands quickly found my cross necklace, and I clasped it around my neck. Letting it fall as if by habit under my shirt to rest comfortably against my collarbone.
Thoughts were already beginning to roll around in my head as I trotted out the door, down the stairs, and to the bottom floor. 
And my concerns only increased as Sam smiled at me, turned on his heel, and started to lead the way down the street in a perfectly cryptic fashion.
I knew that the Diasomnia clan had some ancient members from what Vil and Rook had told. And similarly, Jamil had implied that the clan was also quite old since their records apparently dated back quite a ways. Perhaps that was why Vil had told me to be careful and Crowley had been deciding if I were ready? All Leona had said about them was something about some lizard whom he seemed to particularly dislike. And while I didn’t really know if were-creatures could be reptilian, that was my best guess at this point.
I felt myself frowning more as I silently walked with Sam, wondering when we would reach the Diasomnia clan headquarters. We were steadily heading closer and closer to the outskirts of the historic side of town.
In the distance, I could see an old building rising over the other houses and trees that now crowded it. Hiding it from the view of the street and giving it an especially ominous appearance that somehow seemed to call out to anyone who gazed at it for too long.
The perfect Hollywood fit for a creepy old house hiding something that probably shouldn’t be messed with.
In fact, it was a little too perfect.
I leaned forward, my eyes staying on the building as I spoke softly, “Um… Would that happen to be the Diasomnia Clan right there?”
Sam chuckled but nodded, barely glancing my way as he answered, “That obvious, huh?” He shook his head slightly before continuing, an amused smile still on his face, “Yeah, that’s it. The only reason they stay hidden is because it’s difficult to actually get into the building because the gate is so overgrown and off the main road, so most people don’t even bother trying. And even if they do, this clan is good at running people off.”
So saying he turned off the sidewalk, lifting one leg to step over a small bush and crunch down onto a veritable pile of limbs, sticks, and who knew what else.
He held out his hand to me, politely helping me over the bush before he turned and headed off down what looked about like an old goat path into the underbrush that concealed the ancient building.
I glanced around, frowning as I spotted the overgrown metal gates that gave way to a fence that seemed to surround the area. As if operated by a motion sensor, the gates opened as soon as we approached, and I felt my eyebrows raise as we passed through them.
“What was this place originally?” It felt like my head was on swivel as I continued to glance around at what had probably once been a glorious entrance to the mansion grounds themselves. Now it was mostly overgrown, with roses and vines climbing up the fencing in their futile efforts to reach any sunlight that might shine down between the trees’ now bare limbs.
Sam glanced my way, watching as I looked around the two of us and the notably daunting environment we now stood in. 
But unlike the other clans, this place actually had the feeling of the setting place of a vampire story. Campy or otherwise.
“I heard that the head of clan’s second bought the place, and then, after the clan moved in, let the place get run down like this so no one would come here and bother them,” I nodded idly at Sam’s words. Silently wondering how much money it would take to buy a place like this that had so obviously been magnificent many years ago.
But now… Now it was more like a haunted mansion where only dead memories resided. Or rather, dead memories and the undead themselves, in this case.
I couldn’t deny that the building was beautiful, though. An architecture of stone and metalwork that stood tall and proud despite its age. Almost like it was daring us to approach it.
And it was true that while I’d been nervous when first visiting the other clan’s headquarters, this building on its own was almost more daunting than any of the past experiences had been. 
This one actually looked like it might hold something that wasn’t meant to be seen by the normal person. Instead, the only ones who would go near it would be the hapless protagonists of a horror movie.
Or someone like me. A person who had business with the creatures that would reside in such a building. Once grand and filled with character, but now haunted looking in the way it loomed over us.
Sam knocked on the door calmly, looking around at the shadowed porch with vague interest until the thick wooden door creaked open, drawing both of our attention.
A short man looked between the two of us, his bright red eyes blinking at us. And despite the fact the building matched the entire vampire aesthetic perfectly, this man did not, what with bright pink streaks in his short, otherwise black hair. 
If anything, he looked more like a young teenager who was still experimenting with his look and most definitely wasn’t what I’d expected.
But, when he spoke with a smile crossing his face that didn’t even try to hide his fangs, his voice was far lower than what I’d been prepared for too, “Ah, you must be the head-vampire’s new Hunter. We’ve been expecting you.”
I faltered when he addressed me rather than Sam before nodding hurriedly, “Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He let out a light giggle before stepping aside and gesturing into the building, “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine, child. But come in, both of you. Malleus will be wanting to see you after all.”
Me and Sam followed the little man in silence. As per usual, Sam was relaxed. His eyes stayed forward and on the path while I, on the other hand, was glancing around at the aged interior of the building.
It was dark in here, something that surprised me since the other clan’s headquarters had been better lit. But somehow it fit the building’s overall character, and, as I looked around, each room seemed to be very well decorated.
This clan also seemed to be rather large. Vampires filled the building and glanced at us as we went by.  
Their eyes lingered on me, but no one approached or even leaned out of a room to continue to gaze after us. Curiosity and arrogance tinged with hunger filled their stares, though.
Sam glanced over at me, letting himself drift closer as he began to talk in a low voice, letting some space spread between us and our guide, “The Diasomnia clan is an old one, with a variety of characters as its members. Both Malleus, the clan’s head, and Lilia, the clan’s second, are ancient, though. They’ll probably have the records you want, assuming they exist. But remember that you’re also here to evaluate the clan.”
I nodded silently, my eyes staying on Sam as the man continued with the slightest of smiles on his face. And at this point, I was honestly beginning to wonder if anything could phase him at all.
“We aren’t very suspicious of this clan simply due to its age, but we’ll be checking up on you fairly regularly just like usual. And you may want to brace yourself,” I frowned at Sam’s words, but the young man’s grin only spread as he bobbed his head to a door we now approached, “He’s going to look a bit different than what you might expect.”
I turned, noting the door we were coming up on and how our pace was slowing. And, confirming my suspicions, our guide turned to look at the two of us with a little smile, his voice taking on a slightly lilt, “Here we are.” 
With only those words, he turned. Grasping both of the curved door handles and pulling them open as if they were weightless despite how obviously thick they were.
I inhaled, half expecting fog to come pouring out of the doors like it did in some b-rated horror movies, but it didn’t. Instead, as we entered the large room, the first thing I saw was a young man sitting on a dark-colored chair.
On either side of him stood two other men. One, whose hair was a shock of pale green, stood tall. Almost like he was at attention as he looked our way with a slight frown. The other young man was, conversely, more relaxed as he glanced towards me with almost tired eyes.
My own eyes widened slightly as I recognized him. But then he was quite distinctive, with such pale hair and fascinating eyes. 
This was the man who was a human in a clan of vampires and the man I’d bumped into on Halloween. Silver, Vil had called him.
I swallowed slightly before forcing my gaze back to the young man in the chair. He must be Malleus, leader of this clan.
 It wasn’t hard to guess what Sam meant about him looking a little different than I might expect. After all, the dark, slightly curled horns protruding from his head and delicately pointed ears certainly weren’t something that any other vampire I’d ever seen had.
He tilted his head, glowing lime green eyes focusing on me and I felt myself go still.
Somehow, this man practically oozed power. Perhaps it was the way he held himself with a confidence that was on par with Leona and Vil’s despite also being different.
A smile curved slowly across his face, and I swallowed. 
I was getting used to every vampire I met being absurdly attractive, but somehow it always felt incredibly unfair. Though it might have been the focused way this man was looking at me that made it quite so bad this time.
“So we finally meet.” His voice rolled out into the room, almost like it was trying to cover the entire space, and I felt myself straighten slightly. Bracing myself even as he continued with an almost amused smile, “What do you need, little Hunter?”
If you would like to read more:
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psid99 · 1 month ago
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Items are arriving hehe
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ivo-oz · 11 months ago
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🩸🩸🩸
ℌ𝖊𝖊𝖇𝖊𝖘 : 𝕲𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖊
〖chapitre 3 〗
Attention, ce texte sera peut-être modifié à l'avenir afin de le perfectionner
Dans un sursaut, mes yeux s'ouvrent dans une salle sombre au mur de pierre. Toujours à genoux, je constate que ma situation n'a nullement changé. Les mains clouées à la froideur de la pierre, le sang s'échappant lentement des plaies béantes, peignant ainsi la pierre en rouge.
C'est drôle, il m'a fallu deux jours pour ne plus y penser.
Les premiers jours se sont remplis de cris et de pleur.
Ridicule !
La futilité de cette douleur me rend tellement honteuse.
Je ne penserai pas que l'humilier devant les représentants du royaume le pousserait à me souhaiter autant de mal. J'aurais préféré garder la mobilité de mes mains. Mais bon, si c'est le prix à payer.
Les blessures que je porte en moi sont plus grandes que ses clous.
Il est vrai que c'est la première fois que je suis confronté à de tels châtiments physiques, mais j'aurais dû me réjouir.
Non, ne crie pas, ce n'est pas de la douleur.
Quelle image de moi j'aurais si je me réabandonne à cette facilité ? J'ai subi plus grave, plus longtemps.
Ce ne sont que des plaies, elles s'effaceront.
Mes vraies blessures, elles n'ont pas cicatrisé et pourtant, je les supporte. Succomber à de telles frivolités serait juste dévalorisant.
La vraie douleur n'aurait plus de sens.
Vous êtes en retard. J'en pouvais plus de lutter contre le sommeil pour m'éviter de m'ouvrir la peau davantage.
Un grincement métallique interrompit ma somnolence.
La porte est ouverte.
J'ai beau être dos à elle, je peux quand même sentir le son des talons frapper la pierre dans ma direction.
Un son grave, puis aigu, grave et encore aigu.
Une paire de bottes désassorties.
Ho, c'est Fides qui a été chargé de me libérer.
Tout en entrant dans mon champ de vision, Fides arrache les clous qui bloquaient mes mains.
J'ai . . .
Je n'ai pas crié,
j'ai pu me contenir haha,
mon sourire partit immédiatement quand je découvris les énormes trous béants que contenaient mes mains dorénavant.
On peut y voir à travers.
C'est répugnant mon dieu.
Mes mains
qu'es que . . . comment . . .
mon dieu.
—Mes excuses, Père Inhonoris a tardé à me donner les clés.
— Vous pouvez me soigner ?
— Je n'ai pas ces compétences, un médecin vous sera assigné dans deux jours.
— Vous vous moquez de moi, mes plaies vont rester ouvertes pendant cinq jours en tout. Je ne pourrai plus jamais écrire.
Un ange passe.
— Vous m'envoyez navrer, mademoiselle.
— Navrée ‽ Vraiment ‽ Ôte-moi ce mot de ta bouche quand tu me parles ! Mais quel genre de soutien hypocrite, tu penses me faire avaler ! Ça ne sert à rien de me mentir si mon état ne t'inspire que de l'indifférence !
Le souvenir de mes mains perforées aurait presque pu être oublié si mon sang ne s'était pas mis à accélérer dans mes veines.
Mon cœur hurle dans ma tête, m'obligeant à me taire.
— Pardonnez-moi Je m'exécute.
—Avez-vous du temps à m'accorder ?
J'aurais besoin de coudre mes plaies.
Bien sûr, je ne voudrais pas abuser de votre gentillesse.
Vous pouvez déléguer le travail à un de vos collègues si c'est trop demandé. J'espère que je n'ai pas manqué de politesse, vous savez, trois jours sans pouvoir pleinement dormir me font perdre pas mal de notions.
Comme la clémence par exemple.
Je sens l'air frais de la pièce effleurer les cavités de mes mains. Le sang a arrêté de couler et fait maintenant place au vertige et à la fatigue.
Toute pressée, elle s'engouffre dans l'ouverture de la porte.
Elle ne m'aide même pas à monter...
Haha, elle doit avoir peur de demander . . .
Haaaa, j'en avais besoin tout de même.
3 minutes plus tard, Fides accourut pour m'éviter un malaise sur les marches et se mit à m'aider à atteindre ma chambre.
Ho, le temps, et puis qu'est-ce que c'est au final ?
Que le soleil finisse couché une fois la fin des escaliers atteint. Alors ainsi soit-il
— N'ayez crainte, nous serons bientôt à vos appartements.
Hum
Mes yeux balaient le sol et les murs comme un pendule oscillant entre le conscient et l'inconscient. Un pendule se stoppant net lorsqu'une certaine odeur lui parvient.
Odeur de café . . . de miel.
Cela me sortit de mon vertige.
11h
— Que faites-vous ? Votre chambre se situe dans le couloir gauche.
Il est 11 heures, grand-père doit être dans son bureau.
— Ne me crois pas si bête. Je vais simplement dire bonjour à Papi.
— Vous entendez vous, c'est lui qui vous a châtié. Ne l'humiliez pas davantage, il risquerait de vous bannir.
— Tu n'es pas convaincante, cesse de mentir, bon sang.
Boitant en direction de la porte, je finis ma route en m'affalant sur la poignée de la porte.
Haha, tant pis pour la surprise.
L'iris de ses yeux dilaté, la rigidité qu'adopte son corps. Toute cette attention pour moi. Il s'efforce d'être calme et ça m'est tellement jouissif.
Je pousse la porte en m'aidant difficilement de mon épaule, mes mains étant inutilisables.
Grand-père est juste derrière.
L'encadré de la porte dévoile progressivement son visage et les émotions qui le parcourent quand il découvre le mien.
Finalement, je ne sais que dire, mon esprit m'échappe, des idées, des bribes me viennent, mais les paroles demeurent insaisissables.
Pourquoi est-il aussi surpris ? Pensait-il me soumettre ?
Tu ne me connais pas assez.
Que pense-t-il de moi ? Que penserait Inhonoris Cornecuus ?
Toute sa vie et son existence ont servi à bâtir cet empire, à se hisser au rang de roi. Être à son niveau est la seule motivation qui me pousse à me faire violence dans mes études.
Enfin, avec les blessures, ça va être plus compliqué.
En marchant ou plutôt vacillant vers lui, le sang pulsant dans mes mains m'empêche de continuer.
Aucun de mes muscles actifs ne m'épargne de douleur.
Je lève faiblement ma main et avec un grand sourire, le plus beau que je puisse faire, je le salue avant qu'un voile noir ne mette fin à mon geste.
SUITE (un jour . . . ) PRECEDENT
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valerielemercier · 8 months ago
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Près d’un arbre sur un banc Un vieillard somnole Il repense à sa vie, à l’enfant qu’il était Au bonheur de grandir, à l’odeur de craie Oh, gémit-il, pourquoi ai-je vieilli  Pourquoi mes jambes lasses ont cessé de courir Pourquoi les hommes enfin finissent par mourir Tout à coup il s’éveille, il s’éveille dans le vent Il vient de recevoir sur ses genoux pliés La funeste dépouille d’un oisillon mort-né Saisi par le spectacle du sinistre embryon Gisant, sans vie, gluant, dessus son pantalon Il rend grâce au seigneur de cet enseignement Que me plaignais-je ingrat de n’avoir plus vingt ans J’ai pu à loisir pendant de longues années Voir poindre le jour, les blés, et puis l’hiver, l’été Tandis que cet oison, tout innocence et tout espoir Est mort soudain sans voir Ni même le jour ni même le soir André-Guy Nartout
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