#When he actually EXERTED that power over HER she was quite taken aback

[spookieloop]

Torturing myself with thoughts of Durge potentially having a very unintended experience the first time she goes on that little weave date with Gale.

.

What if she intends to kiss him in the weave, but her fractured mind conjures up the image of Gortash instead after she pulls away.

It's who she really wants, she just doesn't remember.

Gale is none the wiser, until the weave slips away to reveal a panicked Durge...

Trying to explain what she saw?

Trying to brush it off?

Who is that man burned into what's left of her brain matter? Who was he to her that the weave would pull him forth when she made the decision to pursue Gale?

And laying eyes on him again for real, at Moonrise...

Maybe she finds the Prayer for Forgiveness, and her hands are shaking as she reads, knowing that she penned this.

To her father.

Her God.

To Bhaal.

Scelaritas's words suddenly make sense.

"He would forget his god for you, but you won't for him. Of that I know."

She did forget her god once, it seems.

For Gortash.

After that, she goes to Wyrm's Rock to meet him alone, because she has one burning, inescapable question.

"Who are you to me?"

[fidemcanem]

❛ ♡ ❜

send  ❛ ♡ ❜  to suddenly hug my muse (not accepting) | @eccentricauror

It’s 1975. Nymphadora is three; Sirius is uncertain, and Andromeda is doing the washing up (by hand).

“I just don’t know how much longer I can bear it,” Sirius says glumly, and reaches out to tweak Nymphadora’s nose. She laughs, and he lets her catch his fingers the next time he tries. He doesn’t get to visit often—between school and Walburga, he’s not exactly at liberty—but he never passes up the opportunity. Andy has always been his favourite cousin, and (actual complicated familial ties aside) he’d claimed Nymphadora as his honorary niece almost at once.

Mostly, he’s just sort of sad that he can’t play with her as Padfoot. Andy would go spare, if she found out what he’d done, though, so that’s off the table. Perhaps one day when she’s old enough to promise to keep a secret, and Andromeda and Ted are elsewhere.

“Puppy,” Andromeda sighs—she’s called him that since he was five or six, and the irony isn’t lost on him—and dries her hands off. “You’ve got to stop acting like your mother rules the world. She doesn’t, you know.”

“She might as well,” Sirius mutters. “Until I’m seventeen, anyway. Get off, you little monster, that’s my hair.” Dora laughs again, tugs the handful of hair that she’s caught in her fist, and screws up her nose. All at once she’s wearing Sirius’ hair. He grins down at her, and the fondness in his chest is almost an ache.

“Well that’s only, what? A year away?” Andromeda points out.

“Almost two. Hey, who wears it better?” Sirius lifts Nymphadora so that they’re side by side.

“Mum, I got Sirius’ pretty hair!” his little cousin chimes in. She pronounces his name Sirrus. He kisses her face, and when she squeals, he does it again and again and again, scattering affection over.

“You look lovely, darling,” Andromeda says.

“Thanks.”

“I was talking to Nymphadora. She has less power over you than you think, Sirius.”

“Nymphadora?”

“Stop being deliberately obtuse. Your mother.” She puts her hands on her hips, and Sirius settles Nymphadora onto his lap, hoping that the sight of her own, beloved child might shorten the lecture that he’s clearly about to receive.

No such luck, apparently.

“How do you think I ended up here, Sirius? With Ted, and Nymphadora?”

“Well, one had quite a lot to do with the other, I imagine—”

“Sirius.” He rearranges his features, replacing his lascivious grin with an expression of rapt and somewhat unconvincing attention. Nymphadora squirms in his lap, arms outstretched, and Andromeda scoops her up. “It was all me, Sirius. I didn’t wait for my family to stop expecting me to marry well and play their blood-purity games. I didn’t wait to be allowed. I know it might seem scary, but the only person who can get you away from your mother is you.”

She’s probably right, but Sirius is fifteen and not as brave as everyone seems to think he is, and the idea of standing up to his mother is one that he can’t quite bear. It’s nice enough to imagine—grand gestures and pithy parting remarks—but thinking about the reality of it makes his stomach turn.

“She might still get struck by lightning,” he points out, mutinously. Andromeda sighs, and Nymphadora reaches back out for Sirius. He stands to kiss her head and she latches onto him without warning, tiny hands wrapping around his neck to hold him close. She’ll never feel like this, Sirius knows, and is almost unbearably glad of it.

It’s 1977. Nymphadora is five; Sirius is uncertain, and Andromeda is making a Christmas wreath.

Questionable ‘help’ arrives in the form of Sirius and Nymphadora, hands full of leaves and twigs, other bits and pieces scavenged from the garden that the precocious five-year-old had decided would suit being added to their Christmas decorations. Andromeda looks at the pile and them up at Sirius, who shrugs and grins.

Taking a seat, he pulls Nymphadora up onto his lap with an oof. She’s grown since he last saw her, and today she’s sporting festively red hair, framing her face in a hundred finely wrought curlicues.

“It’s weird,” he says. “Knowing I’ve had my last Christmas at Hogwarts.”

His tone is light, but there’s a fierce and aching sadness at the thought. As they get steadily closer and closer to the end of his seventh year, he finds himself desperately clutching at the days as they pass, unwilling to let them spiral away from him. Andromeda doesn’t miss a trick, and her hand rests—briefly, comfortingly—on his for a moment.

“Next year you’ll get to make your own Christmas,” she says.

“With James and Lily, I s’pose,” Sirius agrees. “If they’re not honeymooning somewhere.”

“Oh!” Andromeda says, delighted. “Are they engaged?”

“Might as well be. ‘Dora, pass me a pinecone, will you?” She leans across the table and takes a long moment to select the perfect one, which she tips into his hand.

“This one,” she says, decisively, and then she watches him with wide, grey eyes as he flicks his wand, and the pinecone shivers and turns a deep red. He hands it back and she laughs excitedly. “Now remember. Red is the best colour.” He tugs at her red hair gently and she looks pleased.

Andromeda, on the other hand, flicks a berry at him.

“You can always come here,” she points out. Nymphadora lights up.

“Yeah!” she echoes. “Uncle Sirius, stay for Christmas!”

“You just want another present,” he says, mock-accusatory. She doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed at the fact, grinning a gap-toothed smile and plastering on her best innocent face.

“Maybe if you didn’t spoil her so much,” Andromeda mutters, but it’s fond.

“Next year, maybe,” he tells her, and is secretly pleased at the invitation. He catches sight of his watch, and grimaces. “Right now, Uncle Sirius has to go and find all the presents he hasn’t bought.” Which, if he’s honest, includes all of them that aren’t for Nymphadora, Andromeda, and Ted, which were all picked up on the way here. Andromeda’s amused look suggests she might have guessed it.

Nymphadora hugs him tight when he says goodbye, face pressed into his leather jacket.

“You smell nice,” she tells him.

“Not as nice as you,” he tells her, and swings her around until she’s laughing, and kisses Andromeda on the cheek.

It’s 1980. Nymphadora is eight and had decided she wants to be called Tonks; Sirius is uncertain, and Andromeda is wearing worry on her brow that wasn’t there a few years ago.

“I just don’t want you to do be reckless,” Andromeda is saying, low and urgent and concerned, when Nymphadora—Tonks—comes charging in through the door, cardigan buttoned up wonky, and long, dark hair streaming behind her. She’s breathless, cheeks stained pink from exertion, and she barrels towards Sirius at a run.

“Uncle Sirius!”

Andromeda’s face is all at once smooth and smiling, as if the conversation they’d just been embroiled in hadn’t even happened. Sirius struggles to switch it off so quickly, but catches Tonks when she hugs him and squeezes her tight.

“Is that your motorbike outside?” she asks. “Can I have a go?”

“Depends,” Sirius says. “Do you want your mother to skin me alive?”

And Tonks turns a hopeful face to her mother who’s already shaking her head vehemently. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Nymphadora—”

“Tonks,” comes the stubborn interruption.

“—when you’re grown up, you can make your own bad decisions.”

“Oi,” Sirius says, indignantly. “Are you suggesting that my preferred mode of transportation is a bad decision?”

“Until then,” Andromeda continues, as though Sirius hadn’t said anything, “I’m vetoing this one.” Tonks stamps her foot and rolls her eyes, and Sirius fishes something out of his pocket; his fingerless biking gloves, dark leather and still new, edges stuff and unyielding.

“Better keep these until then,” he says, and tosses them to her with a wink. She pulls them on—a little big for her hands—and holds her hand up for a high-five. He obliges. “Go on. Go show your dad.”

She takes off at a run. Sirius watches her go with a soft smile on his face, but when he turns back to his cousin, he finds her looking utterly, absolutely wretched.

“Andy,” he says, taken aback at the way she looks like she’s about to cry. “What? C’mon. Promise I won’t teach her to ride it until she’s at least ten.” She half-hiccoughs a laugh, shaky hand rising to cover her mouth.

“I just need you to be careful, puppy,” she says, imploringly. “I need you not to do anything stupid.”

“I’m not doing anything stupid. I can’t just—sit at home and do nothing.” Her expression sours, brow pulling down low and dark, and for a second, she looks every inch a Black once more.

“Like me, you mean?” she demands.

“No!” Sirius reaches out for her shoulder. “Fuck, Andy, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Fuck is a bad word.”

There’s a long, drawn-out moment where they stare at each other in faint surprise, and then Sirius turns to see Tonks in the doorway behind them. She’s got her hands on her hips, and Sirius’ gloves still on, and she’s wearing her mother’s face, every detail perfect but a slightly smaller scale. She’s even got the glare down.

Sirius ducks his head, and chokes down a snort.

“Sirius!” Andromeda hisses, and smacks his arm. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s pretty funny,” he says, his voice a little strained from holding down his laughter. Tonks grins, unrepentant, and it’s clear enough that whatever else she might have inherited, the edge of rebellion that lurks in his and Andromeda’s blood is there, too.

It’s 1995. Tonks is 22, or maybe 23—hard to remember, when so many birthdays have been missed—and Sirius is uncertain.

“You used to look way cooler,” Tonks tells him, with a tremulous smile tugging at her lips.

“You used to be way nicer about me,” he counters, with a hard swallow.

When she reaches up to hug him, to grab him with a fierce relief, he can’t help but notice that she’s wearing leather gloves: fingerless, dark, well-worn. They fit her now, but when he closes his eyes and returns the embrace, he remembers an eight-year old with loose gloves and a mischievous smile.

Certainty settles like snowfall, blanketing and muffling all the doubts and qualms and questions. Everything’s changed, and Sirius barely knows from one day to the next who he’s expected to be, and what he’s expected to do.

But Tonks hugs him, and he knows: he’s lost too much, but he’s still got family.

[vampwrrrmistresslist]

Hurt 3

A/N:  This is part 3 of a finished fic, the links for which can be found on my mistresslist.

 Despite the unutterable horror of what had happened that fateful night, your life continued, almost as it always had.  Your father was powerful enough to quell any official hint of scandal from your having been missing those three days, saying that you had suddenly taken ill, and been quickly transported to the hospital.  However, whenever your parents questioned you as to your whereabouts for those fateful three days, the horror of what occurred threatened to overwhelm your mind, and you had such attacks and palpitations that they soon learned to keep their questions to themselves, having to satisfy themselves in the knowledge that you were at least, physically, whole.  

One night, however, your maman had slipped into your bed, wrapping her arms around you, and holding you close–like she used to do when you were a child, crying over a nightmare–quietly asking if anything, untoward, had happened, for which they needed to prepare.  Though your answer was wrought from you with tears, you were at least grateful for the knowledge that nothing of that sort had been visited upon your person.

The scandal from Jongin’s disappearance, especially after his having been by your side all night, was far more difficult to handle.  You had told your parents that you didn’t know where Jongin–Monsieur Kim–was, which was technically true, your having no idea what Monsieur Boudreaux had done with his body.  They relayed that information to his peers, who instituted a city-wide search, with the full cooperation of the police.

During all of this, the wagging tongues of the gossip mill were set aflame, though you were shielded from most of it, due to your papa’s position in society.  That didn’t stop the censorious looks from old broodmares, as you walked down the street, or the sniffs from your peers who had already been envious of the singular attention he had been paying to you, all along. While they–thankfully–didn’t seem to think that you had anything to do with his disappearance, you had, unfortunately been branded an inveterate flirt.

***

Upon arriving home, after seeing Etienne safely ensconced in the arms of his retainers, you slipped inside the servant’s entrance, and crept up the stairs to your bedchamber.  Monsieur Kim was right on your heels, and you quickly closed the door in his face. There was a scoff, then he walked through the door, raising an eyebrow at you.

Sitting at your vanity, you met his eyes in the mirror, as you reached behind yourself to undo the hooks and eyes of your gown.  “Sir?”

He averted his eyes, a slight blush suffusing the tops of his cheeks.  After a moment of further thought, he turned around completely, standing stock-still until you walked by him in your nightdress.  Climbing into bed, you turned on your side, facing away from him, and closing your eyes, desperate to achieve a few hours of sleep before you were awakened by Cosette.  

“You saved that boy’s life tonight.”

You sighed heavily. “Is it not enough that you endeavour to starve me to death, must you now also add sleep deprivation to your list of tortures?”

He was silent for a moment, but when he spoke again, the sound was right behind your head.  “I still don’t understand what happened.”

Huffing in frustration, you turned to see that Monsieur Kim was lying on his back beside you, his head on your other pillow.  “Be glad that you’re dead, otherwise, my papa would kill you for being in his daughter’s bed, and my maman would kill you for putting your shoes on her antique coverlet. Ma grand-mere’s maman crocheted this, you know.”

He slanted you an almost playful look.

You blinked.  It had to have been a trick of the light. Clearing your throat, you asked, “So, what about this night was so confusing to you?”

“I’ve watched you kill countless men.  You’re merciless–” here you started in protest, but he gave you a quelling look, and you subsided, “and yet, allowed that boy to live.  Not only that, but you tried to stop those men from hurting him. Why?”

“Apparently, monsieur, your powers of observation are in inverse proportion to your looks,” you said tartly.  “If you had taken but a moment to mark the low nature of those whom I’ve been eating, then you would have realized that I only eat the murderous, and the rapine. I am a monster, yes–I’ve come to terms with that–but if I have to continue in this accursed way, then I should at least do what I can to help clean the city of its filth.”

Monsieur Kim turned to you, his visage serious.  You tried not to think of how, had the circumstances been different, you both may have still lain just like this, but with soft words of love flowing between you, instead of the guarded expressions you now wore.  

“Clean the city of its filth,” he mused.  “Why do you not start with Boudreaux?”

You blinked, taken aback.  It had never even occurred to you to try to seek vengeance on the man who had made you a monster.  “I…haven’t thought…how could I? He’s like me–”

“Honour amoungst thieves?”

“I doubt I have the strength.  Besides, he already told me that he’s impossible to kill.”

“And you believed him?”

You were silent. Then, slowly, “I’m still unsure of what I am…  If I kill him, I kill hope for any answers to this cursed condition.”

“Surely, he can’t be the only one.”

“No, but how do you propose I find another?  Shall I put an ad in the paper?”

“Is that why you hesitate?  Or is there a secret affinity for him, hidden deep within your breast?”

Your eyes filled with tears.  “You think me so base?”

Monsieur Kim seemed discomfited by your tears.  “He…made you what you are. It would merely be natural–”

“Nothing about this entire affair is natural!” you ejaculated.  Turning with a huff, you pulled the covers over your head.

He was blessedly silent.

***

The next day, you dragged yourself down to brunch, still achingly weary, from both the previous night’s exertions, and the lack of sleep.  

Sitting at the table, you fortified yourself for another round of pretense. At first, you had called for your meals to be taken in your room, and it was easy enough to convince Cosette to eat them for you, blaming your lack of appetite on the loss of your paramour.  However, as you began to lose weight (due to Monsieur Kim’s interference with your hunting), and grow progressively paler, your parents insisted on your joining them for meals, so that they could keep an eye on you.

Food that you had once found delectable now nauseated you, and though you could consume it, you couldn’t keep it down for long, leading to a miserable post-meal ritual that you dreaded.  As you listlessly pushed about the food on your plate, the butler came with a card on a silver tray, for your father.

He took it and, glancing at you, nodded to the butler, saying, “Bring him in–tell him that we’re having brunch, and he’s welcome to join us.”

After a few moments, the cadence of a familiar tread reached your ears, and you froze in horror.

“Ah!  Monsieur Boudreaux!” your mother trilled, standing up from the table, wrapping her arm around his, and guiding him to sit across from you.  “What a wonderful surprise! How lovely to see you this morning. To what do we owe the occasion?”

“I was actually wondering if I may have the pleasure of speaking with your lovely daughter.”

For a fraction of a second, both of your parent’s faces dropped their genial veneer, before smoothing over once more, to polite anodyne.  “Why, Monsieur Boudreaux,” your mother started, “I fear that our daughter hasn’t been feeling quite herself as of late. Perhaps if you returned another day–”

“Mais non, c’est bien, Maman,” you murmured.  Standing abruptly, without looking at him, you said, “Monsieur Boudreaux, if you would be so kind as to accompany me into the parlour?”

You wheeled on him after closing the door, your fangs having already descended in preparation.

Monsieur Boudreaux held up his hand, and you froze, a guttural growl rumbling from your chest.

“I’m not here to antagonize you,” he said, his voice mild.  “Besides, you should be more careful. What if one of the servants were to hear you?”

Subsiding, you looked away, ashamed at your lack of self-control.  

“It’s my fault,” he said.  “I shouldn’t have left you without guidance for so long.  I’ve been remiss in my responsibility to you, and for that, I apologize sincerely.”

“Pretty words will gain you no favours, monsieur.  I neither desire, nor require your assistance.”

“Do you not?” he asked mildly. “Tell me, mademoiselle, have you not found it odd that there has been no hue and cry in the papers about the deaths of so many of your…meals?”

You could feel the blood draining from your face.  

Monsieur Boudreaux cocked his head as he saw your realization.  “Ma cher enfante, did you really think that you could just leave bodies lying about the city, and no one would notice?”  

Having no remonstration, you were silent, though you cursed yourself inwardly, for failing to clean up after your predations. “Monsieur.  If you are trying to arouse a sense of gratitude in my breast–”

“What I want from you is not gratitude, mademoiselle!” Monsieur Boudreaux thundered, losing control for the first time.  He began pacing the room like a caged tiger, raking a hand through his hair, causing it to stand at a rakish angle. “I have tried to give you time to come to terms with your new situation, I have given you space to become comfortable with what you are, but what do I find?”  He gestured to you, his movements jerky with frustration. “In my absence you have, what? Chosen to starve yourself? Tried to expose yourself by leaving evidence that even the dreariest dullard could interpret?”

“I assure you, I have no intentions of starving myself!  I found out quite early the impossibility of that, unless I want to lose myself and attack another innocent!  I just…have had trouble finding enough to eat, is all.”

“We are in a city of hundreds of thousands, and you cannot find enough to eat?”

“I am not a fiend; I will not eat just anyone.”

“Even so, there remain tens of thousands of blackguards from which to choose.”

“Just so. However, I have run into certain complications–”

“Such as?”

You raised your chin, and looked down your nose at him, despite your inferior height.  “They are none of your concern, monsieur.”

“None of my–” he cut himself off, and turned to the window, positively trembling in an obvious effort to control his temper.  After a moment, he turned back to you, now looking far more composed. With each statement, he stepped closer, until you were pressed against the door within the cage of his arms.  “You are my only concern. I wanted you. I waited for you, and I made you. You were made for me, and I’ll not let you go to ruin!”

His voice gentled. “Ma chère mademoiselle, you cannot remain unempathetic to my affections.   Only I know what you are going through, what you require. I can make this so much simpler for you, if you will merely give me your heart.”

Breathing heavily, you said, your voice steady, “Never.”

Monsieur Boudreaux pupils lengthened, and a quiet, high pitched noise like a sword being drawn out of its scabbard issued from his mouth as his fangs slid into place. “Very well,” he rasped “If you won’t change your mind, I will change it for you.”

Pulling your head to the side, his mouth descended toward your neck–

“Step back, scoundrel!”

You sagged in relief. Monsieur Kim.

His dark eyes flashed as he took in the scene before him, his jaw firm, his stance authoritative, as if he were about to strike Monsieur Boudreaux where the wretch stood.

Monsieur Boudreaux’s eyes narrowed, as he raised his face from your neck.  Turning, he slanted a glance to the side, to see Monsieur Kim standing beside you, his form quivering with fury.  A slow smirk sliced through his expression, as he looked between the two of you. In a voice so scathing as to be downright caustic he said, “Ah, the wretched revenant.  Tell me, mademoiselle…is he why you haven’t been eating? Shall I rid you of him?”

“The only villain that I wish to be rid of is you, monsieur!” you ejaculated, pushing him away from you, with no inconsiderable effort.  

Monsieur Boudreaux closed his eyes and, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck, visibly calmed himself, so that when his eyes reopened, he looked once more the gentleman.  Pinning you with a look, he said, “You can waste your time being tormented by this useless phantom, or you can come to me and finally become all I have made you to be. I will wait.  After all,” he smiled, his eyes hot and wicked, “We have time.”

You stepped aside, as he made for the door, and left.  As soon as the door closed behind him, you sank onto the nearest seat, your hand to your throat to quell the tumultuous beating of your terrified heart. For, as much as you hated to admit it, he did hold some dark allure over you that you felt grow only stronger when he dropped his human visage. Nausea rose, as you tried not to swoon when, from the corner of your eye, you saw Monsieur Kim crouching beside you.  

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.  

You shook your head, wordless for a moment.  Then, “Non. Non! I am, most unequivocally not alright!”

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

Closing your eyes, you leaned your head against the overstuffed back of the settee, a tear slipping from the side of your eye to slide down your cheek, and fall with a small -pat- onto the arm of the bench.

Suddenly, you heard a soft, tentative breath, and then, Monsieur Kim began to sing.  “Shigando jamshi gireul ireotteon got/ Haneulhan momjise geuman maeryodwen chaero/ geotjabeul su eopshi niga nae ane beonjeo/ neoroman gadeuki dameun shiya/ eongkin shiseone nal maedeupjieun chae/ neon muishikkaji chimbeomharyeo hae/ wiheomhadan geol almyeonseo/ han georeum deo nan dagaseo/ geojinmareun sseo almyeonseo geojinmareul sseo/ ppajin geora haetjiman sashil nal ppateurin neon gipeo/ kkeuchi eopshi boyeo seumyeodeureo joyeo/ ireobeoryeo da dwedollil sun eopseo/ cheoncheonhi deurikyeo euimi eomneun sum/ malhaejweo jigeum neol haega kkaegi jeon/ bonaejweo yeongweonhi naye pumeuro/ jamgil kkeot gata sum shwil ttaemada/ geunyang idaero/ neoye pumeuro ppajeoga/ kkeudeopshi/ kkeojil tteut adeukaejin neukkimi sungan nan neoman heorakdwae/ nan nege ppajeoga”

By the time he was finished, your frayed nerves had almost completely calmed at the rich, soft sound of his curiously calming voice.  “What was that?” you murmured, eyes still closed. “What did it mean?”

He was silent for a long time, and then he asked, “Have you come back to yourself?”

You nodded, slowly opening your eyes to see him directly in front of you, so close that you could have easily reached out to touch him, had you been able to touch him.

A sudden knock on the door jarred you both from your private moment, and you looked up to see your father enter.  When you glanced back, Monsieur Kim had vanished.

***

After the events of the previous night, an uneasy truce arose between you, and Monsieur Kim.  He no longer inhibited you from taking your meals, though he was otherwise cool. Despite his penchant for cutting remarks, however, he even began to aid you in your hunts–even going so far as to scout the streets for potential meals–and, incrementally but surely, the streets of your city began to become a bit safer, just as the blooms began to return to your cheeks.  

At times, he would even rouse you from your bed to inform you of some atrocity in the offing, and there soon were countless occasions where you had the pleasure of arresting the villains in flagrante delicto.  Permanently. The only downside was, not wanting to be beholden to Monsieur Boudreaux, you now had to personally take care of the disposal of your leftovers.

The alligators in the neighbouring swamps slowly began to fatten.

***

One particularly fateful night, you were disposing of the body of a rake who had taken into his possession a servant girl who could have been no older than 11, for the purposes of selling her to a house of ill-repute, to pay off his gambling debts.

“So, what are you going to do about the girl?”

You looked over your shoulder, to see the malnourished, curly-haired waif had followed you, even after having seen what you had done to the rapscallion who had been preparing to divest her of her innocence before you arrived.  Her feet were bare, and her chemise hung in tatters, off of her thin shoulders.

Striding over to her, you crouched to her level, taking off your cloak, and wrapping it about her shoulders.  Her bedraggled copper curls brushed your face, as she leaned forward to caress your cheek while you fastened the cape at her throat.  Wordlessly, you looked up into her wide brown eyes, eyes full of trust, despite the type of life she must have led. Setting your jaw, you made a decision.

Sweeping the girl into your arms, you strode off for home.  After a few moments, you heard a soft snore, and looked down to see that she had fallen asleep, her head lolling against your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Monsieur Kim queried.

“I’m taking her home.”

“And then what?”

“A bath, a meal, and bed.”

Monsieur Kim was silent.  Then, “You’re not going to return her to her parents?”

Scoffing, you shook your head.  “She will be given a position in my household.  Once in my employ, should she wish to visit her parents, she shall–with supervision–until I am satisfied that they aren’t the ones who sold her into that scoundrel’s grasp.  

He walked alongside you in silence.  After some time had passed, he cleared his throat.  “Do you remember that night?”

You said nothing, merely continued on your way, as you contemplated his query.  You knew precisely what he referenced, but you didn’t want to break your uneasy truce.  Finally, you nodded once, tersely.

“I was going to request your hand.  You were going to say yes. Perhaps we would have been happy.  However, since then, I have come to realize that we didn’t truly know each other, though I daresay that would have come in time. I hardly know what you thought of me, but to me, you were delicate, soft, clever, and altogether perfect.  I had such dreams of taking you to see the world, of your being by my side, supporting me in all of my political endeavours. I envisioned taking you home, and ensconcing you safely in my household, a brilliant jewel to rival all of the other precious things that my ancestors have collected throughout the centuries.”  He smiled ruefully.

“I wanted to treat you preciously.”  Monsieur Kim slanted a playful glance at you.  “You were going to bear me six sons.”

“Six?!” you scoffed, indignant.

“Indeed,” he responded, smiling almost as brightly as you remembered.  “Six brilliant sons to follow in my footsteps, and four strong daughters with your wit, and cleverness, to be presented at court.  I like to think that we would have been happy. Would you have been happy?”

The girl stirred, and you readjusted her in your arms, briefly wrapping a hand around her head to comfort her back to sleep.  When she was once again silent, you nodded your head. “Oui, Monsieur Kim,” you responded quietly, your voice regretful. “I would have been quite happy.”

His eyes were pained as he once again faced forward.  Swallowing with some difficulty, he shoved his hands into his pockets, as his thoughtful gaze fell to the cobblestones.

***

Cosette helped you bathe the child, whose name she told you drowsily, as you washed her hair, was Angeline.  You had had to confess your nature to Cosette, who had taken it surprisingly well.

“Eh bien,” she had said, carelessly shrugging one shoulder. “I have been your servant since we were children.  Despite this rather unsavoury change in diet, I’ve noticed no fiendish developments in your person, and therefore,” here, she had raised her eyes to yours, her wide hazel eyes glowing fervently, “I will stay with you, mademoiselle until the end. Until the end, I am your own faithful servant.” You had both clasped hands then, though you could not speak, emotion robbing you of your voice.

Between the two of you, you were able to create a story for the housekeeper, to convince her to hire Angeline as a new kitchen maid. Despite your prior misgivings, it had turned out that Angeline had been stolen from her parents, though they were quite pleased to know that she had been able to become a domestic in such a great household. Finding out that her mother was a seamstress, you began sending extra work her way, and found another household for which Angeline’s father could ply his trade as a factotum. You couldn’t save the world, but you could at least help one small family.

Every day, Monsieur Kim looked at you differently.  You tried to ignore it, fearing that it was merely your imagination, but soon the cool glances and cutting smirks, began to soften and warm.  He once more began regaling you with tales of his childhood, teaching you about his language, and culture, and even, at times, singing sweetly to you, when the things seen on your nightly hunts became too much for you to bear.  

You were imminently grateful.  Though he had started out as your torment, without him, you surely would have broken down and gone, either to Monsieur Boudreaux, or mad.  

One day, you wandered into the kitchen gardens to find Monsieur Kim, and Angeline merrily chattering away.  Stopping in shock, you turned, so as not to interrupt them, or accidentally eavesdrop, but Angeline caught sight of you, and tripped over lightly, childishly wrapping her arms around your waist, as she was apt to do when you were alone.  

Returning the embrace, you looked down at her.  “You can see Monsieur Kim, cherie ?”

“Oui, mademoiselle! Since the night he found me, and told me not to worry, that you would be coming to save me.”

Raising an eyebrow, you looked over to him, noticing his discomfiture.  “He said that, did he?”

Angeline nodded emphatically.  “Oui! He told me to just try to distract my old master long enough for you to arrive; that once you came, everything would be alright.”

Crouching to her level, you reached out a hand to gently caress her cheek.  “Angeline, I suddenly have such a craving for chocolates. Would you be a dear, and go pick up a box for me?”  Handing her a few notes from your reticule, you gave the back of her head an affectionate caress before she skipped off to the confectionary.  

“You don’t eat chocolates,” Monsieur Kim remarked drily.

You shrugged elegantly. “Eh, bien, I suppose that she will just have to eat them for me.”

“You’re spoiling her.”

“Apparently, so are you.”

He averted his eyes. Then, quietly, “I love children.”

You nodded sadly, “As do I.”  Then, shaking yourself of your melancholy, you approached him.  “So, Angeline can see you, as well?”

He nodded.  “It seems as if children, and people like you can see me, with no effort on my part, but to everyone else, I have to actively endeavour to be seen.  I can do it, but it takes a lot out of me, and I can only do it for so often, or so long, before I have to rest.”

“Fascinating,” you responded.

He gave you a look. “Not quite,” he murmured.  

A soft growling noise rent the peace of the late afternoon, and you halted in shocked horror.

Monsieur Kim stared at you, and then burst into delighted laughter, holding his stomach, and releasing peal after peal of mirth.  

With a huff, you pushed forward, leaving him behind in his joy, but he was quick to catch up with you.

“It would seem as if a certain mademoiselle is hungry,” he chuckled, beaming down at you, his eyes bright and teasing.

“Oui, eh bien, that was not me,” you said loftily.

“No?  Is your garden infested with diminutive bears, perhaps? Lilliputian lions?”

Your cheeks burned in mortification.  “A gentleman would not notice such things as…garden bears,” you remonstrated.

“Indeed,” he rejoined, “but I’ve crossed beyond the veil.  I fear that I’m quite beyond all constraints of gentlemanly behaviour.”

“Then why do you always avert your gaze when it’s time for my habilitation?”

He flushed to the tips of his ears.  “Mademoiselle!”

Walking backwards, you tilted your head flirtatiously.  “Why, Monsieur Kim!” you exclaimed teasingly. “I do believe that you are blushing!”

Monsieur Kim chuckled softly, and closed his eyes, lowering his head in admission.  

When he opened his eyes, however, Monsieur Kim was gone.  

A sloe-eyed rake looked up at you, his head tilted sideways as he bit his lip, slowly giving you a once-over.  

Involuntarily, you swallowed.  

He slowly stalked toward you, his gait as smooth and rolling as a panther, and you squeaked. Lifting your skirts, you turned tail and ran, to the teasing sounds of more of Monsieur Kim’s mirthful laughter.

***

That night, you were stalking through the shadows, when you came across something that you had never thought you’d see.  

Someone like you, feeding from a fainting dark-haired girl.  

Wordlessly, you ran to him, grabbing him by the back of his jacket, and throwing him as hard as you could against a nearby wall.  Turning, you growled to the girl, “Go home to your maman, petit biquet.”

Before you could turn, he was on you, and you were soon embroiled in a fierce fight for your very life. Fangs and claws flashed as you fought like a wildcat, but he was ever so much stronger. You could feel yourself weakening from the multiple gashes and lacerations that you had been dealt, while meanwhile, he remained relatively unscathed.  From the corner of your eye, you could see Monsieur Kim disappear, but you had to concentrate on your opponent, or else–

A sharp pain pierced your chest, and you looked down to see a wooden stake buried there. Faltering, you stumbled backwards, your legs giving way beneath you, as you fell to the ground.  

The stranger crouched over you, his cold, pale blue eyes glittering under a mop of soft chestnut curls.  If it weren’t for the murderous glint in his eye, he would have been handsome.

You wrapped a hand around the stake, and tried to pull it out, but the pain was too great, and a wave of blackness rolled over you.  Your eyelids fluttered as you valiantly struggled to remain conscious.

“Who are you?” he grated, his voice rough, but cultured, his accent of the North.  

You couldn’t have answered if you tried.  The pain was too great.

He looked down at you consideringly, as if examining a specimen.  “Why did you interrupt me?”

You merely gazed at him wordlessly, coughing wretchedly as blood began to pool in your lung. When you opened your mouth to take a desperate breath, but coughed again, you felt it, warm and thick, running down your chin to join the stain at your breast.  

The stranger looked away, as if bored. “You robbed me of my dinner.”  Turning back, he gripped you tightly by the chin, lifting your face, and turning it this way, and that, as if examining a horse.  “What should I do to you, hm?”

“Leave her, if you value your life.”

You closed your eyes, as the last voice you would have wanted to hear rang through the night.  

Monsieur Boudreaux.

Song translation:   Even time was lost in this place Completely captivated by your light movements I couldn’t stop you spreading inside of me My eyes are only filled with you

The mixed up looks tie me up You try to take over even my subconsciousness I know it’s dangerous But I’m taking another step

In the faintly shining sky Draw me out thicker (draw me out more) For a long time in your memories (in your memories) Engrave me deeper (engrave deeper)

Yeah, lies are bitter, even though I know, lies are bitter I said I fell for you but you made me fall so deep I can see endlessly, you come inside and suffocate me I lost everything, can’t turn it back

I’m drinking in meaningless breaths Tell me before the sun wakes up Send yourself forever into my arms Feels like I’m locked up every time I breathe

Just like this, fall, fall, fall for you Into your arms, fall, fall, I’m falling Endlessly

Feels so far away Only you are allowed for me in this moment Fall, fall, into you I’m falling

A/N:  If you wish to follow me, then please do so @vampwrrr, as I post all of the latest updates there, and my stories have links, for easier reading.

[bingbong21]

Title: In the Eye of a Hurricane

Summary: There is quiet, for just a moment. And then, a yellow sky. 

A/N: This was supposed to be posted before season two aired. Oops. Legit only one spoiler, but it’s the one we all saw coming. If you squint you can see microscopic one-sided Sheith. 

Just like the last time the Galra had invaded the castle, everything happened too quickly for any of them to process. One moment they were floating through a peaceful star system known as Ardraxyl; the next, a massive wormhole shooting purple lightning engulfed them, dragging them into the middle of a Galra fleet juiced up on quintessence, led by Haggar herself. Being forcibly dragged through a wormhole left the castle defenseless, and they could only watch with mounting trepidation as the ships approached them.

It had been Allura who shouted the orders next; they were to scatter throughout the castle, turning on any defensive systems they came across. While this would separate them from each other, it also had the added benefit of forcing the troops to separate. If they had the fortune to come across each other, she added, they were to stick together no matter what. With that said, they broke, each one taking a separate hallway and running wherever their guts told them to go.

At first, Lance had to admit that it was going surprisingly well. Naturally, it had been both mentally and physically taxing to fend off waves after waves of Galra sentries by himself while worrying about how his fellow teammates fared; but, when he had run into Keith, things seemed to fall into place. Similar to the battle on Balmera, they annihilated anything that crossed their paths, steadily making progress together as opposed to the standstill Lance had been previously. When Hunk had come on over the coms saying that they had found Pidge and were finding similar success, Lance had actually let out a laugh and allowed a wide grin to grace his features; when he glanced Keith, he saw some of the tension had left the Red Paladin’s shoulders and a small smile of his own played at his lips.

Looking back, when Shiro had come on sounding pained and breathless, Lance should have immediately assumed the worst.

“Don’t tell me you’re winded after just that,” Lance teased, hefting his bayard to rest against his shoulder. “Thought you were in better shape Shiro.”

A laugh that easily could have been mistaken for a harsh cough was his only response to the jibe. Lance felt the uneasiness begin to spread in his body; its icy tendrils wrapping around his heart and dragging it into its stomach when Keith began to speak.

“Shiro, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

The poorly concealed worry in Keith’s voice was accentuated by Shiro’s heavy panting that echoed within their helmets. His grip on his bayard tightened to the point that it began to tremble as he shouted into the coms, as if he hoped the louder he was the more likely he was to receive a response.

“Shiro…are you there? Shiro? Shiro!”

“Keith…if I don’t make it out of here…I want you to lead Voltron.”

That was the last any of the Paladins heard from Shiro before the coms cut out, a deafening silence replacing the sounds of Shiro’s pained exertion.

During their time traveling throughout the universe, Lance and the others had grown familiar with Keith’s battle rage. Any time after Voltron summoned its sword, or when they would return from being swarmed by Galra, each of them would breathe a sigh of relief that they wouldn’t grow painfully intimate with Keith’s fury. But now as he watched the tremor in Keith’s hands escalating up his arms, Lance wished there had been a drill on what to do when Keith loses control.

“Keith…” Lance asked, voice betraying how insecure he was in the next course of action. But the one thing he knew for certain was that they couldn’t stay there with Keith staring off into space, looking for all the universe like someone had ripped his consciousness out and left the empty husk behind. The lack of response was unnerving, but there wasn’t any time for such luxuries as being frozen in fear; with a deep breath, Lance walked towards Keith, reaching his hand out to grasp his shoulder.

“Come on man, we need to find everyone els-”

As soon as his fingertips brushed against Keith, it was as if a switch had been flipped inside the Red Paladin. One moment he was approaching his friend with the same trepidation he’d give a wounded wild animal. The next he found himself slammed into a wall, breathless and mind reeling as only the sounds of Keith’s pounding footsteps growing distant and the ferocity that had been directed towards him registered.

“Quiznak,” Lance groaned, pushing himself off the wall, “Guys, we got a problem.”

“What was your first clue Lance,” Pidge’s biting voice came through loud and clear; Lance fought the urge to roll his eyes as he ran after Keith.

“No, I mean in addition to the Shiro one; Keith just ran off.”

“What do you mean ran off,” Hunk asked frantically, “You two were together, right? How did you lose him?”

“I didn’t lose him,” Lance replied, the ache in his lungs from talking while running making itself well known, “I’m chasing him right now. I tried to get him to respond and he just, I don’t know, flipped!”

“Well stun him with your gun or something,” Pidge shot back, “We don’t have time for this!”

“Easy for you to say! You’re not trying to keep up with him!”

“What messed you up so bad that you can’t shoot straight down a hallway?”

“Nothing, just-God, why is he so fast?!” Lance groaned, desperately pushing himself to try and keep the distance between him and Keith to a minimum. But Keith’s berserker mode always gave him extra strength, making him soar beyond what really should have been his physical limits.  While that was usually a blessing battle, when you’re tasked with being the one to stop him from most likely killing himself, it certainly began to seem like a curse instead.

Lance stopped, raising his gun and taking aim; Pidge was right, even with Keith running this was his best chance at stopping him. He took a deep breath, sights focusing on Keith’s helmet; if he hit, the force should be enough to at least slow Keith down. He exhaled he squeezed the trigger; the bolt of light blue struck just above the edge of the helmet, and Keith went down with only a short cry. Lance shuddered, feeling disgusted as he ran over to Keith, kneeling beside him; he pressed two fingers to his neck, checking for a pulse with the fear that he had done more harm than good. He sighed, some of the fear abated by the harsh steady thrum beneath his fingertips.

“I got him guys; I’ll see you soon.”

Lance had been the one waiting for him when Keith emerged. Normally everyone would be there, watching the pod with bated breath; but with Shiro’s abduction, all hands were on deck to create a flawless plan to rescue Shiro without engaging Zarkon or Haggar.

The hiss of the pod opening snapped Lance out of his reverie, as Keith stumbled out, Lance was immediately by his side.

“Don’t worry buddy, I gotcha,” Lance muttered, sliding an arm around his waist for support. Keith growled in response, shoving Lance away and stalking towards his clothes folded in the corner, gait unsteady. Lance watched him, taken aback only for a moment before a mixture of anger and concern took over and had him sliding into step beside him.

“Dude, you need to take it easy,” Lance said, grasping his shoulder, “I thought I might’ve killed you!”

The glare Keith sent him over his shoulder had Lance retracting quickly. He felt as if he had been hit by Blue’s ice beam, breath caught in his throat. The amount of hatred and anger he saw directed right at him those eyes…Lance had to stop himself from making sure he hadn’t somehow turned into Zarkon since the last time he saw himself in the mirror.

“We don’t have time to take it easy,” Keith spat with more incredulous disgust than Lance had thought was humanly possible as he dressed. Before he could even think of a retort, Keith was out the door, no doubt headed to the control room. Lance stared at the door in stunned silence for a few ticks before his mind went in autopilot, directing his body to follow after him through the doors. He blinked as the shouting match in the control room jolted him back into active consciousness; he wasn’t quite sure how he got to the control room.

“We can’t go in there yet Keith; we don’t have a plan!”

“We went after Allura without a solid plan.”

“That was different,” Pidge gestured to the control room, “Without Allura the Castle wouldn’t have had any power; we would’ve died!”

“We almost died anyway just to get her!”

“Because we didn’t have a well-thought out plan,” Pidge shouted in exasperation, throwing her hands into the air, “We got lucky last time; if we go in there again like that, we’ll most likely end up dead if we’re lucky.”

“Pidge is right Keith,” Allura began, stepping in between the two paladins. Despite still being dressed for battle, she still displayed the diplomacy so famous among the universe. “Without the Black Lion’s pilot, we don’t have a definite leader to form Voltorn. We need to use the utmost care when-”

“I’ll pilot the Black Lion,” Keith interrupted, stance challenging Allura to contradict him. She blinked, clearly taken by surprise by his statement.

“You’ll…what?”

“I’ll pilot the Black Lion,” Keith reiterated, frustration at having to repeat himself clearly lacing his voice. “You all heard Shiro: he wanted me to lead Voltron.”

“Uh, he actually said that if he didn’t make it out, he wanted you to lead Voltron,” Hunk said, stepping forward a bit. As soon as Keith turned his glare on him however, Hunk cowered back to his original spot. “I mean, but yeah I guess since Shiro hasn’t escaped Haggar yet and isn’t physically here that fulfills his requirements, so I guess that means Keith is technically the leader.”

“Technicalities aside,” Allura said, drawing herself to her full height, “Shiro is not dead, so Keith will not be piloting the Black Lion.”

“So Shiro can pilot the Black Lion while its original paladin is out conquering the universe and able to have it reject Shiro, but when command has been given to me we suddenly care that the Black Paladin is still alive.”

“You know it’s more complicated than that,” Allura responded, “You are best suited to piloting the Red Lion; no one else here has your instincts or connections to it like you. The Black Lion requires a Paladin who is a natural born leader; a strategist who is able to analyze every situation and not let their emotions take control.”

“So then who do you suggest to lead Voltron?”

Allura flinched slightly at the sharp tone, though held Keith’s gaze. “Until the Black Lion states otherwise, I will be the temporary Black Lion pilot.”

Keith barked out a laugh at her response, a sound so harsh and cold that everyone felt the temperature in the room drop. “Piloting a lion isn’t the same as piloting a castle princess. There aren’t particle barriers or Voltron to save you when the chips are down. What makes you think you could even begin to be successful in battle?

“You seem to forget that I am also a trained warrior as well,” Allura growled out, fists clenched at her sides. Her control on her temper was visibly slipping, all attempts at diplomacy slowly crumbling apart. “With the Black Lion’s help I will be successful!”

“And what makes you think we’d follow you without question the same we’d follow Shiro?”

“What makes you think we’d follow some Galra half-breed like you,” Allura shouted, fist slamming down on a control panel. She immediately raised her hands to her mouth as she saw Keith’s eyes widen; the room seemed to echo with her statement.

“Keith…” She murmured, stepping forward as she reached out towards him, “Keith I’m…I didn’t-”

Her fingertips brushing his jacket was enough to snap him out of shock; he jerked away from her, immediately turning his back on her.

“Sure you didn’t,” Keith muttered, eyes downcast. He shoved his hands into his pockets, heading towards he door to the control room. He bumped shoulders with Lance, jostling him out of the paralysis that the entire scene had put him into. As the door closed behind him, Coran let out a large sigh as he surveyed the room.

“Well that could’ve gone a bit better.”

Lance yawned, bending backwards as he pressed his hands into the middle of his spine. They had come up with a few reasonable plans, a couple of far-fetched ones. The only thing stopping them from immediately implementing a course of action was the lack of input from the Red Paladin and, more importantly, his promise that he wouldn’t go off on his own in a repeat performance from Allura’s rescue mission. So it had been decided that Lance, the only one who wouldn’t cower and hadn’t extensively angered Keith that day, was to venture off into the Castle and bring him back to discuss options. Which was how Lance found himself standing outside the training room’s doors, flinching slightly as a dismembered gladiator was flung against the doors.

Guilt washed over him when he realized that he had unconsciously reached for where his bayard would have been. Despite this realization, Lance squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the training room.

As he surveyed the wreckage Lance’s first thought was that either the castle couldn’t have the gladiators disappear at the moment, or Keith had specifically told it to keep the defeated gladiators there. As a head rolled towards him, Lance wasn’t sure if he was comforted or disturbed by the fact that it was only gladiators being treated this way. It was comforting, he thought as a he spotted a few torn off limbs sparking pitifully in a pile, because it wasn’t anything living. However, it was also disturbing, he thought as he stared at a torso laying in a pool of oil, because of the realization that Keith was capable of causing this level of destruction.

The sound of swords clashing brought Lance’s attention to the object of his search. Standing in the center of the room, surrounded by three-no wait, now two considering that one was just decapitated-gladiators was Keith. Even from his distance Lance could see the sweat pouring down his face, causing the already form fitting black shirt to stick to every curve and crevice of his body. His movements were sloppy, though whether it was a sign of his blind rage or exhaustion Lance couldn’t tell. If this had been an actual training session, he was sure that Shiro and Allura would have critiques on Keith’s form. But, Lance thought as he watched Keith duck under both gladiators charging at him, knocking one off their feet and cutting the leg of the other, form didn’t matter much in the heat of battle; survival instincts did. Though as he watched Keith climb atop the gladiator he had knocked off balance and repeatedly stab his sword into its chest, he doubted survival instincts were what was driving Keith at the moment.

“I think it’s dead buddy,” Lance called out, strolling deeper into the room as casually as one can be amidst mechanical carnage. Keith’s head jerked upwards at his voice, chest heaving with deep gulps of air.

“What are you doing here,” He growled, eyes narrowing once they recognized Lance. “Shouldn’t you be working on plans with the new Black Paladin?”

Lance blinked, cocking his head to the side. “New Black Paladin?”

“Allura you idiot.”

“Ah,” Lance nodded, crouching down net to the fallen body of the gladiator Keith currently straddled. He noticed how Keith’s body had gotten impossibly tense as he got closer, similar to a wounded wild animal boxed into a corner. He’d have to be careful, otherwise he knew he’d get more than just bitten and scratched if he screwed up. “Well, we’ve come up with a few ideas, some more plausible than others.”

“Then why haven’t we suited up and left yet,” Keith snapped, violently yanking his sword out of the gladiator. Splashes of oil smeared across his face at the movement, too eerily similar to how blood would splatter.

This was the part Lance knew would be the hardest. “Well, we want to smooth out a few wrinkles….”

“Such as?”

Time to take the plunge. “Such as making sure you actually stick to the plan.”

Lance wasn’t sure what he was expecting after that; being punched in the face was certainly a thought, followed closely by the morbid thought that he’d be run through by his bayard. But what he never imagined was the look of shock, betrayal, and absolute hurt that he saw in Keith’s wide eyed gaze. As soon as he identified every emotion though Keith’s eyes had narrowed to slits filled with a guarded anger.

“You think I’ll screw this up?”

“We just want to make sure it goes off without a hitch,” Lance responded, “After last time, ya know with the whole ‘soloing Zarkon’ thing, we just want-”

“What? For me to just ignore any better opportunities?”

“Well, yeah,” Lance conceded, shrugging his shoulders. “Last time you almost got yourself killed!”

“And I’d die if it meant getting Shiro back!”

It was as if the words were a sack of ricks that Lance had to brace for the impact of. As he stared in stunned silence, Keith continued on with his line of thought.

“Back then I was willing to die to save the universe. I only wanted to live because I didn’t want him to hurt Red, didn’t want him to move on from me to anyone else! If him striking me down meant someone else could’ve taken his head off, then I would’ve gladly just sat there and waited.”

“Keith…” Lance noticed how tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, yet he still continued on.

“And now, faced with the thought of losing him,” Keith muttered, voice cracking with emotion, “I’d rather die to save him than live without him.”

In one tick, the two of them were staring at each other with wide eyes swimming with various emotions. In the next Keith found himself being pulled into Lance’s tight embrace. He began struggling, thrashing in Lance’s arms furiously; yet Lance’s grip was like a vice, refusing to let him go.

“You…” Lance choked out; Keith was suddenly aware of a warm sensation on the top of his head, “You incredible, absolute jerk. Y-You don’t get to say stuff like that, acting like some big damn hero.”

Keith felt the telltale burning and stinging of tears preparing to fall. “This isn’t about heroics idiot,” Keith sniffled, “I can’t live without him. N-Not again.”

Lance bit out a bitter laugh through his tears. “I know, I know,” He mumbled, fingers playing with the ends of Keith’s hair. “But you can’t just throw your life away anymore Keith. We’re a team, a family. If you died, I…quiznak, Keith, I don’t know, I’d probably follow close behind like I always seem to do.”

That confession, of someone else wanting to follow him into the unknown, was what caused the floodgates inside Keith to open. He clutched at the front of Lance’s shirt, helpless to stop the tears from falling down his face. He was vaguely aware of Lance rubbing small circles on the small of his back, and of the soothing nonsensical gibberish he was speaking; he couldn’t tell if it was English or Spanish, only that when paired with his heart beat it had a calming effect on his frayed nerves. Slowly the river of tears became a trickle, and sobs were merely shadows of their former selves. When finally, the grief had been washed away to a familiar apathy only found after disasters, Keith allowed himself to push away from Lance’s chest in order to look up at him.

Even with his dark skin tone, Lance’s face still held a splotchy look that could only be achieved by crying. His eyes were so strikingly blue against the red of his sclera that Keith couldn’t help but wonder if they had always been that way. Lance’s lips quirked upwards in a small smile, chest rumbling with a small laugh that could easily have been mistaken for clearing his voice.

“You look like something the lion dragged in,” Lance commented, pushing strands of black hair that were stuck to ruddy cheeks behind ears. Keith rolled his eyes; leave it to Lance to ruin a perfectly good moment.

“Not like you look any better,” He shot back, lips lifted into a small smirk; a sign that his comment contained none of the venom from earlier. Still Lance acted as if it hurt, hand flying to his forehead.

“You wound me,” He sighed, eyelashes fluttering, “And here I thought that we were having a bonding moment.”

Keith snort, the dramatics only adding fuel to his instigator side. “We had one already; you just keep denying it.”

“Clearly we are at an impasse of wits,” Lance conceded, “The only way this can be resolved is if we present our cases to the non-partisan judges in the control room.”

At the mention of the others Keith froze, the icy feeling of fear spreading through his veins. He had said such cruel things to Allura, had acted so harshly…how could he face them after that?

Lance noticed the fear and tension returning to Keith’s body. “Hey,” He muttered, drawing Keith’s attention back to him, “I’ve seen people forgive each other for having said things much harsher than what happened back there. I promise you that if you just apologize, everything will be forgiven and we can focus on getting Shiro back.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they’re going to have to deal with me, your personal guard dog.” Lance said proudly, jerking his thumb at himself. “No one’s allowed to make you feel like quiznak unless it’s me.”

“Pretty sure you’re still using that wrong.”

“Probably,” Lance shrugged, pushing himself up into a standing position and offering a hand to Keith. “Now come on, there’s some really cool strategies that I think you’ll like.”

Keith stared at his hand for only a tick before firmly grasping it into his own. He felt a smile find its way onto his face as Lance hoisted him up off the ground. Together they headed towards the exit, the backs of their hands gently brushing against each other as they walked. When they reached the doorway though, Keith stopped; Lance paused a few steps ahead, head cocked to the side.

“What’s up man?”

“I…” Keith grasped the side of his arm, eyes glancing downwards towards the floor.” …Thanks Lance.”

Lance blinked as a small smile graced his face. “No pro-”

“I mean it,” Keith interrupted, stepping forward. He paused, resuming his staring contest with one of the many decapitated robotic heads littering the floor. “No one’s really just…listened before. Aside from Shiro.”

“And I mean it when I say no problem.” Lance replied, grabbing Keith’s hand again. “It’s not just you anymore, or just you and Shiro anymore; you’ve got a whole team you can rely on. And, if for whatever reason, you feel like you can’t talk to them, you can always come to me. No jokes, no teasing, just good ‘ole fashioned honesty. Okay?”

Keith nodded, feeling warmth spread through his chest at Lance’s words. “Yeah…okay.”

“Great,” Lance began, tugging Keith along down the hallway. “Now lemme tell you about this wicked plan Pidge came up with…”

Keith listened to Lance’s dramatic recreation of one of Pidge’s plans as they walked down the hallway to the control room. And even though Shiro wasn’t there with him at the moment, with his hand still wrapped within Lance’s the universe seemed a little bit brighter than before.

[wolfiefics]

WIP Wednesday-A Vampire Knight Tale

Tentatively titled “How to Get a Life, by Takuma Ichijo, Bookworm”, which I kind of like but I’m not sure I’ll keep. I have not kept up with the Vampire Knight series of late and have been relying heavily on the Wiki. So it’s a bit of an AU, more than likely, but takes place 400 years after the first series ends. Snippet under the cut. Would appreciate feedback as I’m not sure about it at the moment. I know where it’s leading and whatnot but I’ve so much on my plate at the moment, it’s unreal.

This is Takuma meeting with the ‘heroine/love interest’. I’m horrible at creating Japanese names, especially as the author of Vampire Knight uses kanji meanings for hers, so I’m just ballsing it. It’s fanfic. Treat it like Firefly did English and Cantonese/Mandarin.

Just to let you know, I do accept anon but flames and rudeness will just either get you mocked publicly or ignored, depending on my mood. It’s fanfic, make-believe, fiction. If you’re so offended by fictional stories that you have to treat someone like garbage on the street, I feel really, really sorry for you. You must have had no friends to play with as a child, real or pretend. I suggest therapy. Constructive, USEFUL criticism accepted gladly...as well as gushing praise. LOL! Goddess knows I need a cheering squad.

Abigail O’Malley was ready to tear her hair out. This freaking chapter just wasn’t working. It was the sixth time she’d written it and it still wasn’t right. Was it too early for the second victim? Did she need more social interaction between the killer and the investigator? More cat and mouse?

“Ugh!” she groused. She got up from her swivel desk chair, purgatorial thing that it was, and was heading for her kitchenette when she realized someone was knocking at her door. From the determination and strength behind the knocks, the person had been there awhile.

Grimacing at having to deal with people when she was late for her deadline and stuck in the middle of the damned book as well, Abigail stalked to the door, intending to give her visitor a tongue-lashing. She twisted the knob, jerked, found the door locked, undid the dead bolt, and tried again. The door creaked open like from some ancient tomb, and she gave a bit of a grunt as she exerted force to open it enough to peer out.

“What?” she snapped. “I’m busy.”

“Ms. Abigail O’Malley?” The voice was male, low, calm and friendly. No trace of irritation at having been knocking on her door for so long was evident.

“As I said, I’m busy. Can you come back another time?” She wasn’t paying any attention to the man, eyeballing the hinges of the door, wondering when they’d gotten so gunked up. What cleared up door hinge gunk? Oil? Rust cleaner?

“I am Takuma Ichijo. I am interested in purchasing the shop space you have for rent in this building,” the stranger was saying.

“Not for sale,” she said absently, still not looking at him and concentrating on the what definitely looked like rust on the hinges. She sighed. She hated all this home owner crap. She needed to use all this money she had to hire a maid but then that maid would want to straighten up the place and thus dislodge Abby’s chaotic filing system.

“I am very interested in that space, Ms. O’Malley,” the stranger persisted, his voice still friendly, not forceful or angry. “I want to open a bookshop and I plan on being there for quite some time.”

At the word ‘bookshop’ Abby’s gaze finally focused on the man standing in front of her. He was stunningly handsome and didn’t look at all like any bookworm she’d ever met. And as an author, she’d met a ton of them.

Abby hiked a skeptical eyebrow. “A bookshop?” she asked.

He smiled as if relieved to finally have her full attention. “Yes, mostly rare, out-of-print, or signed books but I do plan on catering to popular titles and new releases to augment sales. I’m quite fond of pulp thrillers, mangas, and murder mysteries, so I expect I’ll have a nice collection of those.”

Abby narrowed her eyes at him and gave him a more thorough once over. Late twenties, early thirties at the most, tousled light blond hair, absolutely gorgeous green eyes that brought to mind descriptors such as ‘grass’ or ‘verdant’, a tall build with an edge of masculine power, pale skin that looked like he refused to set foot in the sun, and clothing of fine make but worn for comfort not style. Again, not someone she would peg as a book nerd.

But then, she reasoned, everyone was always surprised that a half-dead, cancer-ridden twenty-something woman was the author of more than fifteen best-selling murder thrillers. Appearances were more than deceiving.

Abby opened the door wider, inviting him in. “You’ve intrigued me, Mr. – “ She hesitated, realizing she missed his name.

“Ichijo, but please, call me Takuma,” he said with a cheerful smile, stepping past her into the cramped apartment.

“Um, call me Abby. Abigail is reserved for my grandmother when she’s getting ready to yell at me for doing something stupid,” she replied, looking about with a stranger’s eye the state of her apartment. Hmm. Maybe she should rethink the maid idea.

She shuffled by him, gathered up some print outs she used for reference for one of the last books she’d published, looked around for somewhere to put them, and wound up stacking the papers on some notebooks in another chair. Ah well, at least he had somewhere to sit.

He sat down, oozing elegance, and gave her an amiable smile. “Mr. Yakata told me you are an author,” he said with a hint of eagerness. “Is all of this your research for your book?” He waved a hand at the mess.

She grimaced. “Books, actually. I think I used that stuff,” she gestured to the stack she just moved, “in either the last book or the book before. I don’t remember,” she confessed. “They kind of run together after awhile.”

He looked intrigued, staring at her as if she were a fascinating specimen. Having such narrow regard on her flustered Abby a bit and she cast about for something else to say. “I was getting ready to make tea. Want some? Then we can discuss your proposition regarding the rental space.”

“Tea would be lovely,” he said with a wide, blinding white smile. Good Lord. Was he a statue come to life of someone’s ideal human being? He was damned near perfect in every way. And he smiled a lot. Nothing looked awkward, out-of-place or, well, human about him. An angel?

She scowled at her fanciful thoughts. Angels were make believe. She should know. She’d been begging for one to save her, help her, since she’d been diagnosed three years ago. The supernatural was fairy tales. Pain, fear and misery was life.

She clanged about the kitchen, heating water in her electric kettle, setting up a tray with a tea pot, the delicate cups to match that belonged to her great-grandmother, and a little bit of cream and sugar in case this Ichijo guy took it in his tea. She put her favorite cherry jam on there for her own use and once everything was assembled, took a deep breath as she prayed she wouldn’t have a bout of weakness and drop the damned thing.

She managed to set the tray down on the coffee table and it perched precariously on some almanacs and forensic reports she’d gathered for research. Unsure of etiquette with a guy this gorgeous, Abby hesitated and was relieved when he took the lead.

He poured the steeped tea into the cups with great delicacy and practice. His nostrils flared when he caught scent of the flavor and then he put a healthy dab of the jam in both their cups before handing her one.

“You like jam in your tea?” she asked in surprise.

He smiled wistfully. “A friend taught me to drink it that way. I’ve found I prefer it more than anything else. You have good taste in teas and jam, I must say.”

‘Okay, points to this guy for liking jam in his tea,’ Abby thought as she sipped at her tea a couple of times. She watched him look around her apartment with great interest. Those beautiful eyes missed nothing, she noted. He was sharp as a tack and undoubtedly highly intelligent.

And extremely handsome. She was starting to get light-headed just looking at him. Or maybe that was the new cancer treatment catching up.

“So, Takuma,” she said, clasping her cup in both hands when they began to shake. “The shop. Why buy when you can lease?”

He turned his attention back to Abby. “I found your space perfect for my needs. Just what I pictured my little shop to be, in fact. The location is ideal as well. I do not want to lease, however. I plan on being in whatever spot I choose for a very long time. Purchasing is imminently more practical,” he explained.

She nodded. “I get that,” she said honestly, “but I can’t just sell that little corner. I’d have to sell the whole building.” She grimaced. “Some weird city ordinance,” she added. “I mean, it’s never been a problem before, but with you wanting to buy not lease…” She trailed off and gave a shrug.

“I would find it no hardship to purchase the building and give you a very generous price for it,” Takuma told her.

Abby frowned at that. “Well, first of all, I live here. I don’t really want to be a renter on property I used to own. Second of all, most of the other residents are elderly or disabled. I’m not exactly hurting for money so when they are a little late on the rent and such, I’ve got no problem giving leeway.”

Takuma nodded thoughtfully. “I see no reason why such an arrangement cannot remain with the current tenants,” he noted.

“And lastly my family has owned this building for a long, long time. I’m pretty sure if I sold it, my great-great-great grandfather would rise from his grave and do what my cancer hasn’t done yet and that’s kill me.” She tried to joke but knew it fell flat when his gaze sharpened and those keen eyes gave her a more thorough once over.

“You are ill?” His voice was sharp, almost disapproving.

She stiffened. “Not everyone gets lucky and has a long life,” she snapped. “Some of us have to deal with the shit poker hand life has given us.”

Takuma was taken aback by her tone and set his cup carefully down on the tray. “I meant no disrespect,” he assured her calmly. “It’s just – “ Here he faltered, frowning as if trying to find the right words.

But Abby had enough. She was beginning to feel worse by the second and having this healthy, beautiful man in her apartment made her feel like some sort of defect. When was the last time she ate?

“Lease or leave, Mr…” She blanked on his last name, “Takuma. Make your arrangement with the real estate agent or find somewhere else. Please leave.” She didn’t add ‘and don’t let the door hit you on the way out’ but she was positive he picked up on it, if the narrowed gaze he gave her was any indication.

He rose with a wounded dignity that raised Abby’s ire just a bit more. He walked with an even pace to the door and paused before opening it. “I offer $4 million for the entire building,” he told her. “I will change no agreements the tenants currently have for their residences. The other businesses are also allowed to keep their existing arrangements. Furthermore, I will charge you no rent at all, until either you move or…” His voice caught and she scowled. What did he have to be upset about? “Or until you pass.”

“Get out,” she snapped.

“Please consider my offer, Ms. O’Malley,” he said in a soft voice. “I make it in good faith. I am willing to let you look over my finances and credit to assure you I can uphold my end of the bargain.”

“I said get the fuck out.”

He stood there for a long moment but she refused to look at him. Hot tears were threatening to spill down her cheeks and she didn’t want to look weak and frail in front of that perfect human being standing at her front door.

“Very well. Again, please reconsider.” He opened the door and left, the door closing with a gentle click behind him.

Abby looked around her. This apartment was her refuge. It was a place to hide from the poking and prodding of doctors and the interminable tests that offered hope only to snatch it away over and over again. It was a safe place that well-meaning but morose family members wouldn’t go with their platitudes, remember-whens, and sad-eyed, mournful looks. Here she could defeat evil, overcome adversity, and create a happy ending with her stories. The happy ending that would be denied her.

Angrily, Abby dashed away the tears that finally fell, stood up and marched on unsteady feet to her desk.

She had a chapter to write. Many chapters. And the next victim was going to be a green-eyed, blond, too-good-to-be-true, insensitive jerk.

With relish, she began to type and soon immersed herself in murder and the investigation that would bring a bad guy to justice.