#Why must it be so dark so early when the sky is so pale?

[siena-sevenwits]

.

[khioneee]

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐃.

simon makes weekly visits to your flower shop, leaving you curious about the person he’s mourning.

pairing. simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader

word count. 4.2k

Every Tuesday, exactly at three in the afternoon—never a minute early, never a minute late—he walks into the shop. Simon always looks the same: tired and drained, pale skin stark against the bruised shadows under his eyes. The cracked red of his lips stands out like a wound, and the way he moves, slow and heavy, makes it seem like sorrow clings to him, weighing him down like an old coat that doesn’t quite fit. Among the bright flowers and soft light of the shop, he stands out like a dark cloud against a summer sky.

"Just a bouquet," he mutters, his voice rough, as though speaking is a struggle.

You grip the counter a little tighter, his presence unsettling yet familiar by now. "Any flowers in particular?" you ask, knowing what the answer will be.

"Doesn’t matter," he says, shaking his head. "Whatever works. I’m not staying long."

He avoids your gaze, as he always does, like looking at you would be too much. The question lingers at the edge of your tongue—Who are the flowers for? Why every week?—but you hold it back. The weight that surrounds him warns against prying too deep, like a thin layer of ice ready to crack.

Instead, you turn away and begin gathering the flowers. You choose yellow and orange roses, soft lilies, daisies, and carnations—delicate blooms that contrast with his rough edges. For some reason, the usual kraft paper wrap feels wrong today, so you arrange them in a small white basket instead.

He always drops more than enough money into the animal shelter’s donation bucket by the door, so you add a few extra roses—your own small gesture to a man who seems to be carrying too much on his back.

When you finish, you find him standing at the far end of the store, idly turning over small trinkets in his large hands. His fingers brush the edges of old picture frames and porcelain figurines, movements careful, almost reverent, like he’s touching something that once meant something.

You approach him quietly, the bouquet in hand. "Will you be back next week?" you ask softly as you hold the flowers out to him.

Your fingers brush his—just for a second—and it’s enough to make him freeze in place. His breath catches, and something shifts in him, like a fault line trembling just beneath the surface. His expression flickers, the tired vacancy in his eyes replaced by a sharp, aching sorrow.

"I… I shouldn’t be here," he mutters under his breath, as if he’s only now realizing it. His hand retreats from the bouquet, and for a moment, he stands there, lost, as though the ground beneath him has crumbled.

Before you can say anything, he takes a step back, stiff and disoriented, his shoulders weighed down by something unseen. "Sorry…" he mumbles, though you’re not sure who the apology is meant for.

Then, without another word, he turns and strides toward the door. The bells jingle softly as it swings open, letting in a gust of cold, rain-scented air. You watch as he disappears into the storm, swallowed by the rain, leaving only the faint scent of flowers—and the feeling that he’s carrying far more than anyone ever should.

You don’t see Simon for three long weeks. And when he returns, it’s not inside the shop—but at three in the morning, under the flickering glow of a streetlamp outside.

He stands there like a shadow—silent, worn, and distant, as if he exists somewhere far from this moment. His hood is pulled low over his unkempt hair, and his black jacket, torn across the chest, looks like it’s been through just as much as he has. One hand rests in the pocket of his jeans, the other dangles at his side, knuckles split and raw, as if he’s been fighting battles no one else can see.

At his feet lies a crushed rose, its petals scattered near the bushes where it must have fallen. And for a moment, you wonder if his heart lies there too—shattered and discarded among the ruins.

You step out into the quiet street, the cold biting your skin as you approach. Words linger on the tip of your tongue, but you’re not sure if anything you say will be enough. The silence between you is thick, oppressive, as if the night itself is holding its breath.

A distant siren wails through the empty streets, and a group of strangers staggers past, their drunken laughter too loud for the hour. One bumps into your shoulder, and the force sends you off-balance—straight into Simon.

He catches you easily, his grip steady and firm. But he doesn’t react. No flicker of emotion, no sound—just the same vacant stare, his gaze lost somewhere you can’t follow.

"Does any of this even matter?" His voice is low, frayed, and cold, as if it’s been left out too long, ready to snap.

You crouch down, gathering the crushed petals by his feet. "What do you mean?" you ask softly, trimming away the thorns with the small scissors always tucked in your work bag.

"Buying flowers for someone who’s gone…" He pauses, his words falling heavily from his lips. "What’s the point? They’ll never see them. They’ll never know they were meant for them."

The crack in his voice is small, but it slices through the night, sharp and raw. You know that kind of grief—the kind that lingers beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to break free.

"Maybe it’s not for them," you say gently. "Maybe it’s for… the ones left behind. Trying to find something beautiful in the loss."

For a moment, his gaze softens. Just slightly. Just enough for you to see the exhaustion hidden beneath the rough edges.

"Do you need a ride home?" you offer, voice careful, trying not to push too hard.

He shakes his head, glancing down the empty street, his expression slipping back into something unreadable. "I shouldn’t have come here," he mutters, raking a hand through his tangled hair, frustration bleeding into his tone.

"You called," you remind him quietly. "Don’t you remember?"

You must be insane, coming after a man this massive. When his call came, you answered without hesitation, not stopping to think how reckless it was to trust a customer you knew nothing about. Rationality had left you somewhere along the way.

“Such a savior you are.” A bitter laugh escapes him, more a sigh than sound. "You shouldn’t waste your kindness on someone like me."

After months of quiet visits and fleeting conversations, it’s hard to believe he was ever a stranger. You’ve learned the way he pulls away just before he opens up, the way sorrow clings to him like an old wound that refuses to heal.

Simon flicks open a lighter, the tiny flame flickering between his fingers. The cigarette at his lips glows faintly as he inhales, the smoke curling into the cold air.

"You shouldn’t try to save me," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "I’m already lost."

You don’t push him for answers, knowing he won’t give them. "I’ll call a cab," you say gently.

"Why?" His voice cracks, raw and tired. The cigarette trembles slightly between his fingers. "Why are you being kind to me?"

Your heart tightens with the weight of everything you can’t explain. There’s no logic to how you feel—no clear reason for the pull that keeps drawing you to him. All you know is that ever since Simon walked into your shop, something within you shifted, and the thought of letting him slip away now feels unbearable.

"I don’t have anywhere to go," he admits quietly, his voice breaking under the weight of the confession. "She’s gone. There’s no one left."

The way he says it. It’s not just a statement. It’s a confession, a truth too heavy to carry alone.

"Loving someone that much…" You search for the right words, careful not to tread too heavily. "It’s not something you just let go of. It stays with you because it mattered."

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze drifting toward the sky where the moon hides behind thick clouds. The weight of the night presses down on both of you, but you stand there with him, sharing the quiet until it feels just a little less overwhelming.

And this time, Simon doesn’t walk away.

Simon’s frame fills the entrance, broad and imposing, but the way he stands, rigid and hesitant, makes him seem smaller somehow—weighed down by something invisible yet heavy.

"Hi, Simon," you greet him gently, already sensing the weight he carries. "Visiting her grave today?"

For a moment, his expression flickers, as if your words pulled him back from somewhere far away. "Who—?" He catches himself, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah… yeah, I am."

You nod, knowing better than to press. Some things are only said when the time is right. "Anything specific you’d like for the bouquet?"

He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Whatever you think is nice… something you’d like."

The simplicity of his words catches you off guard, unexpectedly personal. Your breath hitches, but you hide it behind a small smile. You step behind the counter and begin gathering flowers: soft pink roses, delicate white lilies, and sprigs of lavender. Something light, hopeful, but not too much—a bouquet that balances beauty and sorrow without overwhelming either.

The silence stretches between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid. You can feel his gaze following your hands, watching as you arrange the flowers with practiced care. You wonder what it must be like for him, visiting her grave week after week, carrying a grief that never really leaves.

"It can’t be easy, coming by this often," you say gently, your voice soft as you focus on the bouquet. "That must be hard."

He shifts slightly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of something invisible. "No… it’s not," he admits, his voice low and rough, as if the words scrape on the way out. "But it feels right. I’ll do anything to see her."

You pause, heart aching at the rawness in his voice. As you finish tying the bouquet with a soft ribbon, you hand it to him. "She must have been lucky to have you," you whisper. "If you’ve been giving her flowers this often."

Simon’s hand hovers over the bouquet for a second, the compliment hitting him deeper than you expected. He shakes his head slowly, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Not as lucky as I was to have her," he murmurs, voice quiet but filled with something raw and unguarded.

For a moment, the world narrows to the two of you. His hand brushing against yours as he takes the bouquet, the warmth of his fingers a sharp contrast to the cold weight of his words.

"I'm sorry, by the way," he mutters, glancing down at the flowers, then back at you. "For disturbing you the other night."

His apology catches you off guard, not because it’s needed, but because it’s so unexpected coming from him.

"It’s alright," you say softly, offering a small smile. "You didn’t disturb me."

Simon gives you a subtle nod, as if the exchange carries more meaning than either of you will say aloud. Then, with the bouquet cradled gently in his hands, he turns toward the door.

The bell chimes softly as he steps out into the night, vanishing into the shadows beyond the streetlamp’s flickering glow. You stand there for a moment longer, heart heavy with something unnameable.

Simon’s presence was different today—darker, heavier. The quiet energy that usually followed him had given way to something more burdensome. His broad shoulders sagged as if carrying the world, and his gaze was distant, clouded with thoughts too deep to share.

You offered him a small smile, though you could feel the tension radiating from him. “Hey, Simon.”

He tried to return the gesture, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he muttered, voice thin and tired, like it barely crossed the space between you.

Concern stirred in your chest, tugging you away from the counter. “You seem… off today. Wanna get out of here for a bit?”

He blinked, surprised by the suggestion, but didn’t protest. Maybe he was too tired to refuse.

“Come on,” you said, grabbing your jacket from the hook by the door. “I’ve got a place I think you’ll like.”

The drive was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Simon sat beside you, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, lost in thoughts he wasn’t ready to share. You didn’t press him. The hum of the tires on the road filled the silence, carrying the two of you away from the noise of town and into somewhere softer, quieter.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time you arrived, casting the field ahead of you in warm hues of gold and lavender. Wildflowers swayed gently beneath the breeze, stretching out toward the horizon as if they could touch the fading light.

Simon stepped out of the car slowly, his breath catching slightly as he took in the sight before him. The field seemed endless, open and free—a stark contrast to the burdens he carried.

You sat cross-legged among the flowers, and Simon followed, settling beside you with his arms draped over his knees, staring out at the horizon like he was searching for something lost in the past.

For a long time, neither of you spoke, the breeze carrying the scent of flowers and filling the silence between you. Eventually, Simon’s voice broke through, low and rough like a confession.

“It’s been a year… since she passed.”

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of deep, unrelenting grief. His gaze stayed fixed on the sunset, as if watching the sun disappear beneath the earth brought him closer to her.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” you whispered, wishing there was more you could offer him. “What was she like?”

At first, he stayed quiet, and you wondered if you had asked too much. But then, in a voice soft with nostalgia, he said, “A lot like you.”

The simplicity of the statement caught you off guard.

“How so?” you asked, glancing toward him.

A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“She loved flowers,” he murmured. “Used to fill the apartment with them, even though I told her it was too much. She’d just laugh and say there was no such thing as too many flowers.”

You could see it clearly—a home bursting with blooms, her laughter filling every corner, her presence bringing life to everything she touched. Now, it made sense why he returned to your shop so often.

Hoping to ease the heaviness in the air, you plucked a dandelion from the ground and held it toward him with a playful grin.

“Make a wish.”

Simon eyed the dandelion, a tired chuckle slipping from his lips.

“Wishes don’t work like that,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Maybe not,” you said, twirling the stem between your fingers. “But it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

He huffed another quiet laugh, the sound brief but genuine.

“Any chance you got a whole field of these somewhere?”

You tilted your head in mock consideration. “Not yet,” you teased. “But we’ve got this one, and I’d say that’s a good start.”

He shakes his head lightly, but the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. It’s a small smile—barely there—but it’s something, and that’s enough for now.

After that quiet evening in the field of flowers, something shifted between you and Simon. His visits became longer, lingering beyond the brief exchanges of bouquets. What had once been fleeting moments stretched into hours—sometimes the entire day—as if your presence gave him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years.

But Simon didn’t just idle. He threw himself into the heavy work around the shop without a word. If there were heavy pots to lift or supplies to haul, Simon was already on it before you could even ask.

"I’ve got it," he would mutter whenever you tried to help, brushing you off with that quiet determination. He lifted bags of soil with ease, rearranged displays as if it was nothing, and hauled boxes of supplies like they weighed no more than feathers. He’d even repair things you hadn’t realized were broken—fixing wobbly shelves or leaky faucets without waiting to be asked.

He worked with an intensity that didn’t match the simplicity of the tasks, as if lifting heavy things or rearranging displays was more than just helping—it was his way of staying close to you. The repetition, the quiet rhythm of it, seemed to steady something deep inside him, keeping him grounded. If exhausting himself with work meant he could be near you a little longer, he’d do it without a second thought.

Some days, the two of you would talk as you worked side by side. You’d tell him the little frustrations of the shop—how the clippers were always dull, or how the ribbon spools always seemed to run out at the worst time. You’d walk him through the same explanations, over and over again, with the same quiet enthusiasm every time. And every time, Simon would listen. Closely. Intently. Like your words were something invaluable.

But the truth was, it wasn’t new to him.

He knew the rhythm of your voice, the way you moved effortlessly between tasks, your hands brushing over scissors, twine, and ribbons with ease. It was too familiar, a life he once knew—now distant, fragmented, slipping through his fingers.

And every time you smiled at him, he had to remind himself: She doesn’t remember. She doesn’t know me.

You weren’t the same woman who had once filled his life with flowers and light. The way you arranged bouquets, the way you laughed, the way you tilted your head when you talked—it was all a little different now. Not enough for most to notice, but to Simon, the subtle differences were glaring.

And still, the pull of familiarity was there, undeniable.

There were moments when he stood too close, lingering a little too long, as if searching your face for something lost to time. When the memories became too sharp, he’d force himself to remember: She’s not her. She’s not the same.

But the words didn’t stop the way his heart softened toward you.

The quiet comfort of your presence, the sound of your voice filling the shop like sunlight through the windows—he found himself craving it. If he could stay busy hauling heavy pots, rearranging shelves, or carrying supplies just to stay close, then that was what he would do.

You weren’t the same woman he’d lost. But in ways that scared him more than anything, you were becoming just as important.

“Here,” you said, holding the flower out to him.

Hyuck blinked, caught off guard. “For me?”

You nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. It suits you.”

He stared at the rose in your hand, hesitant at first, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it. But then, with a small, uncertain smile, he reached out and took it. His fingers brushed against yours in the exchange—soft, fleeting, but enough to make something stir quietly between you.

“Why a rose?” he asked, twirling the stem between his fingers.

You shrugged, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Because it’s beautiful, obviously.”

He gave a short laugh, the kind that carried both amusement and disbelief. “Did it remind you of me?”

“Maybe,” you teased, your grin widening. “Or maybe you just needed one. Ever think of that?”

He looked down at the rose in his hands, the smile lingering on his lips. For a moment, the usual shadows behind his eyes seemed to lift, replaced by something softer.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice quiet but sincere.

You leaned against the counter beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. “Roses are special, you know. They mean different things depending on who gives them.”

He glanced at you, curious. “And what does it mean when you give one to me?”

You smiled, the answer slipping out before you could stop it. “It means I want you to keep coming back.”

For a moment, Simon just looked at you, his expression unreadable. His breath hitched, and the weight of your words settled between you like the scent of roses on a warm breeze. Something flickered in his eyes, something that looked almost like recognition, but not quite.

He gave the rose a little twirl between his fingers before tucking it carefully into the pocket of his jacket, as if it were something precious.

"I’ll keep coming back," he whispered, the words low like a vow meant only for the two of you.

In that quiet moment, surrounded by flowers and the slow hum of the day, something shifted between you—something delicate, like the first petals of a rose unfurling under the warmth of spring. You felt it bloom, soft and new, even though you couldn’t fully name it.

But Simon knew.

Because as much as he tried to convince himself that you weren’t the same woman he had once loved—weren’t the same person who had filled his world with light—this moment, the way you smiled at him, felt like a memory he had been chasing for years.

And as he stood there, with a rose tucked safely in his jacket and the sound of your voice lingering in the air, he knew he was already lost to you—just as he had been once before.

And this time, no matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t sure he could let go.

So, Simon stayed—lifting, moving, fixing—working himself to the bone, not because the tasks needed doing, but because he needed this. Needed you. Even if you didn’t know who he was, even if you couldn’t remember the life you once shared, he remembered enough for both of you.

And being near you, no matter how different things were, was better than being without you at all.

The evening settled over the quiet town, the cool air thick with the scents of late autumn and flowers nearing the end of their bloom. Simon's steps dragged as he made his way toward your flower shop, exhaustion settling deep in his bones from weeks away on deployment. His body was used to this kind of weariness, but the heaviness in his chest, that was something else entirely.

Between his fingers, he toyed with the rose. The one you’d given him weeks ago, now dry and brittle, its once-vibrant petals curled and shriveled. He had carried it with him everywhere, like a lifeline, as if holding onto it might somehow keep him connected to you.

As he approached the familiar glow of the shop’s windows, Simon slowed. When he peered through the glass, he froze.

You were inside, dancing under the soft overhead lights—not alone, but with another man. His hands rested at your waist, and your smile was radiant, carefree in a way Simon hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. Even through the glass, he could see the happiness in your face. Happiness that used to belong to the two of you.

The knot in his chest twisted painfully. He knew things had changed. People moved on, especially when left with no answers, no promises. But seeing you like this, with someone else, felt like a knife to the gut he wasn’t ready for.

He thought of the accident—the one that had shattered your life and stolen your memories. The memory was jagged and relentless, lodged in his mind like a blade he couldn’t pull out. He could still hear the screech of tires, the shatter of glass, and your voice, soft and afraid, just before everything went dark.

You had been with him that night. Trusted him. And he had failed. The guilt twisted in his chest, blooming like thorns, sharp and unforgiving. If he had been more careful, maybe you wouldn’t have ended up in that hospital bed, lost to the world. Lost to him.

Inside, the man twirled you effortlessly, your laughter filling the shop with warmth. To you, the accident, the hospital, and everything you shared with Simon had never happened. But for Simon, it was a moment he could never escape. A scar that bled every time he thought of it.

He remembered sitting at your bedside in the hospital, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling the room. Your body had been bruised and broken beneath the white sheets, and your mom’s sharp voice echoed in his mind.

“You prick yourself because you don’t know how to take care of flowers,” she had said, her words as cold as the machines keeping you alive.

Simon hadn’t argued because she was right. He didn’t know how to care for flowers—or for you, not without breaking something delicate in the process. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. But trying hadn’t been enough. And now, he stood outside your shop, watching you dance with someone else—watching you live a life where he no longer had a place.

If it were before—before the accident, before the memories slipped away—he might have begged for more time. A proper goodbye. Maybe even a lifetime spent loving you until the flowers grew over his grave, the weeds plucked away so only beauty remained.

But now, he stood outside, a ghost at the edge of your new beginning.

The worst part wasn’t seeing you in someone else’s arms. It was knowing that you had no idea what you once meant to him. That every time you’d asked, "Visiting someone special?" you never realized it was you—your memory—he was mourning.

You didn’t remember the nights when your fingers ran gently through his hair, quieting his restless thoughts. You didn’t remember the mornings tangled in bedsheets that smelled like the roses from your shop, or the lazy afternoons when you’d hold up dandelions with that teasing grin of yours.

"Make a wish, Si," you’d say, eyes bright with playful mischief.

And every time, he’d push the flower back toward you with a soft, knowing smile. "I don’t need to. I already have everything I need."

And back then, it had been true.

But now, standing outside your shop with the brittle rose clutched between his fingers, Simon realized just how much he had lost. Not just you, but the version of himself who once believed love could be enough.

He knelt slowly at the threshold, placing the dried rose among the wilted petals and fallen leaves scattered near the entrance. The petals cracked under his touch, their fragility mirroring the ache in his chest. He didn’t bother plucking the petals—didn’t need to play the old game of ‘she loves me, she loves me not.’ Love, he knew, didn’t need an answer. It just was, even if it went unremembered.

Through the window, he watched you again, the man spinning you under the soft light, your laughter carrying in a way that felt like a distant memory.

And despite the sharp ache in his heart, Simon smiled—a small, sad thing, but genuine.

He had loved you once. More deeply than words could ever express. He still did. Even if you didn’t remember. Even if you never would.

Maybe that had to be enough.

With a deep breath, Simon tucked his hands into his pockets and turned away from the shop, his boots heavy against the pavement as he walked into the night. Behind him, the dried rose rested among the dead petals and brittle leaves, marking the spot where he let you go—not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice.

The cool night air wrapped around him as he walked down the empty street. He thought of those dandelion afternoons, how you used to hold the flowers up to him with a grin, urging him to make a wish.

And for the first time, Simon let himself wonder what he would wish for now, if given the chance. But deep down, he knew the truth. No wish could bring back the version of you who had once loved him.

With your laugh still lingering in his mind, Simon kept walking.

It wasn’t the ending he wanted, but it was the one he had.

And this time, he would learn to live with it.

[aquagirl1978]

Can i request Ellis Twilight with the prompt butterfly?

Thank you for the request

ellis twilight x reader | prompt: butterfly | word count: 750 | tags: mentions of blood and violence; a bit angsty

It was a perfect evening. The sky above was a painted canvas, shades of pale pink and muted purples blending together, highlighted by the last golden rays of the sun, as day shifted into night; an early autumn breeze kissed the air, a much needed reprieve from hot summer months. 

Except it wasn’t. There was nothing perfect about it.

You were walking hand in hand with Ellis, and the streets were quiet. Too quiet. Instead of providing a sense of calm one doesn’t get while living at Crown castle, the quiet was the perfect breeding ground for intrusive thoughts to invade your head. 

“Are you okay?” Ellis asked, his soft voice pulling you from your melancholy. Finching, you slowed your steps and tilted your face towards his. Ellis continued to speak, his voice still soft in the still air. “You haven’t been yourself since we left…”

His voice trailed off, allowing you to fill in the blanks in your head – the docks. 

“How can anyone…” You paused, then forced yourself to continue, the scene at the docks – and the smell of blood – still fresh in your head. “... be okay after witnessing that?”

The scene was grisly, more grisly than any scene you had ever witnessed before. The mission was supposed to be simple – well, simple was a relative word when compared to other Crown missions. Go in, scare some goons, get the information, and get out. With Jude taking charge and Ellis acting as his assistant, it should have been simple. 

You smelt the salty sea air before you saw the water, the waves crashing loudly against the restraining walls signaling that you were close. Jude was a few steps ahead, ready to warn you of any trouble ahead.

“What in blazes…. What’re ya doin’ here?”

Ellis stopped and bowed his head. “Ah, Jude, not again. Whatever happened to being quiet?” Ellis muttered to himself. He caught your gaze and tilted his head towards Jude’s voice. “Let’s go. Hopefully, I don’t have to save his ass again.”

“Lemme guess, Victor got all the information he needed and yer skippin’ straight to the execution.”

A light, melodic laugh filled the air. “That’s right.” 

You glanced over at Ellis. “William’s here?”

Ellis sighed. “I’m so sorry.” 

You didn’t have a chance to wonder why Ellis was apologizing; instead, you were distracted by a butterfly that slowly glided across your path, its large orange wings still easy to spot in the waning daylight. 

It must still be looking for a place to rest for the evening, you thought to yourself. There was a twinge in your heart as you watched the butterfly flapping its bright wings, fluttering in the sky. 

Knowing what would most likely happen, a part of you hoped it would find a more peaceful place than here at the dockyards.

“Let’s go,” Ellis whispered, tugging on your arm.

And like that, the butterfly was gone, off to find a place to sleep for the night. 

“Take this knife and slit your throat.”

Ellis pulled you into an embrace, his long arms wrapping around your waist, and placed a gentle kiss upon the crown of your head. “If I knew it was gonna happen like that, I would have never brought you tonight.”

Closing your eyes, you saw William’s face. His smile, despite having just murdered those men. The drops of blood splattered on his cheek. Blood that matched his eyes. Blood that wasn’t his.

“This is my life,” Ellis continued. “This is the darkness I live with every day. It’s a part of me. And sometimes I forget you’re not used to that part of my life.”

Nuzzling your face against his chest, the scent of freshly washed linen comforted you.

Ellis tilted your face with his thumb so that you were looking up at him. “Why don’t we get you a hand pie. I think the stand is still open.”

“It's going to take more than a hand pie to make me feel better,” you said with a small smile.

“I'll do anything to make you happy.”

That’s right, Ellis absolutely would. Taking his hand, you walked off together towards the stand. Ellis wouldn't be able to erase the events of tonight, but he was able to soothe you and make things easier. 

Not long ago, you felt like the butterfly, lost while searching for your place to rest. Glancing over to Ellis, his profile handsome against the darkening skies, you knew you finally found your place. 

Tagging: @redheadkittys @themiscarnival   @coral-relevium @cyberk1ee    @kookie-my-little-sunshine    

@ellisgivesmelife013 @ikemen-writer   @nightghoul381 @randonauticrap @xbalayage

@xenokiryu @alydra @drachonia @ranhanabi777 @silver-dahlia

@lunaaka @ikesenwritings @sh0jun @natimiles @valkyyriia

@candiedcoffeedrops @lucyw260   @nightfoxqueen

[shiut]

Waiting For Yuma Chapter 1 : Preview

Some english translation for the Rain Code novel, Waiting for Yuma. This is how many pages are provided in the trial reader preview, but it's still rather long, so I've put most of it under the cut.

I've also put it into an online document if you want to click here instead.

Chapter 01

The Silence of the Dolls

Morning arrives early for the trainee detective.

However, though belonging to the 【World Detective Organization】, he/she has not yet completed the training course. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. A piece of paper will never reach the moon unless it is folded forty-two times. There is much work to be done in order to become a 【Master Detective】.

Working hard to develop and refine special abilities. Acquiring basic detective skills. Sharpening a keen eye for detail. Not only that, but there are many other challenges to worry about too. I suppose you could say that the days have been filled with more hardship than joy. However, you can't call yourself a 【Master Detective】 if you can't overcome all of that. It might be a different story for people who have exceptional supernatural abilities. However, for those who don't, they must continue to keep improving in order to reach the stars.

For one such trainee, Yuka Kisaragi, this day ought to be a momentous milestone. Her efforts were recognized, and so she was allowed to accompany a real 【Master Detective】 to the crime scene. As soon as Yuka heard this, she hugged and danced with everyone she saw, which almost got her reported in the process. That’s to say, she was putting out more energy than usual for such an important day.

Or at least it should be...... no, could that be why?

Let's go over that one more time. 

Morning arrives early for a trainee detective.

That should be the case, but Yuka was in fact remarkably late.

***

"Why, why, why, why, why!?"

Yuka asked herself repeatedly as she roared down the street. Under the clear blue sky, she trampled across the well-maintained cobblestone pavement. Though, she didn't have to bother questioning herself when she already knew the cause of the problem a while ago. 

First of all, the toast was burnt. 

Secondly, the hair iron went missing.

Third, she forgot to cut the tag off her new coat that was bought for today.

That sums up why she was late today.

It was entirely a bed of her own making. But still, Yuka thought, there must be a reason for all this bad luck. It could be the alignment of the stars, or like the flow of fate, or something.

Could it be the influence of the 【Master Detective】 that I'm about to meet? 

It may be due to something like sound waves or telepathy caused by the person in question. Though, I'd rather those predictions to not be true. Yuka kept running, hoping at the very least that a kind person would be waiting for her. 

Then when she rounded a sharp corner —— she burst into a stylish cafe that had a strikingly chic dark-toned exterior wall. The interior was also uniformly monochrome, with bright light streaming through the large glass windows. The clientele had a somewhat intellectual and relaxed atmosphere. Yuka immediately felt nervous. She looked around as she listened to the classical music that was playing. The meeting place was at the far end of the window. Right, she repeatedly mouthed these words to herself while she walked over... she was suddenly rendered speechless.

Therein, was a beautiful person.

A hard leather sofa, and white painted wooden table. 

There sat a person dressed in gray. The way in which they tipped their coffee was picturesque. Their pale hair and glasses suited their sagacious profile and air of intelligence. 

While admiring the sight, Yuka had to wonder. There's an ambiguity to the person before her. Their gender is indiscernible. No matter how you look at it, it's impossible to tell if it's a he or she. They could pass as a beautiful man, or even as a ruggedly dignified woman perhaps. Yuka stared intently in order to ascertain the truth the best she could.

"......Three million"

"Eh-?"

What did they say? Yuka let out a dumb sound as she thought. Caught off-guard, she simply blinked. The beautiful person took another sip of coffee before her.

Gracefully setting down the cup, the other person continued.

"It's one hundred thousand per minute. My time is not cheap...... More importantly, you wasted precious time before the investigation as a 【trainee detective】, of course you're prepared to pay that much, right?"

Smoothly —— he, no, maybe she —— the 【Master Detective】 spoke. 

Confused, Yuka twisted her head like an owl. However, after a few seconds, she realized that what this 【Master Detective】 was referring to were 'late fees'. Yuka choked with a hissing noise. How ruthless. Is this person a demon? That's what her immediate thought was.

Flustered, Yuka tried to explain herself. He/she opened their mouth to interrupt.

"I'll have you know, burnt toast, a misplaced hair iron, and a coat tag are no excuse for being late."

"Huh-? How did you know?"

"Bread crumbs"

They pointed to Yuka's chest. If you look —— peeking out from a crimson coat ——was a cream-colored sweater dotted in black specks. Pointing at it, the 【Master Detective】 continued.

"It's a notably charred color. Also, although some of your hair is disheveled, only the ends are straightened out. A sign of a frantically used hair iron. Did you simply not spend enough time on it? No, it looks like you intended to use it properly, but were forced to use it in such an errant way. You could naturally assume that it's a result of stubbornly searching for the hair iron that consumed most of your time. Also, there are threads sticking out unnaturally from the collar of your coat. This could be the trace of a tag that was yanked out in a hurry. That's all."

He/she lifted their cup with a clink. And with that, they swallowed the pitch black liquid. The coolness of their profile showed no signs of even the faintest hint of bitterness.

Once again, Yuka looked down at herself. She was wearing a crimson coat that was bought specially for today, and paired with it was a cream sweater with a rounded collar plus a black skirt. On her feet, she wore leather shoes. Her shoulder-length amacha sweet tea colored hair was partially frizzy, though she still managed to take care of the ends.

And then there were the bread crumbs that were left sticking to her.

Yuka was taken aback by all the things they had pointed out.

But soon after, her face lit up.

As an aspiring detective, she's yearned for this kind of precise deduction skill.

"Tha-..... That's amazing! Just as expected of a 【Master Detective】!"

"Praising people so carelessly will result in brain rot."

"Ough-"

"Something like this is not even the ability of a 【Master Detective】. These are the most basic fundamentals that even an amateur should be able to do...... right from the start. To my knowledge, it's not standard for a detective to bring along bread crumbs to a crime scene now is it?"

"I-, I'm sorry."

Yuka patted off her sweater, and the black food particles were brushed from her cream-colored top. She moved her leather shoes to sweep the fallen crumbs to the edge of the wall.

She once again turned her attention to the person in front of her. They were still so young, but they certainly seem like a 【Master Detective】. Even though he/she says that even an amateur can do it, his/her observational skill is beyond that of an ordinary person.

Yuka was so excited. She bowed her head in greeting.

"Once again nice to meet you, I'm Yuka Kisaragi."

"Halara Nightmare"

Yuka acknowledged the name with a nod.

I was given very minimal information about the 【Master Detective】  I'd been scheduled to accompany today. The 'Jeweler Campanella Murder Case' that took place the other day at the only public casino in the area —— the genius who led to its solution was Halara. He/she was one of the shining stars in the sky. They're a detective for Yuka to look up to. 

Yuka stared at Halara with admiration. Without a response, Halara got up from their seat. Then, in one fluid motion, they handed a slip to Yuka who accepted it without a thought. 

Yuka’s head tilted as she found herself caught by a ruthless follow-up.

"Three million, plus the coffee bill. That is your payment."

"Huh-?"

"It'd be in your best interest to pay up before you forget."

"Wait, what, weren't you kidding before?"

"Does talking about a debt with someone you've just met sound like a joke according to your trite standards? That's quite nonsensical."

"Sure it's a strange joke to make but... even so, eh-?"

"Rest assured that you won't be charged any interest. Just make sure you've set up a payment plan."

Halara walked off, leaving a confused Yuka in their wake. Their back held a beautiful and dignified posture. However, it seemed like they had no intention of looking back. With the check in hand, Yuka felt her head spinning.

"Eh-...... Ehh-"

One thing is for certain.

Yuka has been haunted by bad luck ever since this morning.

But the worst part of all was, without a doubt, the presence of this detective.

As her head sank in disappointment, Yuka couldn't help but think.

Halara Nightmare must be some sort of demon.

***

"W-, Well then, let's change the mood shall we!"

"............"

"Halara-san please say something too!"

"Anything in particular?"

"...... I can't even think of anything I had in mind."

At any rate, the two arrived at the manor where the scene of the crime took place.

Diverting her attention from the debt of three million, Yuka looked up at the old-fashioned building.

The walls were constructed with dull red clay brick tiles and lines formed with white granite. Placed atop that was a massive black roof. The exterior was reminiscent of an antique dollhouse. Additionally, the property was encompassed by a magnificent rose garden. The vibrant dew-covered petals almost looked artificial. Everything was so breathtakingly beautiful that it looked like something straight out of a vintage masterpiece. 

Yuka couldn't help but let out a sigh of awe.

"How atmospheric~. Ah-, hey, please don't leave me behind!"

Halara had begun to walk off while I was immersed in the building's peculiar and chilling atmosphere.

Yuka rushed to follow behind their slender back. It was as if they were swimming in a sea of roses as they made their way along the path.

Eventually, the two arrived in front of an arched doorway.

Waiting there was a gentleman dressed in a brand-name suit. His eyes were amber. His hair black. His physique appeared portly. Twisting his magnificent mustache, he raised his booming voice.

"Hey there, Halara-san! I haven't seen you since the 'Jeweler Campanella Murder Case'! I'm glad you could make it! It was worth the trouble of going through the Unified Government to make a request with the 【World Detective Organization】!"

"...... As I suspected, this was no mere coincidence, but rather a request on your behalf, wasn't it?"

"Eh-, do you know each other!? And what's more...... through the Unified Government no less...... Could it be that he's that big of a deal?"

"Hahaha, oh, you could say the Unified Government tends to be a bit involved when it comes to matters of international trade. I can't get into any details, as much as I'd love to talk about it.  Anyways, when it comes to securing the food supply in this district it is I, Richard Thomson, who's your go-to guy! Also, what's there to hide between Halara-san and me? We've solved a case together after all!"

"H-...... He's a real talker."

Suddenly, Richard moved in closer. Feeling pushed by the pressure of his prattling words and moundish belly, Yuka took a step back. Meanwhile, Halara narrowed their eyes in displeasure. 

Gracefully, he/she crossed their arms. Letting out a small breath, Halara continued.

"If you'd mind refraining from distorting the facts. We did not solve it together. The case had indeed been solved....... however, it was all by my ability alone of course."

"Eh-, if that's the case, then what about Richard-san?"

"He was merely the first person to discover the incident. Rather than finding a solution, he challenged my theory based on his own faulty recollection, and thanks to this I had to explain  【Postcognition】 at the request of the police."

"【Postcognition】?"

Yuka found herself tilting her head. She was unfamiliar with the term.

In order to prevent further questions for the time being, Halara spoke up.

"It's my ability as a 【Master Detective】 ..... we'll be needing it for this crime scene as well. I'll discuss it later. So then...... since you're aware of these abilities, you should already understand right?"

"Yes, of course! I am fully knowledgeable about all of it! Just as expected of me. All pro~per preparations have been made accordingly, of course!"

Richard puffed out his chest. From a pocket on the inside of his coat, he pulled out a photograph and presented it to Halara. Yuka took a peek at the picture from behind him/her.

Similar to a portrait, the upper half of a lady was shown. She was a slender and petite woman. However, she had a firm and straight posture, staring at the camera with a steely gaze—— Strangely, her eyes seemed somewhat out of focus—— Her hair was tied up in a golden bun, and her eyes were a deep blue. She was beautiful, yet had a somehow frighteningly icy air about her. It was a perilous sheet of ice over a deep lake that could crack at any moment.

Nervously, Yuka asked.

"...... Is this?"

"The victim in this case. It's my wife. She was quite a cold woman. To be honest, our whole relationship was cold, but I never expected something like this. Whether I'm sad or not, I'm still not sure. I'll worry about that a bit later. Incidentally, I had a business meeting that day, so I have a flawless alibi, ahem. If you ask me, my wife would complain to the chef about the taste of the soup. It seems pretty suspicious to me, so I hope you'll be able to help me out here."

"H- he really is a chatty guy."

Yet again, Richard moved forward. Yuka slowly backed away. Halara took a long thorough look at the picture that they had received before returning it. Nodding, Richard opened the door.

"Here, go right on ahead. We'll go over the details on the way to the crime scene. Why, I couldn't even tell you how glad I am that you came, Halara-san. Ever since the 'Jeweler Campanella Murder Case' I just haven't been able to contain myself from telling my family all about your story, Halara-san. Hahaha. Ah-, as for a full-scale police investigation, I have all the power and resources needed to keep them out of it, so feel free to......"

"Eh-, why would you want to hold back the police?" Yuka voiced her surprise.

Rumor has it—— now was it Kanata Ward, or Kanaya Ward—— that some places have been under lockdown and the police haven't exactly been operating properly. However, places such as that are the exception. The legal organization should be operating in proper accordance here. But even so, is there any sense to purposefully suppressing them? In response to Yuka's question, Richard softly curved the flesh bordering his mouth. 

He spoke while displaying a clownish grin.

"Because, having a 【Master Detective】 solve it would be more fun, wouldn't it?"

There was a childishness in his eyes, 

and a warped sense of delight began to surface.

***

"...... Is that guy alright?"

It seemed that Richard had the intention of sticking around the crime scene. However, it appeared that there was a problem with his cargo ship, so he left while grumbling something about just getting started. 'Please don't solve the case until I return' he added, but I'm not really concerned about something like that. 

After making sure that he had gone down to the first floor, Yuka then went to inquire Halara.

Located on the second floor —— in front of his wife's bedroom, he/she answered with indifference.

"Probably not. However, as long as 【Master Detectives】 exist, so too will there be people who hold an excessive admiration for them, or even an addiction...... There’s no telling what type of bad precedent it could set if it were a person in power."

Yuka reflexively shifted her gaze downwards.

That admiration of 【Master Detectives】 is something she could understand. To some people, those who possess supernatural abilities and eliminate unsolved mysteries are like that of stars shining in the sky. There are some who may wish to bask in the radiance of that light up close. However, despite the murder of a family member, it was nothing short of abnormal to request a 【Master Detective】 while shutting down the possibility of a quick solution.

Yuka's skin crawled with disgust as she asked.

"Are you going to accept this request?"

"Five million."

"Eh?"

"It was mentioned to me a short while ago. This is the amount he said he had set as a reward for my success...... I have no obligation to help others, but I work sincerely according to the payment I receive...... That is my pride as a detective."

"So that’s the only reason."

"It's reason enough, among other things."

Yuka almost raised her voice. However, in response to this Halara spoke calmly. 

He/she emotionlessly included more reasons.

"The police have had no involvement in this case. Hence, the situation where the more time passes, the more evidence is lost...... Given the circumstances, there is no detective better suited for this case than me. Still, even if I decline this request, he would probably just vet another 【Master Detective】 to appoint anyway. It's a waste of time."

"Surely......"

"The quickest and most rational decision would be for me to continue with the investigation."

Yuka gave a deep nod. To reject a request based on emotion would also be an unethical decision. Once she came to an understanding, Halara then placed their hand on the door. 

Nevertheless, without pressing the matter further, she continued to ask questions.

"Then let's move on with the investigation. It'd be foolish for a 【Master Detective】 and trainee to continue to stand around talking to each other...... Before going any further, I'm sure you've already been properly briefed with a sufficient overview regarding the case thus far before arriving here, right? Mister Richard did speak rather quickly."

"If that's the case then please leave it to me! Uhh let's see now...."

Yuka twiddled her thumbs around in the air. 

She then began to explain the overview of the murder case as told by Mister Richard.

***

To recap, the story goes like this.

Mister Richard has a family of five—— however, his second born daughter is staying in a dormitory—— Therefore, at the time of the incident, there were seven people in the mansion: him, his wife, his eldest daughter and his eldest son, a cook, a maid, and a gardener.

It was there that Mister Richard's wife, Beatrice Thompson, was murdered. 

No one had seen her after she ate dinner and went to her room at 8 p.m.—— This has so far been confirmed by the initial police report —— The estimated time of death was between 9 and 10 o'clock p.m. The cause of death was stabbing. The murder weapon, a knife, was left lodged in her chest. There were no fingerprints. Also, a water pitcher—— which she loved to use when she went to bed —— was confirmed to have been laced with stolen sleeping pills. 

Because of this, it's been concluded that the crime must have been premeditated by an insider. 

The first to discover the scene were the gardener and the eldest daughter. The gardener would visit the victim every night at 10 o'clock to consult with her about remodeling the garden, and when she did not respond he then approached her eldest daughter —— Afterwards, both parties felt uneasy about there being no response, and so as a result of breaking down the door, the dead body was discovered —— This was at about half past 10 o'clock. Additionally, there were signs of intentional destruction within the room at the time. The eldest daughter then immediately called out to the eldest son, who was in the garden, and asked him to report the incident.

And then there's the key detail.

The room was a locked room.

"The crime scene was a closed room with both the windows and doors locked at the point which it was first discovered when the door was opened. Furthermore, the victim was leaning against the door, and there were no signs of it having been opened directly beforehand."

"Well done. Seems like nothing has been misremembered." Halara gave a brief nod, their pale hair swaying with the motion.

Naturally, Yuka puffed her chest proudly. She had also been honing her memory as a part of her training to become a 【Master Detective】. She also had a bit of a talent for picking up on fast-talkers, which was something she was prepared with at the very least.

Halara stared at the door with the knob still in hand. 

Gazing at the floral reliefs carved across its surface, he/she continued. 

"Wherever there's a locked room, there is an explanation behind it. It's the detective's job to uncover it."

Halara opened the door with a click.

Stepping through and, suddenly, looking to the side —— Yuka took a sharp breath.

***

It looked as though there were many girls standing there. 

Dolls were lined up in front of a mainly yellow floral-patterned wallpaper. 

The smallest one was a baby, while the largest figure looked to be around 10 years old. Everything looked to be things belonging to girls of various sizes. But oddly enough, there was also a strange sense of uniformity. 

Lovely beings clad in a luxurious and solemn aura. Their eyes were made of deep blue glass, and their heads were covered in gold thread. Their shrewd features somehow had an uncanny resemblance to the victim's wife. Moreover, there were other bizarre details as well.

All of their heads had been torn off. Some were set up to be holding dolls, while others were lying on the floor. Many of them were grouped together and placed against the wall.

It was as though the dolls had also been murdered.

"Wh-, what is this--. How disturbing...... So it was the dolls that they were referring to when they said some of the rooms showed signs of intentional destruction. But still, why is it like this?"

"......On the other side of the doll...... there is a fireplace to the right hand side when you enter through the door." 

Halara muttered under their breath as they covered their mouth. He/she stepped forward to approach the mantlepiece of the elegant fireplace. Halara crouched down to peer inside before looking up. 

Yuka followed their lead and crouched down beside them, copying their actions. Before them was a grimy chimney that extended from their field of view. The distant opening was tightly sealed with a fine mesh. She nodded with a hum. 

"It seems unlikely that the killer could have escaped by climbing up here."

"However, it doesn't seem irrelevant."

"Eh?"

"Look here, there are traces of soot on the floor."

Yuka lept back at the mention of it. That was a close one. She almost stepped on a piece of evidence. 

Seeing her panic, Halara adjusted their glasses. 

"I thought you were conscientiously avoiding it...... Seems I overestimated. Are you really so dense as to have not noticed?"

"Th-, that's not it! I noticed! Of course I noticed!" 

Despite her insistence, she of course did not notice. Halara's gaze was truly cold. 

Yuka was quick to redirect it by changing the subject.

"Uhmm, well...... Let's see, the victim was lying in front of the door, and the eldest daughter thought about the possibility that someone could have broken in, so she went to check the window...... but found that it was locked."

"So, she found the eldest son in the garden and called out to him...... I see, it is visible from here perhaps. There don't appear to be any contradictions evident in those facts themselves at the moment."

Halara and Yuka moved over to the window to look out over the garden. 

The rose garden could clearly be seen from the wife's bedroom window. Though it was now daytime, we confirmed that there was a haze from floodlights scattered about for illumination. That meant that the eldest son could have been seen without any problem even at night.

Touching the golden crescent lock, Halara nodded with a hum. 

"The locks on the windows are rather standard...... so I can't say for sure that there's no possibility of tampering. However, there are no scratches. I don't see any evidence of thread or any other such material being used."

Halara turned while muttering to themself. 

Once again, he/she looked over to the door the victim was leaning against.

"...... There isn't much blood. In other words, the criminal did not pull out the knife after dealing the blow."

"That is true, isn't it."

The two discussed their thoughts about the bloodstains on the carpet, though the body has already been removed. The crime scene was not preserved exactly as it was in its original state. The family must've had some sort of hand in it. At this point, there may be some things that an investigation won't be able to uncover.

Yuka spoke up without thinking. 

"Hmm, I guess there's nothing more to see here other than the information that's already been given so far. There's got to be things that we're missing. That's the problem with being a detective who's always asked to do things after the fact. Ahhh, if only we could see the crime scene right at the time of the body's discovery."

"You wish to see it?"

"Eh?"

"Who...... do you think I am?"

"Who?"

"I'm Halara Nightmare."

The phrase rolled off Halara's tongue in the most natural way. Yuka cocked her head. 

Well, I've already gone through introductions. Regardless of if it's impossible to tell whether they’re a man or a woman, there was no doubt that the person standing before me was Halara Nightmare. Isn't that so?

But he/she continued on. 

"The 【Postcognition Detective】, Halara Nightmare."

***

What exactly is this 【Postcognition】.

Halara began to explain.

"My 【Forensic Forte】 is 【Postcognition】 ...... It quite literally is the power to see a snapshot of the past. However, it can only be used at murder scenes. To be precise, it's the ability to see how a crime scene 【appeared at the time it was first discovered】 with one's own eyes. Another way to describe it would be 【crime scene-limited psychometry】, if that's easier to understand."

Yuka couldn't help but gawk in surprise. 

She knew that the 【Master Detectives】 who work in the field had special abilities. Yuka herself had something that could be considered as such. Halara's was outstanding, however.

It's almost too convenient.

As far as a detective's supernatural ability goes, it could be considered among the best.

Halara continued in the wake of Yuka's astonishment.

"My power allows me to see the 【moment the first witness saw the crime scene】. In other words, not the culprit, not the victim, but how it appeared when a third party first entered. The memory or perception of the witness does not affect my 【Postcognition】. What I see is what actually was there. When it comes to my power, the witness is not a camera or a recording device, but rather a trigger...... Perhaps the best way to think of it is like a bookmark stuck between the pages of when the body was found. It's not a power that can be taken advantage of unconditionally, however.”

Perhaps it was something akin to envy and jealousy that swirled in Yuka's eyes like heated candy. Halara continued to explain the activation conditions and limitations of their power.

"First, I must be standing at the crime scene...... this condition is absolutely required. I must also know the victim's name and face. That's why prior research is crucial. Lastly, 【Postcognition】 is only effective in a 10-meter radius around the body. At the moment, I can only see the crime scene and the victim. I can't see any living things that were at the scene.” 

Yuka's eyes flickered with a blink. So even if the culprit was hiding at the crime scene—— it wouldn't be possible to immediately identify them. Her face must've been brimming with the question as to why. Halara promptly gave an answer.

"...... I’m not so good at looking at people."

"B- but still, I think this is a more than capable ability! This is a 【Forensic Forte】!  I'm so envious! I absolutely admire you!"

"Sorry, but I'm tired of hearing compliments."

"Actually, maybe I did go a little too far with the praise......"

"Time is of the essence. Let's take a look for now, shall we?" 

With that said, Halara raised their left hand to cover their left eye. 

That was the moment Yuka put down her favorite crimson bag she'd been carrying on her back—— which could be used in three different ways by adjusting the belt. She undid the metal clasps and opened the leather flap. She pulled out a sketchbook and a box of colored pencils. She readied the black one first. 

Halara gave an expression as if to say 'what is that'. 

Yuka turned to puff out her chest toward him/her.

"Ehehe, if that's what your ability can do, Halara-san, I think I could be of some help to you, even if just a little."

"...... What do you mean?"

"As a matter of fact, my 【Forensic Forte】 is 【Sketching】!"

Halara's eyebrow slightly twitched at such a cheerful declaration. Perhaps that ability would've been self-explanatory enough. Yuka continued regardless for the sake of explanation. 

"Ah, I may be a trainee detective, but I have fully mastered my forte. If I can keep it up like this, I should be on track to receive my detective deed! Heeheehee-...... Well, uh so, with this ability, by just listening to what someone says, I can faithfully depict 【a person's description of a scene】 without error, completely unaffected by the influence of my subjectivity or imagination! Though, there's no way for me to be sure whether or not the 【person's description】 is an 【imaginary scene】 or a 【real scene】......"

"Does that mean that you can be influenced by the imagination of another person?"

"Yes. A lie is a lie and will be recorded exactly as it is. But in your case, Halara-san, if you describe the scene exactly as you see it, I think I'll be able to get a picture perfect replication of what it looks like!" Yuka explained.

Her power was the exceptional ability to discern the vague image within a witness's mind. Even if the image in itself is false, she wouldn't be able to disclose the nature of its authenticity. That's why Yuka was so envious of Halara's ability to remain unaffected by the subjectivity of another person's perspective. Still, her ability to take only a vague testimony from the witness themselves—— including the image of the culprit that they witnessed and the scene at the time of the crime—— and be able to properly materialize it, was very useful. It might also be useful in this circumstance as well.

Halara hummed with a brief nod. 

"I see...... While it may be possible to reproduce an image as seen by an eyewitness that would otherwise be difficult to convey clearly, there is a possibility of being manipulated by a deliberately false testimony, or an ability perhaps."

"Exactly!"

"......It's quite half-baked for a detective."

"Ngh-"

"Honestly it could be quite convenient for this particular instance. It's exhausting to explain things only I can see."

"Really?"

"People do not believe what they cannot see. I have often been called a liar...... It was thanks to this that when I worked with Mister Richard on the 'Jeweler Campanella Murder Case'...... not only did I have to explain my forte, but I also had to go through the arduous task of proving it through drawing an explanation of the circumstances at the time and comparing them with the physical evidence."

Yuka nodded in response to Halara's words. His/her ability is nothing more than a 【vision】 of the past. Perhaps there will always be skeptics and those who continue to insist that it's flawed. As a trainee, she could only imagine the troubles that they deal with. 

But there's no need to worry this time. Yuka spoke with conviction. 

"It'll be alright! Because I believe in Halara-san's 【Postcognition】 and my 【Sketching】 from the bottom of my heart, without a doubt!"

"......Your own 【Sketching】 as well, huh?"

"Ah-, sorry."

"I don't mind. You should have confidence in your 【Forensic Forte】. The most important quality for a detective is the ability to suspect others...... but perhaps I've spoken too much. Let's continue."

With one eye closed, Halara began to concentrate. 

Yuka was momentarily captivated by their serious and beautiful profile. But the instant his/her mouth began to move, she shook her head and picked her colored pencil back up to begin moving it with blinding speed.

A drawing etched into a sketchbook.

Along with Halara's words.

Through combining the two, the findings that were revealed are as follows.

***

The first witness of the scene had broken through the locked door. It was at this time that the victim's body, which had been leaning against the door, appeared to have moved. There were traces of bloody finger marks on the knife and the surrounding area of the clothes on the victim, who had fallen to the side—— though this was confirmed in the initial police investigation, no fingerprints were reported to be found—— and so it was theorized to have been caused not by the culprit, but by the victim. 

In other words, the victim's death was not instant.

Furthermore, traces of water stains were found trailing from the victim's mouth to their throat. 

Also the head of one of the dolls—— which had apparently not fallen off, yet seemed as if it had been placed with the rest of the heads in the real life scene —— was lying in a position where it could easily be seen from the open door.

And the biggest difference of all—— there were no traces of soot in front of the chimney.

After drawing the description above, Yuka put down her colored pencil with a sudden flick. The fresh corpse of the victim was vividly recreated on paper. The sight was brutal, although I hadn't given it much thought at the time my colored pencils were in motion. She closed her eyes to offer a moment of silence. She then asked Halara.

"I understand things for the most part...... but what could be the meaning behind these differences?"

"............"

"Halara-san?"

"I understand, but......if that's the case...... no...... It's far too simple...... namely, "

"Halara-saaan?"

"I've got a hypothesis in mind. All that's left is to substantiate the evidence."

With that said, Halara began walking to leave the room. Yuka hurriedly stowed her sketchbook and colored pencils into her bag. Brown, light orange, red—— disregarding the order that they were placed in—— they were tossed directly into the bottom of the box. She slammed the lid shut and ran after Halara.

"Please wait, Halara-san. Where are you going?"

"An investigation is built upon two fundamental factors. First of all, check the crime scene, next is?"

"Next, is it...... um, perhaps"

"Yes, I'm sure you know what I'm referring to." 

Halara came to a halt in a corridor with beautiful stucco walls. He/she turned to Yuka and, with a quick motion, held up two fingers. He/she curled their fingers from two to one as they gave their answer.

"It's collecting testimony."

***

"You're the detective appointed by the Master, is that right?...... Haa, quite the beautiful person...... Ah-, no, what happened at the time of the Madam's death, was it?"

"To be more precise, it's about the circumstances surrounding the discovery of the body and how you were spending your time that night. I’d appreciate your cooperation."

The gardener narrowed his puffy eyes at Halara's statement. 

He was at a loss for words within the garden that was filled with the suffocating fragrance of roses. 

The gardener was a man in his fifties. He was dressed in a pair of trousers, shirt, and rubber apron suitable for tilling the soil, and the look on his face portrayed a gentle personality. At the same time, it seemed to reveal an innately timid nature. He carefully tucked the pruning shears he was using into his apron pocket. He then anxiously asked Halara.

"Does that mean, as in an alibi? Am I being accused of something?"

"We're going around and asking everyone! Thank you in advance for your cooperation!" 

Perhaps it would be better to keep him calm by speaking to him herself.

Yuka spoke cheerfully so. Halara said nothing. The gardener nodded upon hearing this. He still seemed nervous, but he opened his mouth. 

"Haa...... Well, I don't have anything to hide or be ashamed of, so I'll answer you. Please hurry and clear up any of the Madam's lingering regrets."

"Right! ...... oouugh, I'm moved to tears by those words. I guess your Madam must've surely held a great deal of care and compassion for her employees!"

"No, not at all."

"Eh-"

Yuka froze in her tracks at this.

Isn't the memory of the deceased something that everyone glorifies? Especially if they were killed. However, the gardener's deep wrinkles distorted, like scars chiseled into rock. With a firm voice, he continued.

"The only time the Madam was kind was when she dealt with her youngest daughter, who is now living in a dormitory...... She was strict with everyone else, and our nickname for her was the 'Empress of Ice'...... There was no such thing as kindness."

Halara narrowed their eyes at his words. He/she folded their arms thoughtfully. 

Halara asked with a hardened voice.

"So everyone could have a motive?"

"......Well I never said that. I dread to think who in the house might have stabbed her. Even if I had found her 'murdered'...... Honestly, I didn't think about why."

"...... By the sounds of it, you were the first one to discover the body?"

"Oh, that's right." The gardener nodded simply.

Yuka reflexively held her breath.

This is important information. As you know, Halara's power recreates the crime scene found by the 'first witness'. Not the 'culprit', not the 'victim' —— but that of the 'first witness'.

 In other words, the 'first witness' is excluded as the culprit. 

It's imperative to determine whether or not the vision seen by Halara really belongs to the gardener. But the ability to rule out one person from being a potential culprit altogether is incredibly valuable.

"I see, in that case......" 

Halara tried to ask the question, and Yuka immediately took out her sketchbook. This is where her 【Forte】 comes into play. Halara nodded upon seeing this. 

"That's a good call."

"Halara-san praised my judgment!?"

"So, when you opened the door......"

"Ignored without a beat!?"

"Was the victim leaning against it?"

"Yes...... I had a bad feeling, so the young lady and I kicked down the upstairs door...... I thought it was strangely heavy, but soon after I was shocked when I caught a glimpse of the corpse."

According to the gardener's report—— the moment he opened the door, the impact had apparently caused the Madam's corpse to fall over. Since he was sure that he heard the sound of something hitting the floor, they believed that nobody had opened the door before then. 

A doll's head had fallen on the other side of the corpse, so he went on to look at the Madam's bisque doll collection. Seeing such a disastrous scene was as horrifying —— if not worse —— as when he found the Madam's body. The eldest daughter then went over to the window and checked the lock. As she did so, she noticed the eldest son in the yard, unlocked it —— which the gardener was certain that he saw that it had been closed until just before —— and called out to him. 

Meanwhile the gardener had checked the Madam's pulse and was once again confronted by death.

"I don't have an alibi for the night. I spent the day organizing a plan for remodeling the garden in accommodation to the Madam's ever-increasing wishes. Goodness, it was a tremendous amount of diagrams to do...... But I didn't even go upstairs until 10 o'clock when we were scheduled to have a meeting."

"What is the proof of that?"

"Unfortunately, there is none."

"But, Halara-san. He doesn't seem like a culprit, does he?" 

Yuka remarked and showed a sketch she drew based on the gardener's testimony.

Halara narrowed their eyes. Etched on the drawing paper was the scene that the gardener saw when he opened the door. There, a picture nearly identical to the one Halara saw with 【Postcognition】 was sprawled out. Judging by the angle at which the door was opened, there was no doubt that he was the person from the 【Postcognition】—— the 'first witness'. 

Yuka's ability does not negate the possibility of false testimony, but it seemed like it would be impossible to match something like the angle of the door just by guessing. That much can almost certainly be said for sure.

Halara nodded. Facing the gardener, he/she said. 

"That is all. Much appreciated."

"Yes...... Well then, I best be going. However, I wonder what's to become this rose garden after the the Madam's passing? After having come this far in making it so magnificent, it may simply be left to wither away. Ahh, it's a shame...... Truly, it's such a shame."

If that’s the case, might as well just light it on fire I suppose.

The gardener muttered under his breath.

Yuka felt all the hairs on her body stand on end in fear. 

In the depths beneath the gardener's words lurked thick and murky darkness—— a profoundly dark glow —— swirling within. There was no limit to the depravity of these thoughts.

 Yuka pulled at Halara's sleeves, wondering if he could be the culprit. Halara ignored her and began walking. She'll be left behind at this rate. Yuka rushed to follow the figure as it moved away from the rose garden. Yuka cast a slight glance over her shoulder as she made her way towards the mansion.

The gardener stood as if buried among the roses. 

He opened and closed the gardening shears with a 'shing'.

***

In a luxurious study lined with glass bookshelves, 

a sharp and rigid clacking sound rang out.

"The circumstances at the time of discovery, and alibi, right?" 

The eldest daughter murmured while moving the chess pieces. 

This woman...... is ok, right? Yuka couldn't help but worry.

The eldest daughter was a beautiful figure, with glossy black hair and becoming amber eyes. You could say that she probably resembled her father before he became obese, considering the matching colors of their features. She was a beauty dressed in men's attire with short, boyishly styled hair. Yet unlike Halara, whose gender was completely neutral, her ample breasts filled out the front of her white button-up shirt.

She continued to stroke the pawn pieces with her fingers as she sat in a multifunctional armchair. 

"Do you really you suspect me, the Amnea Thompson?"

"......That board."

"Ahh, this? I was just doing a bit of solo play."

"It seems like you are not even aware of the proper way to move the chess pieces. Can you not play chess, by chance?"

"Don't go and call me an idiot already!"

"I didn't say that?"

Halara crossed their arms coldly.

The eldest daughter —— Amnea —— burst into tears in front of them. Apparently, Yuka thought, it seemed the only reason she was in front of the chessboard was simply to try and impress strangers. 

Amnea smashed the chess board with force, the pieces making a rattling sound as they flew away.

Then, Amnea proclaimed in an exaggeratedly tearful voice. 

"Damn it, you guys are trying to bully me too!"

"I-intense victim mentality."

"Whatever, I am an idiot anyway! I'm so empty-headed that there's not enough to go around! But I leave that kind of thing to the owner of this room, my brother Dalmatia. And yet, you say things like this and that...... Hmm, unforgivable! I'll beat you!"

"Stop it! I'll hit back!"

"I'mb sowwy!"

"So quick to repent!?" 

Yuka's eyes widened. Amnea held her head and trembled at the threat, crying softly. Halara murmured out a hum in response to the child-like reaction. 

"......Well, it would be ridiculous to try and go up against me with brute force."

"Did you say something, Halara-san?"

"Don't worry about it...... So, about our conversation." 

At that, Halara's eyes opened wide before soon narrowing them down. Hm? Yuka tilted her head. What might it be? It felt like Halara's expression had an added childishness to it that I'd never seen before. Following their gaze, Yuka noticed. 

"............ Ah-, a cat?"

Yuka quickly approached the fireplace, and Halara also came along without reproach.

 Yuka craned her neck, and when she looked into a wicker basket she saw a kitten wriggling and cooing. It looked just like a white furball. The kitten rolled over without a hint of grumpiness. An adorable pink paw was pointed at Halara, but without touching it, his/her expression softened faintly.

Yuka absent-mindedly asked. 

"Halara-san, do you like cats?"

"............ It's nothing we need to be talking about."

"No no no, I absolutely love it! After all, it is Halara-san you know? That sense of peacefulness that lights up in your eyes, isn't it?"

"What do you take me for?"

"What, that you're a cat lover? Why don't we talk about it!" 

Amnea exclaimed, her footsteps were loud as she got next to Halara. 

Amnea reached out her pale hand, to which the cat rubbed their face to be pampered. Amnea gave a sweet smile as her eyes narrowed with affection. She whispered through clenched teeth. 

"Since she's finally dead, I took in an unfortunate cat thinking I could care for it."

"Eh...... Your mother died and it hasn't even been resolved yet."

"Is that bad? I've always dreamed of having a cat since foooorever. I wasn't even allowed to talk about it out loud, ya know. It'd be the last thing I'd say. It was really hard for me to even leave the house...... so regardless of whether or not it's out of line, just leave me alone." 

Amnea whispered, her profile drooping like that of a wilted flower. Her eyes were moist with a profound sadness that was difficult to put into words. Yuka went silent, unsure of what to say.

Halara observed Amnea's expression before opening his/her mouth. 

"...... So then, would you mind telling us your story again?"

"Ahh, sure thing man. I've got nothin to be guilty about. I'll tell ya anything you wanna know." 

Amnea puffed out her chest as she spoke.

There was hardly any disparity between the story of the eldest daughter, Amnea, and the gardener's testimony. She only added more details about the situation when she called out to the eldest son. Yuka's sketchbook depicted a young man looking up toward the second floor from a rose garden. He's slender and quite handsome. His black hair and amber eyes resembled that of Amnea and their father. Yuka stared at it, pondering the possibility.

"Are you and your brother twins?"

"Yep, you nailed it. Technically, I'm supposed to be the older sister, but we are twins. I'm on good terms with Dalmatia...... who, unlike me, has the lion's share of smarts." 

Amnea laughed frankly at saying that. The carefree expression on her face invokes a genuine feeling of familiarity. Yuka thought of how nice it would be to have a twin. 

At that, Halara wordlessly raised an arm, and Amnea snapped to attention with her back straightened.

"Yii-!"

"Why"

"......I've got most of it. Let's get going." 

Halara said and began walking. What the hellll, that guy was a bastard to the end, Amnea said to the kitten. The white furball responded with a mewmew. It had heart shaped ears. The pointed tip of its heart-shaped nose twitched with a snort. The sound made Halara stop in their tracks.

With his/her back to Amnea, they inquired. 

"Just to be sure, I'd like to ask you something...... If something were to happen to you, do you have any guarantee of where the little one will go?"

"Don't be stupid! As a cat lover, of course I've decided on it! If something happens to me, my friend will take good care of it."

"......I see, alright then."

A sense of relief.

With that said, Halara exited the room. He/she also spoke to the chef and the maid. However, it resulted in nothing noteworthy there. Both men claimed to have been working at the time of the incident, had no alibis, and had not even seen the body. Mister Richard had spoken about his suspicion about the chef, but there did not seem to be any particular pieces of evidence to support this. 

Hearing all they needed to, Halara nodded and returned to the crime scene. Inside the room, the headless dolls were silent like statues of death. At the center of their blue-eyed gaze, Halara said.

"I’ve figured out the method behind the creation of the locked room."

***

"Well, saying that I figured it out isn't quite accurate...... because we already had the answer as soon as we checked the crime scene."

"A-amazing! Is that even possible!?"

"Of course it is. The person before you is Halara Nightmare. Something such as this is not even a problem." 

Halara answered smoothly. Their eyes held no hint of a bluff, but rather a sharp confidence that gleamed like a sword's edge. It was a star-like light, befitting of a detective. 

Yuka clenched her fist. Sure enough, just as expected of Halara-san.

He/she tilted their head in turn. 

"Or rather. I think we're in the foundational basics at this point. Did you really not even notice?"

"Ngh-, I- I'm a trainee detective, so"

"Even as a trainee, you need to realize that above all else you still wear the title of detective."

"U-oughh...... I didn't notice at all, so please explain it to me." 

Yuka folded easily. She knew that she wouldn't get anywhere even if she wracked her brain about it. Halara let out a sigh and shook their head before he/she opened their mouth to speak.

"Haa...... First, let's discuss the matter of 'why were the dolls destroyed?'. There must be a reason for why the culprit would destroy them. There is also a reason behind the fact that the head of one of the dolls had rolled into a position that was immediately visible upon opening the door."

"Why is that?" 

Yuka asked while looking at the heads that were now pressed against the wall. The reflections in their glass eyes gave the impression of being wet. That chilling glow seemed to evoke hatred for the murdered. Yuka wondered, why had the dolls' heads been ripped off and rolled away? 

Halara offered an explanation.

"It's 'to draw attention to the dolls'."

"To the dolls."

"This will also answer the 'traces of soot marks on the floor after opening the locked room' question. The room was indeed a locked room at the time of the crime. If that's the case, then how did the killer escape?"

"Yeah, that's the issue......"

"They didn't escape. They were hiding halfway up the chimney leading from the fireplace."

Yuka's mouth suddenly opened.

So that's it. The far end of the chimney was blocked off with a net. The room cannot be entered or exited from there. However, it is possible to hide halfway up. 

The rest is simple.

The eyewitnesses who found the doll's head were partly compelled to pay attention to the destruction caused to the bisque doll collection. While their attention was focused on that, the killer was able to slip out of the fireplace and escape. They would then nonchalantly join up later as if nothing happened.

In that case, Yuka declared.

"I- I see! That would mean that the eldest daughter Amnea-san, who was with the gardener during the initial discovery, and the eldest son Dalmatia-san, who was in the garden, can be ruled out from the list of possible suspects!"

"...... I'd hoped that you wouldn't say something so boring."

"Eh-!?"

"Behind the creation of every locked room is a purpose for its existence. It is those who are not deemed potential culprits that raise suspicion here. It's safe to say that the maid and the cook can be ruled out." 

Halara explained calmly. Uughh, Yuka thought, feeling as if she wanted to cry. 

At the same time, an image came to mind of the gardener murmuring ominously, his shears moving with a 'shing, shing'. Shifting in and out of view, treacherous thoughts were obscured by the parallax within his thicket of words.

Impulsively, Yuka raised her voice. 

"Understood! It was the gardener then."

"Didn't you believe in my 【postcognition】 and your 【sketch】 from the bottom of your heart?"

"Oh- oh yeah...... so then, who?" 

Yuka asked, on the verge of tears. Halara once again let out a sigh. However, they detached their sagacious gaze from Yuka to cast it into space. Halara muttered in contemplation.

"Since they were in the fireplace when the door was opened by the first witness, the culprit was excluded from being with the first person to discover it.... along with the eldest daughter Amnea."

"In that case then, the eldest son, Dalmatia-san? Huh...... but, Amnea-san saw Dalmatia-san in the garden......"

"It's only logical to assume that couldn't possibly be true. Given that Amnea is not the first witness...... it is plausible that she could be a perpetrator. In short, the murderer is Dalmatia, and Amnea is involved as an accomplice through giving false testimony."

I see, Yuka energetically bounced up and down in excitement.

Now the mystery was all but solved.

That should be it.

That is, until Halara opened their mouth to continue.

It was then that the door swung open. A low, beautiful voice began to flow through.

"Oh my, have I been noticed?"

"Y- you're......" 

Yuka's voice couldn't help but tremble.

A slender human bowed gracefully before them, announcing their name with grandeur.

"Salutations, I am Dalmatia Thomson. My father's favorite 【Master Detective】 had finally arrived, and when I came to extend my greetings...... it seems I was exposed before the reconnaissance." 

Murmured a man styled in a distinctive black and white suit. He had black hair and amber-colored eyes. A beautiful young man, just as Yuka depicted in her sketch. His sophisticated and intellectual impression was even stronger when I saw it in person. Shaking his head, the eldest son —— Dalmatia —— forced out in a strained voice.

"Nothing that can be done once it's been found out. Just as you've deduced......I am the one who killed my mother. It's too late to be making any excuses now, I......"

"Why"

"That's what I'll be trying to tell you right now." Dalmatia shrugged off Halara's question as if in inconvenience and shook his head in exasperation. Halara did not care for these theatrical gestures, however. Indifferent, he/she continued questioning.

"Why, are you telling such lies?"

***

"Eh?"

"Huh?"

The two voices overlapped.

The voices of Yuka and Dalmatia.

What are they talking about, Yuka wondered. Wasn't it none other than Halara themself who presented this deduction just a moment ago! Yet at the same time, Yuka began to realize.

It was clear that Halara was trying to go somewhere with this.

He/she spoke in a dry tone. 

"As I just told you before. This stuff is way too basic. It's not even a question. That being the case, there must also be a purpose behind creating a 'locked room meant to be breached'."

"Is...... is it"

"In other words, the problem itself is a trick that assumes the presence of my 【postcognition】." 

Halara asserted.

And so the mystery continues.

Yuka suddenly found herself in a daydream —— standing on a stage where the spotlights focused solely on Halara Nightmare —— only on the person whose beautifully pale complexion was brilliantly illuminated.

Halara continued to seize control of the scene with overwhelming charisma.

As the leading role (detective), he/she told the supporting cast. 

"As told by the client. 'I used to tell my family all about Halara-san', in addition to his habit of running his mouth too fast and blurting everything out. The family had plenty of opportunities to learn the details about my 【postcognition】 if that's the case."

"Which, I'm sure probably happened......"

"Therefore, the task was carried out with the anticipation that the traces of soot would be revealed during the use of 【postcognition】...... There's a lot of strange things going on otherwise."

"Wh- what's so strange?" 

Dalmatia asked with a trembling voice. He glared at Halara with a glint. However, the spotlight remained fixed, continuing to shine only above Halara's head.

He/she responded smoothly.

"First of all, there'd normally be no point in making the victim take sleeping pills. She was —— as one could surmise from the way she was staring at the camera and her lack of focus —— a petite woman with poor eyesight."

"Ah-"

"Anything could've been done to exploit her weaknesses. It would be much more sensible to kill her that way and make it look like the work of a burglar rather than going through the trouble of a locked room. And yet, it was by putting the sleeping pills in the pitcher that the culprit was quickly narrowed down to those involved."

I-indeed, Yuka nodded. That's certainly true. 

Even the initial police investigation limited the culprit to those involved because of that water pitcher. There was no point in setting such a thing up since the victim was a delicate woman who could easily be killed.

Furthermore, Halara continued. 

"Also, although I was promptly called in at the request of the victim's family in this case, police analysis should have originally confirmed that the soot on the floor was from the fireplace. Moreover, it's highly likely that subsequent investigations would reveal the false testimony. And the reason I took the time and effort was because I knew from the beginning that the client would let me solve the mystery —— thus." 

Halara fixed their gaze on Dalmatia. He flinched and clutched his chest while being pierced by their sharp gaze. It was as if he'd been stabbed through the heart. It was there that Halara pushed their verbal blade even further in.

"To become officially identified as the culprit by a Master Detective certified by the World Detective Organization. That was precisely your goal. Once the Master Detective identifies the culprit, the investigation will be closed at that point."

In other words, there’s another culprit.

Halara asserted definitively. Yuka was speechless. What kind of criminal would try to use 【Master Detectives】 for such a purpose? Still, though, Yuka thought. Despite her worry, she opened her mouth.

"But, Halara-san...... isn't it strange?"

"What part?"

—————————————————————

Notes:

There's a part that's describing the gardener's words as 見え隠れ(miegakure), which is a gardening technique that keeps parts of a garden hidden depending on where you're standing, and only becomes visible as you walk through. Closest thing I could compare it to was parallax, but in order to fit the gardening pun I added 'thicket' as a descriptor to try to reflect that.

While I tried to add honorifics, Halara and Yuka sometimes use a -shi honorific for Richard. I don’t know if people are generally familiar with it, so I just replaced it with Mister

Amnea speaks in a very masculine manner, so when I put stuff like ‘man’ and ‘guy’, it’s in a non-gendered dudebro kind of way.

[writermask-0807]

“winter’s eve,” or: “and the cold of your embrace.” gojo satoru x reader

Warnings: wrote this in a weird mood and a banging headache, so that's probably why it sounds so shitty lmao (😭) there’s also some stuff that doesn’t add up so there's that. angst with no happy ending (dont come for me yall), implied cheating, swearing (like one f bomb lol), also the title literally has nothing related to the fic in itself (except maybe one paragraph 😭). uhh that's all, I think, but lmk if I missed anything!!!

he comes home late, your satoru. late enough that it’s early, actually, with the pale rim of the sun trying to push weakly through the bruise-colored clouds purpling the night sky - late enough that you think he’s not coming, like most other nights. 

but when he comes stumbling in, staggering off to the side as he giggles, drunk, with pink in his cheeks either from the cold or the booze, you think it might’ve been better if he didn’t come home at all. and it sounds cruel, doesn’t it? knowing why satoru, your satoru, who can’t really be called yours anymore, (from a god to a worshipper, did you really think that he would love you like he actually, truly meant it?) is like this. why things are like this, really, but it’s getting harder to bear, these days. 

and as tears fills your eyes when your mouth parts open to speak, you wonder when it’s changed to bearing, and not loving satoru. “where were you?” you ask him, and it’s a broken, whispered thing, no longer being shouted with explosive anger, wrapped in vicious hurt and dripping venom. 

it comes out resigned. tired. you’re tired, and maybe he sees it, for once; (and you want to scoff at the irony of it all — because even with his all-seeing six eyes, satoru has always been blind to you. or maybe he chooses to slide a rose-tinted film over them, and honestly, at this point, you don’t know which one is worse-) maybe he sees the harsh shadows in your eyes and the halo of dark circles, the bitten lips and the messy hair. maybe he sees that he’s the root of all this, because he stops. 

there’s a pause - a sobering quiet, and you think he knows what’s coming. there’s something in the air, something cold and stinging, something tight enough that when you finally breathe his name, it feels like a thread snapping, something falling apart at the seams — like blood oozing through the stitches of a wound, scabbed over and over and never quite healing. a beat too late, you realize that that something is really you and satoru. you and me, he said. we. us.

there is no us, satoru. there was never an “us” and that fucking hurts.

and now it’s all gone, snowed over by satoru and his frost-cold eyes and his freezing voice and his icicle-sharp words, cutting so deep that you’re afraid you can’t dig them out, especially with your winter-numbed fingers. in hindsight, you really should have seen this coming. 

and he must see it too, now, because satoru is a man called god - mighty and powerful and all-seeing - and he truly plays the part. and so he smiles, wide and nonchalant like he doesn’t know this is ripping you apart. like he doesn’t know that this is the end. like he doesn’t even care, and you hate him for it. 

“oh, you know. out.” 

he says lazily, throwing his shades off as he stumbles his way towards you, arms wide open, grinning all the while. you flinch as he steps into the moonlight, reaching out for you, those cruel, cruel eyes holding the stormy brilliance of the skies, glimmering in the weak light — and you think that cuts through the fuzz, the haziness in his mind - sobers him up.

satoru stops, only a breath away from you, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath and the scent of another catching in his clothes and his hair and his skin, see that the smile has slipped off of his face, see the shimmer of his cold eyes, the gaping emptiness in them - a void, that, no matter how much you give of yourself to him, that can never be filled. 

“you’re leaving.” he breathes quietly, soft. broken.

you remain silent, tears clouding your eyes, spilling over your cheeks like a dam burst. because you’d expected yelling, screaming and even cursing, or the cold indifference that satoru has always used to freeze you out, and this - this vulnerability hurts so much more. you wish he would just - just - 

a trembling hand comes to cup your cheek, cradles your jaw, lifts your eyes to meet his, full of melted ice, desperate and searching for something, anything to hold onto, but it’s been ten long, painful years of breaking and fixing, hurting and healing until you’re so scarred over that there’s nothing else left to wound, and by god - you’re so, so tired.

you bring a shaky hand to cup his, curled around your face, tears trembling on your lashes, unable to bear that look of heartbreak in those damned crystalline eyes of his. did he see this, too? 

“i love you. i love you so, so much, don’t you know that?” he murmurs, voice catching, forehead knocking against yours, and you stifle a sob behind gritted teeth. because you know. of course you do; it’s why you’re here now. it’s why you’ve always been here for so long. 

“i know, satoru. i know, but this love of yours is only killing me.” you tell him in a broken whisper, and you feel his grip tighten, feel him shake against you. 

“don’t say that. don’t say that. please…” satoru never begs. he never has had the need to, but now - now he wonders if anything would have changed if he had. he would have fallen at your feet, begged you with all that he had and meant it with his entire chest, baring the tender heart inside for the entire world to see. but it’s too late.

he’s always too late.

“please…” he murmurs against your mouth, lips brushing against yours in one last desperate attempt - and it’s helpless and bitter and wet from the salt of your tears — yours or his, maybe. you don’t know anymore. 

he kisses you and you kiss him back just as hard and wanting, fingers curling into the moon-bright mess of his hair as you tug him down, nails digging into his back and his mouth crushed against yours and it’s desperate and rough and messy, and it feels like the last time and the first time in a long time but this is it. 

this is the end. 

and when he finally pulls back, panting and breathless, you think he knows it too. 

“i’m sorry, satoru.” 

you tell him, and even without the tears in your eyes, and the waver in your voice and the ache in your chest, he knows you’d mean it all the same. you’ve never been as selfish as him, even now, even when it’s your right to be. you could never be as cruel as him. and maybe that’s why this is goodbye. 

and so gojo satoru is selfless for once. he doesn’t chase after the warmth of your mouth when you press your lips to his one last time, a parting gift - a lingering curse. he doesn’t have it in him to look up even when he feels you glance at him one last time, your eyes tired and mournful and full of tears. 

and worst of all, he doesn’t hear the faint “i love you,” that lingers long after you leave, silent to his ears, the door to his house left open, but his home long gone.

FIN-

[aishangotome]

Alfons Sylvatica: [Mad Love] Chapter 21

Chapter 20

♡———♡

Rushed in by Roger and his men, Alfons was carried to the Crown Castle.

Emergency surgery began immediately.

A faint glow of dawn began to seep over the horizon, but the sky was still dark.

-

Kate: ...

I couldn't sleep, and I was sitting on the floor, hugging my knees, at the bottom of the stairs leading to the basement.

I was just praying with all my heart.

Kate: Alfons...

When I tightened my grip on my fists, I heard footsteps coming up from the basement and looked up in surprise.

Elbert: ...

It was Lord Elbert, who had disappeared into the basement after being called by Roger when Alfons' surgery began.

Kate: ... Lord Elbert, Alfons' condition is...?

Elbert: ... I don't know. It's still too early to say... Roger said.

His blue eyes slid over the basement, and I followed his gaze downstairs.

There was no sign of Roger coming out.

(The operation is still ongoing...)

As I stared at the closed door, Lord Elbert leaned against the wall.

Kate: Lord Elbert!

His face, which I peered into, was whiter than ever.

Kate: You look pale... are you okay?

Elbert: Ah. I just... gave some of my blood to Al.

Kate: Blood.... transfusion?

Elbert: Apparently, it's a technique called blood transfusion. It's to replenish some of the blood he lost.

(I've never heard of such a thing.)

Kate: ... So, that means he lost so much blood that he needed this kind of treatment, right?

Elbert: Ah. ... But there are blood types, and if they don't match, there's a chance he could die from the transfusion.

Kate: ...

Elbert: My blood might kill Alfons.

Elbert: But... I couldn't just let him die without doing anything.

Elbert: ... I'm sorry.

As he gasped, Lord Elbert's face contorted in anguish.

Kate: Why are you apologizing to me? ... Thank you for telling me.

(No matter how dangerous a gamble it is...)

(If there's a chance Alfons can be saved, I'm willing to do anything.)

I looked at the basement door again and then offered my hand to Lord Elbert.

Kate: It's dangerous for you to walk around alone after donating blood. I'll take you to your room.

Elbert: Thank you... But I want to stay here.

Kate: ... Are you sure you don't need to rest?

Elbert: Ah... I don't feel like resting...

(Ah... I'm not the only one.)

The same anxiety and fear that were burning in my chest must also be nesting in Lord Elbert.

Lord Elbert leaned against the wall and sat down, and I followed suit, hugging my knees like before.

Kate: ...

I needed to talk about something to keep myself from rushing down to the basement, so I searched for words.

Then I thought of something...

Kate: Why do you care so much about Alfons?

It was something I had always been curious about.

(When he met him, Alfons was a child of unknown origin who was helping the doctor.)

(He had taken Alfons in, given him a noble name, and kept him by his side.)

(Even a nobleman from a prestigious count's family had unwavering trust in a playboy with a dissolute lifestyle.)

He also felt strong emotions, enough to be angry with him for leaving with just leaving a note,

And now he was even taking on the responsibility of his life and death.

(I wonder why.)

Lord Elbert blinked slowly, as if remembering.

Elbert: ... When we met, Al gave me the words I needed.

His voice was slightly different from his usual melancholic tone, and there seemed to be a warmth in his exhaling breath.

Elbert: It was our first meeting. He shouldn't have known anything about my circumstances...

Elbert: But it was as if he understood my heart perfectly and gave me the words I needed.

Elbert: People who know what you need when you're in pain are people who have suffered a lot themselves.

Elbert: Al must have suffered a lot.

Elbert: He was smiling, but he looked sad. So...

Elbert: I didn't want him to be alone.

(Lord Elbert...)

When they met, maybe they were both carrying very similar wounds.

They were just two people huddled together in the darkness, with no one to protect them.

Such a scene came to mind.

Elbert: But sometimes Al... would try to disappear from my side.

Kate: Oh...

Elbert: I thought the day would never come when Al would no longer want to disappear alone...

Elbert: And I knew the day would never come when I could allow Al to disappear on his own.

A faint smile appeared on Lord Elbert's lips.

Elbert: I don't know if my blood will be compatible with Al's.

Elbert: ... If it is, I win. If it's not, I lose.

Lord Elbert gently rubbed his left arm, the one from which blood had been drawn.

His eyes were strained to the breaking point, and...

Kate: ... Me too...

I could see the way his heart was about to shatter like glass, and the words came pouring out as if to fill the void.

Kate: I made a bet with Alfons too. That when he woke up, we would love each other properly.

Elbert: ... Alfons made such a promise...?

Lord Elbert blinked in surprise.

Kate: I'm usually bad at gambling, but I'm good when it counts... so

Kate: I'm sure your blood will match.

Kate: Let's win together and make him say "I surrender"...

It was a crazy argument, but I just wanted to get rid of my anxiety.

My voice trembled as I spoke, trying to convince myself, but Lord Elbert gently caught my bluff and smiled softly.

Elbert: ... Ah

Elbert: To tell you the truth, I've never lost a bet with Al either.

-

Alfons' surgery was not over until after dawn.

I begged to be allowed to stay in the basement until Alfons woke up, but...

Roger stopped me, saying that it was "not allowed" considering the risk of infection and my fatigue.

So, I went back to my room and slept.

But even so, I rushed to the basement early the next morning.

And the day after that, and the day after that.

I woke up to check on Alfons' safety, and...

I spent every day returning to my room with a heart-wrenching feeling when night fell.

-

(Huh...? )

When I rushed into the basement at dawn as usual, it was empty.

The bed where Alfons had been was neatly made, as if it had never been used...

Kate: Ah, what...?

(Did he... wake up...? )

(But then, what's this...)

---Something is wrong.

(If he woke up, why didn't Roger tell me?)

(Could he have moved around as soon as he woke up?)

Overwhelmed by the incongruity of the empty bed, I dashed out of the basement, my anxiety mounting.

Eager to hear from someone who might know what was going on, I rushed into the dining hall, where there was a sign of life...

Roger: Well, well, you're up early as always, lil lady.

Ellis: Good morning, Lady Kate. What would you like for breakfast?

Roger and Ellis were having breakfast as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Kate: Oh, good morning... um, that's...

Roger: Hmm? What's wrong?

Roger, who should have been sleep-deprived from nursing Alfons, seemed to have a refreshed look on his face, which only heightened my anxiety.

Ellis: Oh, are you curious about the menu? Today's special is the egg muffin that Lady Kate said was delicious the other day.

(The egg muffins here are indeed delicious, but...)

(Right now, I'm more interested in something other than a delicious breakfast.)

Kate: Alfons is...?

Ellis: Huh...?

Roger: ...? What are you talking about?

I was met with confused faces, and my mind went blank.

Kate: Oh, um, um...?

(Could it be that they've... forgotten?)

(Did Alfons, who had woken up, use his ability on everyone again and go somewhere?)

(Or...)

"No memory left in anyone..."

When life ends, all memories fade away.

I remembered his fate, and a chill ran down my spine.

Kate: No way, it's a lie, but... such a thing...

(But then, why do I remember...? )

Kate: Um, do you really not know!? Where is Alfons...?

Ellis: Hmm...

Kate: Alfons, you know...!

Kate: The guy who loves going out at night and tells ten lies for every question you ask, the chatterbox!

Kate: The irresponsible and unethical one...!

Roger: That "Alfons" you're talking about... is standing behind you.

Kate: ……… Huh?

At that moment, a voice came from behind me - a voice I could not mistake.

Alfons: Hey, don't spoil the surprise.

Alfons: I wanted to see you freak out a little more.

Kate: Wh-wh-...?

I turned around and saw Alfons standing right behind me.

--CHOICES--

Are you a ghost?

Is this real?

Is this a hallucination?

--------------

Kate: Is this... real?

Alfons: Yes, it's real. Want to touch me?

Alfons: You can touch me anywhere you like, for free, just for today.

I stared at his face, suddenly appearing, in a daze.

Alfons: What a fool.

Ignoring my speechless state, he even went so far as to make a theatrical yawn.

Alfons: You couldn't even notice me hiding and holding my breath? You're not worth the effort to fool.

(Alfons... )

He was awake, standing here, and talking.

I stared at the familiar scene, speechless and blinking.

Alfons: Hey, don't just stand there. Check if I'm really your beloved Alfons.

Alfons: You have to make sure of every detail, don't you?

He lifted my hand, and my fingertips touched his chest, near his heart.

The moment the warmth of life reached my fingertips, I knew that the "reality" I had been seeking was there.

(He's really... Alfons)

His lips curled into a faint smile, his eyes looking ahead, his mischievous expression - everything in front of me was proof of his existence -

Kate: -!

I had so much to say, like "That's the worst prank ever!" or "Don't do such stupid things!", but it all got swallowed up by one single emotion.

Kate: Alfons...!

The moment an indescribable joy exploded in me, I hugged Alfons.

Alfons: Whoa...

As he caught me, he staggered back a few steps.

I was holding him against the wall, but I still couldn't let go.

Alfons: Hehe... I'm still recovering from my illness, so could you please go a little easier on me?

Kate: I won't!

Kate: You need to learn your lesson by feeling a little pain!

I tightened my grip on him.

Alfons: Ow...

His pained voice echoed in my ears.

I could hear his heartbeat from his chest against my ear.

I felt his warmth.

(… Alfons is still here, not gone)

Just that was enough to make me happier than anything else.

Kate: ... You remember our "bet" right?

Alfons: Bet?

Kate: You said that if you survived, we would love each other properly...

**flashback**

Alfons: …Then… shall we make a bet?

Kate: …A bet…?

Alfons: If I die, I win. Goodbye, have a good life.

Alfons: But if I survive… you win.

Alfons: As you wish, we’ll love each other properly—

Alfons: And I’ll tear your life to shreds.

**flashback over**

His etched voice still echoed clearly in my ears.

Kate: ... I won the bet.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Mad Love Chapter 21 His POV

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

[thefabulous-mostgroovy]

Visitors

Usually, the only visitors she gets are runaway sheep dogs, or the sheep themselves, or—on just one occasion—a great big coo from the farmer down the glen. So, needless to say, the last visitor she is expecting is a pair of corpses in the garden. or Jon and Martin get aggressively adopted by a wee Scottish granny

Jon/Martin, 2.2k words, rated T, read on AO3. this is for the prompt Outsider POV for @jonmartinweek !!!

It's around three in the morning when it happens.

Why Eilidh was up that early, she can scarcely even remember. She never does sleep well in this cottage, she's never been fond of it. Not only is it cold and drafty and creaky, the actual owner is never here! Miss Daisy Tonner seems a fine enough woman, if a little blunt in Eilidh's opinion, but house sitting should be for someone who lives in a house, not for someone who just pays for a cleaner. In truth, she has only met Daisy one time, and that was years ago when the lass was only twenty-one. How she could afford a cottage in the middle of the Highlands, Eilidh would never know, but she could. Either way, it's a pain in her backside to make the trek from the village, especially at her age, just to dust a place that no one lives in.

The emptiness of being un-lived in is probably what makes it hard to sleep in. It's always noticeable when a house has been abandoned, even with the amount of trinkets and books and quilts Eilidh decides to sneak in. She only comes every three or four weeks, just to make sure the heating is functioning and the pipes are still running, and with it being such a nuisance to get to, of course she welcomes herself to stay a little while. Usually, the only visitors she gets are runaway sheep dogs, or the sheep themselves, or—on just one occasion—a big great big coo from the farmer down the glen.

So, needless to say, the last visitor she is expecting is a pair of corpses in the garden.

Eilidh is sitting up in bed, reading a paperback by the dim lamplight, when a flash outside catches her attention. Green light dances across the pages and the duvet, sparking into view of the window. She watches in fascination as what looked like a spark of lightning about a meter above the grass. Arcs of electricity fork into the ground, scorching the earth, and Eilidh adjusts her reading glasses. Surely, she must be seeing things.

With an enormous crack! she's blinded by the emitted light, the whole house shaking with the impact. The pipes rattle and her lovely trinkets threaten to topple over, a porcelain lamb landing on the floor with a shatter. When she looks outside again, there are two lumps on the ground. Against her better judgement, and with a huff, she pulls on a bedrobe and some slippers and she shuffles out to the garden.

Stepping outside, she can hear the distant calls of distressed sheep and cows, dogs howling and barking. It seems that the tremble that made the cottage shake was felt by more than just herself. She ties her robe tighter as she steps out into the cold of the night.

The light above the patio isn't the best, but it does let Eilidh see her visitors, two limp bodies dressed in hiking gear, a bit better as she looks at them now.

The first of the two is a tall, lanky man. His skin, under all the debris and dust, is dark and littered with scars. His hair halos his head, all stringy and wavy and almost as grey as Eilidh's own. Lifeless, dull brown eyes stare up at the sky, laying on his back in a sprawl. Blood, or at least what looks like blood, saturates his clothes, and has trickled and dried in tear tracks from his eyes, down his cheeks and into his beard. Most concerning, the handle of a knife sticks out of his chest.

The second man is shorter, yet still larger. His skin is deathly pale, but splattered with light freckles, visible where the layer of dirt is thinner. His hair is curlier than the first's, and a vibrant ginger, with stark streaks of an unnatural white through the front. His hands are completely covered in blood, staining up his sleeves and his lap. He's laying on his side with a hand outstretched to hold the first man's hand. His chest slowly rises and lowers as he breathes.

He's breathing. He's breathing!

So, one corpse and one unconscious man who maybe murdered the corpse. Brilliant. Eilidh shuffles back inside and grabs the poker from the fireplace. With a cautious eye, she leans in, and pokes the shorter man in the shoulder. She earns a grumble. She pokes again. Grumble grumble.

"Oh, wake up, ya big lump," she grumbles right back. She gives a particularly hard poke and the man wakes up with a full body flinch. He yelps, his voice higher than Eilidh expected, and frantically sits up. His eyes are a startlingly light blue.

"Who are you?" he asks in a painfully English accent. "Where am I?"

"Your in my bloody garden, ya eejit," she snaps. It's not technically her garden, but he doesn't need to know that. "Who are you?"

"Where's Jon?" the man says instead, looking around until his eyes settle on, apparently, Jon. "Jon!"

The man takes Jon's face in his hands, smearing half-dried blood onto his face and in his hair. Eilidh isn't sure what to do. She's not a nurse, or doctor, or even trained in first aid, and it's not like the kit in the lavatory has the equipment to deal with a stab wound to the chest. The man has started crying, shaking Jon by the shoulders as if that will help the gaping chest wound. Eilidh is about to jab him with the poker again, tell him that his man is probably dead and gone, when Jon inhales.

Two bony hands fly up to grasp Martin by the arms, gasping around the wound, gritting his teeth and crying out in pain. His face screws up, contorting awfully as he squeezes his eyes shut. Eilidh shakes her head, because she must be hallucinating, but she could have sworn that she saw something glowing beneath Jon's eyelids.

"Jon?" the man above him shouts again. "Jon! Jon, what's happening? Where are we?"

A terrible static fills the air, rattling between Eilidh's ears. Jon's voice seems to echo through the air as he struggles out as many words as he can.

"Martin," he grits. "Help me...!"

"How can I- how can I help? What do I do?"

"The knife."

Eilidh looks to the knife; it's trembling, shaking back and forth as the wound spurts up a new round of something that is not, in fact, blood. The substance is thin and black, more like ink than anything that could come from a human. Martin wraps his hand around the handle, and before Eilidh can even call him a bloody mongo, he rips it out of Jon's chest.

Jon's eyes snap open, now glowing and vibrant green. He slumps, almost in relief, and he reaches a shaky hand up to hold Martin's face. He smiles, teeth stained with the inky fluid. The static fades away. "Okay... I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" Martin asks, sniffling as Jon wipes away tears.

"I'm sure, love. We're okay."

The two men look at each other with what Eilidh can only describe as the most lovesick gaze she's ever seen in her whole seventy five years. She hates to ruin the moment but...

"Eh, no, you're not!" Eilidh says, and the two men jolt and stare at her like she's the trespasser. "Who are youse two, and what are two Englishmen doing in my garden?"

Martin helps Jon sit up, and Eilidh can see—and hear, god forbid—his chest wound closing on its own, skin stitching back together.

"It's... a very long story," Jon says. "And we can't really tell you most of it?

"Well, I'd bloody hope you have some explanation for showing up here at three in the blinkin' morning!"

"We- I don't really know, if I'm being honest. I'm not entirely sure where we are, other than the fact that we're somewhere in Scotland." Listening to the English has always been one of Eilidh's least favourite things, so she does hope that Jon will decide not to give her the long story. Perhaps she can live with this mystery if she never has to hear the accent again.

In the meantime, she can't help but feel a little bad for these boys. They're clearly having a rather awful day, and have nowhere to go. They're filthy and injured, and on the verge of tears, and clinging to each other... Eilidh heaves a sigh.

"Come inside before I change my mind," she huffs, shuffling back into the cottage. "I've got some porridge you can have."

She hears them work up to standing, then some more fumbling to get themselves walking, but they make it inside eventually. Jon is about a head taller than Martin, yet he leans heavily into his side, gangly legs wobbling underneath him. They whisper back and forth to each other as Eilidh makes them porridge, extremely gentle with each other despite how it looks like one murdered the other. Eilidh isn't going to interrogate someone who can recover from a stabbing in about a minute and a half.

They wolf down the porridge like they haven't eaten in years, though they are polite about it. When she shows the spare room and tells them where some spare clothes are, she can't help but feel like they've been told all this before. Eilidh doesn't sleep while they're in the spare room. She can hear faint murmuring all through the night, and she can't help but eavesdrop.

"So... is it over?" Martin quietly asks, the sheets rustling as he moves. "Are we safe?"

"I... I'm not entirely sure, I'm still a bit foggy up here," Jon answers, just as quiet. "I don't think we're in any immediate danger, unless the little old lady upstairs is secretly a murderer."

Eilidh could be, if she gets called a little old lady ever again.

"After everything we've seen, I wouldn't say it's not an option. I mean, remember Angela?"

"Angela, Ang– oh, yeah! God, I kind of wish we met her, she seemed fascinating!"

"I don't! She would have ripped us to pieces!"

"No, she would have very slowly chopped bits off of you until you die."

"Don't remind me."

Eilidh also doesn't want to hear about what that means, but she just can't stop listening. Something about these two, this pair that seemed to have dropped from the sky or teleported, or whatever she just saw was, is utterly, eerily fascinating.

"I'm just glad all the big stuff seems to be over," Jon sighs. There's another rustle of blankets. "We can do whatever we like."

"Once we stop bothering Eilidh and get out of Daisy's cottage," Martin replies with a quiet laugh. How on earth these two know Daisy is completely beyond her. She really must ask what it is exactly that Daisy does for work. "I've had quite enough creepy cabins for one lifetime."

"Fair."

The conversation dies down into regular old chit chat. Boring couple talk and sickeningly sweet flirting, and Eilidh takes it as her sign to leave. Even her and her wife, Mhairi, weren't that bad during their honeymoon phase.

She manages a couple hours of sleep eventually, waking back up at around ten. The two boys are still sound asleep, and she lets them lie in. In the meantime, she makes a quick journey of popping down to the village to get some more eggs and bread and orange juice. She normally wouldn't do this much for two complete strangers, but they seem a bit worn out.

They sheepishly shuffle out of the bedroom at two in the afternoon, and Eilidh doesn't bother asking if they'd like some late lunch, just starts making scrambled eggs. Jon hurriedly tells her she doesn't have to, she's already done so much by letting them, but he shuts up after a steely glare she uses on her kids. Not even Daisy goes against the Granny Glare, and she's built like a brick shit house.

After the eggs and toast and orange juice, which the boys dutifully eat while Eilidh insists on doing the dishes herself, throwing the occasional glance to make sure they're actually eating, Jon speaks up again.

"Is- is there anything we can do to repay you? We don't exactly have any money on us, so it's not like we can pay you back for the—"

"Nonsense!" Eilidh snaps, throwing her tea towel down on the counter. "I don't even live here, it's not my problem what you do in here. Not like Daisy ever visits.

"Are you sure?" Martin asks, wringing his hands. Eilidh sighs.

"Unless you boys want to clean this whole cottage from top to bottom for me, I'd suggest you leave before I change my mind."

They do, thankfully, take their leave, but only after Martin makes her a surprisingly good cup of tea. Eilidh watches them wander down the glen, hand in hand.

"What an odd pair," she mutters to herself, over the rim of her mug. She'll have to tell Mhairi about this when she gets back to the village this evening.

She does hope they make it okay, whatever it is.

[amberthefantasy]

and the dragons danced?

chapter one: RHAENYRA I

The sun was beginning to rise, Rhaenyra had arrived at Dragonstone the morning before and had spent the day being informed of any important events since she left for King’s Landing. Nothing truly of any import had happened, they had only been gone for three days, and an eventful three days they had been. From securing her son's claim to Driftmark, to mending her relationship with Alicent, to her brothers and sons getting into a fight that forced them to leave the city, truly an eventful three days. Now she was taking a moment of rest before breaking her fast, her princely husband was seated in a nearby chair, reading as he usually did in the morning, ravens from his network of contacts she presumed. 

Rhaenyra leant back in her seat, closing her eyes and allowing her hands to rest on her stomach. The roundness of pregnancy was known to her by now, after bearing five sons she had grown used to the discomfort.

Suddenly, a sharp cry cut through the usual sound of the island. Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped open, Daemon stood eyes scanning the sky out the window. Rhaenyra hadn’t heard that particular dragon’s cry in a long time, six years to be exact, since Lady Laena’s funeral on Driftmark. A few moments later the dragon appeared through the clouds, its golden scales shimmering in the early day light, “Sunfyre?” Rhaenyra locked eyes with Daemon, her husband's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “what is Aegon doing here?” Daemon just shook his head, with no answer himself. 

“Ser Lorent,” Rhaenyra called, the door to the study opened, her kingsguard stood at attention in the entrance, “go and receive my brother, bring him to the main hall.”

“Yes, Princess,” Ser Lorent bowed.

“Let us go and receive my dear brother, and find what brought him to our rocky island,” Daemon took Rhaenyra’s arm and led her out of the room.

��We should also bring Jace and Luke,” Daemon suggested, “they should see how one would receive royal guests, for when they must do so.” Rhaenyra nodded in agreement.

--

The dragonglass throne was not the most comfortable seat, though she assumed it was more comfortable than the Iron Throne. Her husband stood directly to her right, eyes locked on the door. Jace and Luke had taken positions on her left, looking uncomfortable and like they didn’t know why they were here. Rhaenyra locked eyes with Luke, looking over his shoulder at her, and gave him a small smile. “Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, eldest son of King Viserys, the First of His Name,” Ser Lorent announced as he entered the room, her brother trailing behind him.

Aegon looked paler than she had ever seen him, which was something, the dark circles under his eyes darker and deeper, his pale silvery hair stuck to his head. When Rhaenyra looked down at his hands she noticed they were shaking. Aegon looked up at her, swallowed, and then spoke, “I must apologise for my… lack of decorum, there was no time to send word,” his voice almost cracked when he spoke, the muscles in his neck strained as he swallowed again. 

It was rude to arrive unannounced but Aegon had always been rude, lacking in decorum. That she wasn’t surprised by. But arriving on his lonesome to Dragonstone, that she was surprised by, none of her siblings had ever visited her on Dragonstone. They were not particularly close, which she must admit was partly her fault. 

"What can we do for you, dear brother?" Rhaenyra asked with a raised brow. "Or shall I assume this is merely a social call? Have come to apologise for your behaviour toward my sons and their betrotheds." She did not say this to be petty or rude. It could be the truth, given how she had left things with Alicent. 

Aegon paled, if that were possible, “no, yes, no… if that is what you wish, they shall have my sincerest apologies.” That was… oddly worded, it made Rhaenyra feel slightly concerned, something about it. “May I say one thing first?”

“You may.”

“As you well know, Father had twenty years to name me heir. He never did. He steadfastly upheld your claim, through thick and thin. You are heir to the Iron Throne.”

Rhaenyra nodded along, that was correct of course by why… “Did something happen? To father?”

Her brother nodded, “I believe… The Stranger took him last night.”

Rhaenyra sucked in a breath. Her father, her poor, kind father. How it had pained her to see him as he was of late, the guilt of not being there for him in the past six years, was now joined by a stinging grief. She had not been there for him and now would never get to be.

Daemon’s voice interrupted her pained thoughts, “you believe? So he may not be dead?”

Aegon blushed, “I… I suppose that may be a possibility , I had no time to verify the whispers I heard,” he looked at Rhaenyra once more, “I had to come here.”

“Why? Why come without verifying the rumours?” Jace asked sceptically.

Aegon sucked in a breath, somehow it made him look even more winded. “Sister… I have no wish to rule, no taste for duty. I’m not suited. I know my mere existence is a challenge, that by drawing breath I invite revolt. But I will not do anything, I swear on my life. I will not even be in the Seven Kingdoms by the sunrise if you wish it, I will fly to Essos on Sunfyre and never return.”

Aegon reached towards his side, unsheathing his sword. Her guards reached for theirs. 

“Uncle…” Jace said, voice a warning. Luke stepped behind his brother, eyes alarmed.

But her brother made no aggressive action, he dropped to his knees and held up his sword. For the first time Rhaenyra actually looked at the blade, Blackfyre’s distinctive pommel shimmered in the light. 

The kneeling was unexpected, but the entire encounter had been, no? He held the sword up to Rhaenyra, head bowed. His eyes, so very wet and ringed with red, were fixed at a spot near her feet. "The smallfolk claim that such a blade belongs to a King. Please, take it. I have no desire for it. Have it. Have it all. Have the Iron Throne, have your birthright. All I ask in return is that you spare our siblings and my children."

Rhaenyra felt something ugly settled beside her grief and shock, “spare them… why do you ask such a thing of me?” An even uglier feeling had joined the first, and an ugly thought joined that. 

Aegon gasped out a breath and began to cry, placing the sword at her feet he sobbed out words, “please my queen, I beg you. Do what you will with me but spare them please. My queen, I shall leave, I shall do whatever you ask but my children are innocent, our siblings are innocent please.”

Rhaenyra felt distinctly uncomfortable at this display, he had even slipped into valyrian during his tirade, “brother.” he didn’t respond, simply keeping on babbling. “Aegon, enough.”

Aegon ceased his speech, remaining where he prostrated himself. Trembling foregone in favour of a terrible stillness.

Rhaenyra stood and stepped closer to her bowing brother, “would you look at me?”

Aegon did not move for a moment, before he slowly looked up at her. His eyes full of desperation, tear stains on his cheeks. “I shall not put you, our siblings, or your children to the sword.”

Aegon’s expression didn’t change, though he looked very much like he did not believe her, “you will not?”

“No, of course not,” Rhaenyra leant down to help him up, but he flinched away as though she struck him, “you may rise.”

Aegon stood, slowly and shakily, his eyes fixed on the ground. Gods he looked so scared, Rhaenyra could not help but feel guilty, though she had not done this. The person who had filled her brother’s head with such lies was to blame, and she had a feeling she knew exactly who that was. 

But she could deal with the rage bubbling in her at a later date, right now she needed to focus on her brother. He could not leave like this, in this terrified state. "Jacaerys, Lucerys, why don't you have a bath drawn for your uncle and find him something to change into. In an hour, we shall dine together and speak further," Rhaenyra decided.

Both her sons had conflicted looks on their faces, “yes mother. Come qȳbor ,” Luke motioned for Aegon to follow. For once, Aegon had nothing to say and followed his nephews meekly.

--

It was Daemon who picked Blackfyre from the ground. Rhaenyra could not bring herself to take it, it felt wrong to even look at. But it did not look out of place in Daemon’s hands, in a way it was the matching blade to his own Dark Sister. “What would you wish to be done with this, little dragon, ” Daemon’s voice was passive. 

"I..." All she could see in her mind's eye was her brother, placing it at her feet whilst he cried, rendered to such a pitiful state by her. By what he feared so deeply from her. That ugly feeling surged in her gut with a vengeance, bile rising and burning a trail up the back of her throat. "Place it where you wish for now. I shall decide later. We have more pressing issues to deal with."

Her mind was clouded as she left the hall, slipping through corridors to reach their personal chambers. Once inside Daemon placed Blackfyre on a random table, and turned back to her. They stood in silence for a moment, but it wasn’t a long one.

“She has gone too far,” Rhaenyra paced around their chambers, clenching her fists in rage and gritting her teeth, “to poison my brother in such a manner, to make him fear me so. I can only imagine what she has been saying to Aemond and Helaena, and I am grateful that sweet Daeron has been spared from her venomous lies.”

She was aware that Alicent, and to a lesser extent Otto, had been working these past years to encourage animosity between their boys. Who else would have told Aegon and Aemond to call her sons bastards, to antagonise them so. They had gotten along well enough before that regrettable incident following Laena’s funeral, an incident she knew her boys still deeply regretted. 

But this… this Rhaenyra would never forgive, could never forgive. 

How could she, how dare she think so little of her? To suggest that Rhaenyra would ever harm her own family, her father’s children. And indeed that must have been what Alicent was telling her children, why else would Aegon fear her so? Drop everything and fly to Dragonstone at the mere notion that their father was dead.

Rhaenyra was estranged from her siblings, it was true, had never been close to them. But she was not that cruel. No matter what animosity lay between them, she would never harm her own blood. Even if Aegon had wished to rule, she would have done anything to avoid bloodshed, locked him in a tower or banished him but never put him to the sword. 

Daemon watched her silently throughout her tirade, looking impressed for the briefest moment. “If the boy was under the impression that he would be put to the sword the instant my brother stopped drawing breath, then coming here alone was either incredibly brave or inconceivably foolish.”

From Aegon’s perspective it would have been a gamble, it was truly no wonder that he had broken down in a moment of pure humanity and begged for her mercy. If Rhaenyra was truly as ruthless as he obviously had been led to believe, she could have had him killed the moment he was away from Sunfyre. No one would know what happened to him, he had absconded in the dead of night, based on the time of his arrival, and it was improbable that any other member of his family new he had left. Rhaenyra felt her ire grow further. Alicent was most fortunate she was not currently present before her. Were she might have strangled her.

“Aegon should stay with us until we get this mess sorted out," Rhaenyra said. She did have concerns that, should she let Aegon merely run off as he had suggested, he may get caught by one of the Greens' allies and sent back to their side. They had been planning his ascension for decades, after all. They would not allow him to flee so easily. Rhaenyra was unsure of how well Aegon could evade such capture even with his Sunfyre, and it would be best not to take such a chance, for his sake and her own peace of mind.

“Those Hightower cunts would seek to crown him regardless of his own wants,” Daemon conceded, “they would drag him onto his place on their board.”

They absolutely would, if only to spite Rhaenyra. They had shown that they would even manipulate the one they wished to call King to the point that he lived in such fear he could no longer look upon his mandia . “He will be a guest, not a prisoner. We must make that abundantly clear.” If her little brother remained as he had been earlier, so full of fear, she did not think her heart could bear it. Not in addition to her father’s death.

Daemon nodded, accepting this. “Another thing we must do is confirm that the King is truly dead. It would be in poor taste to make preparations for your coronation if your father still lives.”

“I agree,” it was important to know whether her father was truly dead. She could not grieve without proper confirmation. Additionally, she did worry that the Greens might not give her father the funeral he deserved. They may even conceal his death from public knowledge while they made their plans and assembled their allies. Rhaenyra would not dare to think they would not stoop that low. "How do you suggest we go about that?"

"I believe that I may have someone in mind for such a task. Leave that up to me." Daemon stepped forward and took her hand. He ran his thumb over the back of it, back and forth gently. 

Rhaenyra felt tears of her own come to her eyes at last. Grief finally overwhelming all else. When she leaned into her husband, he embraced her in turn, letting her rest her head upon his shoulder. His hand smoothed over her hair. He held her as she began to cry.

atdd masterlist / post masterlist

[meadowlarksabove]

Second appointment with @aamusedly (Odelia)

What did it mean to betray someone? 

Back in the still darkness of the Flesh, surrounded by fabulous blood-warmth, there were no sides to pick from. Objects outside of the whole were an abstraction, an inevitable addition to the great mass passing through the void. The existence of an ‘other’ stretched as far as the space between solids, and only lasted however long it took for them to crash. So there had never been a ‘them’, but an ‘us’, forever and always. 

Still, when he saw their faces, pale with fright, he’d understood what it meant to draw a wedge between bodies. Theirs were a line of ghastly, horrified expressions, which faded in the quick passing of the bus, left behind on a crowded sidewalk. They must have been terrified beyond reason, and surprised that he had so deftly escaped their supervision. Most of all, they must have wondered why he was so prone to fleeing. 

The creature liked them, they knew, since without the Followers of the Flesh he’d be left entirely alone on Earth. But they’d seen him smile through the glass, tickled by his own trick, or rather by a growing sense of mischief. Had the god they birthed into this world become a prankster? Or was he amusing himself in some other way? They scrambled to keep up with him, but just as soon as they’d seen the white flash of his teeth, the bus was gone… 

Gabban pulled the city map out from his pocket and counted the stops. The address written on Odelia’s note led him to the opposite side of town, far away from their sacred Temple. Good, he wanted to get as far away from the place as possible. After what had happened on the night of Asunción, after what they had made him do, he couldn’t stand to be cooped up for much longer. He desperately needed someone to talk to again, and the woman made of dead meat was his only choice. Everyone else was too simple, too grounded to the soil with mortality. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to struggle against human ignorance. 

Though she wasn’t exactly like him, she was touched with a similar peculiarity, a taste that kept her from fully ‘belonging’ anywhere. He remembered the darkness that enveloped them at the park, the uncanny gloss of her eyes, the slow tilting of her head, and hoped she would sympathize with what he had to say. 

The trip to her library was long but just scenic enough to be enjoyable, and to someone as fresh faced to the world as he was, it was mesmerizing. Two buses, a subway ride and a fifteen minute walk later, he was finally on the street she’d put down for him.

Gabban had wondered how he would know for sure which building was hers, until he set his eyes upon it. The place was beautifully crafted, in some kind of quiet, foreboding manner. Simple, but ornate where it mattered, with windows and pillars that spoke of old age. He looked around the front entrance to see if anyone else was around, but most of the people walking across the street seemed oblivious, maybe disinterested with the place and never made attempts to set foot inside. 

Gabban looked up to the sky and noted the first signs of a sunset happening on an obscured horizon. He was early, but better that than wasting more time with his chaperones. 

Carefully, he settled on a spot beside the main door and waited where no one could see him from the street. 

[rebrandedstoryline]

Rebranded - 5 - Fate of the Nightmare

Moon sets out to fulfill the favor asked of him by Sun. But things are not quite what he anticipated.

CW: Animal death / animal eating / blood mention

Word Count: 1,081

The day passed all too quickly. An uneasy silence settled over the animatronics as the sun moved throughout the sky.

The nest was watched quite intensely. Silent hopes and prayers uttered, urging the father of the little nestlings to return.

Yet as the hours ticked by, it became more and more clear that fate would not be kind.

The early morning became mid-day.

Mid-day became evening.

Evening became dusk.

Then the time came for Moon to set out in search of a proper home once again. With that came the bitter understanding of the darkness that was to rise.

The more docile of the animatronics moved deeper into their ruined shelter, intent on hiding from the scene that was about to take place.

Their twin, meanwhile, would not be so fortunate.

Moon would be the primary antagonist of the horror which was about to befall.

Silently he stood. He approached the tree which housed the nest. Mentally he prepared himself for what needed to be done.

With one hand he reached to grasp the branch which supported the nest. With his height, it was easy for him to peer into the nest. He peered into the bundle of sticks and grasses to observe innocent life that was about to be snuffed out.

Only, he would find that that life had long since been smothered.

Hours ago when the mother had died, her little ones had faced a similar fate. Their little bodies, still and cold. Pale pink flesh split open in such a way that it became clear what had happened.

When the bigger bird came for their mother, it had somehow crushed the babies. That must have been why the father refused to return.

There was nothing for him to return to.

Even so, the escaped AI studied the mess that lay before him.

Perhaps it was his programming that had kicked in. Or perhaps it was yet another attempt at protecting his twin.

For hours they had watched and waited for fate to show mercy to the nestlings. For hours they had worried. For hours they had dreaded.

But they had worried over the fate of creatures which had already made their departure from the world.

Gingerly he plucked their little bodies from the nest.

For a moment he held them. He observed the misfortune that had befallen their frail, helpless forms.

It took but an instant for him to consume them.

A single bite. He did not chew.

Their mangled corpses were pulled down into his processing chamber to be converted into an additional source of fuel. The process was quick. It was efficient. It was relatively clean.

What little blood there was had become smeared upon his fingers when he plucked their burst bodies from the confines of their organic coffin.

Thick and sticky.

He rubbed his hand against the bark to remove the blood. He scraped it off the evidence of this monstrous deed.

Still, he was not satisfied. The mess had not been completely cleaned.

The nest remained. Dirty and painted with the truth of what had become of the baby birds.

Just as quickly as he had consumed the nestlings, he shoved the nest into his maw. But it was too big of a bite to swallow. He had no choice but to chew. This was a horrible, filthy meal. One that only added to the darkness of his being.

Perhaps he was still the monster that humanity had once made him.

Despite having fled the source of that personal hell, his past could not be evaded. The memories still lingered. The innocence he once harbored had long since been purged. The last fragments of his untainted self kept not within him, but within the confines of his brother. Not in a literal sense; but in a sense nonetheless.

So let this be his fate. To bear the burden of the dark and the twisted. If only in hope of protecting the light which still existed somewhere within the depths of his brother’s code.

The predatory bird had not crushed the nestlings. He had found them alive and waiting for the father that would not return. He had ended their suffering swiftly and without malice.

Let that be the way Sun remembered this night.

“It is done.” Moon called to his twin; not using physical speech, but using the silent transmission that allowed them to communicate from a distance. He received no response, though he had not expected one.

Silently he scraped the musty remains of the nest from his hand. Silently he bid his brother farewell as he left in search of a potential home.

Someplace secure. Someplace isolated. Ideally, someplace where the cruelty of the world would be less of a lingering presence.

Living as a nightmare was his burden to bear. But he could only subject his sibling to so much darkness.

Sun was left behind. To mourn. To think. To rest and recall the days before the virus. To recall when their minds were still innocent and their hands free of the blood that had been spilt. When the children laughed and smiled.

The time before all the screaming first began.

Moon, meanwhile, would continue to roam the darkness.

Physically in a sense, but also mentally. The world had been unkind to him from the moment of his inception.

Yet he could recall no point in time where he had been happier. When he and Sun had still been one.

Back before the virus, when at least some of the children could be bothered to think of him kindly.

Back when his nightmare persona was but a simple act meant to tease and comfort the little ones. Back when it was all just a silly little game.

But now the game was lost and all the little ones were gone, leaving Moon to bear the burden of the horrors that had befallen them.

Just like the nestlings who hadn’t a hope in the world for salvation once the predator came for their mother. As soon as the virus came, his hope was lost.

Like the nestlings, Sun worried for him. Like the nestlings, Sun could not save him.

He was already gone. All that remained now was the mangled, ruined corpse of the Moon that once was. If not literally, then that was how he perceived it.

He was beyond salvation. Beyond retribution. His only means of solace came in his ability to keep his twin safe.

Whatever the cost.

[wickedslip]

nikolai. part ii.

Her mind went back to a safer place, the time when Nik had first been born. A veil shrouded her mind to where she could not remember the reasoning as to why she had been there or even other people around that time. She had only been ten and she was more concentrated on the new baby that was forged into their circle. She had remembered wanting to hold him, and all else didn’t seem to hold any substantial relevance to the pale olive, slender child with locks as raven as hers, and with eyes that wholly matched. She had watched with childlike eyes full of wonder and peered into the bassinet at the fragile thing wrapped in a cloud of a cashmere coverlet. Eyes as violet azure as Nordic Fjords encroaching a bruising tempest. There was an air of innocence that could not be interrupted by the fragile child, and she had glowed in elation and wonderment at everything she witnessed.

Not much had changed since those years, except the world was sharper, full of pointed, razor edges and humans grew colder and more dismal as the girl had aged. Her brother had been taken from her long ago to teach her a lesson that you could not interrupt the basic law of nature— that evil existed, and it could take on more than one form. It had been a long time ago, and somehow, she had convinced herself that Nik no longer existed at times; it was easier to take in if she didn’t think about him and the condition of his death. And how she had found him.  

Catapulting from her reverie, and side-winded by the torrent of emotions that had washed over her, she sniffed gently yet thoroughly into the air. There was a wrongness about it that she couldn’t put into comprehension, but the taste of the aftershock left a coppery tinge to it as she moistened her parted lips. They were dry from lack of resources over an extended duration, and she knew that that was why she felt so frail; she had not eaten anything since breakfast the day prior and she could barely withstand its result. The berries had long vanished from her system as had the celadon-tinged matcha latte that was traditional for her household to consume in the early hours. Rubbing her icy arms vigorously with her hands, she tried to steal warmth from her heated palms as the friction rendered a slight burn from them. It must have been cold the night prior, giving way to the elements and she more than likely had come down with a cold.

Her hair blustering slightly in the breeze behind her, and a gravitating draft caught in mid-stride as she began to slowly migrate, looking each way, left and right, leaving no area undiscovered by her scanning violet-tinged hues. She was weak and body felt heavy, bursting fracture of unrelenting defeat— she knew in the back of her mind that something dreadful had happened to him. To Nik. The sinister guise that had seized form over the picturesque town as of late all but instructed her to deem it as truth. From the oceanfront domiciles of many of the estates that lined the Atlantic, influential domains could be something found on the cover of homemaking magazines. The sprawling Victorian that her family had acquired upon moving here and been a quick purchase and Demetria had been jubilant over their good fortune upon moving from Mexico.

Was she the only person that could feel let alone see for herself the sense of ominous foreboding— the shadow that seemed to clutch the vicinity with its dominating fury? Like a mourning dove, bone in pigment, plucked out of the dank, lead-dark sky. And right now, it had lost its shade of azure, transforming into a white-grey appearance as if a milk bowl was turned upside down, all its contents seeping out to leave not a trace of the jovial, cerulean color that had once blanketed the atmosphere. It was as if the very elements had pulled her out and away from reality to prepare her for what was to come. 

A premonition?

Nausicaa reflected on her innermost thoughts, turbulence in the dissonance that laid in wait. Moving faster, covering more terrain, the elements were trying to propel her away from the conduit of her course. Long, hip-grazing tresses thrashed against the force of the stronger gales, signaling that another influx of storms like the one from last night would take effect. She had to find Nik before they were caught, propelling them in another outburst from madre naturaleza— no. This was out of even her control; this was something else, a different and more malevolent act at work.

There had still been no other updates, and it remained silent as it was situated about the snug faded lining of her jeans pocket. Her stark black and white chucks trampling through indigo-tinted bachelor button wildflowers and the slightly overgrown chartreuse grass as she moved once again past the old church that seemed to have been dropped down on the dismal path against its very own will— like a mockery to her. The entrance of the church had an air of pretense all the way to the rusted belfry where the bell would chime each Sunday. Each introspection squawked at her to go the other way, to go back the way that she had come. To get back into her car and to leave far, far away from this place. But she knew that if she didn’t go, if she did not transcend the way she was going in her leaden footfalls, that she would be filled with a pang of guilt— because what if he had gone this way? 

Niky, she called out in a surging, coiled spiral of telepathy. It was how members of their Circle could openly communicate with one another without the interference of human minds to hinder their path.  It was how she had always done it— since she was old enough to walk without falling.

Can you hear me? Where are you? She pledged to herself that she would only use it in the extreme case of a dire emergency, lest she called more shadowy creatures to the immediate area, like that of her father. Please answer me Nik, please! But no sound convened with her to satisfy nor nurture the betraying thoughts that were slowly already filling her petrified mind— it would not quell the fact that she knew that the wavelength had been broken, and in Thorn Law, the laws that governed the whole society of witches, that meant one of two things. That the other party was either unconscious, or worse.

No! Do not think it, idiot! Do not go there, do not venture down that path that your fleeting, betraying mind is trying to carry you. Because if you think about it, if you will it, it can surely usher it into existence. Running her slender, olive hands vexingly through her long chocolate-dark tresses and piercing her scalp with the tapered black nails, the pain would further hinder her from her previous transgressions. She had to find him; that was all there was to it.

[pupika-samika]

All you're life, you'd been told that God had a plan for you, you just had to wait for it.

When your childhood dog died, your parents said Gods plan ended too early for the little pup.

When your father died, your mother said that he'd been waiting for Gods plan for him his whole life and finally, it's come to fruition.

When your mother died, your church said that God had planned all of this to happen. That you must face tragedy before you were ready for happiness.

When you lost your job, your house. When you were at your lowest and the sky was dark, you found the light in the stars that kept saying God had a plan for you, you just had to wait long enough to see it.

So you waited. You got married while you waited. Had some kids to make the wait pass. Bought a house and a car, had a few pets and made new friends to make the waiting easier. Waiting was all you knew how to do until you'd waited for so long that your skin turned pale and your hair thin. Your eyes glassy and body too weak to breath without assistance. Your partner had died- they'd been a part of God's plan as well. They had to have been. Your children moved across the world, schooling or careers pulling them away from you.

So it was no surprise that you died unsatisfied and alone. Was that God's plan for you? To waste your life waiting for him to make your happiness? Was that you're only purpose in life, to wait until you died?

"That was never my plan for you," a disembodied voice sung from around you. "All that has happened in your life has never been a part of my plan for you. My plan for you was for you to live your life to the fullest." The Voice sounded so serene. So warm and so inviting. Like a mother's lullaby and a father's hug.

"Then why," you started. No longer were you old and wrinkly, your body reverting to the young and smooth body of the little kid that had lost their childhood dog. "Why did I wait for so long without gaining any happiness?"

"Every tragedy in your life happened because of my plan for you. You brought yourself happiness out of the ruins of your pain." The Voice said.

No longer were you in your room but you were in your childhood home. Your dog laying in your lap, tail weakly wagging until the very end. Your fathers handprint fading from your mother's face. The medical bills no longer needing to be payed, giving you money to start your hobby of painting.

Your corrupt boss and greedy landlord got arrested, leading to you meeting your future partner. And the years passed. You started dating, got a job you enjoyed. Got a pet dog that looked oh so eerily similar to your childhood dog and got to take care of it the way you wished you knew how to when you were younger.

You got married and had your first kid. Through the whole pregnancy you glowed with happiness. A healthy child followed by another, followed by two more. Each one just as healthy as the last.

You bought a great house for dirt cheap and got the chance to work part-time to spend more time with your family and on your hobbies. As you grew older you saw how much it pained your children to leave you, tearful seperations followed by enthusiastic reunions.

And when your partner died, it was a celebration. Guests told their happiest memories and shared their funniest moments. All three of your kids slept with you for the first time in decades.

And as you grew older, your skin did grow pale and your hair did grow thin. Your eyes grew glassy and you needed help to live. But your skin was marked with life and your hair was a healthy grey. Your eyes with happiness and you got the chance to meet your future son and daughter in laws when they came to help you.

"You waited," The Voice began. "But you created your own happiness. I merely gave you the push you needed to achieve it."

"But what about that part, when life was hard?" you ask god, pointing at the footprints in the sand. "There is only one set of footprints there."

"Well", said god, "that is the part where even I had no idea what the fuck you're doing, but you looked confident enough that I figured it's the safest to just step wherever you did."

[dyrewrites]

Weald and Wen - snip - with baited breath

Mar's life-choked Shell delayed its weary orbit and the pale burn of the Lady's Heart, ever-pulsing in its violet sky, beat faster. But it did not do so in the blush expected of a rising firstlight. It had shone in gentle hues long enough that rotation, warming the life around it in soft pinks and cool blues…and the Heart yearned to sear.

And sear it did, to raging fuchsia, burning hotter with the dreams of its sleeping captive to usher in a dreaded cycle of Full Bright.

Relucent heartlight swelled with the culmination of its desire. Then it burst upon all the lands and seas that stretched and clawed and sloshed within the Shell. It radiated from the Heart in jagged spears to burn up every scrap of life that dared step into its path. Harder still it shined upon the woods of the Weald, catching and spreading to scald the myriad leaves of its canopies, to scorch all but its deepest shadows.

And it was through such shadows that Naunni rushed. Through the safety of darkened tunnels he led his youngling toward the dangers of the Bright. Fearsome though its touch could prove, he was certain the Heart’s Bright would keep greater dangers at bay. Danger that had haunted his latelights since last he and his Speakers received a call through the Breath.

Loahl, the name gasped through him and memories followed.

A weak and ragged howl clutched him, stuttering his steps with agony not his own. It threatened to throw him to the crystal, but Naunni would not fall, could not. He braced himself and eyed his youngling. She fought his guiding paw, and would fight harder when the yellows of their burrows slipped into the distance–when the warm light of their home was devoured by darkness.

Naunni’s flesh prickled beneath his fur, itching with fears he dared not share as the howl rang through him again. Distant though it was, its source long lost to horrors greater than any the woods beyond could fathom, it would not leave his mind. Quicker he ran then, the claws of his hind paws scratching divots in the crystal, keeping steady and silent.

To his great relief, his youngling was too distracted to notice the fear that soaked him.

Holding as tight as she could with one paw, Faerai mistook her father's shivering for an unsteady gait, one that tangled her other paw deeper in the length of her hair. She growled at it, at him.

“Why we leave so early, papa?” Faerai whined in broken Marnai, her tongue struggling to adhere to the language her father instructed she use as poorly as she struggled to keep hold of his paw. Welcoming crystal cut to disagreeable clay and she stumbled, growling again as her father caught her and tugged harder on her arm. “And so quick, our hair is mess and we not braid our tails—our fur flies all over!” 

Thought-speech, little heart, Naunni warned, his voice a firm growl in her mind. If you must complain, keep it in quiet words.

The last strip of crystal faded to clay at their feet, the glow of their burrows naught but a memory behind them and dreary shadows loomed ahead, worry-black and swollen far too thick. But pale blue lights dotted the edges of that dim and Naunni held them tight, chasing their pulse as he pulled his youngling farther from their burrows–from the danger. 

“Naui,” Faerai whispered with swift vowels, urging the hidden ladyblossoms in the walls to bloom.

No light, Naunni snapped and his hum vibrated, as rough and ragged through the hall as the words that echoed in her thoughts, stealing her Song from the air and the light from the walls.

Fear pricked Faerai's nose then, sour and sick it chased his tone and stuttered her rear paws along the clay. Tearing from her father’s grasp, she chilled with that fear, with the confusion of it. But Naunni did not yield, did not turn or worry, he continued down the path, begging her eyes to narrow–to harden on his back.

First we lose words and now light? She asked after him, sniffing deep, sure the fear was his–that it coated him still. Tunnel’s dark is thick and our eyes not see blossoms as easy as papa’s do. We need light!

The fear that had stopped her drowned then, under a sour bite of anger it flailed and sunk as her father stomped back to retake her broad paws.

We must move quick, little heart, He told her and, voice yet quiet, the growl in his throat sang clear and sharp in her ears. No light. No words. Use your shadow's eyes if you cannot trust our guiding paws.

Though eager to return that growl with a shout, Faerai kept her lips tight and glared. She watched as her father’s yellow pupils spread full to engulf his blues, chilling with his shadow's gaze. Overtaken by the eyes of his Sorn, her father's own would remain void of answers–as his scent was void of answers. Faerai’s lips twitched, locking in the anger that begged to burst. Yet she softened, if a slip, settled by the certainty that it would gain her nothing and, huffing, she looked away.

Still not know why we leave so early, the pout poured from her thoughts.

Faerai’s own shadow, her Ozma, waited dark and patient beside her and she blinked at it, welcoming it. Ozma's yellow eyes blinked back before it melted to a puddle on the clay, and there it slid with practiced grace into the pads of Faerai’s hind paws. Her aching muscles relished in its heat, its touch, as it squirmed and writhed inside them. Then, as two became one, they blinked with the same eyes.

The tunnel washed to grays in their shared sight. Roots pulsed in brilliant cyan through the rough clay and Naunni gleamed near to white–from too far ahead. His broad paws urged Faerie onward and she sighed. However, in the comfort of her shadow spreading throughout her veins, the fear subsided…but not the anger.

Or why we not allowed to tell Maeru! Faerai screeched into her father’s mind, chasing his vanishing tails around a curve.

We hear thoughts clear from any distance. No need to shout, Naunni returned, and the tone of his thoughts sang cool and even.

Not answer our question, papa, Faerai chided, dropping to all fours to keep up. 

Though shadowsight was new to her eyes, its numbing warmth became a respite from the chill of her father's and Faerai smiled her gratitude for Ozma before bounding harder along the clay.

The tunnels twisted and turned and climbed at odd angles but still she chased, still she scraped through dust and dirt. No more thoughts sang to her, no scolding tone or rushing words and it pressed her harder still. Until finally, breathless and aching, she found her father around a final bend, radiant in brighter light.

He stood silent, fixed on the soft pinks glittering beyond but turned as Faerai skidded to a stop, as she stumbled in the burnt dust and worked to knock it from her fur.

His eyes no longer glared with the yellows of his shadow; instead her father’s Sorn loomed beside him, just as lithe and twice as tall. Its high, curled ears stretched above his, flattening along the clay ceiling while its tails swirled and tangled with Naunni's own.

“This harvest is yours,” Naunni told his youngling, voice rasping not from effort but something else, something he prayed she did not hear. “Not Maeru's.”

Though renewed with yellow on blue as they were meant, her father’s eyes were yet colder than she cared for. Faerai stared until the chill that held them burned, but she did not look away, not until her shadow swelled too full inside her and she was forced to blink. The shadowsight blinked with her and Ozma grew beside her into its four-legged form to nuzzle her side with its snout. She patted its inky head and smiled. Ozma, its residue warm within her veins, rippled at the attention.

Faerai wondered then, watching her Ozma’s eyes pulse and jitter, how much more does da see when eyes are own...and how much does papa’s, with so many ages of memory inside?

Holding her shadow’s gaze–and reminding herself that the sharing of sight left a mark and the chill in Naunni’s was not his own–Faerai sang to her father, “Fin leyr fit, fafa.”  

 “Marnai,” Naunni corrected, refusing to address the hurt in his youngling.

He ached to snuff the dread gasping in his Breath, to spill all the fear and worry he had built over the past cycle…but it would be too much. It would break him, and his youngling alongside. And so he patted his shadow and focused on the low light glistening along its darkness. His Sorn's chill tone was not the comfort his little heart needed, nor the comfort he should offer, but he longed for it all the same, to embrace that chill and let his shadow take his task from him. 

“We need know more, papa,” Faerai repeated, huffing through the words in the broken Marnai of the young. 

“We have told you all we can,” Naunni said, flashing his eyes at her, in colors yet too cold to bear. “You want to be a Reaper; this is the Reaper's way. You will not always know when you go on harvest, or why. You go where you are told.”

He pivoted then, to continue down the tunnel, but his shadow remained. It kept its eyes on the youngling, slicing into her as cold and sharp as any blade.

“We know!” Faerai howled, shaking Sorn’s gaze as she chased her father. “But you say is special harvest, only for us but Reapers never go on harvest alone! Why we alone?”

“Hurry,” Naunni called back, her question hanging far too heavy between. “The tunnel is long, but heartlight burns close.”

[uozlulu]

Finally FINALLY think that I’ve figured out what I’m doing with that IwtV AMC fic where when Armand took Daniel’s memories, Daniel’s brain created his first wife (Alice) to make sense of the gaps in his memories (an Armand is Daniel’s “first wife” fic, if you will).

Or at least I’ve managed to get over 1,100 words so far, which makes it more viable than any other writing idea I’ve had for this fandom so far

Anyway, putting the first draft here. I think I’ve got one or two more scenes to it depending on how things go

===

Cold fingers slid along Daniel’s face, following contours that no longer existed. A shadowed figure surrounded by Christmas lights smiled. “When you are dying, I will return.”

 Daniel’s eyes opened. He was in Dubai and the dream already began to slip from his mind. Curtains and shades kept daylight from his room. His phone said it was well past two in the morning in New York, which made it almost noon in Dubai. This was the second time he woke. He would probably sleep and wake two or three more times before giving up and calling it “morning.”

 What was he dreaming? Alice? No. Yes. A figure standing amidst Christmas lights on a street in New York returned to him. That figure were tall like Alice. Their eyes were brown like hers. Their fingers… Their voice….

 Daniel could not remember what Alice sounded like. He could remember the lights strung up overhead at a café where they had that dessert Louis presented him with early in the second interview. He could remember attending university dance recitals to watch his second wife perform back when Alice was her patron. There was always a new kitchen gadget, always a film camera. Art, theater, blood.

 Daniel’s eyes closed. Exhaustion claimed him just as his brain questioned why there would be blood.

 He woke three more times before deciding it was “morning” enough. He set about his day. There was breakfast, coffee, and strategizing for another session with a vampire who could not pick a healthy partner to save his death and his current lover lurking at all times. The sun began to set. His attention drifted towards it. The sky turned a brilliant orange that filled the room. At its core was a pale yellow. It reflected off the buildings and across the clouds.

 Cold fingers grasping his hands under a similar sky flashed through his mind. Hair tickled his face. The buildings of Greenwich Village stretched to the sky. The ducked down a staircase and a stolen kiss nipped at his lip. It tasted faintly of blood, but it was not Daniel’s blood.

 Daniel blinked and his mind returned to the present. The sky grew dark.

 “You are my mortal lover,” a phantom voice from his memories seemingly whispered in his ear.

 Daniel looked around but there was no sign of anyone else. It did not feel like mental communication either. His lips pressed together and then he gathered his things and prepared for the start of the next interview session.

 ~

 Sharp nails sunk into Daniel’s skin. As fast as the pain erupted, someone threw themselves between him and his adversary. Hissing and shrieking ensued. Someone kicked Daniel so hard that his back hit the door.

 “Go!” a voice sounded his head clearer than any dream.

 Daniel ran, weaving through the alleys of San Francisco until he could no longer breathe. He rested his hands on his knees, bowed his head, and gasped for air. Blood dried on his arms. Sweat dripped from his face. He reached into his pockets. He did not have the energy to curse aloud. He no longer had his tape recorder.

 Two feet gently landed beside him with barely any noise. Daniel held Armand’s gaze.

 “Come with me,” Armand said.

 “Give me my tape,” Daniel said.

 “Louis has the tape,” Armand said. Cold fingers grasped Daniel’s wrist and urged him to follow, slipping away once Daniel began to walk. “He must not find you.”

 “But –” Daniel followed Armand into a crowd of people exploring the city’s nightlife.

 “He will kill you if he finds you,” Armand said. “He denies his nature until he can no longer contain it. Someone will die tonight. Don’t volunteer.”

 Daniel frowned. They approached a condominium complex that was much nicer than the complex where the interview went sideways. “Why not let him eat me?”

 Armand paused before they reached the door. “Why let him eat you?”

 “Answering a question with a question is a dick move,” Daniel said. He followed Armand inside.

 The door closed and Daniel’s eyes opened. He was in the present in Dubai. Once again he fell asleep during a lull in the new interview. He rubbed his face and sighed. Another dream that felt more like a memory. His eyebrows furrowed together. He knew that condominium complex more than he knew this memory.

 A cup and saucer clinked gently when they touched the table in front of Daniel. Daniel lifted his head slowly and he looked at Armand. His eyes slowly scanned the rest of the room.

 “Louis is resting. Recalling Paris is always stressful,” Armand said.

 “I would think it would be with the vampire who killed his daughter always lurking nearby,” Daniel murmured. He accepted the tea.

 “He knows my reasoning and still chose to become my lover,” Armand said.

 “He sees a set of beautiful eyes and loses all reason,” Daniel said. He set the tea down. “A man who flung him from a building and a man who can’t let him answer questions in peace.”

 “I could give you peace,” Armand said and held his gaze, “but as Louis said earlier, he hasn’t killed in twenty years.”

 “I thought you said you weren’t going to save my life this time,” Daniel said. He did not look away.

 “I won’t save your life,” Armand said as he leaned forward and placed his cold hand on Daniel’s tremoring hand. He lowered his voice until it existed only in the space between them. “You are going to die. I am going to save your death.”

 Daniel did not move and neither did Armand. His hand continued to tremor even with Armand’s hand clasped firmly on top of it. “And if I refuse?”

 “Will you refuse?” Armand asked.

 “Answering a question with a question…” Daniel’s voice trailed as his brain recalled the memory he just dreamed.

 “‘…is a dick move,’ Armand finished. After a beat, he asked as Daniel might repeat an interview question, “Will you refuse?”

 “Give me back my memories,” Daniel said. “No more teasing. All of them.”

 Armand leaned closer. His breath was cool. “You have them.” His fingers traced the side of Daniel’s face, learning the new contour. “You compensated for their loss and now you must forget the filler.”

 Daniel frowned. Before he could speak, Armand’s fingers stilled and his thumb rested against the pulse point in Daniel’s neck. Daniel swallowed. Again, that phantom voice echoed from the back of his mind, “It’s not your time yet. Not here. Not now.” It came from the same place as the earlier voice. It did not feel like the other times vampires directly manipulated his mind.

 Daniel searched Armand’s eyes and then leaned back, hitting the sofa behind him.

 Armand retracted his hand and straightened his posture.  

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mark of the Beast

Please be kind. I haven’t written werewolves before and this is an unedited drabble I did to distract myself. Hope you enjoy werewolf!Thor and needless to say it’s dark.

Reblog and comment if you like, please and thank you.

Warnings: noncon and rape, exophilia, blood, biting.

You sat along the edge of the yard, just at one of those picnic tables set with chips, salsa, and other finger foods; most of it crumbs and smears as the night wore on. The fire licked up into the sky as the strangers chatter drunkenly, laugh loudly, and sing and dance wildly to the music floating from the bassy bluetooth speaker.

Parties were never your scene and you don’t know why you agreed to come. You didn’t even know why you were asked. You never were the fun friend, hell you were often the forgotten one. The one who found out they weren’t invited or when you were privileged enough to be asked along, it was because someone else fell through.

Well you couldn’t take another night in your boxy apartment, sitting there alone as you watched the same shows over and over again. Restless as nothing ever seemed to change and yet time continued to pass you by.

You noticed how as the sky darkened, the guests began to couple up and trickle away from the flames of the tiki torches and the empty keg. You thought this kind of thing was better left to college kids. 

The early summer night was cool and dull blue as clouds streaked the sky. You hadn’t seen the sun directly since noon and it cast an odd haze over the party. Even so, there had been much screaming and shrieking on the oversized slip and slide. Again, these people, you included, were too old to be throwing their drunken bodies around.

Valerie giggled as she hung off the slender man with the black hair. He wore a green button up and black jeans. His clothes were pressed and pristine. He looked out of place amid the group. He looked like you felt.

She grabbed his collar and led him away from the few stragglers still grinding around to the retro tones of TLC. You stood as she headed for the trees. She was your ride and you didn’t feel like staying all night so she could get laid by some stranger. You didn’t even know how she got invited to this.

The sky shifted and dimmed a little more. You collided with a large body as you made to catch up with Valerie. You recognized the blonde man. He’d been lurking throughout the night, socializing over the top of red plastic cup, at one point chatting with the black-haired man Valerie was flirting with and helping tap the keg when it was overturned in some dumb stunt.

“Oh, excuse me,” you said as his large hand settled on your arm, “um, I’m just…”

“You don’t like the party?” he asked in his booming voice.

“What? No, I--”

“You’ve been hiding over here all night,” he said, “and you haven’t looked very happy about it.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” you countered.

“Well, this is my party,” he said lightly, “Thor.”

He removed his hand from your arm and offered it to you. You looked at it reluctantly then glanced around him.

“I’m here with my friend. We should probably go--”

“The one who just disappeared with my brother?” he chuckled, “I don’t think you want to walk in on that.”

“Then maybe I’ll just call a cab,” you shrugged, “but I should get--”

“Why did you come? To glower in the corner and feel sorry for yourself?”

“No, I… you don’t know me.”

“No, I do not but that is not my doing. You sit here and isolate yourself to the point that anyone who approaches you, cannot break that barrier you’ve put up. The one you blame on those around you but you’re the only one enforcing it,” his blue eyes were pale, almost silver as the clouds darkened, and you realised in that moment how big he was.

“I didn’t ask for your--”

“You wouldn’t know what to ask for if you found the nerve,” he gave a crooked smile, “you don’t know what you want, what you need.”

He leaned in as his voice turned to a growl, something animalistic as he leaned in and his shadow shut out the sky.

“I know I want to leave,” you said as you stepped back, only to hit the low bench behind you.

“Did you not notice?” he asked.

“Notice what?” you sidled along the wood and he stopped you, this time his fingers gripped your arm tightly.

“That everyone else is gone. They’ve found their mate…” he lowered his voice to a gristle, “the moon is close and they must consummate their pairing.”

“What are you--” you gasped as you saw the way his canines pointed dangerously and grazed along his lip.

“All in my pack made their claim,” he whispered as he leaned in and the silver moon flickered behind the wisping clouds, “I’m making mine.”

“Get off--”

Suddenly you were spun around and flung so you landed in the grass, your knees and the heels of your hands scraping against the twigs and pebbles. Before you could try to stand or turn, he was behind you. His large hands braced your throat and he pulled you onto your knees so that your back was to his torso as he lowered himself behind you.

His nose tickled your ear as he inhaled your scent and a growl crackled in his throat. His fingers tightened and you felt sharp claws prodding at your flesh. His breath picked up as you felt his body tremble. The clouds parted at last and the full moon painted the grass silver.

“You have no purpose, I see it,” his voice grinded roughly, “you are lost but I have found you…”

“Let me--” you rasped and wheezed as he choked you harder.

“You don’t know. How can you realise that I have chosen you for a greater need?” he slid one hand to the back of your neck and pushed you down sharply so that you were face down in the grass, “I can smell it on you… ripe for a pup.”

He flipped your over harshly and his hand pressed to your jaw as he squeezed it painfully. You grasped his wrist in terror as the moon limned the fine fur that had risen across his skin, his long blonde hair blending into his thick main as his eyes glowed eerily.

“I… I...what are you?”

“What are you?” he repeated back, “can you tell me that?”

“Please, don’t--”

“You’re mine,” he snarled as he dragged a long nail over your shirt and sliced through the fabric easily, his other hand still framed your jaw, “if you survive, you will carry my pup, if you don’t… an honourable death.”

You slapped at his hand as his fingers hooked in the front of your jeans and he janked them down in a single motion. Your panties caught in the denim as he brought his foot up to push them down to your ankles. He pushed his knee between your thighs and dug a nail into your hip. Hot blood rose around his claw.

“I can smell it all. The loneliness, the desperation, the fear… it’s delicious.”

His claw flicked over your clit lightly as he pushed your folds apart. He played with you as you squirmed helplessly and gripped his arm, one hand on his wrist and the other on his bicep.

“No, no--” you murmured as your body went into shock, the pleasure of his teasing like a muffled shout in your core.

When his hand moved from your cunt, you felt its absence more intensely. He brought his other knee between your legs and pushed them further apart until your jeans slipped from one ankle. He lifted your left leg and hooked his arm under it and leaned on you as he lined himself up.

You pushed on his chest as the moonlight limned his silhouette above you and clenched as he prodded against your entrance. He cradled your face and dropped his head down beside yours as he pinned you under his weight, your leg bent uncomfortably as your other splayed against his hip.

He poked at your resistance and when he finally pushed through, you cried out into the night. He was thick, so thick, and when you thought you could handle no more, he pushed further in. You strained around his cock as he snapped his hips up and when he filled you entirely, you whimpered as you felt him in your stomach.

You tangled your fingers in his hair as his hot breath tickled along the crook of your neck. He pulled back and you let go of the breath in your chest only to suck it back in as he thrust sharply. You whined as he jolted your entire body and sank his teeth into your flesh. The shock of pain mingled in your core and filled your veins with an irresistible heat. He removed his fangs from you and dragged his bloodied lips down your neck.

“If you fight it, you will suffer,” he purred, “give in… you feel it, don’t you?”

He rutted faster as his breath kept time with his hips. Your body was alight against the cool grass as your eyes rolled back. Your moans added to your horror as they rose without thought, roused by the friction of his pelvis against yours and the slapping of flesh on flesh.

He fucked you faster and harder with each tilt and held your head between two hands as he looked down at you. His thumbs rubbed your cheekbones as he kissed you hungrily and the taste of your own blood stained your lips.

You felt hollow and light. The weight of him faded and you were on high and your lashes fluttered as the silver nights and his dark shadowed coloured your vision. You curled your fingers over your chest as you came and arched beneath him like a wild animal. The orgasm sent heat through you from head to toe and you whined and whimpered desperately.

Thor hammered into you even harder and his growls filled your head. He snaked his arm under you and slammed his hips down so viciously that every bone in your body ached.

“Oh, little one,” he snarled, “you take me so well…” his thumb brushed over the bite on your neck, “you wear my mark like a true bitch.”

He buried himself completely and panted rampantly as he spasmed. His cum flooded you and seeped and squelched around him as he gave a final thrust. He held himself as deep as he could and nuzzled your cheek as the smell of his sweat filled your lungs.

“Mine,” his teeth brushed against you and you shivered as a sudden fatigue weighted your eyelids, “that’s it…” his voice grew further and further away, “let it take you, little one.”

[alkaidz]

The sky is dark, not a pitch black, it is a deep and dangerous blue. Dark enough to hide the stars, but not dark enough to hide the clouds that looming above two boys. Those two run side by side, they are tired, yet, they continue without stopping at least once to rest.

They can't stop, if they do, the monsters would kill them since they are just mere humans. The world is no the same as before, is at the verge of destruction as it has fallen to a mysterious calamity known as the Great Collapse. In order to fight the monsters that began emerging around the world, humanity created the Revenants: human corpses brought back to life by implanting a Biological Organ Regenerative (BOR) parasite within the heart, acting as vampiric fighters with unique abilities.

Still, not all humans are protected by the Revenants, that's why those two  are running for their lives, trying to find a place where they can be safe.

They heavy boots thud against the sidewalk and it thud harder when they run against the howling wind. They feel it blowing through their coat, chilling every part of their skin. 

In the fading moonlight, Rathion stops running and his friend Louis stops too. His friend took a good look at him, seeing the state he was in: his side was ripped open and his guts were spilling out. Rathion was on the verge of death, but his face was just a little pale, his calm gaze made Louis worry more. He knows that Rathion is suffering, but he still keeps that calm look on his face, so as not to worry his friend.

"Are you ready to leave me behind?" Rathion asked seriously, while coughing up some blood.

"I've told you before, I'm not leaving you behind."

They weren't out of the woods yet, the monsters were still behind them, maybe they had lost them for now. If they keep moving forward, there is a chance they could escape, but in Rathion's state, continuing is not an option for him. He will die soon, he can't be a burden to Louis anymore, if he stays by his side, Louis won't be able to escape.

That's why he must find a way to make Louis leave him behind, to save his precious friend's life, Rathion will do anything, no matter if it means being hated.

"Stop being a fool, there is no salvation for me. Haven't you noticed by now?"

Louis is aware of the state Rathion is in, but doesn't want to give up hope of escaping together. Rathion is still breathing, so Louis doesn't want to give up.

"It's still too early to say that, you're still breathing and you're still on your feet, there's still hope."

That little hope that Louis speaks of, had already been extinguished within Rathion's heart, he knows perfectly well that there is nothing that can save him. His destiny is to die in this desolate ruined city, but Louis can escape that cruel fate, he still has time to leave before the monsters find them.

"You want my sacrifice to be in vain, get away from here now!" Rathion raised his voice, still keeping his cool.

Louis remained silent, looking at his friend who, despite suffering, stands firm without showing any kind of weakness. He gritted his teeth, feeling frustrated that he couldn't do anything, that he had been a burden on Rathion's shoulders, causing him to get hurt. Yes, it's all Louis' fault, Rathion risked his life to save his.

Rathion does not regret saving the life of his precious friend, he thinks that it is better that someone intelligent and compassionate like Louis survive than a good-for-nothing, selfish like him.

Feeling guilt in his heart, Louis was going to turn around and leave Rathion behind, but he noted how Rathion's calm soon reached its limit. His knees bent and his body fell forward, Louis reflexively caught the upper half of his body. The smell of blood that he hadn’t felt so far stung his nose: It was awful.

"I told you it was too late, now leave me here and go." With difficulty, Rathion said those words close to Louis's ear.

Not listening to his friend's words, Louis sat down and rested Rathion's head on his lap. "I want to stay with you, at least until you close your eyes."

Rathion laughed slightly, he always knew why Louis was trying so hard not to leave him behind, despite knowing why, he's been ignoring it for a while now. He knows that he feels the same, but he kept quiet, pretending not to know anything, hiding what he felt in his heart. Those feelings will be buried in the depths of darkness, neither of them will be able to say anything.

The cold wind howled once more, with the possibility of a storm, everything smelled vaguely damp as if preparing for the humidity to come. Soon the tiny crystalline drops of water were trickling from up above, the overcast silver sky split by bolts of pale lightning. It was as if the clouds knew about the tragedy to come and wanted to wash away the sadness with relentless rain.

The water felt like little cold pinpricks as it assaulted his skin, the rain still not heavy, not strong enough to cover the tears on Louis's face. As he silently listened to the raindrops falling one after another, Rathion looked at Louis's face, seeing those beautiful red eyes brimming with tears.

If he doesn't say anything, his words would die along with him, like a smoke without a last sputtering of spit. There would be no ashes, no burnt pieces for Louis to keep. Not even a last strong gasp, or a mark of nails dragged. There wouldn't be no etchings, no last message for anyone to decode.

Everything about him would disappear, his love that had never been shown, would end without a residue of memories, without final words for Louis to remember. There are no photographs of him, there is nothing for Louis to cherish.

"Please tell me you'll fight this fight, I can't see without your light, I need you to breathe into my life." His words broke up and all he could say were stuttering sounds. Hot tears streamed down his face, he squeezed his eyelids shut with the hope his tears would stop. His choppy breathing and watery eyes remained for quite some time as he sat stroking Rathion's hair.

He didn't want this to be goodbye, he wants someone to tell him that this is not where it all ends. "Don't tell me this a is goodbye..." His words broke once again, his hands chaking, being afraid to hear an answer.

"I'm sorry, Louis." Rathion reached out and cupped Louis's cheek, he leaned in slightly.

He felt how Rathion's hand wasn't warm anymore, his hand was so cold, he was dying and Louis couldn't do anything to stop it. He kept crying, those tears that he couldn't wipe away, because they are the only thing he has left, to feel again the same warmth from Rathion's hands that he longed for so much.

The one he loves would be gone, without being able to fight, and with his suppressed emotions kept down. There's so many regrets inside Rathion's heart, but there's not a second chance for him to go back.

"It's time for you to go, they'll be here in no time." The bittersweet words left his lips but he kept the other words at bay -- the ones he could never, ever say. He dragged those deeply rooted words, pulling them until they wouldn't budge, wrapped them in his voice and never let them go.

Before going and leaving everything behind, Louis brought his face close to Rathion's, until their lips met. At this point he didn't care at all, if he end up being hated by the person he loves so be it, he will never see him again. It would be more painful for him to continue suppressing his feelings than to be rejected in the last moments of Rathion's life.   "I had a craving for a cigarette, but thanks to that kiss I don't need anything anymore."

"Don't be silly, how can you smoke in the rain?"

Hearing those words, Rathion laughed a slightly, Louis was right, no matter how much he wants to smoke, he won't be able to do it in the rain.

"Aren't you going to say anything about the kiss?

"I've known for a long time, and I--" Rathion begins to violently cough up blood, causing Louis to panic.

He could already feel how life was slipping out of his hands, in less than a few minutes death would take him away. For a moment he thought about telling Louis about his feelings, but then again it would be better not to say anything, that way it would be easier for him to forget about Rathion.

Without saying what he wanted, Rathion felt a huge sense of tiredness. The numb feeling grew stronger, his thoughts began to become more and more confused and disappeared like smoke. Tiredness has seeped deep into his bones, he needed rest, just a little bit of rest. He knows that if he closed his eyes, he would never open them again, still he wanted it all to end.

The moment Rathion closed his eyes, the rain fell mercilessly, washing away everything in its path, trying to drown away Louis's tears and screams.

"Don't go, please stay by my side. Open your eyes, look at me with a smile like you always did." 

Seeing the person he loved die in front of his eyes made him feel cold, it is not that simple cold that one feels on a winter day or the chill when drinking a cold drink. It's something hollow and empty. Like something's missing and it aches. A deeply cold and tired soul that he just can't shake, Rathion has left a hole in Louis's heart.

He has lost a big part of him, and he wonders where lies his heart now, that damaged, splintered in shards heart of his. He is alive thanks to the sacrifice of his friend, who was pierced by the arrow of death that captured his last breath.

In that night that sheds to dawn, Ration lost his life, his aura faded into darkness, a tunnel of grey.

Louis had so many things he wanted to say and he knew Rathion left some things unsaid, all of it and the memories they had, good and bad… They're all over the place as he holds Rathion's hand one last time. He couldn't stop crying, realizing this is the end.