#like. it’s been plaguing my brain. I cannot escape it. even in my sleep

[luna-the-cretar]

Someone needs to take Pinterest away from me

[sophelisticated]

I know nobody follows me yet… but I made… someting for @bamsara, they don’t like being idolized but they are so cool to me they are my INSPIRATION. Shakespeare hangs its head in shame at how good Bam’s writing is

Anyway I made dis, it’s a oc insert in bam’s rehabilitation of death fanfic! It’s not very good, but I awoke in the night and brain exploded in ideas.

Word count: ~1.2k

(SPOILERS FOR THEIR FIC, PLEASE BE WARNED)

-Sleep Like the Dead-

The One Who Waits is patient. It’s in his title. Even so, ever since the entrapment of being in this mortal, lowly body, his… ‘nightmares’ have become more than a mere nuisance. Narinder has awaken with more bile in his throat, more of his godly blood spilled from his eyes. And most importantly—he has grown more irritable. The lamb had noticed that the god of death’s patience for their silly rants have been shut down sooner than usual. Though Lambert has pressed Narinder for information, the vessel is met with a sneering cat showing it’s back to them.

It was a night such as all the others. The former god of death sat in his bed, meditating, but found himself distracted. He did not want to go to sleep, but he felt tired. His ego already shattered from being in a mortal body, he felt himself even more pathetic. A god being scared of some mere ‘nightmares’? It made him cringe at himself. But he knew that even if he slept, he wouldn’t gain anything out of it. His mind cannot escape the traitor. The lamb. That wretched, awful excuse for a vessel.

But the exhaustion tugs at his eyes. And he complies quietly, though irritably. He lays down, and lays there with a grimace. Simply waiting until he falls unconscious.

He lays down at the trunk of the tree.

“Do not wander.” Narinder says firmly to Baal and Aym. They nod and go scurry off. They have been adapting well to the cult. The flock have been teaching Baal and Aym routines, but today? They get to wander. Narinder looks up at the beautiful tree he lays up against. The purple bark complimented its leaves and flowers. This year, it has exploded in color, more than it usual would. White leaves paired with multicolored flowers. The grass is warm underneath him. And strangely enough, it doesn’t decay. And he’s actually happy about that fact.

He looked out into the distance with a small hum of relaxation. He sees Baal stuffing flowers in Aym’s collar, and they go running off into a chase. But not too far. Just as Narinder asked.

“Is it nice?” A soothing voice comes from his left. Narinder doesn’t jump, nor get surprised. Like he somehow knew she was there.

It was a bird. A peacock. Her white plumage glittering in the sunlight, but glowing more on the rainbow feathers on her tail and the primary and secondary rainbow feathers on her wings. The flowing white dress she wore went further than her feet, but she walked with grace. The white dress did not get any grass stains as she walked from behind the tree. She nestled next to Narinder at the base of the purple tree. Her caring, rainbow eyes scanning his form. Whatever the peacock is thinking, the cat cannot place it. Her wings fold at her sides. He answers back in a casual tone. “I enjoy it. I get to have some privacy from the lamb.” He scoffed. The peacock chuckled softly at his words. “It must be frustrating. Even having him plague your dreams. Thankfully, he is not here.” She speaks gently, tilting her beak at him. Narinder opens his mouth to respond, and he feels a lot heavier as he processes her words, and then becomes aware of his surroundings. He narrows his eyes at the peacock, but finds his body too fuzzy and warm to move away.

“This is not my memory. Who’s memory is this? I don’t-“ “Tis no memory. Never was, my dear.” The rainbow stranger cuts him off with a gentle wave of her wing.

“I am Oneiros. I am the representation of dreams, imagination, and creation.” She says calmly. Narinder notices that his body had relaxed, and his mind calmer. Something about her voice. It just made him calm. He stared at her for a long minute. And she simply stared out at the fields.

“Have you come to torture me in my sleep, as the lamb has?” The god of death glowers at Oneiros, but the glare doesn’t have the fierce energy he wants it to. It doesn’t particularly matter though. She just hummed softly at his words. “No, One Who Waits. I believed you needed a fulfilling rest, a rest filled with softness and warmth.” She spoke patiently, plucking a couple of flowers and beginning to make a little banquet. But gods cannot dream. He knew that for certain. This woman spouts lies, manipulating me into getting me think I can trust her, until-

“I do not lie.” She interrupts his thinking. He snarls at the reminder that his thoughts aren’t safe in the dreamworld.

“Yes, gods cannot dream. But in special circumstances, i can bless them with a dream. The circumstances I will not share with you, little cat.” Oneiros booped his nose with a rose. Narinder snarled, swatting the flower away. “Are you mocking me?” He sneered, and Oneiros made a squawk of laughter. “No, dear. I like giving my dreamers nicknames. Little cat will be yours.” She hummed, her eyes upturned with light humor. The god of death sneered again. He bristled, his tail spiking in irritation. “I shall pluck your feathers out, one by one, if you ever call me that again.” He snarled, his tail whipping back and forth with attitude. She chortled in amusement. “I have worse nicknames, my dear. But I will just call you ‘cat’.” Oneiros hummed. He huffed, but didn’t comment any further. His usual malicious tendencies were toned down more in this realm, he felt less argumentative, he noticed. The peacock then handed him a mini banquet of multicolored flowers. Flowers of such bright colors, he assumed they were exotic.

“I will come again when you are at your lowest. For this safe haven will always look different each time you are here.” She cooed. Bowing her head to Narinder. He took the flowers, and they didn’t wilt, even if he wanted it to. The peacock huffed at his attempt. Not upset, but a tad disappointed at his attitude.

He then heard the yelling of voices familiar. He had seen them earlier, but now that he is more aware, he stills at the sight of Baal and Aym playing in the flowers. He is silent for many heartbeats. The pair stare at The One Who Waits, confused.

“Are they here?” He asked gruffly, but there was a tone of longing in his voice, which he cursed at himself for letting slip out. The question didn’t make much sense, but Oneiros understood. The rainbow peacock took notice of Narinders uncertainty. Almost desperation. At this, her eyes softened in pity.

“No, sweetheart.” She said gently, a motherly air. She put a wing on his shoulder, the softness of the feathers slightly against his cheek making him swivel his head to look at the bird.

“Nothing in this realm is real. I’m sorry, dear. Wake up, and be refreshed.” Oneiros commanded, blessed. Brushing her rainbow wings against his forehead, and his insides felt fuzzier. The warmth of the grass becoming unfocused as he felt his body drop.

He slowly sat up, and he checked his face and sheets. No bleeding. And he felt better than he had in weeks, probably even months.

He didn’t find the company unpleasant, Narinder just wasn’t used to it. He felt like he could handle 20 hours of the lambs rambling, and 10 minutes was already straining it. So to say he felt better was an understatement.

He’d be hoping to visit that realm again soon. Maybe see if the rainbow peacock has any insight on what to do when godly power is shared between two people.

[inheritedeyepatch]

The Double-Edged Sword

wc: 800. Potential Ayato x assassin!Reader series

Your hand tightly grips the dagger pressed against the neck of the unarmed Yashiro Commissioner, a position that shifts the scales of power in your favor.

Any person would feel terrified to be at the receiving end of your sharp weapon, desperate enough to tearfully beg, pray, or promise exorbitant amounts of mora to see another day.

But Kamisato Ayato is no ordinary Inazuman. And you dreadfully, recklessly, realize that fact upon seeing the pure mirth dancing in his eyes, a lopsided curve to his smile as he says:

“Work for me as a member of the Shuumatsuban.”

Your second mistake is the slight falter in your movement shortly after, the half second in which you loosen your hold sufficient time for Ayato to steal the dagger and pin you against the wall his back was recently against.

“You’re joking,” is all you can choke out without opening the can of worms containing your flustered emotions. You can only hope that your face remains stoic and doesn’t betray the confusion plaguing your mind at the incredulity of his offer. No, his demand.

“If it had been a jest then you would already be dead.” He digs the tip of your own weapon into your neck just enough to draw the slightest trace of blood, serving a painful reminder of the shitty predicament you fell into.

How did you even walk into this trap? That old geezer from the Matsuura Clan warned you of the Commissioner’s calculating brain and silver tongue, but you prepared to be two steps ahead. Poisoning the young head of the Kamisato Clan would fail spectacularly, as his retainer annoyingly followed his every move like a loyal dog, even risking his life to test any food before it reached the vicinity of his lord.

And the Shuumatsuban were just as vigilant, save for a few hours before the dawn of every Sunday, when Ayato somehow convinces his subordinates to get a few hours of sleep while he tirelessly caught up on correspondences. After weeks of laying low, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, that window was the prime time. The chance to checkmate the clever king.

Yet now the one who cannot escape is you.

The paradoxically comforting smell of cypress drags you out of your frantic thoughts as he leans in closer, lilac eyes crinkling before he lets out a breezy laugh.

“Though I must implore for an answer as my patience is wearing thin. After all, it is quite difficult to stay hospitable at four in the morning after almost being assassinated.”

Trying to understand this nonsense is like trying to decipher the mystifying spells cast by an abyss mage.

“Why me?” you rasp, unable to mask your exasperation toward this puzzling man. “I just tried to kill you!”

The pensive frown—almost slight pout—on his face accentuates the beauty mark that you curse yourself for staring at. “Well, I had hoped the motive was driven by finances rather than hatred. If it is the latter then that miser Matsuura might be more perceptive than I originally thought.”

“Wait, how long have you known?”

“Frankly, you’re the fifth assassin in the past four months…but what makes you special is that we hadn’t a clue of your presence until three days ago! Hisashi even began thinking he was losing his touch, the poor man.”

“I’ve certainly lost mine,” you mumble, ready to admit defeat with the other four who botched their attempts.

Especially after you spend a momentary glance at your surroundings and observe several ninjas waiting for their superior’s command.

“That’s where I think you’re wrong.” To your surprise, he lowers the dagger, mouth curving into a small, confident smile. “You can either die here right now or join my army of little birds. Humans can be fickle, but birds I always trust.”

Numerous internal voices scream at you to say no, unsure on whether the current unsettling feeling in your stomach arose from the thought of imminent death or his intense gaze on you as he waits for a reply.

This prospect is insane. Even if physically spared, your reputation would be as good as dead.

Unless you join and bide your time to strike again. Once you finish the job, Matsuura would give you the mora you need to leave for a nation that possesses no knowledge of some Yashiro Commissioner.

“Double the amount Matsuura was going to give me and we have a deal, sir.”

You hate how you have to suppress a smirk upon hearing him chuckle at your counter.

“There was no need to worry about your pay in the first place.” The blue-haired man nods, a widened grin fully reaching his excited, mischievous eyes. “Welcome to the Shuumatsuban.”

And the genuine warmth in that greeting makes you question your plans to end his life.

But luckily that doubt only lasts for a second.

Peep the GoT quote hehe. Open to any comments or feedback! This idea has been haunting me ever since I pulled him (that and an frenemies to lover/somewhat bridgerton inspired Ayato reader insert lol)

[lanistas]

lead me home, my shooting star (Maura x Eyk, light and soft smut; Eyk sees Maura as his north star, his axis, and his lighthouse guiding him to safety)

[I was writing this fic waiting for season 2 announcement, and now... I’m crying, you guys... Anyways, this is officially a ‘screw you, Netflix’ fic now, hope you still enjoy]

also on ao3

His dreams are plagued by fire. Night after night, he is the victim and he is the arsonist, he is the mad and he is the grieving, perishing in the catastrophe of his own making. His wife, a woman caught up in her own demons, her eyes blank and unmoving when she lights a match and throws it at him, flames licking at his face and his boots and the rich carpet under his feet. His daughters, his darling girls, too young and innocent to deserve any of this, too scared and paralyzed to escape. Nina, his sweet, precious Nina, with ribbons in her hair and sadness in her voice, her lullaby cutting him so deep that he bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until there is nothing left of him.

Nights like these are no surprise to Eyk anymore, and each time he wakes up with a gasp, choking on his ragged breaths and clenching his fists, his palms sticky with sweat. Each time he curses and trembles. Each time he reaches for the bottle. He drinks, gulps, alcohol burning his throat until he doesn’t feel anything at all, until he collapses on the bed and can barely keep his eyes open because of intoxication.

At least when he is dead drunk, the fire in his dreams doesn’t scorch his skin. At least in his drunken stupor he cannot hear his family screaming in pain.

* * * 

Sometimes Eyk wonders if he is, quite frankly, a shitty captain. It’s not that he doesn’t know what he is doing, because he does, years of training and decades of experience making sure of that. Yet sometimes, more often than he’d like, he doubts his state of mind, as sleep deprivation kicks in and as he inevitably reaches for a flask in his pocket. His head throbs, because it’s been weeks since he slept properly, and drinking… well, it helps a little. Not that he is proud of it, but if alcohol is what makes him pass out at night and stay awake during the day, he is not the one to question it.

Drinking doesn’t leave him much time for “captaining”, but he is not the one to question that either, even though his crew looks at him funny more and more often.

His new ship, The Kerberos, is a wonder. Gracefully gliding across the waves towards their faraway destination, she is a beauty and a beast in one. He marvels at the ship, wants to do her justice, but the way his limbs hurt after too many restless nights is a lot to handle, and Eyk suspects his crew might be better suited for the job after all.

He needs some air. And he needs it now. He is pretty sure they’ll manage on the bridge without him.

It’s chilly and foggy outside, but at least Eyk can take a deep breath, close his eyes and have a drink that he’s been dying to have for the last two hours. A week. Less than a week even - and they’ll see the shores of America. New land. New possibilities. Perhaps his nightmares won’t be able to reach him there.

A sound catches his attention. Someone runs up the stairs from down below where the third-class passengers are, and Eyk hears light footsteps, as this mysterious someone (who is not even supposed to be here, who do they think they are?) crosses the deck and stops, leaning on the rails. Eyk turns around to see what the commotion is about - and his breath hitches.

There’s a woman. Eyk doesn’t see her face, but by the way her shoulders are shaking he can guess that she is in some kind of distress. A part of him wants to stroll towards her and ask what the hell she was doing down there, while another part of his brain, the part that Eyk fears might be a little bit insane after all, short circuits - because the woman in front of him glows against the clouds, her red hair a stark contrast to the grey skies above. Eyk shakes his head, swallows, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the illusion is gone, and the woman in front of him is once again just another human being and not some otherworldly creature descended from the stars.

He still approaches her slowly and very carefully, just in case.

(He vows to stop drinking for at least a couple of days.)

“Haben Sie sich verlaufen?” he asks, and he knows that he startled her (“I didn’t see you there,” she answers, and her voice sounds strangely familiar), understands that this is a rather peculiar situation, yet he cannot stop staring at her as she recognises the captain in him, as she defies his rules and refuses to follow the order of things.

He stares, and he smiles, and when she smiles back at him (the smallest of smiles, but a smile nonetheless) Eyk feels like he’s just started assembling a jigsaw puzzle, and the first puzzle piece has miraculously gotten into place.

* * *

He learns her name from the rumours surrounding her. A woman who studied medicine, travelling alone, not particularly talkative and rather aloof. Miss Franklin. Maura Franklin. 

Learning her name, finding her on the deck when everyone else is having dinner, talking to her about the depth of the ocean and the mysteries of the universe - all this feels like a missing piece that he’s finally found, and Eyk can’t shake the feeling that no matter what or who they’ll find on The Prometheus Maura is going to be there with him every step of the way. 

He is drawn to her, as if mesmerised by her gravitational pull, and the way her hand rests on his forearm, the way she caresses his wrist is the only thing making sense when nothing else around them does.

He trusts her. He confides in her. They question everything, they investigate, and they share the burden of insanity together, trying to solve this bizarre predicament that they’ve found themselves in.

He almost kisses her twice, and with each passing day being close to her and not tracing her delicate features with his calloused fingers is a challenge that’s testing all of his resolve. 

* * *  

Seemingly endless days on The Kerberos, filled with questions and theories and half-formed guesses - this he can deal with. Nights, however… still, not so much. How foolish he was, to hope that confusion and exhaustion of his crazy days would chase his nightmares away.

In his dreams he is still covered in ashes from head to toe, can still taste soot and misery on his tongue. The only thing that changes is that now Maura is by his side, watching as his house collapses and burns down completely. Eyk reaches for her, and his hand goes right through her, as if she herself is an apparition about to disappear if he dares to blink.

Eyk is scared. His nightmares never scared him like that.

Maura’s head turns in his direction, her neck snapping unnaturally. “Haben Sie sich verlaufen?” she asks, time and time again, her voice mechanical and lifeless, and Eyk covers his ears to get rid of the sound.

“No… no… stop. Maura! Why is this happening? No…”

“Haben Sie sich verlaufen?... Haben Sie sich verlaufen?... Eyk…Eyk! Wake up!”

He wakes up because someone is holding him by the shoulders, pushing him into the mattress. An intruder. Eyk’s first instinct is to grab his assailant’s wrists. He doesn’t like it when people startle him when he is most vulnerable. His attacker winces, but Eyk doesn’t loosen his grip. It takes his eyes several seconds to adjust to the surrounding darkness, and when Eyk sees who it is that he is holding, her blue eyes open wide, staring at him in fear, he lets go immediately.

Maura Franklin moves away from his bedside, rubbing at her wrists.

“Miss Franklin?” Eyk sits up in his bed, confused. Has he forgotten to lock the door? “You are… here.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in like that,” she starts explaining, and Eyk feels relief washing over him when he hears her voice, so different from the eerie voice that she had in his dream. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk, and then I heard…” her eyes dart from his face to the floor. “I thought you were in pain, so I came in, and you were restless. You could’ve hurt yourself.” 

Eyk gets out of bed, and she stops talking and finally looks at him. He moves closer to her, one unsure step at a time.

“Forgive me, miss Franklin,” Eyk says, rubbing his neck. “I don’t like being startled. I thought you were… well, not you.”

“Yes, of course,” Maura breathes out, crossing her arms in front of her. She looks Eyk over, doctor mode activated, scanning for any problem or injury. “You were having a bad dream.”

They are standing so close, enveloped by darkness, and it’s only natural for Eyk to reach out and squeeze her shoulder. She is solid and warm, and his hand travels down her arm and up again, her presence grounding him to reality.

“Yes,” he says, his eyes locked on her lips. “I have nightmares sometimes. My family is there. My wife. My children. And I cannot do anything for them.”

He is a moon in her orbit, leaning in, unable to look away. Her face is barely a few inches away from his, and their breaths mingle as the distance between them becomes almost non-existent, but suddenly Maura flinches and draws back a little. 

“I’m sorry,” Maura says, shaking her head. “I’d better go.”

“No,” he doesn’t let go, cannot let her go, needs proof that she won’t turn into ashes and smoke and disappear. “Please. Stay.”

Maura hesitates, but doesn’t push him away.

“It’s late. And it’s dark.”

“I know,” Eyk says. “And you are… You are the light. My light. Maura…”

For a moment neither of them speaks. Not a sound, not even a breath. Just silence, heavy with a realisation that scares them both. Maura traces his forearms, holds on to him as tightly as Eyk is holding on to her. They look at each other, their eyes betraying the storm within their hearts, and in her ocean eyes Eyk sees the truth as clear as day.

His lighthouse leading his battle-worn ship into a safe harbour. His north star, his axis, and his home. Maura. It’s her. No one but her.

“Ich gehör’ dir, nur dir allein,” Eyk whispers, cupping Maura’s cheeks and caressing her skin, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. His eyes are closed as he breathes her in, her proximity torturous and intoxicating, and he feels lines forming in between her eyebrows as she frowns in confusion. Eyk knows Maura doesn’t understand his words, but he hopes that she can guess the meaning, that she knows that at this very moment he wants her so badly that he crashes and burns with the intensity of his desire. 

Eyk searches for courage to close the final distance between them, but Maura surprises him once again as she beats him to it, kissing his eyelids and his cheeks. She stops at the corner of his lips, and in almost a euphoric haze Eyk realises that she is waiting for him to take the next step.

He tilts his head, capturing her mouth in a passionate kiss without any hesitation.

Maura tastes like sweet air on a warm day in early autumn. Like happiness. Like home.

They undress each other in a hurry, his shirt and her blouse, his trousers and her skirt (which turns out to be trousers as well, and he smiles when he kisses her temple, because of course she would wear something like that), his and her undergarments, until they are completely naked, free to touch, to stroke, and to feel. 

There’s no need to hurry now, when he hugs her tightly, presses her into his chest, relishing the way her bare skin feels against his. His fingers tread through her hair, scratching the back of her head, and he feels her shivering as her kisses start a sloppy trail up his neck.

He is in no hurry at all, but if Maura continues sucking on his pulse point like that, he won’t last long.

“Miss Franklin,” he utters, trying to keep his tone serious, scolding and teasing her with unnecessary formality. Maura pulls away from him to look him in the eyes.

“Captain,” she plays along, and he smirks. How he managed to lure this brilliant woman into his embrace is beyond him. He kisses her deeply, the need for her singing in his veins, and Maura moans into his mouth.

Bed. Now. Or else he’s just going to push her up against the wall and take her, chivalry and decency completely forgotten.

They are a mess, stumbling and almost falling, but after a moment of clumsiness Eyk leads Maura to his bed, lays her down on rumpled sheets and covers her body with his own.

Maura Franklin underneath him, her lips swollen from his kisses and her red hair tousled on his pillow in disarray, is a vision. His phoenix in the making, the promise of rebirth hidden in the valley between her breasts.

When he finally enters her, she gasps, and they fit like lock and key as he moves in and out, finding the angle and the pace that quickens her breath and makes her eyes roll with pleasure. Eyk rocks into her, listening to her every moan, feeling her muscles tightening around him. It’s both too much and not enough, because he wants their bodies to meld and become one, he wishes to never let go of her ever again.

Like shooting stars, falling at unimaginable speed, they collide and they explode, a supernova washing over them. Eyk makes sure that Maura finds her release first, and the way she moans his name into his ear when she comes is enough to pull him into the abyss with her seconds later.

* * *  

It’s a very warm evening for the middle of September, and Eyk yawns and rubs his eyes, trying to stop himself from falling into slumber. They’ve been working non-stop for several hours, and the fact that Maura Franklin, a workaholic who doesn’t know when to quit, is his superior on this project is a cruel joke. He is tired. He is too old for this. He wants to go home.

“Can this wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it can not,” she tosses her words at him without even looking in his direction, too focused on some schematics in front of her.

Eyk huffs and stretches in his chair. Nope, his brain is on overload. No way is he going to stare at codes and digits for a minute longer.

He can stare at her instead.

They’ve been working together for three months, and Eyk figured out he likes watching Maura work. She purses her lips when she is lost in thought. She traces sketches and diagrams with her long fingers when she tries to understand what and how to improve. She mutters words under her breath when she tries to figure stuff out. 

It’s almost endearing. 

Also, the strands of her hair sometimes fall out of her complicated updo, and Eyk has caught himself thinking of tucking a loose lock behind her ear more times than he is comfortable to admit.

It’s not endearing. It’s infuriating.

“Stop staring at me,” Maura says, and Eyk shakes his head. Shit.

“Wasn’t staring.”

“Uh-huh,” Maura finally looks at him, and he fakes a yawn. He read somewhere that yawns are contagious. Maybe he can trick her into thinking she is exhausted and sleep-deprived.

Maura has none of it, crossing her arms.

“Look, I know you find me difficult, but let’s at least check these calculations, and I’ll be out of your hair until tomorrow, okay?”

“Das ist nicht wahr. Ich hab’ dich wirklich gern, weißt du das?”

“I have literally no idea what you’ve just said.”

“It’s elementary German, miss Franklin.”

“No, it is not! And don’t you “miss Franklin” me, Eyk Larsen. We have less than a week to finish these blueprints, and we are not leaving until we check this one section over here!”

Maura closes her eyes and rubs the bridge of her nose. Yep, she’s tired. High and mighty Maura Franklin is only human after all. Eyk smirks a little and scoots over to where she is sitting.

“Fine,” he says, admitting defeat. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

* * *  

When Eyk wakes up, Maura’s head is nestled in the crook of his neck, and her skin is soft and warm under his fingertips as he absentmindedly traces lazy patterns across her bare back. It’s still the middle of the night. They must have slept for barely more than an hour, but Eyk can’t remember the last time he felt this refreshed after definitely-less-than-normal-amount-of-sleep.

Maura stirs and lets out a breath that tickles his collarbone. Eyk watches her as she opens her eyes, a bit disoriented at first, but the moment she tilts her chin up and finds his gaze, she smiles at him softly, and Eyk cannot help kissing her on the forehead.

“Any bad dreams this time?” Maura asks, her hand drawing tiny circles on his chest.

“No, liebling,” Eyk whispers, burying his nose in her hair. “Dreamt of you, actually. A strange dream. But pleasant.”

Maura chuckles. “Haven’t you had enough of me during the day?”

“Never,” he answers, capturing her lips. Maura deepens the kiss, and Eyk is happy to oblige. When they break apart, he holds her closer, his arms encircling her in a warm embrace.

They are real. They are finally complete.

“I need to go,” Maura murmurs into his chest, planting slow kisses right above his heart.

“Do you now?”

“Yes. I have to return to my cabin.”

Eyk sighs. He knows she is right. There are so many rumours surrounding both of them, they don’t need to add more fuel for anyone’s wild imagination. It’s reasonable to part while everyone on the ship is still asleep, to find each other in the morning and exchange simple pleasantries, as if tonight hasn’t interwoven their very souls. 

Eyk kind of hates being reasonable right now, but he lets Maura slip out of his arms, albeit reluctantly. He is too tired to get up, so he quietly watches her as she puts on her clothes and pins her hair up, leaving a couple of strands falling around her face. When she’s done, she sits on the edge of his bed and bends down to give him a kiss, and Eyk caresses Maura’s neck and sucks on her bottom lip, drawing a soft moan out of her. He hugs her, drunk on the smell of her all around him.

“Promise me this will still be real when morning comes,” he asks of her, begging the universe to grant him this one wish.

“I promise,” Maura answers, kissing him on the temple when they part.

When she leaves, Eyk collapses back on the bed, sleep overtaking him in a matter of seconds. This time he dreams of astrolabes, of stars and milky ways, and of a red-headed phoenix singing to him and calling him home.

[popopretty]

BSD Chapter 88

Chapter name is “Like it is tumbling down”. 

This chapter is even more shocking than the last one, in a not very good way for me. I’m kinda speechless right now cuz there was no instance that I ever came up with this scenario before. It is a nice twist though, and I’m not sure what to expect at this point any more so hopefully you enjoy this chapter.

(^ This should have been the sweetest scene ever T^T )

Neither English nor Japanese is my native language so I do make mistake here and there. Just me know if there is any part that is unclear or if you spot any mistakes.

SPOILERS AHEAD

- So it is the continuation of the last chapter, where Akutagawa received a fatal blow from Fukuchi. Atsushi freaks but Aku smiles instead and tells him to run away. Fukuchi realizes that Aku is using himself as a decoy for Atsushi to escape. Atsushi got on the submarine and drove it away. Fukuchi wanted to chase after him but suddenly the security guards arrived at the scene (that was the guy whose life Aku spared in like 2 chapters ago). He immediately calls the land to report the situation in front of Fukuchi, which forces Fukuchi to act like he is trying to stop the terrorist. Fukuchi considers cutting into the past and kill the guards to seal their mouths, but stops because they were calling the land on the way before arriving at the scene and killing them at that time can cause the land to notice. 

- Fukuchi finds it strange that Atsushi was saved by the “guards who happened to arrive by chance” but then decide that it is okay because there are only 5 days left until his plan happens, and he doesn’t feel the need to hide it anymore. When Fukuchi leaves, the guard looks at Aku’s body and says sorry because what he could do is nothing compared to the favor Aku has given him by sparing his life. 

- Atsushi manages to escape and meets with Ango. He doesn’t understand why Aku lets him escape, but he understand that if Aku didn’t keep his promise and kill that person, then he would not be able to escape at all, and all the hopes will be lost. He wonder if it is just a coincidence or is there any important meaning to it. He asks Ango but never gets an answer.

- Back to Aku and Fukuchi, Fukuchi comes back to Aku’s body with a coffin on his back, saying he still has something for Aku to do. He opens the coffin and inside is the last member of The Decay of Angles, the undead Bram Stoker (TN: in case you don’t know he is the author who created Dracula). Bram says he wants to sleep while cursing the irreverent fools, which seems to refer to Fukuchi. Fukuchi replies that it is impossible and grabs Bram’s neck and take him out of the coffin. It is shown that Bram only has his head left, with a sword pierced into it. Fukuchi then explains that Bram used to be a human, a Count, who used his ability to change his body cells and transformed into Dracula. He is weak to the sun and used to be known as one of the ten “plagues of Egypt”. Bram says that he never hears of that nickname until his head was cut off by Fukuchi. 

- Fukuchi tells Bram to behave because they are on the same boat anyway, adn that Fukuchi even prepares food for him (he is referring to Aku). Bram looks at Aku’s body and refuses to suck his blood, because ever since he was called a calamity 8 years ago, he has decided not to have any more kins. He says that if Fukuchi wants to burn the world, he should just do it himself. However Fukuchi threatens that he would use the sword that is currently piercing into Bram’s body to burn his brain. Bram cannot go against that, saying it is impossible to curse Fukuchi because Fukuchi is a curse himself. Then he bites Aku.

- A few days later, Higuchi receives a letter. She runs out and find Aku still being alive. She is so happy because they are just preparing for his funeral. She says that she finally understands how much she will regret it if things just end like that without her being able to tell him anything. Then she tries to confess her feelings to him (I supposed) but all of the sudden, Aku turns around, looking completely non-human. 

- The scene changes to the Hunting Dog’s base, where Tachihara is reporting the incident. After Higuchi comes back she attacks Gin and Hirotsu, turning them into vampire-like beings. Hirotsu manages to help Tachihara escape but a large number of Mafia members have been infected. The Hunting Dogs discuss on how to stop it but the infection speed is too fast they cannot do anything. The only way is to find the ability user that causes it and kill him. However they don’t know who the source might be. Tecchou is sure that it is ADA’s doing again, as the next step in their terror plan. He says it with such a serious face that Jouno looks very surprised and says he should mark this date on the calendar (lol).

- Teruko says that if it is really caused by ADA then it will be quite troublesome because ever since the live broadcasting incident, there are at least 30% of the police in Yokohama who side with them. Jouno then states that even inside the Hunting Dogs, there is also that “30%” while looking at Tachihara. Tachihara explains that he just feels the need to reinvestigate because the ADA cannot be terrorists. He heard ADA members talk about being set up many times in the Mafia hiding house, but ignored it that time. He says that he made a miscalculation and that the real culprit is somewhere out there. He wants to be given authority to investigate it. All the Hunting Dogs member then look at Fukuchi sitting at the end of the room and ask what he thinks about it. 

The chapter ends here. I typed too much again but there are just that many things to talk about in this chapter. Thank you for reading until the end.

The next chapter will be out December 4, 2020.

[ellitx]

Chapter 13: Fidelity

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁

previous || next

art belongs to _suucrose

word count: 2.9k

           In sun and clouds, the church spire reached into that every stretching blue. It was as if it spoke of the love of the community towards their god, that it too lasted in any weather and called on them to join and put their faith in him.

           When Aether and Paimon walked along the nave, the church choir was different compared to the other choirs that didn’t sing hymns. Their voice was almost like angels, high notes soaring over the clouds, graceful notes dancing on the staves, and they sang for the Anemo Archon only.

           The two waited to finish their practice before looking for a certain deaconess that might help them gather more information they needed. It wasn’t long before Barbara noticed them and approached the two with a welcoming smile.

           “Hello, Honorary Knight. What brings you here today?” 

           Paimon flew over her and leaned closer for a much better closeness to ask. 

           “We would like to ask you something about Barbatos!” She exclaimed fervently whilst she placed her small arms in front of her chest. A bright smile was then donned on the deaconess’s face, her blue eyes sparkling in delight at her words.

           “Oh! Are you two perhaps interested in serving Mondstadt’s very own Anemo archon as well?” Her tone had an obvious enthusiasm in it. Aether already felt bad that’s not what they were here for, and be that as it may, he still has to prioritize in searching for his lost sibling.

           “That’s not the case. We wanted to ask if by any chance the Anemo archon has a lover.”

           Barbara’s small pink lips parted trying to utter a single word however a short chuckle was what came from her mouth. It surprised them and was confused if they said something odd. Her delicate hands were now placed on her mouth to stifle her laughs, apologizing in between them, as small tears form from the corner of her eyes.

           “Sorry for suddenly laughing. I wasn’t expecting that’ll be your question. But to answer that, there are no stories or mentions if Barbatos had a lover or not in the past. If he did, it would’ve already been written in the books and be sung by the bards everywhere. You celebrated the Windblume Festival, right?" 

        The two gestured their heads as a yes. "Since you already know it's a festival about love and freedom, wouldn't the Windblume Festival be celebrated for both of them instead of Barbatos only? But just as I have said before, there were no tales about the God of Freedom having a lover.”

           Something clicked inside his head though it didn’t last for long as it suddenly fades away like a speckle of dust. 

           “That’s true…” He turned to look at Paimon who was all troubled and disturbed.

           He continued to listen further if there’ll be more clues but it seems like that’s the only information he’ll get for now. His companion looked at him then held her aching head to alleviate the small ringing echoing in her ears.

           “Paimon’s running out of brain juice and my head is hurting the more Paimon thinks about this…” The throbbing in her head told her it was time to rest someplace quiet, to ride out the pile of confusion within her brain.

           Aether nodded and massaged his forehead in hopes to ease the pain. Why does he suddenly feel so lightheaded? He shook his head and pushed himself forward to carry out his plan on giving the pendant back to you. Words of gratitude were what Barbara received from the blonde and she waved them a goodbye to continue her choir practice with the other members of the Favonius Church.

           “Are we going back to the lair?” Paimon asked. Aether hummed in affirmation as they stepped outside of the parish. The harsh sunlight caused him to squint his eyes and cover his face with his arm. Was it always this hot for this season? The sudden change of the climate made him so lightheaded than ever. 

           Paimon detected how pale he looks as if he’d been painted with white-wash— even his lips were barely there. It was as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating and all the blood had run down into his boots. He swayed just for a moment, then with one step backward, he crumpled like a puppet suddenly released of their strings.

—

  Birds trill, sweetly high, the chorus as playful as the birds themselves. With closed eyes, Venti imagined their music to color, painting stairs in the same way grapevines grow - this way and that, in a beautiful harmony that isn't quite random. 

           Along with your soft humming, it made the ambiance much more relaxing and calm for him. In the calm of the day, his heartbeat is the steady drum to your melody and he seeps into the moment, allowing himself to drown in your beautiful voice.

           You rubbed the petals of the red flower between your fingers, watching your skin take on the sunny hue. Venti had spent the entire afternoon lying down on your lap and listening to your canorous tunes that made him forget about everything— as if you two were the only ones in this world with no one to intervene in such a peaceful moment he has with you.

           You watched the petal rotate and awed in admiration as a flower’s petal is able to spin like wind wheels. 

           “Hey, Venti,” You called out to him and peered down to peek at his sleeping face. Your lover hummed in drowsiness before opening one of his eyes to look at you. Dragging the flower close to him, he shifted to get a proper look at what you’re holding.

           “What flower is this?”

           You’ve always been a curious one. Even before you were in a coma. It’s like you have a passion in you to know every single thing about this world. From small creatures to rare species of beings in the wildlife, anything that catches your interest and you're eager to know more about it.

           Your drive to find answers is one of your unique traits he’s grown to love the more he’s with you. You create yourself in that fire of ongoing need that focuses everything that you are. And you do it because it feels as if the finding of the answer is your personal mission, your reason for being, your way of belonging and giving.

           It came to him if your curiosity will cross the line. Will it come to you that he’s been hiding his identity from you? Or will you still continue to live life with him in pure denseness? Either way, if you managed to find out he’ll find a way to have you forget what you witness. 

           For now, he has to be cautious and prevent you from exploring the outside world. Especially if that traveler is around in his land. It’s no good if you meet him. With the help of the humming winds to let him know what’s happening, it occurred to him that he has to just patiently wait and prevent you and Aether from crossing paths.

           Venti held your soft hands in his palms and took the flower from you. A small and gentle smile appeared on his face as he leaned forward and pressed his temple against yours, placing the plant close to your chest.

           “It’s Windwheel Asters.” He answered and observed how your eyes sparkled in joy when you watched the petals continue to spin.

           “I haven’t seen these before.” 

           Venti lightly chuckled and placed the flower between your hands as he returned to resting himself against you, but this time his head was now on your shoulder. “Windwheel Asters cannot grow in places with no wind nor plagued by strong storms, only where the wind is gentle and nourishing.” 

           “Really?” You laid your head against his and fiddled with the stem. If these floras are really unable to grow in harsh winds, then it means Old Mondstadt’s storms have truly vanished without any traces left. 

           Peace and harmony at last. 

           Freedom is finally with you.

           You lifted your hand up against the sunlight and marvel at how simple it is. It may not look as fancy as the cecilias nor does it resemble feathered wings of a dandelion when blown away, but you found yourself liking this more than what Venti had given you.

           It’s not like you don’t appreciate his efforts for collecting every cecilias and dandelions in this region to create a wonderful garden for your eyes to fancy with, you still are grateful for it though you do wonder why did he not include these asters in the collection?

           “I kind of like this. It reminds me of you.”

           Now that made him fully awake.

           “Me?”

           The color-infused cheeks dimpled with the blossoming smile, your eyes shone in a way that only deep happiness can bring. It was the blush of roses, that peek of champagne pink. Nodding your head to him, you brought the flower close to your face to cover your flushing features.

           “You were always fighting for freedom. If it weren’t for you, we won’t be able to see the skies and birds you’ve always wished for. I really admire your perseverance and passion to fight against my father to have the city liberated from his hands. Thank you. Thank you for revolting against him. Thank you for giving everyone freedom they’ve longed for.”

           You suddenly felt your throat tightened and your breath hitching every now and then. With your shoulders shaking and chin trembling, you fear he might see you in such a vulnerable state. You lowered your head even more and let your hair cover your face. Even if you hide it from him, Venti can still see small drops of liquid falling from you until it turns into a small puddle on the back of your hand.

           “[Name]…?”

           “Even though I’m Decarabian’s daughter, you never looked or treated me differently. Even after the war has ended, you never leave me. And now father, mother, and the knight… they’re all gone and y-you survived. You still stayed with me until I woke up…  I… I was so scared that once I awoke, I won’t be able to see you.”

           You were wiping your cheeks every few seconds and gulping down the lump sitting on your throat. Sniffling quietly, the tears still threatened to spill from your eyes. Your lover gently clutched your hand and used his other hand to lift your chin up to look at him.

           Your eyes were red and swollen. It shatters his heart seeing you like this as your tears split over and flowed down your face like a river escaping a dam. Using his finger to dry your damp face, he brushed his lips on your temple and laced your fingers together.

           “I should be the one thanking you.” He muttered and brought your intertwined fingers up to his lips to kiss the back of your hand. “Without your support, I don’t know how things would end up. If he— if I hadn’t saved you back then, you’d be locked up in that tower. Things would go differently, wouldn’t they? I can’t bring myself the idea of leaving you there when they were chasing after you.”

           He pushed you until your back was leaning against the rough trunk of the tree. His other arm was propped beside your face before he rested his head on your shoulder and nuzzled closely.

           “Thank you. Thank you for always being here with me.” Even though his voice was muffled, you can hear him loud and clear through your teary state. A shaky smile came from you as you caressed his hair lovingly before leaning forward and wrapping your arms around him.

           “I love you. I love you so much, Venti.”

           He has lived long enough to know that what you share he can’t replicate it with another. This love, this feeling, is just you and him. He could travel the world and the seven regions to create new ballads; he’d still come right back at you if he wanted true love. 

           He has protected you for years, he’s your confidant, a true friend, and even a lover. The trust he gave you, you gave him, is what keeps both of you safe in this world, in this life. So whether his heart beats another day or another hundred years— it’s always yours.

           Meeting Venti was more of a coincidence than a fate. Yet it was the first time in your life you felt like you could be yourself around him. Memories of meeting him have become the same as the dream you play time and time again. You felt good with him in a way you haven’t been before or since.

           Hearing those three eternal words from you is surreal for him. His heart would beat madly and his stomach churn in such a way excitement and happiness is filling his entire system. He wants to hear from you again.

           Just once more so he can finally have you all to himself.

           His chest was burning hot and so was his heart that rapidly beats in great euphoria. He can sense your emotions when you cry but this feeling… it’s much more different than he had felt before. A burning desire. He’s so smitten of your entire existence. All words coming from you were all his, he grasps each phrase and corresponds with his own loving and affectionate words.

           He was brought out from his trance when he felt how warm his palm is, and it’s when he became aware his hand was now placed on your cheek just like how he brings your hand to cup his face. 

           Venti felt his face heat up at such a simple gesture and when you give a short and quick chaste kiss on his lips, he recognized the first brightest and sweet smile for this day was painted on your graceful visage.

           “I love you.”

           His wish was heard when you repeated your confession at him. Is it finally working? Were his efforts finally paid off? Before Ludi Harpastum was the Windblume, a festival where they offer windblumes to their loved ones and to the Anemo Archon. Every year, every time Mondstadt celebrates Windblume, his first priority is to give you cecilias.

           He collected them for you every year. He tends them very well until they bloom— until your eyes opened. For him, windblumes are the cecilias. A symbol of elegance, purity, and just as ethereal as your gentle heart. It may be different from what that really means as interpreted by the people of Mond, but for Venti, he feels freedom when he’s with you, he feels loved when he’s with you and it’s the reason why he gathered so many flowers for you while you were asleep.

           The arrangement given to him by the former Dendro Archon— she proposed the idea to him to gather flowers for you every time they feast Windblume. He can still clearly remember her words, her voice echoing in his head saying that even she may part from this world. 

           Her predictions for her own life were accurate. As if she already expected this to happen to her and that’s why she’s planning ahead to list all the preconditions to him to keep you safe and harmless. Barbatos can’t keep relying on her on everything and that is why he put a lot of effort into maintaining the garden.

           Yesterday night was the time of the ceremony. Venti prepped everything to make it perfect, he wanted it to be successful. A mimic of a dance he once saw when he and you were together ages ago, it was a secret you both hid but he knows this. Barbatos knows what happened during that time and pretended as if he weren't there.

           But now that he was able to dance it with you, one would call him shameless for stealing you from him. The heavy weight on his shoulder was now lifted away, finally free from the guilt he’s been feeling for centuries. His inner battle with himself is fully resolved, inner conflicts vanished, a conflict between his love and longing for you.

           Your words eased Venti and made him assured you love him back as well. If you haven’t said a single word about your own feelings, he’d be living in an illusory fantasy that you were only shy to tell him you love him very much. But ever since the bond has been created, all he hears is I love you’s from you for his ears to delight in.

           “I love you,”

           You repeated once, a faint brush of your lips against his made him shudder. Soft, gentle, and shy just like your personality. Twice when you parted away, grasping how he tastes like apples before meekly leaning on him once more for a kiss but with more vigor. Your hand clutched the front of his shirt when you felt him hold you the small of your waist to pull you against him.

           “I love you.”

           Thrice was words of tenderness and desire from you to him. At that moment, you felt your body flushed warm. This was a person you wanted to be with than you’d ever felt before. 

           Venti has always been the one you could love forever.

@trust-the-oxygen​

[cthulhuliet]

Hi hi ~~ big fan of your Lawlight work * chef kiss * So, if it serves to inspire you I got this little idea! NSFW A huge hc of mine is that Light loves L reading for him with that hot British accent of his, like come on, L`s dubbed voice with a brit accent??*agressive chef kiss* SOO imagine Light resting his head on L`s lap while L is reading to him and things get lewd in the novel :D maybe things coul get lewd in reality too 👀👀 oh, and another hc of mine is that Light rides D like a pro so ... maybe something with both? if you'd like 👉👈 No pressure at all tho!

Thank you so much for your kind words :') I am a fan of your Lawlight work as well, and even though it took a two weeks or so (my bad) I really hope you enjoy! (it also, as always, turned out to be a lot longer than I meant it).

close your eyes and imagine it

3.1k words | AO3 Link | warnings: explicit content, general kink, you know the drill

Most of the dreams were incomprehensible nonsense, and L had just about given up on the month of April when he saw a long entry that made him pause. His eyes widened at the contents. “Huh.”

Light shifted a little bit to make himself more comfortable, eyes only half open, “Hmm? Find something interesting?”

“I am in this one. Did you frequently dream about me?”

There was a beat, and Light responded coolly, “I cannot remember specifics. Hence, the journal.”

L hummed, a small smirk Light could not see grew on his face, “Well then, I will read this one out loud for your benefit.

OR

The one where Light discovers a dream journal he had written during the Kira investigation and can't help but be embarrassed by L's role in his fantasies. L, of course, does not mind. -

“A dream journal?” L questioned. He closed his laptop and Light smirked, raising an eyebrow, holding the notebook in his hands. L crossed the room and took the journal from Light, “Where did you find this?”

Light shrugged, “On my bookshelf with a lot of my other textbooks and such.”

“How old is this?”

“Was in my late teens, I suspect.”

L flipped through the book idly, Light’s neat handwriting was pleasant and clean compared to L’s own scrawled and messy penmanship. The pages slightly stuck together, as the old notebook seemed to have not been touched in years. L stopped at a page and briefly read the contents and looked at the date, before his own eyes widened.

“Hang on, this is during-”

“The Kira investigation? Yeah.” Light’s slight smirk turned into a large cheshire. “I figured you might be interested in reading what I wrote.”

L bit his bottom lip, looking up at Light, one eyebrow raised, “Does the Death Note still give you nightmares to this day?”

Shrugging, Light came up to L and looked over his shoulder at the notebook, “I mean, sometimes? But I also believe that having nightmares is just a part of being a person.”

“Or you have become so numb to your own murderous tendencies the nightmares do not affect you that much anymore.” L muttered, just loud enough for Light to hear.

He did hear him, of course, and he retaliated by shoving L hard enough for him to fall backwards onto their bed. Light socked L on the arm when he flopped down onto his back as well as L went to read Light’s journal to himself.

“Leave me alone, Light, can’t you see I am busy?” L teased, which earned him another hit on his arm, “You are being bothersome.”

Light crossed his arms, now sitting next to L laying down on the bed, “Those are my dreams, you are not reading without me, obviously.”

“Well then lie down so I can read them to you.” Light was the most frustrating man that L had ever been with. He wouldn’t have him any other way.

L sat up and rested his back against the headboard. Light assumed his usual position and rested his head on L’s lap. L idly put his hands through Light soft brown locks, twirling his soft hair through his fingers.

This was not an unusual position to find the pair in. Light often requests that L read to him, the other man finding the restrained but smooth baritone of L’s voice to be incredibly attractive, but also incredibly calming to listen to. It is not the first time his voice has been complimented, and it certainly will not be the last. Sayu has told L multiple times that he should become a voice over actor. He politely declined. The rest of the people do not matter, really. The only praise he needs is when Light humbly hands him a book he reads before bed, and falls asleep to L’s voice quicker than any amount reading on his own.

“‘ April 1st, 2004: I was present for class at To-Oh university, however we were all forced to give a presentation about when we believe all of our classmates will die and why. This was a horribly dark and drab lecture hall, and I had forgotten my cue cards about why Sakurano Mari was going to die due to dementia .’  This is not exactly a fun read.”

“It was not exactly fun to think about either.”

“I am going to find a different one.”

L used one hand to run his fingers through Light’s hair and the other to flip through the journal, skimming through the contents. Most of the recounts were incomprehensible nonsense, though there is no judgement to be had there. Whenever L does sleep, most of his dreams are disconnected fragments of stories -- feelings and emotions rather than a complete narrative.

L had just about given up on the month of April when he saw a long entry that made him pause. His eyes widened at the contents.

“Huh.”

Light shifted a little bit to make himself more comfortable, eyes only half open, “Hmm? Find something interesting?”

“I am in this one.”

“Are you?”

“Did you frequently dream about me?”

There was a beat, and Light responded coolly, “I cannot remember specifics. Hence, the journal.”

L hummed, a small smirk Light could not see grew on his face, “Well then, I will read this one out loud for your benefit:

“‘ Damn that Ryuzaki. He is plaguing my thoughts not only during the day, but I cannot even escape the damn bastard in my dreams’, I love you too, dearest ,” L sardonically snided. Light pinched his thigh , “ ‘Last night's events were particularly egregious, as this is not the first time something like this has happened, but I feel mortified even writing this down. Though, maybe if I recount what happened (like with the nightmares) these dreams will go down in their numbers.

“‘Ryuzaki and myself were in the library studying next to one another. I was eating a biscotti with tea. As it was in my mouth, Ryuzaki came up and bit off the end of my biscotti and just chuckled at me. I wasn’t sure what to do or say, but I just know I felt really hot an -’”

“L…” Light gripped his thigh dangerously, “What are you doing.” It was phrased as a question, but Light said it as a command. He ignored him. Light was never the one to give out commands anyway.

“‘ I cannot remember much but the next moment Ryuzaki’s lips were on my neck. Everything was fuzzy, but I could feel him biting marks into me and was teasing me by grinding against my di- ’”

Light growled, “I’m taking this away from you. Now.” He moved to sit up, but L’s hand was still in his hair. L gripped his roots harshly and shoved him back down. Light whined at the action, swallowing hard.

“You are not going anywhere.” That was a command, and Light took it as such.

“This is mortifying…” Light muttered against the mattress, his speech breathy.

L hummed and pulled Light’s hair up, forcing him to look at him, “I disagree.” He lied. “You are going to be good and listen to me read this whole thing.”

Light laughed, cocky, though his eyes were glassy with flushed cheeks, “Oh yeah? Or what?”

“Or how about I get to come and you don’t, hmm?” Light opened his mouth and closed it again, face flushed with shame. L let go of his hair and Light buried his head in L’s lap. L smirked and chuckled, “You are so adorable, all blushy and embarrassed…” Light whined at that, running his fingernail down the inside of L’s thigh.

“‘ This is not the first time this has happened, though I have to admit, it was the best incident. Even hazy, I had never felt that sensitive and stimulated. I just wanted to stay like that forever.’” L had one hand on the book, the other held a distracted, but firm, grip in Light’s hair, who was presently biting his lip and running soft strokes over L’s cock. “‘It was even better when I got to put my mouth on Ryuzaki. I have never sucked a dick before, so my brain could only supply what it imagines it feels like, but it was not even that that made it so good. Ryuzaki would hold my hair tight and look down at me while I was on my knees. He kept telling me that I was a slut, but that I was doing such a good job for him. Even before this I thought Ryuzaki had such a nice voice, I wish I could hear him more…’ You think my voice is nice, huh?” L asked, keeping his voice level, as Light’s feather touches became firm palming.

He groaned again, “Tch, shut up.”

“No.” L pulled him by his hair, forcing Light to look him in the eye, “I think it is time you shut up.” In only a few seconds, L manhandled Light and dropped him to his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed. L sat at the end, grabbing the journal with one hand and undoing his jeans with the other. “How many times have you sucked dick since writing this? Hundreds?” Light finished the job of removing L’s pants and underwear, his cock standing erect in front of him, “C’mon cock-slut, show me what you got.”

Light eagerly took L in his mouth, expertly utilizing his tongue on his head. L closed his eyes and tried to not become overwhelmed by the sensation. He opened his eyes to see Light’s cocky doe-eyes staring back up at him.

“What was it that you dreamed of? My hand tight in your hair, fucking your mouth, telling you you’re being a good slut, right?” L asked, rhetorically as he returned his hand to harshly grip Light’s locks. He slowly moved Light’s head up and down, spit dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. Light’s face was blood red with humiliation and lust, it was perfect.

L bit his lip as Light took him all the way down his throat, refusing to be the one to break first. He picked up the journal again, eyes focusing and unfocusing on the work in front of him. “‘ Ryuzaki kept calling me good boy, telling me I was taking him so well, and never had anyone ever made him feel as good as I was. I felt so overwhelmed. I had never felt such extreme desire for anyone, but I think at that moment I would do anything for him.’ Do you still want to hear all that? Still want me to call you a good boy, and tell you you are taking me so well?”

Light groaned around L’s cock, the vibrations from his throat sent a shiver up his spine and L suppressed a needy whine on his end. After years of doing this, Light knows exactly how to push him to the very edge-- to give him so much and yet not enough.

“‘ My memory gets a little fuzzy here, but Ryuzaki laid down on the desk, and he grabbed me by the thighs so hard I think I would have had bruises in reality. I grabbed him by the throat and rode him on the desk. A part of me was worried, because the conference room in the library was all glass, but also my head was so hazy and it felt so good.’” L pressed a thumb against his lips, “Had Light fucked himself on toys at this point?”

He pulled off of L, slowly stroking him as he thought about it, “I think at that time I had. I only realized I was not straight shortly after high school, and my sexual drive moved pretty fast after that.”

“‘Shortly after high school’, shortly after meeting me, right?” L smirked. Light opened his mouth to attempt a retort, but just narrowed his eyes.

“Such an egomaniac you are,” Light scoffed, “Not everything is about you.”

“No, not everything. But this is.” L reached under their bed and pulled out a box of toys and lube. He casually tossed the bottle and a large blue dildo in front of Light, “Stretch yourself open with that. I want to see you.”

“You don’t want to do it yourself?”

“Like you have earned that privilege yet.” L leaned forward (careful to not fall off the edge) and grabbed Light by the chin, forcing him to look L in the eye, “You’re going to open yourself up on that cock, and when your slutty hole is ready for me, you can ride me like in your fantasies.”

He could almost see the blood rushing to Light’s ears-- being literally talked down to-- condescended and scolded like a child. And yet, his pupils were blown all the way out, L barely seeing the amber color of Light’s eyes, and his jeans and underwear were, of course, already halfway to his ankles.

Light took the tip of the toy and fucked his mouth in and out with it, eyes never leaving L’s. He was already 3 fingers deep inside of himself, lewdly moaning around the cock very intentionally.

“This is a good look for you,” L remarked, breathily, slowly stroking his own cock.

Light suctioned the dick to the hardwood, and hovered over it, teasing his hole with the tip, “Well, if you are going to keep calling me a slut- fuck… I might as well lean into it.” Light bottomed out on the toy, one hand running through his hair, another sucking on two fingers as he slowly moved. Light, flushed and fucked out and using himself, was the pinnacle of sex and desire-- L began to question his decision about who exactly this was a punishment for.

“Ngh, this cock is so big , L… But it doesn’t feel nearly as good as yours.” Light dragged his teeth across the bottom of his lip, pointed looking at L’s cock, now leaking precum. Light knew he was getting to L. He knew exactly how he looked and exactly what L was thinking.

Fucker. Two can play at that.

L slowed down his own movements, raising an eyebrow at Light, “A common whore like yourself would be satisfied with any cock inside of him. You want mine so bad? Close your eyes, think…” L held the book open with one hand, “‘ I feel like I am going crazy. I am supposed to want this stupid bastard dead. And yet all I want right now are my hands on him and his on mine-’” Light groaned, finally touching his neglected aching cock, “‘-and it is so hard to focus on bringing him down, when the entire time I am dreaming about Ryuzaki’s voice in my ear, and my hands around his throat, and his tongue and mouth on me everywhere . I may just have to take care of him so I stop feeling this way... ’ My my, Kira... ” Light groaned at the name, “I thought you would be a bit more careful than to let your inner thoughts so out in the open like this. What would have happened if someone had gotten a hold of this?”

“I- Fuck- Academic rivalries are not uncommon....”

“I wanted to sentence you to death and you still could not stop thinking about me inside of you-”

“Oh shit L…”

“-or my hands on your cock or my fingers stretching you wide open. You still want me to whisper in your ear and moan , telling you what a good boy you are, right?”

“Yes… yes I want that L…”

L tutted, “And yet you aren’t a good boy. Desperate and begging… Writing down naughty thoughts and fantasies about someone who you wanted to die?” L shook his head, casually tossing the book aside. He reached for his own cock again, slowly stroking it watching Light fall apart, giving himself dual sensations, “Kira needs to make up his mind about what he wants. Because I don’t think he is good at all.”

“ L please…”

“Please, what?”

“Please let me on your cock.”

“Why would I allow that?”

Light stopped his movements on the dildo, only slowly stroking his cock at the same speed as L was his own, “I am not a good boy, I am a cock-slut for you, and only ever you. Fuck me please,” Light begged, broken and desperate.

L stood up and grabbed Light’s hands, pulling him off of the toy. He brushed the hair out of Light’s eyes and pulled Light on top of him, “So good, Kira. You don’t have to be a good boy for me, you can just be my good slut.”

He kissed L, hard, biting his bottom lip as he lined himself up on L’s dick and sunk down on him.

“ Fuck, you feel so much better than that cheap plastic,” Light straddled L properly, pressing his hands against L’s chest as he rode him, not wasting anytime picking up speed.

“Such a good whore for me, Kira,” L said, kissing his wrist, “You really do ride cock like you get paid to do it.”

“I know,” Light said, breathy and fucked.

L huffed, “A bit cocky, aren-”

“Now it’s your turn to shut up,” Light said, pressing down on L’s pressure points, his fingertips pushing hard enough into his throat it will surely leave marks against his pale skin.

L’s eyes rolled in the back of his head and Light moved his hips faster, L snapping back up to meet his thrusts, which quickly became sloppy as black dots began dancing in the corners of his eyes and his lungs started burning. His eyes welled up with tears and his entire body was on fire, his limbs going limp. He felt the white, hot edge so close and tangible. Every thrust felt like a rattle of electricity hitting every nerve and every part of his consciousness so closely and he just needed more -- Light relented, moving his hands away from his throat. L eyes snapped open wide and he coughed, taking heavy breaths. Tears fell from the corners of his eyes, and he dug his fingertips into Light’s waist, harshly grabbing him by the hips.

“L? I’m sorry, you told me you would tap out if-”

“Kira, more-- again-- now.” L commanded, and Light did not hesitate. He grabbed him by the throat and put his fingers in L’s mouth for good measure. Light was riding him with expert pace and precision, his lower body strength and years of running paying off. L’s legs trembled, and he used the last bit of his unfucked mind to dig his nails into Light’s hips and rock him faster and faster on his cock, reaching that beautiful and terrible and intense edge.

“ Ah- L! ” Light comes only a few seconds before L himself, moaning around Light’s fingers as he loosened his grip, but still only letting a fraction of the air healthy for the human brain into his head.

Light did not move himself off of L immediately. He moved his hand away from his throat, but kept small pressure on his neck with one of his thumbs.

“What are you doing?” L muttered. Light said nothing. L opened his eyes, tapping him. “Light?”

Light blinked, looking back, “Sorry, was feeling your pulse.”

“Why?”

“Wanted to make sure I didn’t kill you.”

L smiled softly, “Don’t want me dead anymore?”

“Sometimes. Certainly not like this, it’s too personal.”

“What, killing me while my cock is in your ass is too close for comfort?”

“Something like.” Light smirked and pressed a soft kiss against L’s lips.

After cleaning up, Light told L he wanted to burn the dream journal to prevent further embarrassment.

“Over my dead body.” L said, holding the notebook just out of reach.

Light smirked, “I have no problem arranging that.”

[wallwriterstuff]

The Big Bad Wolf ||Demetri Volturi x Female Reader||

Warnings: A bit angsty at first, but otherwise it’s very fluffy 

Words: 5092 

Taglist: @thelastemzy​ @kpopgirlbtssvt @a-avaunce @college-is-coming​ @alecvolturiswifeforever​ @broskibowser​ @volturidoll13​ @raindancer2004​

Summary: 

Part 1: Little Red Riding Hood   Part 3: What Soft Lips You Have  Part 4: And They Have Lived Happily Ever After 

Demetri ponders why his mate doesn’t seem to feel what he feels, tries to plan ahead, and makes an important promise to the one person he can no longer be without. 

What did she dream of?

When her face scrunched like that. When her body twisted like it was trying to escape or flee or maybe curl closer? When her lips moved but no discernible noise escaped them. When she sighed contentedly.

What did she dream of?

When her fingers clenched into thick wool. When her cheek rubbed the same fabric. When vibrant eyes fluttered behind closed lids.

What did she dream of?

He still had no answer despite years of watching her – at least that was how it felt. He could vividly recreate her face in his mind, from the soft curve of her jaw that gave her face that classic oval shape the Swan Sister’s shared to the iridescence of those big Y/E/C eyes. In reality, he simple hadn’t stopped staring since she sort of collapsed into him, her exhausted body no longer capable of keeping her upright once he used the advantages fate had bestowed upon him to try and calm her from her obviously terrified state. Demetri couldn’t honestly say he blamed her, being afraid of her current situation. The moment she had stepped on the plane his mate had been subject to stares, the probing and malicious kind of looks that only those who thought they were above you could really give. Those looks gave way to open shock and clear, intense dislike when Demetri ushered her into the small booth of the Private Jet, the one reserved for the Higher Guard only.

To add to her worry, Aro had drifted over before long to discuss her change, Caius’s open dislike for her enough to make it clear only Demetri seemed to be overly bothered about whether or not she could endure the transformation. He was determined to make it so, bargaining for at least a night of sleep since the poor thing looked so drained. Her sister was pale it was true but there was something about the bags under her eyes that didn’t sit well with him. Alone, afraid, his mate looked nothing like the strong woman who had spoken out against the injustice her family were facing, and he would have devoted every last inch of himself to seeing her smile if only the timing was right. But he had scared her to, hadn’t he? His reaction to what was obviously a very upsetting scar of all things…

It was the principle of the thing! To think someone else’s venom had entered her bloodstream, that someone else had tasted the alluring wine lingering in her veins! The thought had driven him to near madness as most other things about her had that day. It had started off quite gently, as the mate pull should be he supposed. Her scent had made him pause, watching from a distance as she spied on them with no real idea of the consequences it held for either of them, breathing her in one deep inhale at a time as he tried to figure out why the scent was so alluring – then recoiling in surprise when he realised it was because it was all his favourite scents rolled into something unique and tantalising on the tongue. Curiosity had been the first major emotion, itching at his brain, and when Aro’s impatience had forced him to reveal himself to her, it had been quiet, reverent awe that came next.

Awe that he could have the privilege to gaze upon a creature so lovely, from the red tinge to her cold skin to the soft waves of hair that almost begged him to run his fingers through it. The moment he had dared meet her gaze the world calmed, like a storm had brewed and raged within him without him ever noticing until that moment. There was nothing and no one, not a sound or a directive that could have moved him for the seconds it took the mate pull to thrum in the back of his mind, slowly beginning the momentous task of realigning every instinct and every fibre of his being to her, making her the focal point of his existence. This experience was supposed to be sweet and slow, yet watching her wilt under Aro’s stare, knowing the danger she was in, had only sped it up, fate intervening to ensure he protected what was his so he didn’t lose it too soon. The moment his Master leaned forward he knew well his intentions, and Demetri couldn’t honestly recall what happened next since his body had took the lead and given his mind a backstage pass to watch the show from afar.

“You’ve been out of sorts since you met her. Is the pull that strong or is there something more at play here?” Felix asked, a low murmur that only their little booth would hear. Though they made no effort to be friendly his friends had, at the very least, kept their conversations at a more human volume so she would not be left out. Even if she did not take part in their discussions she was not excluded from them. Demetri reflexively tightened his grip, still unable to move his eyes from her for even a moment. He still felt like he was on high alert, like he was waiting for the enemy to come crashing in at any moment and take her from his grasp.

“Yes Demetri do tell, you’ve fawned over her like one might an infant.” Jane looked thoroughly amused at his discomfort and he made a mental note to pay her back for it later…when he could think straight. Every now and then, she would inhale deeply, curling tighter into the cloak he had wrapped around her before she had practically fallen into his lap, pressing tighter to his body as he held her close. He couldn’t understand it himself. Instinctually she knew, her body just…knew, surely? His scent, his presence, it had calmed her as it should. If her body knew to react to this bond, then why couldn’t her mind process it? Did she actually feel anything? Did she not have any of the confusing, intense emotion that he felt?

No…no it had to be the bite. That stupid, stupid bite. He couldn’t stop seeing it in his mind’s eye. She didn’t feel like his, that was the problem. He held her in his arms and she had come with him willingly but she wasn’t his, not till he erased that venom and replaced it with his own.

“Alec…I have a rather large favour to ask you.” He said finally, looking up at him. The boy tilted his head, silently studying the tracker before he nodded once.

“Then ask.” He invited. Even now he had to fight to keep his gaze on Alec, his eyes already itching to look back down and watch her expressions shift as she dreamed. It would be the last dream she ever had. He hoped it was a pleasant one.

“I need someone with me Alec, I cannot turn her alone…I suspect they know that, that that is my punishment for my disobedience on the battlefield earlier. I would have no one else do it anyway but…Alec if I cannot stop myself, please, I beg you stop me.” Demetri implored quietly. Alec seemed surprised at the intensity of the agony that was conveyed in his eyes. Demetri couldn’t really have explained it either, but every thread of his existence was tied so inextricably to her’s in the space of a few short hours that all he knew was that to lose her would be to lose himself. It had all happened so fast it was dizzying, but slowly the fog was clearing and his way out of this mess was clear. Turn his mate, ensure her safety throughout her newborn year, then they were both home free having proven their loyalty to one another and their coven – whether Y/N was there by a deal or by choice.

“Wouldn’t my gift be more effective at dissuading you?” Jane wondered.

“It would also be a wonderful way of ensuring I bite down and pull her throat out with my teeth.” Demetri pointed out, flinching slightly at the grotesque mental image.

“I can strip your taste. You would not want to keep feeding as it would feel pointless then.” Alec said finally. It was as close to an agreement as Demetri knew he would get and he nodded his gratitude as the jet began to descend. She stirred multiple times, his little human struggling to return to slumber each time she awoke as they moved between the landing strip and the Castle, something not even the warm embrace of his cloak could cure. She was blazing like a fire in his arms but seemed content with the temperature, dozing on his shoulder and then his bed after he left her cocooned there. Since she liked the warm, he made sure to stoke the fire before showering. He stayed under the warm water a long time, mind swirling with a number of burgeoning thoughts he couldn’t seem to shift.

His mate was right in the other room and yet she felt so far away from him. His whole life had changed drastically in the blink of an eye, and the price he was paying felt far too high. Her life was quite literally at stake, hanging in the balance where the only thing stopping the momentum from tipping too far to the wrong side was his self-control. Demetri had only ever bitten with the intent to feed, never feeling compelled to create company given he had never been a nomad and alone. Did he even have the self-control for this? The thought plagued him because that was his punishment, and he knew he had to endure for the sake of Y/N and himself. To lose her would be to condemn himself, yet with Chelsea on their side he was sure if Aro still felt he was of use he would never escape that particular torment.

By the time he had stepped out, dried and changed into something comfier than his official battle uniform, Y/N had slipped out of his cloak to curl up in front of the fire instead. With a pillow trapped between her chest and her knees, she hugged them close and stared into the flames, face half-covered by fabric and eyes red rimmed. It wasn’t difficult to smell the salt lingering on the damp fabric and understand what had happened in his absence. Oh, how his heart broke…

“I thought you were sleeping.” He said. She jumped, furiously wiping at her eyes before she somewhat relaxed again into her original position. She had tied her hair back now, long Y/H/C waves messily scraped into a bun that hadn’t managed to capture every strand. He felt another painful pinch in his chest when she refused to look at him.

“I don’t really sleep.” She mumbled. Demetri frowned slightly, inching closer to test her boundaries. She didn’t say anything, merely let him slip ever so slowly until he was sitting beside her, his knees drawn up so he could rest his forearms on them – and keep his feet away from the fire. They sat in silence for a long while, Demetri counting every painful minute in his head as they ticked by, moments with his mate draining away like sand in an hourglass he could never get back. Why was it so hard to talk to her? Every time he opened his mouth he closed it again almost immediately, not knowing if something he said might set her off or upset her more. What did she speak about to others’? So much to learn and so little time till she was lost to the thirst for a while…

“Forgive me, for the way I acted when we returned to your home. It was…selfish.” He settled on that, a safe enough topic he supposed given it was the only real experience they had shared together.

“Yeah, it was.” she couldn’t seem to bring herself to speak any louder than a mumble. Demetri grimaced a little bit, staring into the fire dejectedly.

“I spoke without thinking, reacted without really thinking either, about the pain that wound must have caused you.” He continued.

“I’ve felt worse pain.” She frowned deeply and Demetri couldn’t help but flinch.

“Such as?” he asked, though the sense of foreboding growing in his gut told him he already knew the answer, deep down. Y/N looked furious with him then, her big eyes turning on him with so much hostility he could have sworn she might have actually won if she lunged to fight him in that moment. The anger and upset that radiated from her bled into him, seeping through the cracks in his calm façade and piercing his unbeating heart. He would have given anything to remove that look from her face, that pain in her chest.

“Such as? Such as! Are you aware that you’ve just taken me away from my family, the people I love, without even letting me say goodbye? Do you even comprehend how much I don’t want to be here? That the only reason I am is because you and me are supposed to be this miraculous soulmate story incarnate when the reality is the only thing you feel for me is utter disgust?” she snapped. Demetri wasn’t certain she knew for a fact she was crying, or how much her words wounded him, but he couldn’t keep the offense off of his face. It was a mortal blow to his ego and his pride, his character as a man, yet as furious as he wanted to be with her he still couldn’t bring himself to be. She was young and hurting, deeply wounded and trying to create a chasm between them where fate wouldn’t allow it to exist in an effort to deal with that hurt.

“I do not feel disgust for you nor was it my choice to bring you here! You made a deal with Aro knowing full well the terms which you were agreeing to. You are the reason you are here Y/N, and so long as you choose to stay with me my every effort will be expended into protecting you from yourself. Foolish girl, can you not see he has us both trapped? That we are both being punished here? My own disobedience may have sped up the arrival of your fate but it is one you readily signed yourself over to.” he hissed.

He hated it. The revulsion boiled and writhed in his gut as he ground his teeth together, his mind buzzing with a thousand other angry words he forced back down his throat lest he make things worse. None of this was right. He shouldn’t be arguing with her like this. They should be happy, shouldn’t they? Happy as everyone else who was lucky enough to find their mate…shouldn’t they?

“I don’t have a choice, and neither did you,” She reminded him, “or clearly you would have chosen less damaged goods.” The air between them was polluted with their anger, their grief, and yet…her voice wavered. The sentence itself was so wrong but the tone of her voice, the way her hand moved to her throat, that pinched expression that suggested she was tortured by her own insecurities, was really what gave it away. How could he be angry at her now? With a drawn out sigh, Demetri scooted slightly closer and turned himself toward her, scrutinising her side profile.

Y/N closed her eyes, no doubt sensing his gaze and wishing it would leave her skin. He reminded himself she was fragile, that his little human would shatter easily under too forceful a touch, and drew his finger beneath her eye with such care it barely touched her skin and did little to remove the tears he wished he could wipe away. They had started all wrong, but it didn’t mean they had to continue the same way. Maybe it was inappropriate, maybe it was the wrong time, but he needed her to know it was something he could move past. He needed her to know that she wasn’t damaged goods, that she wasn’t something he regretted or felt the need to change – at least not in that way.

His fingers clasped around her wrist, afraid to grip too hard but ever so careful in the way he pulled her palm from her throat. Demetri closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to her temple as she froze up beneath him, feeling the icy tips of his fingers brush her delicate throat. Her pulse hammered beneath the pads of his fingers, blood rushing beneath her paper-thin flesh…

“Relax, trust me.” He whispered, tracing the indents of teeth in hardened flesh. He didn’t feel quite so angry about it this time, though he couldn’t say he was thrilled by it either. Demetri exhaled slowly, held his breath, and dipped his head a little lower.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, jerking her head backward. She didn’t move out of his grip though and there was the slightest hint of fear on her face. Demetri shook his head.

“I will not harm you,” he vowed, moving slowly so as to give her time to move away again, “You are not broken goods Y/N, and the way I see it I _did _choose you, though not consciously perhaps not consciously. Your very soul reached out to mine and I accepted what I knew would be best for me. You were never a choice, you were a necessity.” His bold words had left her utterly stunned and she didn’t fight him at all as he placed his lips over the marred flesh of her throat. He placed two kisses against that scar that brought them so much pain, just two, but it was enough to set them on the right path this time. Demetri pulled his head back, watching her carefully as she stared at him in utter astonishment. His head had cleared, his mind set right; he had never been as certain about anything in his life as he was about Y/N, whether the rest of the world was against them or not.

“But you said…you said your only hope was to…” she looked so confused in that moment it almost made him swoon. How adorable she was when her nose scrunched like that! He could watch the expression all day, but she needed an answer.

“What I said remains true, I have every plan to change you in the same way in the hopes I might not have to remind myself another ever dared lay a hand on you, but there will be contingencies to ensure I do not fail and you are safe. All that matters to me now is that I succeed in this endeavour.” He confessed, settling back against the sofa’s edge once more with a quiet sigh. The silence that followed was far more comfortable than the first one, something more companiable in the air between them. He was pleased she scooted a little closer to him so they could watch the flames together, their crackling no longer drowned out by the exchange of angry words. He wanted to ask her a thousand more questions, get to know her, but there would be time enough for that later on. For now he wished only to bask in this silent moment where things felt more right between them than they had since they met.

“They’re hoping you’ll kill me, aren’t they?” her quiet voice broke that silence a few hours later, as the sun was starting to set in the sky and night fell over Volterra. She was running out of time and Demetri wasn’t sure when that had begun to bother him to this extent, but the room was going to feel so empty without her heartbeat to fill the quiet.

“Yes. I believe that that is my punishment to endure for my disobedience.” He agreed, voice equally as quiet as he turned to look at her. He couldn’t remember when she had placed her head against his shoulder, but she lifted it now to meet his eyes.

“You didn’t do anything wrong though, I did, my mouth got us both in trouble.” She frowned. Demetri chuckled ruefully.

“Your mouth will get you into trouble for a while yet I believe, but my own impudence in placing myself between you and Master Aro was equally as displeasing to them. I wilfully subordinated your sentencing in front of many witnesses outside of our coven, after all.” He grimaced. He would change nothing about that moment, he had decided, not when it brought him so tangibly close to forever with his mate. It was right within his grasp now, an eternity of being fulfilled, happy, of having a purpose beyond the walls he once held so dear – he had something new to protect.

“So…they want to punish us both then…and being an out of control newborn is only going to make it worse for both of us.” She mused, though she didn’t seem in the least bit concerned. In fact, if Demetri had to guess, she was rather looking forward to the chance to raise a little hell within their walls. He was as worried and exasperated by the idea as he was amused by it.

“Indeed it just might, though I promise not to let you get too out of hand.” He nudged her lightly with his arm and she giggled, the sound absolutely melodious to his ears. He almost begged her to do it again purely so he had a better chance to commit it to memory, something to keep him company while she endured the change and reminded him of the better times to come. Finally, it felt like he had done something right…now he just had to keep that sweet smile in place.

“You promise huh? Way I see it, its a bit us vs them right now isn’t it? If they can be so unfair to you of all people…” she trailed off. Demetri felt his own smile fall slightly, his expression somewhat vacant as he pondered the accusation. In truth he did feel somewhat betrayed. Chelsea had actually threatened the Masters’ when she first brought home Afton and they wanted him killed, yet she received no punishment, so why had he? He was protecting what was rightfully his after all, someone he could never be truly happy without again. What was so wrong about it?

“Us and them…”he echoed, the thought both perturbing and…thrilling. She hummed, suddenly pushing up onto her knees beside him, eyes alight with fierce determination.

“You’re making a lot of promises but there’s nothing to say you’ll keep them so…lets make a real promise, right now.” She instructed. His eyebrows rose slightly.

“In my day and age when a man gives his word it is an ironclad contract little one, the breaking of which eroded his position in society and status as a man.” He replied slightly insulted. Her head tilted.

“Well we’re not in the Bible era anymore so…” she shot him a devilish grin as he snorted and feigned an offended expression, “It’s a real simple promise. Since we’re supposed to be the next Gomez and Morticia, and we’re clearly the only ones willing to see if that can work out, then I say we promise right now it’ll always be us against them. Hell, it’ll be us against the world if we need it to be. Whatever we do…we back each other up.” She proposed, offering her hand to him. Y/N extended her pinky but left her other fingers curled in, and Demetri wasn’t too sure what exactly was expected of him as he mulled over her words.

They felt right. Wasn’t this what the mate bond was supposed to be? Someone to always support you? Protect you? Someone to always have your back? If not his mate then who? Maybe the Masters’ who would so readily forsake his happiness weren’t the best choice of allies…

“Though I do not know what half of your speech actually meant, I can promise you this. Whatever we do, we back each other up.” He agreed, offering her his hand in the hopes she’d guide him through this next part. Demetri couldn’t honestly say he had any clue what was so different about this handshake and how it was any more significant than any other, but as she looped her pinky through his and shook his hand he couldn’t help but smile. With a firm nod and a sharp exhale, she suddenly reached down and pulled her jumper off with a flourish, revealing an expanse of pale skin and a wonderfully bright blue lace bra Demetri struggled to look away from as he choked on the air he was breathing.

“Okay so first step, you turn me.” She seemed completely unbothered by her partial nakedness, even when he struggled to stop the venom pooling in his mouth and his fingers from reaching out to drag her closer. She looked entirely confident in him and though he wanted to be flattered Demetri had his mind on very different matters in that moment.

“I – you –  Alec is going to- to help.” He choked out, eyes wide and completely fixed to her chest. She visibly lost some confidence then, a beautiful, vibrant shade of red painting her cheeks as her arms came up to cross her chest with a squeak.

“O-oh. I…I th-think I need a shirt then?” she sounded almost as strained as he felt and with a quick nod he dashed to his closet to find her something appropriate. He dutifully kept his head turned away while she buttoned up one of his shirts. When she cleared her throat to let him know he could look again she was still blushing brightly, and Demetri managed a slightly strained smile.

“So er…Alec’s room is just down the hall, er…shall we?” he asked, offering her his hand.

“No need, I heard my name and decided to drop in.” Alec’s voice was smooth as ever but there was an underlying hint of mischief there that made Demetri tense, and it wasn’t until after the deed was done that he dared speak his mind.

“How much did you see, Alec?” he didn’t risk looking at him, not wanting to see the shit-eating smirk he was sure was going to be on Alec’s face. He focused instead on cleaning the blood from her skin and ensuring she was comfortably resting upon his sheets. She started to twitch a bit, a pained grunt escaping here and there as Alec’s mist retreated from them.

“What I did or didn’t see is of no consequence…though I think you’re in for an interesting life if she’s as willing to undress herself for you after the change as she was before it.” His cackling could be heard down the hall as he fled from the room before Demetri could hit him, the tracker closing his eyes and counting to ten before deciding he could let it go for now. He had much bigger things to attend to after all. He had never been one to fuss too much over little things, but suddenly the sheets on the bed were not tucked in enough, the curtains letting in too little or too much light, the air in the room too stale and then too full of scents when he opened the window. There was no such thing as perfection and yet, as she burned, Demetri strived for it.

It felt worth it though, when she finally opened her eyes. It was rather amusing to him to watch her take it all in, the thousands of different smells and the way they tasted in the air, the shimmer of her skin, the speed with which she had sat up and moved. Demetri almost envied her when she finally locked eyes with him, the minute way the vivid red irises widened and the soft gasp that escaped through parted lips telling him she too had felt that momentous pull realigning her entire being with his own – he wished he could experience it again. She approached him with such caution it was almost comical, and Demetri was the one to reach for her first. She jumped at his touch but quickly relaxed into it, letting him hold her hand and squeeze lightly.

“This feeling…”she whispered, her own voice startling her with the musical notes it now contained. Her fingertips traced soothing patterns against his palm and Demetri held back a contented sigh, too enamoured with watching her explore the new feelings and beginning to understand his position in all of this.

“Intense?” he guessed, lifting his free hand to push back some of her hair. The slightest of scars remained where he hadn’t quite managed to cover Riley’s teeth marks with his own, but the majority of it was gone, sealed over with the same venom that had stopped her heart and ensured she would hand the organ and all it contained to him. She nodded distractedly, following his hand with her head until he caved and cupped her cheek tenderly with a low chuckle. His thumb stroked her cheek lovingly, his heart bursting in his chest. She had done it, his mate had defied them all with a little help and now…now there was nothing more for them to do than enjoy eternity.

“Is it forever?” she asked innocently, looking up at him through her lashes. Demetri pulled up the hand that was holding hers, lacing his fingers through her own and leaning down to press his forehead to hers.

“Always and forever little one, it’s us against the world.” He promised. Their noses brushed as her head tilted, pushing forward and pulling back as if trying to decide if she should or not. Demetri decided for her, meeting her halfway and letting their lips meet in the first of many sweet kisses to come. He had never tasted her blood thanks to Alec, but he was sure now that if the boy had failed at his task he certainly would not have been able to stop and his mate would not have been standing before him, sweet and alive and willingly walking into his embrace. The taste of her was sublime, addictive even, and he knew he’d never tire of kissing her. Though she’d need to learn to be a little more careful with him first.

A/N: Usually I wouldn’t do this but I tried a few new things here today I’d like some feedback on please! How do you like the taglist? Should I keep it? Add anyone to it? Take anyone off it? And how do you like the idea of a gif or a picture (when I can find them) to brighten up the post a bit? All that’s left to do now is rejig my Masterlist a bit...Thanks for reading folks. 

[hndcrm]

47 and Diana are in the safehouse in Berlin. As night falls 47, plagued by his newfound memories, can't sleep. He wanders through the house and discovers Diana snores and talkes in her sleep. What will he do about it?!😏

I have made this so much angstier than the prompt calls for im so sorry my brain only provides pain apparently

--

He was glad to have his memories back. There was no denying it. It was liberating to know the events of his life in order, to have them fade back into something understandable as opposed to the blank, cryptic void from before. Some were better than others, memories of his and subject 6’s friendship, of the rare times he’d been able to sneak away with his bunny before its untimely and cruel murder.

Despite this, the memories were overwhelmingly bad, and none quite as pervasive and frightening as the car bomb in 1989.

He was the one to trigger it. It was a mission like any other at the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. Simple. Two targets, Peter and Nancy Burnwood, their daughter considered acceptable collateral damage. In the end, there was no collateral damage and perhaps that’s the only comfort he takes from the memory, that he didn’t kill her, that he was lucky enough to have her alive today. It’s not comforting because he knows she will leave him as soon as she finds out. He can’t blame her. He’s the one responsible for her involvement in everything bad in their world. He killed her parents, changed her life forever, ruined it without a second thought at the time. He recalls with tears in his eyes how she was there, how she was present when he set it off, that this innocent child had to witness the violent death of her parents. He’s hurt Diana irreversibly and she will hate him forever if she finds out.

Even throughout his career with her, he often pondered morality and his own goodness. Diana became his conscience and urged in private that he wasn’t evil, promised him that he was worthy of kindness and love. He wasn’t sure even then how much he believed her. He trusted her, however, so he did not question the assertions.

He knows she was wrong now. She deserves to know the truth, but it would result in her disappearing from his life, and he’s sure he would die without her.

And now, he cannot sleep. He stares out of the window in the living room and watches the night sky, silently bets on how long it will be before he turns to alcohol for comfort.

There are soft snores coming from Diana’s bedroom. He gulps. The door is tilted open.

The scene before him is like some practical test of his character and self-control. He could come in and watch her sleep, just for a few moments. It wouldn’t disturb her and she would never know, and he could memorise the details of her face, add to his mental depiction of her before she leaves him, imagine what it could be like to hold her like this if they could ever be this intimate together. He could pretend to be one of the few lucky men who have been able to truly witness this, to be able to say they’ve had the pleasure of sleeping next to Diana Burnwood herself.

Or he could do the right thing and close the door, minding his own business as a professional work colleague should, though even that description is generous towards him after what he’s done. He is evil.

Diana says he is good, but he knows she’s wrong. If he were good he wouldn’t want to come in and see her right now.

It’s late and he cannot sleep, he thinks the guilt will swallow him whole if he does not distract himself. He deserves nothing to do with her, deserves to die by her hands a million times over and rot in the deepest circle of hell, but now, watching her silently while she sleeps does not seem so sinful in comparison to the pain he has caused her.

He pushes the door open enough to slide inside and tilts it closed.

The moonlight peeking from behind the curtain streaks across her ribs and reminds him of a bullet that he was responsible for. He feels sick. She deserves so much better.

She’s tangled in the sheets, hair flamed out around her face, and instantly there’s an urge to run his hands through it, to move it off her cheek and behind her ear.

She looks delicate. He knows better than to think so improperly of her, ‘delicate’ is an insult when she is a force to be reckoned with and could kill a man with her sharp-tongued nature alone, but there is no denying the more physical aspects of her beauty when she’s sprawled out so ravishingly. Her upper lip is carved down carefully, brows furrowed slightly, bosom caressed by her silk nightgown and her hands elegantly tangled in the sheets, like a scene from an ancient erotic painting, beauty that could only be appropriately captured by a lover.

She stirs then, and he holds his breath, terrified that he’s awoken her with his selfishness.

She hums something incomprehensible, and the thought that she might sleeptalk scares him. He should leave. Diana trusts him, she does not hide from him. If what she dreams of is something he already knows, there’s no use invading her privacy. If what she dreams of is something he is not aware of, then he should stay clueless, respect her choice to keep it from him and leave, pretending he was never here.

He decides to do the right thing. He pads towards the door.

He’s stopped in his tracks when he hears her moan his name. He can feel his face heating up. He’s evil for having ever come here in the first place. How can he disrespect her so cruelly?

Curiosity turns him around, as he tries to picture the shape her mouth might take when she moans his name, but there is little left to the imagination when she does it again, quieter, and the sight is somehow more erotic and vulgar than anything he’s ever seen, he feels his trousers tightening.

He knows she doesn’t really want him like this. Dreams don’t reflect reality. Perhaps she thought of him crudely once, and he was lucky enough to catch it, but it was a one-off because she must know she deserves better than him.

He’d be more than willing to play out her dreams in reality. He couldn’t, of course, bring himself to ever actually do it. Their shared intimacy exists purely as a fantasy in both of their imaginations.

He’s grateful for his trained stillness as he’s about to leave again, determined that he’s long crossed a line. He must go if he ever wants Diana to think of him neutrally, at least. If she wakes up to see him standing before her so improperly she’ll know of his vile nature before he reveals it.

As he’s something like a metre away from the door, he sees a frustrated Olivia rub her eyes and grumble ‘fucking Burnwood’, then she slams the door in front of him before he can escape and he panics as he’s stuck in a deeply compromising position. The door is too squeaky to risk opening again, but it’s too late, for when he turns around to look at Diana, she’s awake, rubbing her eyes and squinting in the dark. He prays she doesn’t see him.

“47? Is that you?” She calls out, and he freezes. He could still leave. She would know he was here, but it would save him the embarrassing conversation until the morning at least, or maybe, hopefully, she’d forget. “What are you doing here?” She sits up in bed, a strap of her nightgown falling down her arm. The usual excuses for trespassing won’t cut it. I got lost, he thinks sourly.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He starts. How much of the truth should he reveal? Lying to her feels wrong, he knows she knows him too well for it. “I heard you talking, I thought maybe something was wrong.”

“Oh.” Now she turns red. “Well, I’m quite alright.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. He nods dumbly.

“Good.”

“And 47,” she adds then. “What did you hear?” She does a good job of playing off her voice crack, but he can sense the fear in her voice - fear he is responsible for. Why wouldn’t she fear him when he disrespects her like this?

“It was nothing - I didn’t understand anything.” He lies. He must lie to make her feel better. He shouldn’t have come in in the first place. She plays with the strap of her nightgown. He wants to leave but she looks so worried. Guilt greets him again.

“You’ve been avoiding me lately.” She says finally, chest rising in the familiar pattern she uses to calm herself down. “Is everything alright?”

I yearn for you, he thinks. It’s true. The thought tastes disgusting on his tongue.

“The serum. The memories-” he begins, but the following words don’t come. He doesn’t know how to tell her the truth. He doesn’t want to. She furrows her brows together and looks sadly at him.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” Diana gives him a lopsided smile. “If you want to talk about it-”

“No.” His voice sounds harsher than he intends. She cannot know.

He leaves. Another night is spent alone on the cold leather couch, thinking of her in the dark. Eventually, guilt takes over and he cannot bear to think of anything, so he opens a lager and drinks himself to sleep.

He wakes up to find himself covered by a blanket in the morning, and Diana sitting in an armchair next to him. He gulps.

“I’m sorry about last night,” she sighs. He shakes his head, mutters a protest, but the memories of his actions flooding back terrify him. He’s been awful.

He sits up. She hasn’t done anything wrong, and the shame painted across her face makes his insides twist with guilt. He doesn’t deserve to touch her, but all he can think of is comforting her, so he reaches out tentatively. Immediately she smiles at him and wraps her arms around him. It’s unfair how good it feels, how their bodies seem to fit so well together, and she’s innocently on his lap in his embrace, unaware of how many nights he’s spent fantasizing about this. He deserves none of it, he knows.

“I’m sorry, Diana.” He almost sulks into the warm skin revealed by her bateau neckline.

“Whatever for?” She whispers, and he aches again. He can’t tell her.

“I love you,” he whispers as the tears run down his cheeks and he wonders if she can feel them on her neck. It comes out instinctually, and he regrets it immediately. She doesn’t answer. He prays she won’t think anything of it. He’s pathetic. “I’m so sorry.”

They don’t speak of it again, and he spends every living second praying for her forgiveness, for when she eventually finds out.

When he knows she knows, it’s too late for him, and he’s glad she’s killed him. He spends his dying moments craning his neck up to ensure she’s his last dying image. He hopes Edwards will be kind to her.

[juniperwindsong]

Necessary Monsters (4/16)

Summary:  "I have done my best since I've been back to make sure no one got to her, but it's a bit of full time gig, that. I warned her to stay out and let me handle it.” "You thought she would stay away if you just told her to? Have you ever met Juniper?"

   Post to the dragon infested wilds of northeastern Peru is not always possible, and what birds do manage it are never timely. Which is why Felix does not read Rita Skeeter's article on Juniper Windsong* until several months after his graduation. "From Cursebreaker to Quidditch Darling: A Witch of Many Hats" declares the headline, set above a photograph of an awkwardly smiling Juniper. She’s giving the camera a surprised sort of half-wave, as though only aware of its presence a second before the flash. 

   So far, Felix has done a successful job putting his crush on his school friend from his mind, aided by the million and one things he has to learn about his new and dangerous job. But something about the picture-Juniper's expression touches that part of him still nursing a soft spot for her. He severs the photograph from the article with his wand, tucking it carefully into a trouser pocket. And for the next three years, that's where it stays; his only aid in recalling her face with the precise detail he craves more and more frequently.

   The body on the hospital bed has the same features, slightly aged. But Felix cannot reconcile it with the Juniper he knows. There's no sign of life in her, beyond the incessant twitching of her fingers. Closer inspection reveals her myriad tiny cuts to be deeper than Felix initially realised. The wounds, while magically sealed, are puckered and raised. He knows each one will leave a small scar.

   And her face. Her face is entirely expressionless. It reminds Felix of the mannequins at the hospital's entrance. No one could confuse her condition with merely sleeping.

   How long he stands by the bed minutely inspecting each injured part of Juniper, Felix isn't sure. His brain is strangely detached, as if it's reached the limit of what it can process in one day and has recused itself from any further analysis. Felix can't really blame it. In the span of one morning, he’s fallen from exuberant high-spirits through various layers of unexpected terror before bottoming out in wretched guilt. Now, with no action left to keep up momentum, the rapid rush of conflicting emotion burns out, leaving numb exhaustion in its wake.

   Only when his knees start to feel shaky once more does Felix remember the thing he's leaning against is a chair, and he drops into it. It's a comfortable, winged armchair, most unlike the hard, wooden chairs Madam Pomfrey conjures for guest use in the Hogwart's Hospital Wing. He wonders briefly if all the rooms in St Mungo’s are equally accommodating or if it indicates this patient's need for more regular supervision.

Felix sinks deeper into the cushions gratefully. Perhaps it's the lack of sleep, or the fact that he's been denied furniture this comfortable for years, but drowsiness begins to trickle through his limbs enticingly. Keeping his eyes open is suddenly a herculean task...

-

   Felix only knows he's fallen asleep when the soft click of the hidden door unlocking wakes him. Disoriented, he struggles from the chair, fumbling for his wand. But the witch who enters, a short, curly-haired woman in lime-green robes, says "Dragon-Heart String," promptly before he's able to pull it from his pocket.

   "You're awake this time," the healer observes crisply, striding to the bedside table. "Good. I was beginning to worry you'd been cursed as well."

   Felix makes a production of stowing his wand back into his rumpled robes, surreptitiously wiping sleep from his eyes and giving the heat in his face time to cool. When he turns back to the bed, the healer is running her wand over Juniper's chest slowly, the wood just brushing the white sheet. The wand tip glows a deep, pulsing red and the healer nods once as if in confirmation.

   "What are you doing?" asks Felix.

   "Checking her vital signs," replies the healer. "Her heart rate is slowing."

   She says this so matter-of-factly it takes a minute for Felix to process it isn't a good thing. His own heart begins to beat double-time.

   "Surely you can fix that?"

   The healer shakes her head once, iron-gray curls bouncing. She reaches for a small bottle on the bedside table and uncorks it, upending the contents onto a bit of cloth.

   "Not unless we can discover what spell was used on her." The healer begins dabbing the cloth gently over the angry red cuts on Juniper's face. "Nothing we've tried has worked so far.  I have my trainee researching rare curses and sleep enchantments, but-" She clicks her tongue doubtfully.

   In spite of her brusque tone, Felix's notices the healer's motions are exceedingly gentle. She takes her time, massaging the cloth over each small wound on Juniper's face down to her exposed neck. Something in her tender ministrations betrays concern, and an echo of the morning's fear slithers back through Felix's veins.

   "But... she's going to be alright...isn't she?"

   The healer looks up at him abruptly, cloth stilling on Juniper's shoulder.

   "Has no one explained to you what's happened to this girl?

   "They - he said - she was attacked."

   The healer regards him steadily. "She has been tortured. See her hands? That's a sign of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Pain like that has permanent effects on the body and the mind. It can quite literally drive a person mad.  Even if we manage to wake her, I doubt very much whether she will be 'alright'."

   Felix's heart beat climbs into his throat. He swallows hard, trying to wrap his mind around this new and terrifying possibility.

   "There has to be something you can do," he protests weakly. The healer shakes her head again, curls bouncing.

   "Not against that sort of magic." She sets her cloth back on the beside table and contemplates Juniper's lifeless form, hands on hips. "There’s research being done into alleviating the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, but nothing practical has come of it so far." Her jaw tenses in the first real emotion Felix has seen from her. "There’s a reason that Curse is unforgivable."

   The healer bends over the bed to smooth down the sheet, tucking excess fabric in around the inert body. Satisfied with the result, she straightens and considers Felix carefully.

   "So. Do you think you can manage to stay awake through the evening now you've had your kip, or should I call in a trainee to relieve you?"

   There's no hiding the burning in his face this time, but Felix draws himself up in spite of it and tries to look as competent as possible.

   "It won't happen again, I assure you."

   She gives another curt nod and bustles around the bed.

    "There's a bell on the table. Give a ring if anything changes. My trainee will hear it."

-

    Foregoing the treacherously cosy armchair, Felix perches on the edge of the bed beside Juniper's trembling hand. Even without the healer's admonition, he would not have been able to return to sleep.

   Fears for Juniper's safety have always plagued Felix. He's endured more than one restless night worrying what might be happening to her thousands of miles away. But everything he's imagined feeling should the worst occur - grief and pain and regret - such easy emotions have no place here. What Felix feels he has no words for. There's only a wrenching in his gut and a scream building in his chest, threatening to erupt uncontrollably, like vomit. Dead or mad, somehow both carry the same crushing weight. The thought that who Juniper is will be gone forever is inconceivable. It pulls at the very threads of Felix's mind, stretching it in the most horrid way.

    Felix reaches for Juniper's hand, cradling it delicately in both of his own like an eggshell. He can feel the restless twitching of her fingers, every other part of her so unnaturally still. She's never been this still in life, he thinks. And the unconscious word choice brings horrified tears to his eyes he cannot blink away.

   Felix hasn't cried since he was a small child. It was never an acceptable expression in his family. Even now, a part of him twinges with fear as tears run sloppily down his cheeks and nose. Some instinct imprinted in him aches with the memory of the physical pain crying awards. But jinxes and hexes seem like nothing to Felix now. He would take them in a heartbeat over this.

   Tears seem to loosen Felix's tongue, and all the confessions and apologies churning inside him burst forth unbidden.

  “Juniper. Oh, gods, Juniper. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

   He lifts her hand to his lips, pressing them against her knuckles, and then her fingertips, uncurling her shaking fingers to place a kiss against her palm. It's riddled with tiny cuts, and older, shiny pink scars.

   Felix knows the story behind those now: souvenirs of her fight with the guardian of the Vault of Ice in her second year. Thirteen years old, and battling for her life against an enchanted knight, unmoved by her age or her lack of experience. By all accounts, it's a fight Juniper should never have survived. But she did. Somehow, she always does.

   Felix sniffs and wipes the heel of his free hand across his cheeks.

  “Juniper, please. Please, be okay," he murmurs against her fingers like a prayer. "You can fight this. Whatever it is. You're strong. The strongest person I know, and I-” He chokes as a sob tries to escape around his words. "I need you to be okay. I need-"

   Felix's words are interrupted by the door opening for a second time. And something in the way the lock clunks, a louder, more forceful sound than it's usual click, sets his nerves on edge. Dropping Juniper's hand, he whips around and draws his wand in one smooth motion, pointing it directly at the man whose back is now pressed against the closed door.

   The intruder is dressed in lime green robes, but they fit him uncomfortably, a size too small for his well-built frame, and Felix doesn’t have to recognise him to know he isn’t really a healer. Except for the fact that his face isn't cracked into a lop-sided grin, the man looks exactly as Felix remembers, even if it's been over a decade since they last met. The man's hand tightens over his own wand as he catches sight of Felix's, but he adjusts his face to something politely professional.

   "Sorry, must have the wrong room."  

   His hand is on the doorknob when Felix says, "Jacob Windsong."

   If Juniper's brother is startled at being recognised, he doesn’t show it.  He merely furrows his brow at Felix curiously.

   "Do I know you?"

   "Felix Rosier.”

   Jacob cocks his head in mild surprise. "Blimey. Didn’t recognise you."

  "It's been a long time." Felix's voice is calm, but he can feel anger bubbling up inside him. If there’s any one person who is really to blame for Juniper's condition, it’s the man in front of him.

   "For you, maybe," replies Jacob cryptically. He glances from Felix to the bed. "I see you've met my sister. How is she?"

   Jacob's conversational tone, as though they've met at the grocer's and are forced by social convention to make polite inquiries after one another, strains Felix's self-control.

   "How does she look?" he asks wildly, a flailing hand indicating the bed beside him. "She's been tortured and cursed! No one at the school could wake her, and the healers don't even know if she'll survive! Thanks to you!"

   Jacob flinches as if Felix has thrown something at him. "It's not my fault."

   "Are you mad?" Felix's temper rises with each word. "You're the reason she's here! She got herself mixed up in cursed vaults and bloody cults looking for you!"

   "I know. And I am sorry about all that. And I have done my best since I've been back to make sure no one got to her, but it's a bit of full time gig, that. I warned her to stay out and let me handle it.”

   Felix's mirthless laugh is dangerously close to a shriek. "You thought she would stay away if you just told her to? Have you ever met Juniper?"

   Jacob ignores this, considering Felix curiously instead.  

   "How do you know Juniper? What are you doing here?"

   Heat creeps up Felix's cheeks and his indignation flags. "I...was her prefect in school. Now, we're...friends."

   Jacob takes in Felix's words and the obvious embarrassment rising in his face, and gives a hearty guffaw.

   "Friends?" he repeats, his shoulders jerking with short harsh laughs.

   "Yes," Felix declares, chin raised defiantly. "She needed someone to look after her for the last six years while you've been missing." He gives the last word a sarcastic emphasis, and Jacob's smile becomes a grimace.

   "Oh, well, you've certainly done a bang-up job, haven't you?" he mocks, and Felix snaps.

   "Impedimenta!" he cries without stopping to think. The spell is unexpected, and Jacob has no time to block it. He throws himself sideways, hitting the floor in a roll and straightening up on the other side of the bed, wand raised defensively.

   "Bloody hell, you want to bring whole hospital in here?!"

   "Get out, then," demands Felix, breathing rapidly.

   Jacob eyes Felix’s outstretched wand, then the bed where Juniper remains motionless. With a sigh, he lowers his wand.    

   "Believe it or not,” he says testily, adjusting his too-right robes, “I didn't risk my life and freedom just to come here and have a chinwag with you." He takes a cautious step closer to the head of the bed. "I'm here to help."

   "How can you possibly help?"

   “I think I know what curse was used on her. I might be able to wake her up.”

   Hope flickers to life inside Felix, nudging his anger aside. "How could you know that? The professors don't even know."

   Jacob gives a derisive snort. "Let's just say, I know the way this organization works." He holds up a hand to stifle Felix's further questions. "But it’s too complicated to explain now. Just let me try something."

   Taking another step, Jacob lifts his wand again, pointing it toward Juniper.

   "Expelliarmus!"

   Jacob's wand leaps from his outstretched hand to the floor, where Felix summons it quickly and sticks it into his back pocket. He aims his own wand directly at Jacob's face, now screwed up in irritation.

   "Merlin's pants, I said I'm trying to help her!”

   "How do I know you’re really who you say you are? You could be someone from R disguised as Jacob Windsong come to finish his sister off. Or you could have been working with them all along."

   Jacob crosses his arms. "That'd be a pretty stupid disguise, don’t you think? I’m wanted by the Ministry and Dumbledore and several other parties, none of which are looking to buy me a drink. Hardly the best way to get around, got up as a wanted criminal."

   True, but Felix doesn't lower his wand. Jacob sighs and spreads his arms wide in supplication.

   "How can I prove I’m me, then? You don’t know the first thing about me, so it’s not like I can answer any questions." He gestures vaguely toward Felix. "I remember meeting you once last year. Or..." He pauses, and obvious unease crosses his features. "No. I suppose... it was quite a few years ago, wasn't it? Time is still a bit...” He waggles his fingers vaguely. "Anyway, I saved your arse from some Gryffindor you were picking on. That do?"**

   The only other person Felix has ever related this story to is Juniper. He supposes Jacob himself could have told an associate, but it seems unlikely.

   "So, you’re you," acknowledges Felix grudgingly, his wand arm beginning to ache. "That doesn’t mean you’re on her side."

   "I have always been on her side," argues Jacob. Felix lets out a  "Ha!" of disbelieving laughter, and Jacob's eyes flash. "Look, believe what you like about me, it’s probably not half true. But I have always loved Juniper and done everything I could to keep her safe."

   Felix laughs again, a harsh sound devoid of any humour. He feels as incensed as Jacob looks.

   "You don’t think it’s killed me to find out everything that’s happened to her while I’ve been trapped?" Jacob protests. "That she's been all on her own? Facing my enemies?"

   "Then why didn’t you stay with her when she found you?" counters Felix. “She’s devoted nearly half her life to finding you, at the expense of everything and everyone. And you wouldn't even give her the time of day!"

   "You don't know what you're talking about!" Jacob's voice has risen now, too. "You don't have the first idea what's really going on or what these people are capable of. This isn't over, and Pip won’t be safe until it is! I started this mess and I have to finish it. I owe it. To her!"

   A brief silence follows this declaration. Felix's wand arm drops a few degrees.

   "Pip?" he asks, his voice strained, unsure if it wants to laugh or cry or yell some more.

   Jacob blinks. "Juniper," he explains. "That's what I called her. When she was a kid." A very small smile breaks up the storm clouds in his face. "She always hated it."

    Jacob's smile is so similar to the genuine one Felix has seen in rare moments on Juniper's own face it causes his stomach to somersault. And the dreadful possibility of never seeing that smile aimed at him again smothers Felix's anger. For a minute, both men can only stare at the girl lying lifeless on the bed, entirely unmoved by their screams or spells. The reality of the danger she's in hovers ominously over them both.

   When Jacob speaks again, his voice is soft and urgent. "If you're really her friend, then you'll let me try the counter curse. If I'm wrong, it won't hurt her. I promise."

   Felix's wand wavers, then falls. He reaches into his back pocket for Jacob's wand and holds it out to him. Jacob receives it with a short nod of thanks. Gazing down at his sister, he runs a hand over her hair just once, pushing it back from her forehead.  Felix feels a quick pang of irrational jealousy. Without further sentiment, the elder Windsong aims his wand at Juniper's temple and mutters something under his breath.

   Nothing happens.

   Felix waits expectantly for Jacob to try again, but the man simply tucks his wand away and addresses Felix.

   "Listen, when she wakes up - "

   "What do you mean, 'when she wakes up'?" Felix interrupts. "It didn't work."

   Jacob shakes his head. "It will. Or it should. It isn't instant. But, I think the curse is lifted, she's just asleep now. Look." He tilts his head in the direction of Juniper's chest, which Felix realises with a jolt is now rising and falling gently. ”She'll wake up soon, and when she does she's going to have a bit of a time adjusting. That curse can give you some pretty rough nightmares."

   "I think nightmares will be the least of her problems. They -" Felix's voice catches. "They don’t even know if she’ll be sane."

   Jacob glances down again and for the first time his face isn’t the confident mask Felix has only ever seen on him.

   "I - I can't do anything about that," says Jacobs haltingly, watching his sister's slight breathing. His face tightens once more. "All I can do is make sure no one gets to her again."

   With that, Jacob moves briskly toward the door. A quick side step allows Felix to grab the older man's arm before he reaches it.

   "No," Felix objects firmly. "You need to be here when she wakes up. She'll want to see you."

   "No, I need to go find who did this to her," Jacob argues, trying to wrench his arm away and surprised when he’s unable to break Felix’s grip. Felix smirks. What three years of working with dragons has done for his muscle definition is not his least favourite post-Hogwarts accomplishment.

   "So, revenge is more important to you than your sister?"

   "Taking care of her is most important." Jacob makes another effort to jerk his arm away from Felix, but the dragonologist holds on fast.

   "She doesn't need you to take care of her. She needs you to be here with her. You're her family."

    Jacob throws his head back, growling in frustration.

   "Listen," he pleads. "Once she wakes, this place will be swarming with healers and aurors and people who are looking for me. We can hardly be a proper family if I'm locked in a cell, can we?"

   "So, you're just going to leave her. Again."

   "I have to."

   Felix shakes his head at the man in front of him, then releases his arm in disgust.

   Felix had always assumed Jacob Windsong was dead. Not that he would ever tell Juniper. His memory of Jacob, and the way Juniper described him, Felix couldn't imagine any other possible scenario. Why else would he leave the sister he so clearly cared for? A sister he doted on, wrote to constantly, treated like a best friend. At least, that was how Juniper had always described their relationship. But as he stares at the door now closed behind Jacob, Felix has to wonder just how reliable Juniper's memories of her brother really were.

-

   His thoughts are interrupted by a scream.

   Anyone who works in close proximity to dragons becomes quickly accustomed to screams. In three years, Felix has heard men, women, and children shriek in terror at the sight of a soaring Vipertooth. He can distinguish howls of agony caused by dragonfire meeting skin from the anguished wails at its destruction of homes and villages. He himself has screamed in pain as a dragon's talon rips cleanly through the skin of his throat.

   But this scream is different. It’s the sort that chills the blood. A bottomless sound of torment and hopelessness, like Felix has never heard. And instead of inspiring him to action, as screams have come to do, this excruciating noise makes him want to hide. He knows the sound is coming from the bed behind him, which means there's only one logical source.

   Two people in lime-green robes burst through the door, nearly knocking Felix over in their rush to reach the bed. Felix can only hope they’re trustworthy trainees because he's neglected to ask for the password. He cannot think at all as the healers draw their wands, speaking rapidly to each other, trying various spells and incantations. But nothing they cast alters the scream by a decibel.

   Felix closes his eyes, unable to face the bed. He cannot watch Juniper make that terrible noise; doesn't want to connect that sound with her. He stands entirely frozen as the scream drags on, fighting the urge to cover his ears or run from the room entirely, until a forceful hand grips his shoulder and shakes him.

   “What’s happened?”

   Felix recognises the voice distantly.

   "She... she started screaming," he answers, his own voice coming to him from far away.

   There's a snort of exasperation. "Yes, that’s obvious, but what did they do? How did they wake her?"

   When Felix doesn't answer, the hand shakes his shoulder again, the force rattling his teeth. It clears Felix's head just enough for him to focus on the disfigured man from before. He's staring intently at Felix with his normal eye, the strange blue one rolled back in his head. Beyond him, Felix catches sight of Professor Snape hunched over the bed next to the frantic healers.

   "Answer me! What-"

   The man breaks off abruptly, and a different sort of ringing fills Felix’s ears. It's a few seconds before he recognises the sound as silence. The screaming has stopped. Ignoring the man in front of him, Felix cranes his neck so he can see to the bed where Juniper has fallen back against the pillow. Panic reasserting itself, he tries to push forward, but the man has Felix’s shoulder in a vice.

   "You! Boy! You were supposed to be guarding her. What happened? She didn’t just wake up like this on her own."

   "Yes, she did," Felix snaps. "I mean, she just started screaming, I don't know if she was awake. Her brother said-"

   "Jacob Windsong was here?" Both the man's eyes are on Felix now, and even Snape has whipped around in alarm.

   "Yes. He came to see Juniper. He-" Felix draws a shaky breath, trying to collect his thoughts, still scattered by the unearthly scream. “He said he could help her. That he knew what curse was cast on her."

   The man shakes Felix again, this time in eagerness. "What did he say the curse was? How did he counter it?"

   Felix steps back, wrenching his shoulder away from the heavily scarred man.

   "He didn't say."

   "He didn’t say what the curse was or he didn't say how to counter it?"

    A dull throb has sprung to life in Felix's temple, and he rubs at his forehead in weary frustration.

   "Neither. He didn't....didn't say anything specific."

    The man's blue eye rolls madly in its socket. "You didn’t ask him? You let him cast a spell on Windsong and didn't bother to ask what it was?"    

   Felix can feel the embarrassment crawl across his face, but doesn't answer, just digs his heels against his eyes until he sees stars.

   The man utters a low sound of disgust and limps heavily to the bed, edging between the trainee healers to get a better look at Juniper. Snape takes the man's place in front of Felix, his expression hard and calculating.

   "Did Jacob Windsong say anything else?"

   Felix has no desire to recount his conversation with Juniper's brother, so he shakes his head.

   "Nothing important." Snape's eyes flash dangerously, and Felix hastens to add. "He said...he just said he was trying to keep Juniper safe. From R."

   "For all we know it wasn’t even the Windsong boy," calls the other man from the bedside. "Could have been any one of the outfit in disguise, and this idiot wouldn’t know the difference."

   Irritation pulses against Felix's skull.

   "As a matter of fact, I thought of that as well. But he knew things that only the real Jacob Windsong would know."

   "Did he now?" asks the man condescendingly.

   "Yes," Felix insists. "It was him. I’m sure of it."

   The man merely makes a rough sound in the back of his throat, a laugh or a hacking cough. He throws himself into the armchair now pressed against the wall to make more room around the bed. One of the trainee healers moves as well, busying himself over the bedside table, and Felix catches sight of Juniper. She's still, but breathing regularly.

   "What did you do her? Why was she screaming? Will she be alright?"

   Felix directs his question at the healers, but it’s Snape who answers him.

   "They have given her a Draught of Peace, but we do not know any more than you, Mr Rosier. It is still unclear what curse she was under or why she was unresponsive. Are you sure Jacob Windsong didn't-"

   "Rosier? Did you say Rosier?"

    The scarred man stands slowly, both eyes fixed unblinkingly on Felix.

   "You wouldn't be related to the late Evan Rosier, now, would you?" he asks, gnarled hand clenching around his wand.

   "He was my cousin," answers Felix, confused by this strange change of subject. 

    What's left of the man's nose seems to quiver in unspeakable rage, as he draws himself up to full height.

   "Well now. That's one mystery solved. No wonder he couldn’t ask any pertinent questions.” He advances on Felix with a menacing limp. "He's probably in league with R, himself. Sent here by the lot of them to keep tabs on her, were you?"

   Felix retreats against the wall to keep the man's wand from poking him in the chest. He's so taken aback, it's several seconds before he feels fear, and another before he feels anger. There’s no time to formulate a scathing retort, however, before Snape steps between them. He holds his wand at his side casually, but Felix notices the Professor's knuckles are white.

   "Moody, I can assure you Mr Rosier is not in league with R."

   Felix can see the man's lips move in response, but his ears have stopped working.

   "Moody?" he repeats, his exhausted brain trying to call up the meaning associated with the name. "Mad-Eye Moody?"

   And Felix remembers. His father white as a sheet, his mother sobbing, ministry officials delivering the news impassively. Felix isn't sure how he feels. All he can think of is what his father would say if he knew he was the same room as the man who killed Evan.

   "Yeah, that’s right, boy." Moody's mouth twists into a grotesque sneer. "Know who I am, do you? Surprised you and your Death Eater family don’t have my picture up for target practice.“

   It isn't the first time Felix has heard an accusation like this, not by a long shot. But it's been so many years, it takes a moment for the old indignation and shame to uncoil within him, like an aged dragon.

   "I am not a Death Eater," he seethes, voice shaking.

   "We'll soon find out." Moody retorts, and makes a grab for Felix's left arm. Snape steps in front of the scarred hand, and for a moment the two men glare at each other, wands half-raised.

   "Please, not in here," says a timid voice from near the bed. One of the trainee healers wrings his hands nervously as he watches the scuffling men by the door. "I'm... I'm afraid I...I must insist you take this outside. This patient is still seriously injured. She needs...to rest.” The trainee grips the bedstead to support his weight, as if this short speech has drained him of all energy.

   Moody takes a step a back, glowering at Felix and Snape. He’s breathing hard, whereas Felix isn't sure he can breathe at all.

   “Get out,” demands the auror.

    "What? No!” protests Felix. “I haven't done anything wrong, you can't-" 

    His argument is cut short by Snape, who grabs Felix’s upper arm and pulls him from the room, releasing him only when the door is shut firmly behind them. Felix stumbles, rubbing at his bruised arm. 

   "Professor, I swear, I made sure it was Jacob Windsong. I didn't just let anyone waltz in here. And he woke her up, didn't he? He helped her! I-"

   "Mr Rosier," Snape interjects. “No one is doubting your devotion to Miss Windsong. But there is nothing more you can do for her now. You've been here nearly an entire day, and if I'm not mistaken, you have an important interview in the morning. I suggest you take some time to... " He eyes Felix’s wrinkled robes and uncharacteristically disheveled hair: “Prepare yourself.”

   Felix blinks. He turns automatically to the window for some indication of the time. The streaky glass reveals darkness, though Felix isn't sure it can be trusted to show the sky’s actual appearance since it's secretly a door. He hasn't thought to check the time once since he's been here, has entirely forgotten the world outside the hospital room. None of it seems of any importance in light of Juniper's peril. But this job at the Romanian Reserve is a rare opportunity. And if he misses his interview, there’s no knowing when the position will come available again.

  As if he can read Felix’s thoughts, Snape adds, "I doubt very much whether Miss Windsong would appreciate if you missed your interview on her account." And Felix cannot argue against that. 

  "I'll come back. After the interview." It's a statement, not a request. 

  Snape arches an eyebrow but makes no other response. Felix takes a reluctant step back.

  "And if something were to happen to her before then...would you...let me know?"

   The Potions Master's slow blink is his only indication of assent.

   Felix takes another step, then pauses, shuffling his feet. His fingers come up to trace the scar on his neck unconsciously.

    "Professor." Felix meets Snape's eyes imploringly. "I'm not any of the things he said. Moody. I'm not - I'm not a Death Eater."

    Snape's face is still entirely inscrutable, but he gives the smallest of nods as he answers, "I know, Felix."

-

*A/N: This is a reference to one of the last bits of the Quidditch Season 1 storyline (which I'm aware is technically supposed to take place in MC's second year, but which in my story is moved to her third.) The title of the article is my own invention. **A/N: Reference to my Felix Rosier backstory Four Things Felix Rosier Remembered.

Read Chapter 5 | View all stories on the Masterpost

[idhanbin-blog]

lapse

prompt 01, character development --- detail the one time you wanted to quit.

for demons that hide in plain sight. for the ground disappearing beneath your feet. for resentment. for remaining.

though you must be happy / i will pray for you.

her voice, softly grazing her throat, would pour down his nape, her arms reverberating the thrums of a perfect love song.

his shoulders roll back instinctively when the clip starts rolling. it’s only a bat of a lash until something brews inside him, turning his smile wry and his lips sour. he has to suck in a breath to lay his eyes on the monitor again, without flinching this time. he’s meant to be entertaining on variety shows -- he doesn’t need a manager to tell him that.

he just feels pathetic and small, and there’s a feeling in his gut it should be a sensation he would be all too familiar with soon enough. to even expect they would run this sort of thing by guests ahead.

it takes willpower to convince himself it’s not a big deal. it takes a mantra that started rumbling in his chest back in the darkness of empty practice rooms for him to remind himself this isn’t about him, none of this will ever be about him. he is not lee hanbin, he is the lead vocal of a rookie group that means nothing to most people. he is still just a desperate kid who has to pay his dues if he wants to earn the luxury of a poor reaction on tape.

he stares back at himself. younger, though not much less mature. certainly not as tv-ready. but tranquil, undeterred. the tape cuts from his frontal during introduction to his profile, hands at the keyboard. someone teases him: a love song? i once believed that you were my savior / before drifting away. a love song.

the host makes a joke about how stiff his shoulders look, like he’s enlisting for the military. hanbin forces a smile, wonders what’s the difference somewhere in the back of his head, but the glaze over his eyes doesn’t quiver. he watches on.

there are few differences between the boy captured in grainy picture then and the man sitting under bright lights in the studio now. hanbin can’t say the several months of relentless training had left much of a mark on him, or even that he felt transcended after debuting. both the boy and hanbin know there are worse demons lurking beyond the mirrored walls and flaming calves. both the boy and hanbin are not really there.

the small instance where they differ is a single second, a breath never breathed, a flat line. that brief lapse of time is what makes of them complete strangers.

if he could feel, he would feel undead. his sandpaper eyes and clay skin, melting under the layers of dark upon dark, merging. parted lips to let the air in because it keeps sliding in uninvited, his nose doesn’t seem to work anymore. he had known what it is like to spend nights on no sleep and push the body to its limit, he had known what it is like to prepare for battle. there’s no exhaustion, no torpor, no pain. not even thoughts anymore.

nothing.

if he could feel, he would feel like a machine. more oxymora. his movements are robotic and his gaze is unblinking, shining dull and uninterrupted red. things happen around him. the wind rustles heavy treetops, the first golden leaves plunging to the floor with far less grace. figures clad in black fade in and out of view, sometimes they touch him. sometimes they talk and the words fall out of meaning. he is subtracted, removed. he hasn’t been there for a while.

nothing makes any sense. he had grabbed onto a faith he didn’t understand, he had been told this is not what’s supposed to happen. they’ll tell you anything when you’re sixteen and the only person that claims you as theirs is withering onto old sheets, blood and ointment stains collecting around her wrists, ether burning. they don’t him that is how this works: he is meant to believe against the plague taking her by the liver, he is meant to accept the defeat once he is told it’s a nine to one chance, he is meant to thank the stars above that she wouldn’t suffer anymore. it’s good that she doesn’t have to fight anymore, he should count her as lucky for having made it so far. they tell him this now, after the prayers and hands on shoulders and reminders for him to believe it enough, to will her out of that bed. how is it supposed to make sense. he is left to remain.

he is left with a life, the lungs accepting the air that pushes its way in, and school and practicing and father, his aunt’s apartment, the peering over shoulders, loud whispers. he is left with the life she had told him was worth fighting for, and he is left with the absence of her.

the breath rushes out of his lips, shoulders raising and falling. there could be a way out, a escape route. it could be a bus or a ferry or a bike, he could walk. he looks over towards the end of the empty street, pictures his frame disappearing down the lane, brain jolting awake, stumbling. he could leave, he could lose himself and never find his way back. he could be nothing and disappear, tune out into the silence of a long lost memory. he could be barely remembered one day even when the thought of him never left, the idea of him replacing the person who he is now. a picture on a frame, held by white-gloved hands.

millions of scenes pulse behind his eyes, untangling the past into the unhappened. he’s taken by desperation in an avalanche, but he feels, he feels.

can you please remember just this? / that I was once by your side.

he’s bawling into his hands again, small. stuck. remaining, with her absence.

remaining.

hanbin resists variety show appearances. he cannot refuse them, that is not the word someone uses when they are begging. for as long as he doesn’t absolutely bomb it, management will keep booking him wherever they’ll take him. and no one expects a performer not to dance when the fiddle plays -- he performs, despite himself.

still, he fears. the aggressiveness, the crossfires, the casualties. he’s too aware of the lengths people often go for an extra second of footage to make it onto air, never able to ignore how the single wrong word could set him back years.

you aren’t sick, are you? / i’m very worried.

he performs the excuses, too.

[kunoichi-ume]

Emotional starters - if they're meant for asks -- ”The instant you start to feel something, you turn tail and run.”

Yes, that is totally what that was meant for. Thank you, this one was a doozy and I had to rewrite like three paragraphs when the power flickered and that part wasn’t saved (and sadly auto save didn’t catch all of it). 

This is also my first time writing Theron Shan and my Jedi Consular Leena Jiin so that part was fun. Which also means their characters might be totally off but oh well.

emotional starters

Also on A03 as the first in my “SWTOR prompts” series.

Theron knew who would be on the other side of his doorbefore he opened it, but that didn’t stop the first words out of his mouth frombeing a surprised, “what are you doing here?”

Leena Jiin, Jedi Council Member and Barsen’thor of the Orderwas standing in the hallway outside his apartment and looking decidedly unhappywith him. She had her arms folded across her chest and her eyes were notexactly glaring at him like one would a piece of trash stuck on their shoe, butit was a near thing.

“We need to talk,” she said tersely, “and you have beenavoiding me Theron.”

“Have I?” He asked, trying to sound casual and not like herwords felt like a knife to the gut. ‘We need to talk’ was probably theworst thing to hear someone you were kinda-sorta involved with romanticallysay. He didn’t try to deny avoiding her, he had been, and he knew it. He hadgone out of his way to be busy or offworld when she was around ever sinceZiost.

“Yes, you have,” she said firmly before gesturing towardhim, “are you going to let me come in or would you like to have a deeplypersonal conversation in your hallway?”

Theron sighed heavily, he knew he couldn’t avoid her foreverbut never imagined she would turn up at his apartment, unannounced, in themiddle of the night. Part of his brain, the same part that drove him to avoid her for the last few weeks, told him to shut the door. That maybe she wouldgo away, and he could put off this moment for a later date. Again. But anotherpart noticed the stiffness of her shoulders, how her long hair was left looseinstead of in the proper bun he had always seen it except once on Yavin IV, thefrown pulling at her lips and the redness around her eyes and he couldn’t bringhimself to send her away. Not when she was so obviously upset and shaken,probably by his own stupid actions. He stepped back into his apartment and heldthe door open for her.

She didn’t say anything, just nodded her head and steppedinto his home for the first time. He shut the door and they stood there, in theentryway awkwardly for a moment before he realized what a jerk he was being.

“We can talk in here,” he said as he led her into his smallliving room. It was more an office for him, with various tech and datapadscovering most of the horizontal surfaces, and a few of the vertical ones aswell, but there was a couch along the back wall that was comfortable enough tosleep on. He knew this from lots of experience.

She sat on one side of the couch, the small bag she hadslung over her shoulder set on the floor at her feet, and looked up at himexpectantly.

“Do… I mean would you like something to drink? I haveCorelian brandy, or I could make tea?” He offered, hoping she would say yes andgive him an excuse to escape from her sight for a moment to collect himself. Asa spy he was usually better at thinking on his feet, but Leena threw a wrenchinto every part of his life it seemed.

“Theron would you please just sit with me, I’ve missed you.”The way she said it, looking up at him with an expression that was equal partssorrow and hope, he couldn’t deny her.

He sat on the other side of the couch, leaving the middleopen between them and leaned forward. Hebraced his elbows on his knees and fiddled with his fingers nervously. He knewshe was here for an explanation, that was obvious, and if he was honest withhimself he knew she deserved one.

“I’ve missed you too,” he said, his voice was quiet butstill sounded loud in his ears compared to the stillness of the room. “I’msorry I’m so shit at all of this I just… on Ziost there was a time when Ididn’t know-” he paused struggling for the words for a moment. “I didn’t knowif you made it off the surface before, well before. I’ve never been so scaredLeena, I couldn’t…” His voice trailed off and he squeezed his eyes shut tight, asmemories of that day came rushing back to him. The horror of the reports comingin from his contacts, the way he felt like he couldn’t breathe when he realizedLeena was still down there when he left, the panic when she didn’t respond tohis messages. For almost 6 hours he feared she was dead, and the pain was overwhelming.He wasn’t a stranger to death, people in his line of work never were, but her death undid his calm in a waynothing else ever had. He gripped his hands tightly as the phantom pain ofmemory clouded his mind.

Theron would like to think he didn’t jump when he felt herhand, smaller than his but warm and soft, on his own but he did. He opened his eyesand turned to her. She had moved from her side to the couch to sit right nextto him. She was looking at his hands, using her own to gently separate his fingersand take the pressure off his whitened knuckles. When his hands separated sheslid her hand into one of his, interlacing their fingers and giving acomforting squeeze.

When she looked up at him her eyes were bright, not quiteteary but more wet than normal.

“And why did that bother you so much?”

Theron stared at her incredulously, “are you really askingme that? I thought you were dead Leena, why wouldn’t that bother me?”

She licked her lips, and he had to force himself not tostare. It was hard not to, this was the closest she had been to him in a month.She was practically pressed up against his side she was sitting so close andher hand in his was warm and just feltright. He could even smell her hair, the fragrant shampoo she favored bringing up memoriesof the hour they snuck away from the others on Yavin IV to be alone. He desperatelywanted to revisit that time, back when things were looking up and he wasn’tterrified about what was between them.

“Theron, that was hardly the first time I have been indanger, and need I remind you of the various dangerous missions you yourselfsent me on?”

He fell back against the couch, inadvertently pulling herwith him, and stared at the ceiling. “Please don’t, I remember them.” And he did,each and every one of them. He had been practically haunted by them sinceZiost, going over them in his mind and pinpointing every time he put her in unnecessarydanger starting from the moment they had met. He had counted at least 27 timesshe could have been seriously hurt or died because he sent her into a situationwithout the proper information or backup.

“So why did this one time have such an affect? Why did thistime make you pull away from me? I thought…well I thought you shared my feelingsfor you.” Her voice had gotten progressively softer as she spoke, her lastwords little more than a mournful whisper.

He turned slightly to face her, using his free hand to lifther chin to meet his eyes. “I do Leena. I care about you more than, well morethan I’ve cared about anyone before.”

She smiled at him, leaning into his hand as he cupped hercheek.

“Then why are you avoiding me like I have the rakghoul plague?”She asked, her tone light in the wake of his confession.

That made him laugh softly and he felt the fear that hadbeen twisting in his gut for so long loosen a little just by her presence. Hersmile always had a way of making him feel better, regardless of the situation.

He considered giving her a half explanation, glossing overhis insecurities and fears, but his mouth was faster than the paranoid voice inhis head this one time.

“I’m scared Leena.” He said honestly, “I don’t know how todo this relationship stuff, not without messing it up spectacularly, and I don’twant to put you through that. I don’t want to hurt you like that. I feel like Iwould rather relive Revan’s hospitality than see you cry.”

“So, what, the instant you start to feel something, you turntail and run?”

“Well it sounds bad when you put it that way.”

“Is there a way to word it that doesn’t sound bad?” She asked with a smile before she relaxed againsthis side. “So, you have been avoiding me because you care, and you don’t wantto ruin things between us?”

“Pretty much yeah,” he sighed. “So now that you know what anemotionally deficient excuse of a man I am do you want to turn and run?”

She shook her head, “there is nowhere I would rather be.You know I’m scared too Theron. I don’t know how any of this works, it goesagainst the code I’ve lived my life by, but I cannot deny how I feel about you. So,I’ve decided to be brave and see where this takes us.”

Theron stared at her openly, surprised by her confession. Hehad seen Leena face hordes of pirates and Revanites, watched her sack the SithAcademy and retake the Jedi Temple – with no rest in-between – and even challengingRevan himself without so much as a hint of fear, but this scared her? As muchas it scared him?

She let her words sink in for a long quiet moment before shereached for him, her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him closer to her.Face to face, barely two inches between them she asked him a question that madehis breath catch in his throat.

“Will you be brave too?”

He answered by closing the distance between them, his lipson hers, and pulling her partly into his lap. He buried his hand in her hair atthe back of her head and groaned when she nipped his lip. She took advantage ofhis reaction and deepened the kiss. He grabbed her leg and moved it, so she wasstraddling his lap, hand splayed on her back to press her close. He neededthat, to feel her, here, alive and know that his fears were all unfounded. Hehadn’t lost her, he hadn’t sent her on a suicide mission as his nightmaresoften showed him.

She was here, pulling his shirt up to run her fingers acrosshis chest and moaning into his mouth when he slipped his hand into her robes totease her nipple. He was painfully hard, memories of Yavin IV once againswirling in his mind and he ground his pelvis up against hers for some much-neededfriction. There was far too much clothing between them for his comfort.

Leena gasped at the contact, pulling back to take severaldeep breaths before laughing and smiling down at him.

“Can I take that as an enthusiastic yes?”

He nodded, “yes. I am sorry I was such an idiot. There isnothing I want more than to be with you as often as possible.”

She leaned down, cupping his face in her hands and kissedhim, a deep, slow kiss that made him shiver below her. She pulled back just farenough to lean her forehead against his.

“I think that can be arranged.”

Theron was thinking about standing, taking her with him –and damn if the idea of holding her with her legs around his hips didn’t makehis head spin with pleasure – and taking her to his bed to make up for the lastmonth when his thoughts were interrupted.

She groaned, burying her face into his neck as though thatwould change the fact her comm was incessantly chiming.

“Just ignore it,” he said, running his hands up her back andthrough her hair.

She shook her head and leaned away from him, “I can’t. Itold Nadia that I was only to be disturbed tonight if it was truly important.”She moved to get up and reach her bag, but he held her hips to keep her inplace on top of him.

“What could be so important it can’t wait until tomorrow?”He asked with a cheeky smile.

His brazen words made her laugh, but she lightly smacked herhands away and stood up anyway. He watched her dig through her bag and pull outher comm device. It must have been a text communication because she didn’t activatethe holo but whatever it said made her gasp.

He was on his feet in a second, standing next to her and placinga hand on her shoulder. “What is it?”

She turned and looked up at him with wide eyes, “Darth Marr.He called my ship, Nadia says he thinks he found the Emperor. He’s requested Imeet up with him as soon as possible.”

Theron frowned at the thought of a Dark Council member withher direct contact information, former ally of convenience or not he didn’tlike it, but that was not the pressing matter of the moment. “Where is he?”

She looked back down at the comm, “on the edge of wildspace, out past Ilum. It will take some time to get there, I need to leave.”

He nodded, “yeah of course.” He didn’t want her to, honestly,he had never wanted anything more than for her to stay here, in his arms, bothto continue what they were doing earlier and to know she was safe.

But of all the “important” things to draw her away from hisbed, this was a doozy. He didn’t know Marr well of course, but he was confidentthe man wouldn’t exaggerate. If he thought he had found signs of the Emperor’slocation he meant it.

Theron pulled her into his arms, burying his nose into herhair and breathing in her scent deeply. “Promise me,” he said, his voiceslightly muffled to cover the shakiness of it, “promise me you will be careful.”

She took a half step back and pulled him down by his shirtto press a kiss against his lips. “I promise. I will be home soon,” she said,and he felt stupidly happy that she was referring to here, with him, as home.

Leena picked up her bag, and he walked her to the door. Theykissed again, a soft, loving kiss that was a promise of things to come when shereturned.

And then she left, walking out of his apartment and hislife.

[it-stops]

Weird Fiction Stories as the Four Temperaments

Here I’ve compiled a list of a few Weird Tales and what their most likely or clear associations are with the classical temperaments. While arguments could be made for some belonging in other categories, or for some having more than one temperament, I’ve provided brief explanations as to my reasoning for each.

SANGUINE – HOT, MOIST, SOCIABLE

The Summer People – Shirley Jackson

With Summer ending and Autumn on the horizon, the setting of this Weird tale is an excellent fit for the Hot and Moist category. Add in the social anxiety settling in throughout the narrative, and you have yourself a Sanguine tale.

Young Goodman Brown – Nathaniel Hawthorne

With Young Goodman Brown, there’s a sense of heat and sweat from the frantic nature of Goodman Brown’s vision in the forest at night. Upon seeing his community (and dear Faith) in this compromising position, his sociable nature shifts to pure cynicism.

In the Penal Colony – Franz Kafka

The general atmosphere of heat bearing down on the characters gives this tale a hot, moist temperament. The social aspect of the Sanguine comes from the overbearing nature of the Officer – eagerly talking with the Traveller about his machine, demanding his attention and approval, and putting the Traveller in such an uncomfortable position.

I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream – Harlan Ellison

In Ellison’s tale, AM puts his victims in a sort of pressure cooker, making them starve, sweat, and suffer punishment at his whim. The simulation is like a sauna from which they can never escape, except in death. AM’s victims are his only entertainment, and the social aspects of the characters seem strained and forced.

CHOLERIC – HOT, DRY, MANIC

The Rats in the Walls – H.P. Lovecraft

While the time of year isn’t highly established in this tale, none can doubt the mania that ensues as the narrator delves deeper into his family’s crypt (and by extension, their hereditary past), culminating in his complete loss of mental facilities and control. The penultimate paragraph shows the narrator’s heightened Choleric state as his language regresses and he (allegedly) eats his friend in the crypt.

The Clown Puppet – Thomas Ligotti

Ligotti creates the atmosphere of a migraine in The Clown Puppet. The dry warmth suffocating the narrator’s mind as he tries not to focus on neon signage across the street, and the slow onset of the “nonsense” running through his mind create this brain fog to emphasize the unreliability of the narrator. The titular character is where the mania comes in – its frantic movement and sense of urgency demanding the narrator’s attention and aid adds to the anxiety of the tale and gives it a Choleric temperament.

The Vaults of Yoh-Vombis – Clark Ashton Smith

Any story set on Mars is bound to have the hot, dry atmosphere associated with the Choleric temperament, and The Vaults of Yoh-Vombis does not disappoint. Mania truly sets in as a brain leech left behind by this ancient civilization latches onto Octave’s face, sending him into a possessed frenzy.

Street-Cleaning Day – Welcome to Night Vale, Episode 15

Welcome to Night Vale is an excellent example of the Weird in podcast/radio show form. While every episode has an inherently hot and dry atmosphere (as it is set in a desert town), this particular example has a manic sensibility as the warning regarding street-cleaners sets the tone for the episode. Even the music during the segment on clouds has an urgency to it, adding to the Choleric nature of the episode.

MELANCHOLIC – COLD, DRY, DEPRESSED

The Last Feast of Harlequin – Thomas Ligotti

Set mostly in mid-December, The Last Feast of Harlequin contains a cold, dry atmosphere that sends chills down a reader’s spine. The mystery sets in slowly, with small hints giving glimpses to the full horror of the situation. The narrator makes several references to his own seasonal depression, portraying an honest account of the melancholy which plagues him (and many others) during the holiday season.

The Outsider – H.P. Lovecraft

The narrator in The Outsider has been cut off from light for as long as he can remember, immersed in a dark, cold, dry library. His depressing surroundings and desperation for human contact sends him out in search of just that, but instead, he comes to the disheartening realization that he can never truly join humanity.

The Ice Man – Haruki Murakami

Even the title of this tale has a cold, dry sensibility to it, but the Melancholic state truly sets in as the narrator becomes alienated from her husband and community, forced to live among the Ice people in the South Pole through a perpetual Winter. The reader’s heart breaks for her as she says, “I’m completely alone, in the coldest, loneliest place in the world.”

The Music of the Moon – Thomas Ligotti

Ligotti once again represents the Melancholic state in a beautiful, poignant, and Weird way. The reader feels the chill of being out late at night, unable to sleep, cold, dry wind against their face. His writing of insomnia feels honest and harrowing as we are subjected to the fears associated with such wakefulness.

PHLEGMATIC – COLD, MOIST, LETHARGIC

The Shadow Over Innsmouth – H.P. Lovecraft

One of Lovecraft’s favourite tropes plays on the horror of what lurks in the depths of the ocean, and The Shadow Over Innsmouth is no exception. The element of water is very present in the setting and in the features of the town’s inhabitants. There also seems to be a slow, sleepy atmosphere in the town, as the run-down bus coughs its way through its route and ultimately breaks down when the narrator needs it most.

Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass – Bruno Schulz

Schulz’s tale is one of the best examples of the Phlegmatic temperament that I have encountered. The Sanatorium has some kind of spell laid over it, causing the residents to sleep away all their time, while time itself seems to have stopped (“’Here everybody is asleep all the time. Didn’t you know?’ she said, looking at me with interest now. ‘Besides, it is never night here,’ she added coyly.”). The reader is weighed with a sense of heaviness, of the cold environment (ideal for sleeping), and of the dampness associated with having just woken from an unplanned nap.

The Yellow Sign – Robert W. Chambers

Reading The Yellow Sign, it is easy to see where Lovecraft took his influence. There is a clammy air that permeates the tale, especially in descriptions of the watchman which plagues the narrator. The Phlegmatic nature sets in when the narrator and his model are compelled to read The King in Yellow – a cursed text within the narrative of the tale (and also the name of the collection in which this tale was published). As the two have their eyes opened by the text, a sense of apathy washes over their characters, adding to the lethargic, Phlegmatic nature of the narrative.

Lazy Day – Welcome to Night Vale, Episode 35

While I mentioned above that Welcome to Night Vale tends to have a more hot and dry atmosphere in its setting (and this episode is not necessarily an exception), I cannot resist mentioning this episode for its portrayal of lethargy which plagues a whole town. Some kind of force has settled over the entire town (excepting Carlos) making it nearly impossible to muster the energy to do anything for the whole day. Not only are the citizens affected, but certain aspects of the environment as well (including the Sun, which can no longer be bothered to provide heat and energy to the planet).

[tragedienes-archive]

@fiinalgiirls​,

before she knew what the world truly held outside of jamestown, she could only suspect that it wasn’t as her father said. if there wasn’t something better out there, would her mother have chosen to leave with her brothers? the older she got, the more she realized that whether it was better or worse out there, she could understand why her mother left more and more. whatever the outside world held, it surely had to be better than jamestown. old enough to remember a time before there were many mothers and the tales of the outside world were merely of decadence. old enough for a seed of doubt to be planted by her mother’s decision to leave and nourished by her father’s megalomania. if she had been taken from that place with her brothers, she would’ve loved her father forever. she can’t exactly thank her mother for letting a child make the choice, but nor can she deny that it was the only path that could have led her to the truth.

it wasn’t that difficult, astrid thinks, for gus to find lauren. he seems to be living a good life, though one, perhaps, much outside of their father’s ideology. the politics are all new to her and it’s difficult to wrap her head around how some of them are even debatable, but she can almost say that she’s proud of her brother, even if she doesn’t really understand his job. she’s been able to read up on most of his life through a wikipedia article that gus showed her ( though she’s still wrapping her head around the internet ). she hasn’t approached peter or their mother yet, but they’re further away. lauren is closest in location and astrid remembers him better than peter. their mother? well, she’s not ready to even think about talking to her yet.

she’s played this scenario over and over again in her head. how can she explain what life has been like in jamestown in their absence? that there are more children of his by the year and less food to feed him. that there are people working and working on little sleep and with sugary foods while she and her father lived in the biggest house alone drinking milk and eating real meals. perhaps she’s only lucky enough to have doubt, because of her father’s kindness. no one can think about dissent when they’re deprived of the calories and nutrients for healthy brains. can she tell them about her father’s increasing temper and paranoia or his assertion that the world outside of jamestown is mostly decimated by greed and nuclear war? she can’t even understand herself why james crone even let gus and the rest of the crew into jamestown in the first place, except under the guise that he would be able to make himself a beacon, leading more lambs to the slaughter flock.

if astrid felt like a bird in a gilded cage back home, she had not known what a gilded aviary could be. her brother’s home is beautiful and curious to her and she can’t help stealing glances at her surroundings with the same tentativeness she looks at her brother’s grown face. how many times had she wondered if he was even alive at all? “i had help.” she tells him, picking up a framed photo of a woman. “who’s this?” she asks, before realizing that she owes him more of an explanation than that. she sets the frame down. there’s time for it later. “i mean, our father agreed to let some people come to jamestown and make like a documentary for it or something. gus calls it a podcast?” she speaks with uncertainty–the insecurity of ignorance that plagues her in this world. in jamestown she was smart; in the real world, she’s less educated than a child and it’s an open wound. “one of them, gus, helped me leave. helped me find you and peter.” she doesn’t add mom, that’s too much to say she decides, as peter’s name cracks in her voice. “i came here first.” she tells him slowly.

lauren is happy to see astrid. he is relieved his sister is alive, breathing. here, in his apartment, no longer just an abstract memory. lauren, peter, and linda had many emotions over leaving her behind, but over the years, they have ultimately come to mourn her. they mourned the fact they left her, didn’t drag her out by her hair and just dealt with whatever horrors james would come up with. they mourned the loss of their sister, their daughter, made peace with the fact that they would no longer watch her grow up, grow up right along side her. they could not protect her anymore, laugh with her, take care of her. finally, in the end, they had mourned astrid completely, as if she had died. knowing she was alive down in bolivia, but feeling she was dead in england, the rest of the world. jamestown was a universe of its own, they were lucky to get out when they did, and the few members that managed to escape post-true crone exodus only told stories that proved they had done the right thing. he had mourned her so completely that her being alive, an actual person and not a ghost, not a missing limb, feels like being dropped into freezing water. he listens to her tell her escape story, finally she has one of her own, but it seems less... dramatic? is that the word? it doesn’t seem like she walked hand in hand with her mother and brother through country borders and desert landscapes. she had help from a worldly man, as dad would’ve called him.

ah, the documentarian. or he supposes it’s the podcaster. the subject of the crone family, crazy communist cult and all, was one of interest to many people; true crime, as he quickly learned it was called, was always a popular subject but even more now in the internet age. lauren had been approached many times over the years, people wanting to tell the real story of the crone family, what horrors really happened down there and just how much entertainment they could squeeze out of it, but it didn’t seem like any of them cared what had actually happened to lauren and his mother and brother. the miraculous escape story of the cult leader’s family (sans daughter) was tabloid fodder over sixteen years ago, but even then everyone was just left wondering why they got out of there, not how they got out. decades removed from it, lauren can partly understand it. the craving for the real meat of it, suburbanites in middle america that cannot fathom that idea of a crazed man with hundreds of followers, most of them his own offspring, despite the number of active cults in america (lauren regularly keeps an eye on the statistics, hoping the number drops and never rises). the horrible thought that some people can view a regular man as a god, all while rejecting the idea of god. james crone is a living christ the redeemer statue, lenin in the kaluzhskaya square, abraham lincoln in his memorial. truthfully, lauren wouldn’t be surprised if their father made his other children, his devoted followers, erect a statue of himself, made of straw or iryanthera juruensis leaves.

many have sniffed around the carcass of the crone family story, but lauren rarely entertains the vultures. once, he was even offered a book deal and almost took it, but he’s become quite private in his later years. he’ll keep the secrets of his father if he has to, but he has even more secrets now, man of politics that harbors the secrets of his clients now, too. and really, why should they have a look into jamestown? lauren hates that place more than he hates anything in the world, even though he hasn’t been back since his escape, its memory burned into him like a brand—and in his barest moments, he misses it deeply, yearns for it like clean jungle air. jamestown may have many sons and daughters these days, but it does belong to lauren, a trueborn crone child, the first born; above all, peter or astrid, their many half-siblings, it belongs to him. above all, jamestown is his legacy, and sometimes in those barest moments, he wonders if he’s spit in the face of that legacy, leaving like so, staying away for so long. candace wanted to have children with him, but she understood why he wouldn’t, knew in the vaguest sense what had happened to him as a child, only knowing what lauren allowed her to, but a continued bloodline wouldn’t last like the very idea of godhood, a statue that stands forever.

she’s come to him first. makes sense, as he lives in d.c. and peter back in portsihead along with their mother. it makes sense, but lauren thinks she’d have come to him first anyways, no matter her location. lauren, besides their father, had been her favorite when they were children, and he held a love for her that was different than his love for peter; both were his younger siblings, but she the only sister, the true sister. peter had felt it, too, he knew that. astrid was their baby as much as she was james and linda’s, that’s what made it so hard to leave her behind. if the crone followers were to construct a statue in devotion to james, peter and lauren would’ve made one in remembrance of astrid. she may be alive and well right in front of him, but that statue would forever be the little girl they left behind. “and mum?” he asks. if she has a hard time speaking of mother, he equally has a hard time speaking of father. perhaps this is how children of divorce feel. a journalist once made a joke that linda’s escape was the most dramatic divorce in history and lauren would’ve laughed if he knew what divorce was at the time.

oh, now he certainly does know divorce. well, not really, as candace has only left him. their papers are not signed, nor drafted, it’s been a year since she left but lauren has the firm idea that she’ll be back someday. he thinks candace has the same idea, as she’s not yet contacted a lawyer. for all intents and purposes, she is his wife and he is a married man. to the public, he is a married man, despite the whispers around the hill about his wife’s absence from public events and how some senator’s wife saw her moving her stuff out of their apartment a long time ago. astrid had asked about her before quickly moving on, so he gestures towards the picture she set down to get the topic out of the way. 

“that’s my wife, candace. she’s visiting her parents right now in wisconsin, she’s an american. we met in uni.” he frowns briefly, not because of her absence from his life but astrid’s. their wedding had been quite small, no bridesmaids or groomsmen (candy had plenty of friends, but lauren only had peter and she had been sensitive of the fact, of how lonely his side of the altar would’ve been), just her large family and him with his small one; brother, mother, and grandmother. he wonders now if astrid had been around, had gone with them, if she’d been a prospective bridesmaid. somehow, in another universe where astrid had escaped with them, lauren thinks candace might not have left him, willing to stay with him a little longer if she had an ally in her sister-in-law. perhaps she would’ve just left sooner. “do you have a place to stay, astrid?”

[keldae]

At the crack of thunder Person A wakes up, they discover that the other beds in the stronghold are empty.

Thunderstorms were so much of a regular occurrence on Dromund Kaas that even someone from Tatooine, who’d never had an experience with a storm in their lives, could adjust fairly quickly to the constant rolls of thunder and the sound of rain on a roof. So why the man known to the Empire at large as Darth Imperius suddenly jolted out of a sound sleep at a crack of thunder overhead was a mystery. 

Sorand grunted as he rolled over, frowning up at the ceiling. “Hell of a storm tonight, Shar’ika,” he mumbled in the direction of his Mandalorian girlfriend- then frowned in confusion when he realized her side of the bed was empty. “Shara?” he drowsily asked, reaching over to pat the sheets that still had the indent of her body. The blankets still held a fragment of warmth, but not a great deal- she likely had been away from the bed for several minutes. Maybe she’s just in the ‘fresher, the young Sith Lord drowsily mused as he curled back up on his side and waited for her to return. She’s pregnant, it’s probably not out of the realm of possibility. But the minutes ticked by, and Shara didn’t come back to the bed- indeed, Sorand couldn’t hear any sounds of her moving around anywhere else in his apartment in Kaas City.

Frowning, Sorand sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed and Force-called a robe to himself. The air inside the apartment was chillier than it had a right to be. I’ll have to get Two-Vee to recalibrate the temperature settings in here, he mused as he shrugged the robe over his shoulders and stepped out of the bedroom. A quick glance into the ‘fresher confirmed that Shara wasn’t in there. “Huh,” he quietly spoke out loud, his voice echoing in the apartment. “Shara?”

The Mandalorian didn’t answer. Sorand’s frown deepened as he checked the two rooms to either side of his bedroom. The library where he and Talos did most of their work was empty, as was the room on the other side where Shara did most of her armour maintenance and bounty tracking (and where Sorand’s father sometimes sent secure transmissions and reports that he couldn’t make inside the Citadel proper). Where is she? A tendril of worry started to settle in his stomach- Shara was heavily pregnant and due to give birth within the next few weeks. If she’d had a complication and Sorand couldn’t find her…

The Sith stepped out into the main seating area and squinted into the shadows. Shara wasn’t here either, at least not as far as he could sense around the ominously-glowing holocrons and relics he kept around (for appearances’ sake, more than anything else). Pulling his robe tighter across his chest, Sorand padded over to the windows overlooking his balcony. The storm seemed to be particularly violent, even for Dromund Kaas, and Sorand shook his head.

Then his heart stopped dead in his chest when he saw two figures standing on the balcony- one tall and muscular and positively radiating darkness, one somewhat shorter, with a notably protruding belly-

Sorand had Force-thrown the door open and was running out onto the wet pavement before his brain had quite caught up. The sudden gust of wind and rain nearly made him fall back into the window, but fear proved to be a great motivator in keeping himself upright and moving forward. “Shara!” he shouted as he got closer to the figures, lightning dancing around his fingers even as he tried to formulate a plan to get his girlfriend out of this situation alive.

The larger figure turned slightly, and Sorand saw the eyes glowing red-orange in the darkness. “Ah, the Jedi spawn finally shows himself. Did you honestly think that you could escape the attention of the Emperor’s Wrath, traitor?”

“Better a traitor than a kinslayer,” Sorand growled at Darth Maglion, trying to keep from betraying his fear for Shara to the older Sith. “The Emperor you served was a madman anyway, he needed to-”

“He is the Emperor, you insubordinate whelp!” Maglion flicked his hand, and Sorand cried out as he went flying back with the sensation of being slapped across the face with a steel gauntlet. “He is to be obeyed and not questioned!”

“Will you really still cling to your devotion of a dead man?” Sorand wiped the back of his hand across his face, feeling blood on his lips. “Vitiate is-”

“Do not speak his name!” Maglion’s eyes flared in the darkness as he gave Shara a shake. The bounty hunter didn’t respond- Sorand realized she was unconscious and hanging limply in the older Sith’s grip. “You are not worthy. You and your ilk deserve death to feed his return!”

“You’re as insane as he was.” Sorand got back to his feet and approached again, desperately calling on the Dark Side to strengthen him. “He’s dead and cannot return-”

“Blasphemy! That Jedi whore could not have killed the Emperor!” The Wrath snarled his rage to the storm. “I should have been the one to kill her, her and that wretch of a traitor who followed her! Scourge was weak!”

“That’s one upside to Zakuul’s invasion,” Sorand growled. “Master Xaja would never have to deal with you.”

“But you- you conspired with her! Bad enough a Jedi, but the one who dared to attack our Emperor!” Maglion’s lips twisted in a snarl. “I know your mind, Imperius. I know she’s the spawn of the same Jedi that whelped you.”

“Yes, she was my sister, and the fact that you killed my mother and tried to kill my father and brother doesn’t change that, kinslayer!”

“Tried?” Maglion chuckled cruelly. “No, nephew. I’m going to kill you, and then I’ll find the criminal they call the Voidhound and kill him, and then throw both of your heads at your father so that he knows the cost of the treason he committed. And then, I’ll kill him too and rid myself of the legacy of weaklings and traitors that have plagued my line for too long!”

“You demented psychopath! You know what the penalty is for kinslaying!”

“And you know the penalty for treason.” Sorand felt a thrill of fear at Maglion’s words. “And now you’ll know it even more.”

Everything happened in the blink of an eye, too fast for Sorand to react. Shara’s eyes fluttered open as Maglion turned back around. “Sor’ika-?” The Wrath’s lightsaber blade pierced her from the back and through her swollen stomach. Sorand screamed as he felt his wife and unborn son’s Force presences flicker out and saw Shara’s limp body fall from the balcony into the darkness. Maglion turned back to his nephew with a cruel grin on his face as he took a running leap at the younger Sith, blade raised for the kill-

Thunder clapped and Sorand shot upward with a choked cry, terror choking his throat. The sleepy murmur of “Sor’ika?” beside him made him immediately grab for Shara’s hand and hold it to his lips for a long moment. The Mandalorian rolled over and gave her Sith lover a worried look. “Wha’s wrong?”

Sorand finally took a shaky breath and shook his head. “Nothing,” he finally whispered, his free hand settling on her stomach to feel their son kicking. “Just a dream, cyar’ika. Just a-”

Hurried footsteps were coming up the stairwell. Sorand’s heart leaped back into his throat as he grabbed his lightsaber and hurried to the door, not bothering to hide his face from the intruder. Mum sometimes had foresight visions, Xaja did too. Is this one? If Maglion’s found me-

The door to the stairs slid open and Reanden Taerich came running in, greying hair plastered to his head from the rain and face pale even in the shadows. “Son?” he asked when he saw Sorand standing at the ready, ‘saber hilt in hand. “It’s me, kiddo.”

“Sorry, Dad… thought you were someone else.” Sorand lowered his weapon. “What’s wrong?”

“Maglion’s found you.” Reanden cast a quick glance with wide eyes over his shoulder to the balcony and muttered something that sounded like a curse on huge windows everywhere. “And he’s figured out your real name and your connection to your sister. You need to go, now.”

Sorand felt the blood drain from his face. “How long do I have?”

Reanden shrugged. “Maybe twenty minutes? He’s just landed at the spaceport, and with Darth Marr no longer here to keep him in check…”

The Sith whirled and ran back into the room. Shara had heard his father talking, and had already hauled her pregnant self out of the bed and was getting dressed in a hurry. Ba’slan shev’la wasn’t an uncommon thing for her people, and she’d already given Sorand a quick run-down in how the drill worked. 

Twelve minutes later, Darth Imperius escaped his apartment in the company of the Champion of the Great Hunt and Cipher Nine, and vanished from the face of the galaxy.

[small-stars-blog1]

6 "I just like proving you wrong"

// I wasn’t sure what pairing you wanted dear anon, so I went with Hamilton/Laurens. This is set in the historical period. There are mentions of homophobia and allusions to suicide. Please let me know about any mistakes in language, grammar, etc…help is appreciated! //

SEND ME A PROMPT!

John drifted in and out of sleep. Dreams came and went like passing tides,sometimes merging into one another and, at other times, ending so abruptly thathe jolted back to reality. This would happen, sometimes. Sometimes themonstrosities of war; the ear-crackling booms,the heart-wrenching scents and the soul-draining cries, became too much to bear.Sleep had always been an adequate form of escape, a suitable type of rest, butnow even that had been taken from him.

He ran a hand through his mess and mass of hair. He had to remind himselfto breathe, just breathe, before hecould even attempt opening his tent. To get out, to get some fresh air, to forget.

But, even then, his fingers trembled against his will.

After many attempts, he finally felt the bite of cold air. The sensation ofit scratching past his skin cleared his mind. He breathed; allowed the icyfangs to claw their way down his throat. But then he caught something; an intrudingwarmth, a sickly scent of burning wood. He paused, and turned in its direction.

Someone was already up.

Someone was there, prodding the ashes of a blazing fire as if to diminishthe fresh, freezing air.

The time it took for John Laurens to recognize that smooth olive-skin,those raven curls and that lanky frame was enough time for the memories toreturn. It was enough for him to hear distant screams, distant cackles and bang!

He felt himself falling. Felt the discarded leaves beneath him, the veryearth, slide and twist beneath his feet. He felt himself decline, further andfurther into the battlefield; into the world of the dead, dead, dead bodies,staring at him with unseeing eyes, calling to him with unspoken voices andlonging for him with an unforgiving grip—

“Laurens!”

He came back to reality with a flinch.

Alex was there, staring at him. His eyes, dark and wholesome and knowing,became an anchor. Laurens openly stared at them; bore into them, so as to keephimself grounded.

“John, are you with me?” Alex spoke in a hushed tone. His hand ghosted overJohn’s shoulder, before returning to his side. “Your eyes seemed to be distant.”

He scrunched his face up to try and battle the looming headache. “Oh, Alex…”He trailed, swaying slightly. “My apologies. I…I sometimes, I…”

Laurens may have lost his words, but Alex’s were always steadfast on histongue.

“I understand. You do not need to explain what is so clearly expressed byyour emotions. Come by the fire—it will be warmer there.”

John shook his head, an action he soon regretted after his brain becamewracked with throbs. “N-No, Alexander. The cold helps me to think.”

“Very well. We shall sit here, then?”

Laurens was taken aback. “You wish to sit with me?”

The follow-up to that question was left unsaid, but it hung clearly in theair; me, the soldier who is deemed braveand yet cannot face sleep for fear of nightmares; me, the soldier who hath nonebut oneself; me, the soldier, who is sinful enough to love you.

“Of course, my dear Laurens. You seem troubled, and yet are my friend; so Ishall remain with you.” Alexander paused. “We will sit here?”

“Somewhere away from the tent. It plagues my mind with unhappy thoughts.”

“Very well!” Alexander beamed, and when he did, his eyes seemed alight withthe very stars they reflected. He reached forward and took John’s wrist,turning and dragging him somewhere within the forest.

John Laurens was too tired and too infatuated to say no. He was tootrustful, too, it seemed; so he followed this man, this glorious and respectfuland wonderful person, into the looming darkness of the trees. The moon and thedancing stars above provided minimal lighting. But, Alexander seemed to knowthe way, paving his way through the trees and the roots almost elegantly.

Eventually, they reached a lone lake.

Alexander collapsed by its edge, gazing up at his friend with a grin whichcould only be described as smug.

“Does this suit your fancy?” Alexander said, a little louder now that theywere free of prying ears.

“It is quite possibly the most remarkable landscape I have seen.” Heagreed, and sat down beside Alexander. He stared into the water, ignoring hisreflection and instead choosing to note the constellations; marvel at thediamonds above, enveloped by darkness; memorize the patterns, the swirls, ofthe moon.

He did not see Alexander, who was too busy studying him. “Yes, but, my dearLaurens, not more beautiful than the landscape that is yourself.”

He knew what Alex had said; and he knew that Alex knew what he has said.This was a man whose thoughts formed direct connections with his mouth; everyword calculated and true. John hoped the darkness hid the growing redness ofhis cheeks. “Why do you flatter me so, Alexander?”

Alex chuckled. “It is just that I like to prove you wrong.”

John’s heart sunk a little further. Youcould sink even further in the lake, his thoughts suggested. He shook hishead again, as if to try and rid them, before his head went throb and he gripped his temples.

“Oh, my dear John- whatever is it that troubles you? I did not mean for youto take offence, you should know that—“

“No, no, Alexander—just stop. ‘Tis not you. The horrors of the battlefieldhaunt me and the men I hath watched die wish for me to join them, and alas, Alexander!Reality is not enough of a wager to keep me here, I fear. I am scared. I amcold and alone, and—“

It was warm. Warm hands drew around his body and gentle arms kept him fromtethering. A warm body, an alive and welcoming and soft body, pulled him close,and sweet nothings were whispered into his ear. They hushed him. The wordsalmost sung to him like a lullaby. And so John allowed his eyes to close;allowed the waterfall that was his tears to flood the shoulder he now breathedinto.

“I am alone, Alexander,” he wept. He did not care for the shame that preyedupon him, for the warm arms holding him kept it at bay. “I hath none which wantme but the dead, and yet I cannot die.”

“Shh,” Alex almost cradled him, rubbing soothing circles into his back withease. “You are not alone. What must I do to prove you wrong? If not in wordsdear Laurens, then…” He gripped onto the shivering man in his arms. “I willnever leave you, John, if you wager the same with me. You are not alone; I amhere.”

His sobs diminished into sniffles. “Reality would be bearable, were youwith me constantly.”

“Yours, forever,” Alexander promised, breaking apart for only a moment sothat he might place a kiss upon John’s forehead. His fingers; elegant as theywere, traced his cheeks so that the tears might be gone.

Something seemed to realise itself within John, and he flinched, daring topull away. “Why can it not be; ‘tis damnable. You are a righteous man,Alexander. You cannot love me in the way that I might you.”

Alexander only gripped him firmer, chin placed over the taller man’s head. “Hush,I will prove you wrong, my dear Laurens. Love knows no bounds; not the depthsof ones soul nor the amount of stars above can quantify it. I want you here.”

“How can you be so sure?” John asked, tears threatening to engulf himagain.

“I hath loved, and will love, you for as long as I live.”

Alex finally released thetaller man—but only so that he could plant a gentle kiss to those soft lips,eyelids shadowing his wondrous eyes. John became tense, at first, but forcedhimself to relax. Of course, he had wanted this for a time too long to measure;but the thought of kissing Alex was still one which made him feel a forcedguilt.

But no longer. He became lost in the sensation ofAlexander’s lips.

They parted only when they needed air.

It was John this time that hugged the smaller frame,nuzzling into his neck so that he might absorb the loving warmth that belongedthere.

Alexander smiled. “Yours, forever.”

And for the first time in many a year, John Laurens began to believe it. Likea distant light in the darkness, he began to feel wanted. The screams becamewhispers, the wounds became scars and the world around him became, for once,invitingly warm.