#such a beautiful vulnerable LONG awaited moment and somehow the bell makes it even more endearing :’)

[bisexualvampires]

giggling at ed’s bell collar going off during his cute little shoulder shimmy as he leans in for the kiss

[haadeswrites]

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it. 

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child. 

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well. 

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call. 

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse. 

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’ 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined. 

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her. 

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?” 

And your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.” 

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?” 

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression. 

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet… 

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following. 

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading. 

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home. 

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions. 

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain. 

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him. 

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi. 

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part. 

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours. 

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea. 

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well. 

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for. 

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to. 

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight. 

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him. 

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight. 

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion. 

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering. 

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms. 

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night. 

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?” 

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be. 

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach. 

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves. 

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head. 

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river. 

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn. 

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired. 

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north. 

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night. 

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore… 

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it? 

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.” 

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island. 

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment. 

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage. 

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. 

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side. 

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly. 

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head. 

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first. 

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out. 

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes. 

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.  

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise. 

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually. 

Time slows. 

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at. 

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally– 

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound. 

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips. 

It wasn’t him. It was never him. 

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.” 

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care. 

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though. 

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch. 

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. 

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again. 

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to. 

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you. 

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter. 

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most. 

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood. 

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!” 

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

[officialtrashbin]

Scraps of Dreams

Commission for anonymous who wanted Corvus x Proxima smut! (Did I mention commissions are open again? Cause they are!)

Rating: Explicit (aka shameless smut) Corvus x Proxima  or: Thanos: Death Sentence left their sexual tension unresolved so I fixed it. Anon wanted Corvus to be more dominant and give his wife a little TLC.

* * * * *

  The hotel room they lent him was fifty stories above what could be considered ground-level for a city that felt built into a fault line, with streets and skyscrapers varied in length and curvature like personal desire, not reflective of an idea but of a transitive notion of accomplishment in its smallest form to amass into something bigger than mere individual value. Corvus Glaive supposed the want to leave proof of one’s existence in the universe stemmed from the underlying oppression of meaninglessness. To find purpose or to forge it.

It came as no surprise when he thought it all a waste.

  * * *

   They didn’t talk about what transpired today. Not the emotional ups and downs, or the political navigations, or the pathetic mess Corvus had been afterwards, realizing he might have finally reclaimed his destiny at his rightful Master’s side. It was difficult to process, let alone address, the hazardous accumulation of transgressive narrative from the last few hours. In fact, it felt like an utter chore to say anything at all.

Proxima had her body turned away from him as she undressed in favor of clothes that reminded him suddenly of their normalcy; he didn’t have to see her face to know her exhaustion was present, palpable, even, with how she moved like her limbs were filled under their surface with water. In the low light from the fluorescence of the city outside, her body took on the quality of water, too—translucent blue, hair rolling up and crashing down across her back, her motions so overstated by the constant occurrence of mere existence he wondered if he might just buckle under the weight of her enormity.

“Oh, Midnight—”

It had been so terribly quiet. His words shattered the very foundation of stillness. She snapped her attention to him, eyes widened, doe-like, in the low ambiance of illumination.

“Yes, my love?”

Corvus was beyond modesty, especially in the dark, where the shadows accrued across his lithe chest to replace the cloak he’d left thrown carelessly on the desk chair. He knew his horrible visage was worsened in the night. A beast by nature, or by universal law to counterbalance all the do-gooders that were compelled beyond his understanding to Make Things Right, assembled of equal parts horrible intent and predatory design. Maybe he was merely accustomed to justifying his own happenstance.

He said to her, “I think I will never know if I’m making the correct decisions,” and thought of the time he’d seen Black Dwarf break open a Shi’ar’s ribcage to expose their tender, beating heart, and the way it jolted, jolted, jolted in its meaty cocoon. The explicit, horrible vulnerability. “I think I will never know certainty again. What am I supposed to do when my life has been devoted to all that which has amounted to nothing?”

Proxima approached him slowly. She was the opposite of hesitation, always moving and speaking and thinking with the same absolution of momentum; a constant force awaiting a collision regardless of pace.

“My darling,” she whispered to him in the dark, her hands framing his face. “Am I nothing?”

They hadn’t been alone with each other in nearly five standard months. He’d been reminded of his loneliness when they reunited, albeit briefly, earlier that day—the swollen warmth of her mouth, the bend of her skin in his hands, their insatiable togetherness under the veil of his office shadows.

“That is not what I meant,” he said, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Without his gauntlets or battlesuit to disrupt their closeness, he could feel the lingering static of her power traversing the neurons under her skin, jumping to his fingertips by proximity. Something inside him unknotted. “No, you aren’t. Of course you aren’t.”

“But are you?”

That was how he felt, sometimes, when he wasn’t in her presence. “No,” he said, pressing lazy kisses along the length of her jawline, noting the dampness of her scent with each sudden intake of breath. “Yet, as of late—”

One of her hands went to the back of his head and anchored him in place. Their exposed skins, gray-on-blue, blue-on-gray, melded together, indistinguishable in the low light, in the encompassing darkness. “We are trying to get our footing,” she said. Her logic (and, he thought softly, her love for him) stood as a counterpoint to all the instances in his life that made him feel less than what he’d earned. “No matter where we are, when we are, or why—you are everything to me.”

He trembled in her embrace. He wanted to echo her words, to intake the sanctity of their marriage and every little fulfillment, and transpose it all into the atrocities of war, or of whatever was required of him, with or without purpose; to tear, to maim, to love. The truth of them.

“I am nothing without you,” he said, his mouth hot against her skin. His confession rang through her mind clear as a bell struck calmly and with total acceptance. “Oh, my dear Midnight.”

His teeth captured the soft junction of her neck, stimulating her nerves. She groaned at the reception of the desperate, self-contained violence in his actions. He bit her hard but not hard enough, the method of practiced power that didn’t hurt when it so easily could. Her leg entwined with his. Her fingers curled against his ribs, splaying out where she could feel his pulse fluttering beneath hard bone.

The wet heat of her lips pressed to the blade embedded in his skull, which tethered him to his unending existence, and he reasoned there wasn’t any meaning in that either.

“Take me to bed.”

  * * *

  Most times, the victor was decided by the basis of conviction alone, filling the precious time allotted to them with little, violent tendencies until one surrendered the struggle. If they hadn’t been interrupted by their Kree escort earlier in the office, Corvus suspected he would have retained the utter dominance that compelled his desire to make Proxima come for him right there against the wall. But he was so debilitated by exhaustion that his sense of time skewed at the edges where one memory met another, and it felt to him like that morning occurred in an entirely different time and place. He didn’t have the energy reserves in him to instigate or resist.

Proxima pushed him easily up against the cool metal that composed the headboard. She must have noticed his absence of strength because he saw the way her head tilted in silent questioning, suspending her weight above his left thigh. “My love?” she said, stroking the centerfold of his chest with her forefinger.

“Your beauty is distracting.”

Her thumb slipped into the waistband of his undershorts, running casually over the jut of his hipbone and raising bumps on his ash-gray skin. “I can be distracting in other ways.”

It felt natural to be alone with her again. He growled low in his chest, and his hands worked their way up her sides to her full breasts, contrasting her rain-cold skin with the dry heat of his palms. “I’ve missed you terribly,” he said, kissing the center of her sternum. “I often refrain from asking too much, however—”

“You can ask anything of me.”

“Then I want to enjoy this night. I want to worship you.” His hands went to her hips and he pushed her back, meeting only a moment of resistance from her weight before she submitted to his motions. He laid them out across the bed, which became, he thought, suddenly too small for the conjoined mass of them both. “Slow,” he added. “It’s been too long since I’ve given you all of me.”

Proxima’s expression was one of knowing. She guided his chin down and kissed him, always combative by fault of genetic disposition, her tongue pushing against his own and her teeth working at his bottom lip; she brought them so easily together in the privacy of a room he’d slept in for months alone, not easily, and only out of necessity.

Corvus gazed at her as she worked his mouth open, but she must have sensed his attention was on her because the pads of her thumbs pressed against his eyelids, forcing them closed. He became acutely aware of the featherlight pressure in her touch and how easily she could crook her fingers and gouge his eyes out. His spine prickled with the anticipation of her lethality.

 “We really mustn’t make a habit of being apart for so long,” she told him quietly, when she finally pulled away to settle on her back. Corvus delicately traced the swollen plush of her lower lip, already missing their connection. “I was not beyond taking you in the office, despite the interruption, though that speaks volumes on our lack of common decency.”

Corvus’ forefinger trekked along the curve of her shoulder, following the dip of her chest to her breast. “I should have cut his head from his shoulders and had you anyway.” His fingertip ran the circumference of her areola and she took in a sharp breath. “I care little for decency.”

Proxima groaned when he replicated his motion again, the fondness understated by the sweetness of it, how gentle he was being when he hardly ever was before. “And I care little for your—oh—stalling—”

“Am I distracting you?” he asked, flicking her perked nipple with his tongue.

Proxima’s only answer was a groan, barely emitted but somehow like a sudden gunshot in the stillness of the night. It rattled his entire being. Taking in her sounds and her presence, and threatening to shake apart under the strength of her existence alone. 

Corvus’ mouth indulged on her breasts, leaving love bites along the inner blue skin before settling on one nipple, and she arched her spine, pressing closer, telling him without words what she liked (as if he didn’t already possess such intimate knowledge. As if they hadn’t defaced every ship, bed, or closet they’d ever been in just to experience the emotional implications of how desperate they’d been when taking another body against their own). Her legs parted around his waist. One of her hands curled into the threadbare sheets.

Corvus placed his touch everywhere she wanted him to: on her other nipple to ensure they were both treated properly, on a seamed scar above her stomach from stray shrapnel of their first mission together, on the soft inside of her thighs where nerves roped into the junction of her hip. He nipped at the dip of her navel, startling a laugh out of her, and then a frustrated moan when he gently bit the band of her skivvies.

“Corvus, do not tease me, I’m—”

“Enjoying this quite a lot, apparently,” he said coyly, tracing her labia from over her garments with the tips of his fingers, and gathering the wetness that had accumulated. She rolled her hips in countermotion to his hand. “You are as insatiable as you are impatient. Look at me, my love.”

She opened her eyes and gazed down at him, noting the way his eyes flared crimson in the dark. A feeling of ice slid down her spine. “Corvus—”

“Don’t I always give you what you want?”

She hesitated. He kissed the scar on her stomach again, devoting himself to the repetition of ensuring every part of her, especially the damages that made her feel imperfect or skewed, was loved, and she said, “It’s been so very long since we were last together. Don’t you know how I ache?”

“I will remedy that very soon,” he said. “Be patient, Wife. Be patient and I will take care of you.”

She exhaled, sinking into the mattress, into the swirl of sheets, allowing him the ease of her surrender. His mouth was hot against the slope of her crotch and he worked his fingers under the hem of her skivvies, pulling them down her thighs as if shedding a layer of skin. The black fabric slid from her ankles. He bunched the cloth up in his hand and looked down at it in disbelief, realizing in that moment the horrifying fact that he’d been without her for entire weeks of his life—that he had felt for five agonizing months the quiet, enrapturing terror of loneliness in the universe, and wondered how he ever survived before her.

The skivvies were discarded to the floor. He sank easily between her legs, pulling one over his shoulder and bending the other open at the knee. “You’re beautiful, my lady Midnight,” he said, and saw her chest hitch. He transposed his words into his actions—into unfurling his tongue from behind the cage of his teeth and pushing it lovingly against her clit.

Her moan broke the shadows in the room. “Oh, my love…”

Corvus was experienced with how she liked to be treated. Five months wasn’t nearly long enough for him to forget, and muscle memory guided his hands so he was stroking her sides, her hips, her thighs, slow and tender, feeling her muscles flexing under the impressions of his fingertips—and his tongue worked at her opposingly, rough and steady, increasing the pressure and pace of his technique. He alternated the pleasures as he went, stroked her labia, circled her entrance, sucked her bud. Made her louder, made her gasp and roll her hips and utter his name.

Proxima thumbed at one of her nipples, still swollen from Corvus’ treatment, and whined into the dark as the pleasure tumbled through her body. She reached down with her other hand and took his into it, their fingers interlacing, offering a semblance of resistance against her oncoming orgasm. He glanced up from between her thighs, and she must have sensed his intentions because she met his gaze and the look in her eye ignited him inside, like a flare diffusing behind his chest. It was the surest feeling—even in the moments when he doubted this all wasn’t simply, absolutely, the final fleeting memories of his brain in death—that he was truly alive.

Corvus dutifully lavished her with his tongue. He gave her no indication of letting up, forcing her closer to the edge, maintaining his violent, loving pace even as she began to buck her hips against his face, amplifying the friction of his wonderful mouth against her beautiful cunt.

“My love—”

He knew. She didn’t have to say it, but gods did he adore hearing it.

“My love, I want to—”

A warning. A desperate plea. The fire burning low in her belly and raging upwards, burning a bright, hot path throughout her entire being.

“—come for you—”

He growled an acknowledgement, focusing on her clit as her sounds became erratic and loud and deliciously desperate. Her entire body seized up. Corvus had her at the edge and he left her there, right at the peak of coming, for a single moment to take in the pressure of her thighs suddenly around his head, of relishing in the knowledge that he was the only person who could make her feel this way, who could bring Proxima Midnight of the Black Order to the point of begging for release—and he sucked on her clit again, sending her careening into an orgasm so intense she cried out as if in agony, bucking her hips violently while he locked her against him with his other arm across her hips. His tongue stroked her womanhood as she rode through her ecstasy. His name slid from her mouth in a euphoric chant. Her body pulsed with each wave of pleasure; coming undone, falling apart.

Corvus maintained his momentum until she settled into the bed again; he easily released her, redirecting the affections of his mouth to her stomach. She twitched hard beneath him. Groaned and fidgeted and tried to regain control, never once releasing her grasp on his hand.

She came back to herself several long minutes after. “Corvus,” she whispered to him, earning his gaze. His eyes still burned with hunger, though they appeared more calculated—pensive, even, akin to the look of a wolf considering its own brood. He was anticipating her response, obvious as it was: “I have been patient.”

“Yes, you have.” He loomed over her and took in the sight of her hair fanned out beneath them, furling waves of water tinged silver like starlight. She possessed the aura and presence of a goddess, he was certain. A trifecta of beauty and power. The embodiment of mortal absolution sending a king to his knees and all she had to do was look at him.

Corvus wanted to worship her until his final breath.

She said, “I want to have all of you now.”

And she would have all of him, wherever and whenever, for now and for always. 

“Oh, Midnight,” he said, taking her into his arms. “Now, and until the end. Forever.”

[lost-in-time-marie]

Into the Shadows: Chapter Five

The rubber soles of my red converses patted softly against the linoleum hall of the school. I wandered absently through the maze-like, white halls of the red, brick building. I was supposed to go to the office to drop off some papers for a teacher, one of many chores from Teacher Assisting. Instead I was enjoying my favorite pastime. I loved the cold; October had a nice chill to it. In the older halls of the building with poor insulation, I could gaze out the large windows to watch the red and orange leaves fall softly to the awaiting ground while enjoying the chill of October as it seeped through the walls of the school. I was enjoying such a moment on Tuesday when I heard the softest tinkling sound. I ignored it at first, wondering if perhaps I imagined the sound. It persisted and I took notice of a melody. Music. Somebody was playing music. Unable to resist, I followed the noise.

I pushed open a pale, wooden door that led to the balcony of the auditorium. On the stage below, a man sat at a beautiful, black grand piano, I squinted in an attempt to get a better look, but it was simply too far. The most beautiful melody poured over me, hanging in the air. It seemed to wrap around me, embracing me, cooing at me to stay for a while. Gathering all my effort, I left the balcony, quickly sprinting down the stairs at the end of the hall. I wanted to be surrounded by the music again. Quietly, I pushed open the lower auditorium door and walked swiftly passed rows and rows of uncomfortable stadium seats to the bottom of the stage. I gazed up at the boy as he hunched over the piano, hands flying gracefully over the keys. His curly dark hair hung in his face, unable to hide his evident happiness and peace. A pang of envy shot through me, I wished I could play the piano like that. It took me a moment to recognize the song; it was one of my favorites, Maybe by Yiruma. I laid my head on my pale, folded arms and closed my eyes. The music wrapped comfortingly around me, I lost myself in the melody and beauty of swift twinkling notes.

“Kristin?” A familiar voice questioned. I hadn’t noticed the music stopped, I quickly snapped open my eyes and instantly recognized James peering down at me from the piano bench. His dark eyes stared down at me in confusion; I thought I detected the faintest blush painting his cheeks.

“Sorry,” I apologized, blood rushing to my cheeks, “I didn’t mean to intrude, I heard you playing from the hallway upstairs and that’s my favorite song.” The red of his cheeks deepened and he stared down at the keys. It was refreshing to see his easy-going, charming mask come off.

“It’s just a hobby of mine, helps me think. I’m skipping class right now actually,” He said with a laugh, studying the piano keys.

I smiled, “As much as I frown upon skipping, I’ll let you pass this time because that was absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, annnnnd I’m skipping too,” I joked with a laugh. James smiled and patted the space next to him on the piano bench. I hoisted myself on stage and sat beside him. We were so close I could smell the sweetness of his skin and when he inhaled our shoulders brushed.

“Where did you learn to play like that?” I asked, breaking the silence, trying to focus on anything other than how good he smelled right then.

James brushed his fingers gingerly over the keys, almost longingly, before turning to look at me, “It’s just something my father taught me. I’ve loved to play since I was a kid, it clears my head, lets me escape from the world for a while,” He shrugged, faking nonchalance. It did not escape my notice that, for the first time, he answered my question honestly.

“I can see that it’s important to you, I think it’s great, everyone needs to escape now and again. I like to read and watch movies to escape. Everyone has their own things,” I smiled encouragingly, nudging his shoulder lightly with mine. His dark eyes softened into that liquid brown that melted my bones and he gave a small, sad smile.

“Is everything okay, James? You’ve seemed so down and distracted after your first couple of weeks at school here. I hate to see you this way,” I said, worried. I placed my hand over his on the piano and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Thank you for worrying about me. Things have just been difficult with my dad. I don’t really want to talk about it,” James explained, his deep brown eyes clouded with sadness.

“Okay, I understand,” I gave a small, comforting smile, “Just know that I’m always here,” I offered.

“Thank you,” James smiled, this time it reached his eyes. He clasped my hand tightly in his and began to play a soft, slow melody with the other. My heart beat erratically and my hand felt strangely warm where he held it. I tired to keep my thoughts in order. James was finally opening up; I couldn’t waste this precious opportunity with foolish girlishness.

“Do you live with your dad?” I asked, staring at his peaceful face as his fingers danced over the keys.

“Yes, my mom died when I was very young, it’s just been the two of us for as long as I can remember,” James replied, still staring at the piano, never faltering in his tune, even as he talked. I let the subject go then, somehow it seemed wrong to take advantage of his sudden vulnerability to feed my own curiosity. I enjoyed his beautiful music, happy to have learned a little something about his mysterious life, always kept so secret.

 “So do you want to hang out after school today?” Natasha asked, plopping her backpack onto her desk next to me. The rest of the morning had passed quickly after my encounter with James, probably something to do with our interaction running on repeat in my head, hopelessly distracting me for the rest of the day. I had nearly forgotten my own impending doom. I sighed and bit my lip.

“I, uh, can’t…” I trailed off, “I have a tutoring session with Ryder Grim at the library.” I whispered in a rush.

“You have a tutor?” Natasha choked in surprise. The people at nearby desks turned their heads and gave us weird looks.

“Lower your voice!” I huffed, smacking her arm in cadence with my syllables. “It’s not exactly ‘tutoring’, we have to study together for the AP exam, Mrs. Gold is making us,” I sighed rolling my eyes. A sour taste filled my mouth just uttering the unfortunate circumstances that would bring Ryder and I together this afternoon.

“Oh man,” Natasha laughed, “That really sucks, talk about irony.”

“Yes, well, I’m glad one of us is amused,” I glared at her.

“Seriously though, you’ve been hanging out with the kid a lot between tutoring and partnering up with him for this project in Psychology, I think you liiiiike him” Natasha teased in a sing-song voice, nudging my shoulder.

“I could literally kill you right now for even thinking that!” I seethed, “And I did not partner up with him! It was an accident, I explained this last night on the phone. Luckily, James got to class late and had to join our group, so I won’t be stuck with Ryder alone any longer than purely necessary.” I muttered, mentally thanking whoever was responsible for that. Natasha laughed and I pouted at my own rotten luck. Before long, Sinclair swept into the class right after the late bell, as usual. Class passed quickly, mostly Sinclair discussed the project further and answered questions. Sooner than I would have liked, sooner than seemed fair to me, the bell rang, and we were released. I was suddenly envious of my peers that had their freedom this afternoon. I took upon the air of a woman marching to her own funeral, begrudgingly gathering my things, placing them in my backpack so slowly a turtle could outpace me. Ryder briskly walked to my desk and waited impatiently for me.

“Are you ready?” He asked severely while I shoved my binder into my backpack.

“Do I look ready?” I retorted, refusing to look at him, my dark mood making me ruder towards him than I usually allowed. I quickly zipped my backpack as he reached for the strap.

“What are you doing?” I asked, again harsher than I intended, pulling the backpack away from him.

“I was going to carry your things,” He answered blankly, raising a questioning brow at my sudden severity.

“Yeah, I think I can handle it,” I mumbled and slung the pack over my shoulder. I swore the tiniest smile graced his lips from the corner of my eye, but it was gone so fast I must have imagined it. Our altercation at the elementary school had done nothing to change our relationship; his mood swings left me so confused I was experiencing vertigo.

Natasha, Ryder, and I walked together to the parking lot. We were an unusual trio to be sure and our ensemble gathered more than a few stares as we made our way across campus. Natasha would drop me off at the library for the tutoring session while Ryder rode behind us. The plan was for him to tutor me for an hour and a half, then James would join us, and we’d work on our Psychology project for another hour and a half. Finally, I would be free to take the subway home and die of exhaustion.

We walked silently to the student parking lot. I realized I hated walking through school with Ryder because the stares always followed, if there was one thing I disliked more than Ryder himself, it was being the center of attention. Before long, Ryder veered off to his own car, while Natasha and I piled into her Prius. We circled around the lot and finally found him. When we did, I stared open mouthed, not even trying to conceal my shock, as he climbed, always graceful, onto a hot red motorcycle.

“He drives a motorcycle, too!” I exclaimed too loudly to Natasha. Natasha nearly doubled over laughing. “He’s too perfect, god damn it! There has to be some kind of limit to this thing. One guy cannot be inhumanly beautiful, graceful, smart, and ride a sexy as hell motorcycle. I mean, it’s just not fair!” I fumed. Natasha was practically crying from laughing now. I crossed my arms and sulked in the passenger seat while Natasha composed herself and drove to the library, Ryder following directly behind. I pouted with my arms crossed in the passenger seat, boring holes in him through the side view mirror the whole way there. Ryder could get me agitated like no one else, a fact that only made me despise him that much more. The more time I spent with Ryder, I remained confused as to how he could get me so worked up, compared to the usual indifference I felt to just about every other male at our school. Perhaps it was, as I described to Natasha, his inhuman perfection, or his constantly changing mood that was impossible to keep up with and the refined “I’m better than everyone else” air he kept about himself. Regardless of the reason, I found myself very much dreading this evening and every Tuesday and Thursday evening for the next weeks to come.

After a few minutes, we pulled up to a modest brick building with sliding glass doors and a sign that read “Public Library” in silver block letters. I slowly, grudgingly, gathered my things, wishing I wouldn’t have to get out of the car.

“Have fun, play nice!” Natasha called with a laugh before speeding away. I grimaced at her retreating car before trudging into the library. The doors slid open in welcome and I automatically breathed in the familiar, comforting smell of books. Rows upon rows of them stood before me, divided straight down the middle by a sea of tan tables and chairs, in the very back a blue counter sat for check out, an older man worked studiously behind it. The peace and quiet was a welcome reprieve from the mess of school, I paused for a moment longer to enjoy it. It had been a long time since I sought the solace of this building. I couldn’t quite drift in the allure of the books around me, knowing the chore I had before me. I saw Ryder pulling out books and papers at a table and slowly walked toward him. I imagined killers took a faster approach to the firing squad. The chair scraped too loudly against the wood floors as I took a seat beside him.

It was a little awkward at first, as we began studying. Neither of us said very much as we busted open AP study books and textbooks and diagrams. I had to give him credit, he was a good. He never got annoyed or exasperated, just easily answered my questions and explained core concepts without any emotion. After an hour I felt much better about the subject than I ever had. I leaned back in my chair and sighed.

“Okay, my brain hurts, I need to take a break before I implode,” I insisted, pushing the books and papers away from me. A small smiled teased at the corner of his lips, but it never reached his eyes.

“Oh, come on!” I exclaimed. Too loudly, because the man at the counter threw me a dark scowl and shushed me, as if my outburst was sure to ruin the integrity of his carefully curated atmosphere. I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him like a child.

Ryder looked marginally surprised by my outburst. “What?” he asked, the slightest hint of shock coloring his tone.

“You never show any emotion. You sit in class all the time, completely unmoving, like a stone statue,” I explained, exasperated, demanding an answer. I attempted a poor replication of his unafflicted expression for his benefit.

His pale pink lips quirked up into a small smile. “Is that why you called me a stone statue a couple of days ago? You disapprove of my lack of expression?” He asked, clearly bemused at the thought.

“Yes,” I answered softly, heat steadily crawling up to my cheeks without my permission, “I guess I just sort of made that nickname for you in my head, but come on, it’s totally deserved. You’re emotionless and rude,” I explained bluntly, only slightly embarrassed by revealing my true thoughts. I used my hair as a thin veil, unwilling to expose my blush.

He grinned now. “Ahh, but you do think of me, don’t you?” He teased with a breathy almost laugh.

I rolled my eyes, “You wish.” I turned my gaze down toward the table, attempting to hide the grin that spread across my face without any prodding from my brain to have told it to do such a thing, in response to Ryder no less. I shifted my hair to sweep across one side of my neck, further obscuring my face from his view, clearly I couldn’t be trusted around him to keep my composure.

We didn’t say much else after that and it wasn’t very long until James arrived. We started on our psychology project without any interruption. Ryder seemed tense working closely with James, and though I tried to draw the fun, carefree side of James out, he remained as stiff and humorless as Ryder. I wondered what could possibly have transpired between the two of them to force such a reaction. I was glad when we finished our project fifteen minutes early; the tension was palpable in the air. Ryder left with a curt goodbye, while James stayed behind to walk me down the block to the subway station.

“Have you heard the news lately?” James inquired, as we paced quickly down the street.

“No, why?” I asked intrigued by the turn our conversation had taken.

“Supposedly, a string of break-ins has occurred in the city at medical labs,” He informed, playful suspicion coating his words.

I laughed, “So? Crime is hardly unusual in New York. It’s probably a couple of lowlifes looking to score,” I shrugged.

He laughed too and changed the subject. “So are you excited for the haunted house our school is putting on for Halloween?” He asked, waggling his brows.

“Ugh, no. I don’t really do scary or adrenaline,” I replied, smiling sheepishly.

“You know Natasha is going to force you to go,” He chuckled, pausing before the entrance to the subway.

“Oh, I know,” I laughed, “But that doesn’t mean I’m excited or going to enjoy it,” I finished before turning and walking to the subway. James caught my elbow to stop me.

"Hey, Kristin?" James asked, showing a rare moment of hesitancy.

"What's up?" I replied, instantly concerned by the change in his demeanor.

"Will you go out with me sometime? Just me and you? I know this sounds a little strange and forward because we're only friends and all, but I have this feeling like I want you to know me, really know me," He explained sheepishly, averting his eyes. I swore there was the slightest pink in his cheeks.

"James, I would love to. I don't think it's weird or forward at all. I would love to get to know you better," I beamed. I had been so curious about James since he arrived, if he finally wanted to give me the opportunity to pick his brain that sounded just fine to me.

[johnskleats]

Beautiful Fool

That Great Gatsby!Merther AU, ya’ll.

@the-once-and-future-love @arthur-of-the-pendragons @the-fated-dragoness @pretty-pendragon

He had only wanted a little space to himself. That was natural enough, Gaius had said, provided he be mindful to keep sharp whilst on holiday. Privacy was recipe for secrets, his mother had said, get too used to it and risk a doomed marriage. What his uncle failed to understand was that this was not, in fact, a holiday, and his mother, bless her, would have to come to terms with his preferences. Whomever he found as a companion, eventually, would favor a similar life to his- that was what made a household, after all -harmony. “Find a woman who hates flowers,” he had jested, “and lake houses, and sunsets.” Merlin had been grinning. His mother had not. “Specifically task her to woo me, see if I give it up.”

“Give what up, Merlin,” mother had sighed.

He had only gotten so far as opening his mouth before Gaius boxed his ears in scolding. Mother fussed over supper. Merlin set the table. All was as it had always been in their little house on the corner, only in his room, there was a suitcase by the door, and the drawers were empty, and nothing was as it had been, really, at all.

And now he was home, where a new always would forge itself. Even as he had told mother to her bleary-eyed face that he would visit often and call yet more, Gaius had watched the lie weave through his lips as it was spun. His brow had been stern, but understanding. As always, he neglected to stop him spouting words that dug graves; Merlin couldn't blame him, as whatever came to him, he would probably deserve in one way or another. Yet, here he was: Camelot Isle, renting out a minuscule gardener's cottage that overlooked the harbor. His backyard, backwoods rather, lead into the gardens and courtyards of the looming mansion next door, Pendragon House, the full and dreary history of which he had gotten in his tenancy letter. Merlin had skimmed it. As his personal contract with the cottage was in no way connected to Pendragon House, originally servant's quarters or not, he had no interest or attachment to its grounds whatsoever. Because he lived here, he preferred not to be treated as a tourist, though the thought crossed his mind that the rent was fixed where it was for a purpose. The possibility of poor neighbors hadn’t crossed his mind. Between himself and whomever occupied the mansion, they had the isle to themselves; whatever it was that rendered his house so cheap couldn’t be so bad.

Merlin, on the porch of his new-to-him, two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, drank in the character of his little abode through a lens of intentional whimsy. It had windchimes nailed to the wood frame of the awning, bits of Cola bottles and seaglass turned in the lake and hung up with cord. The step into the living room and kitchen area was high and gnarled, and in his rounds about, Merlin had tripped on it no less than three times; his bedroom, the aforementioned second room of the two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, was a splotched lavender color, unevenly applied rose wallpaper fading and peeling away at cracks in the corners of the walls. His favorite part of the bedroom was probably the curtains, orange and visible, with their thick plumes of dust and heavy shadow. They were hideous. They were his.

Between his house and his neighbor's stood a dock leading out to a pier, at the end of which was a signalling bell. It was here that Merlin’s attention was drawn when with a peal of joy, the bell, chimed with the wind, his permanent glass fixtures tinkling with it and all the leaves sounding applause through the boughs of the canopy. A chill cut through him, and Merlin retreated inside to weather the surely impending storm. Awaiting him was a house of his own, just as cramped as his mother’s and far less comfortable, made sweeter and more welcoming by the name on the lease.

Merlin was a third of the way through chipping the grime from his stovetop when the first cracks of thunder rent the air. He jolted in surprise, butter knife clattering to the tile, and, shakily, took up his task again. The sound of pouring rain had deafened him to all other stimuli, and the sense of exposure rattled his bones. With the panes trembling in their frames and shutters fluttering, clamoring against the sides of the house along with the waving branches and pelting rain, wind whistling through the waterspout with the gush of overflow, he felt swallowed inside a void. The house was empty, save for himself. A new always, he supposed, being safe, unscathed, while simultaneously so utterly immersed in what his mother lovingly referred to as trouble. It filled him to the brim with the kind of excitement that makes boys leap from cliff faces to the sea, the kind of adrenaline that demands to know whether or not he could make the jump. The chaos scraped at his safehouse as the wall of his own skin, itching. It called to him like a siren song and, oddly, his heart ached. Merlin had longed to be alone, but the magic had followed him anyway.

Forlorn, he closed again the beaten shudders.

--Merlin opened them again.

There, in the earth driveway leading up to his neighbor's abode, was a car, the likes of which Merlin had only ever seen on magazine covers in stores. Yellow, canary yellow like rain slickers, yellow like bananas and technicolor and his mother's good dress stared back at him, obscured by black mud and torrents of water coursing along the body of metal. Outside the vehicle was a man of equally astounding quality, although less from the fact that he was soaked through to his designer shoes with water-dark hair in his eyes, and more so that he stood outside apparently his car, mixing himself in what was about to be ankle-deep mud. The moment Merlin had registered that the man was trying to push it out of its rut to no avail happened to be the same moment that the man had given up, throwing up his hands and kicking at the white-faced wheels with petulant abandon. The car wasn't hooded, rather open, actually, and the man looked away, paced, fumed as it rapidly took up water. Much longer in the road, which was flooding quickly, and the vehicle may not be operable at all.

Merlin, despite his brain telling him quite avidly that this would somehow change the course of his day, if not his life, in a way that would render him devoid of control, took it upon himself to don his raincoat, nevermind the boots, there was little time, and help the remarkable stranger.

When Merlin dashed out his front door, the look of surprise and relief he expected left much to be desired. Instead, he saw bewilderment and agitation, characteristic of a man who has had a very, very long morning. The man was shouting at him. Merlin was shouting back, but both voices were carried away in the storm, leading to a mutual agreement to shut up and push the car. He was struck with regret at his choice in priorities; his raincoat did him little good, as the exertion and laboured movement lead to water penetrating and eventually inundating his upper half, while he suspected galoshes would have done him much good indeed, in place of the cold mud oozing beneath his heels and riding up his socks. In several short pushes of combined effort, plus one big push, the buggy was out of the worst of the puddle, and arguably fit to go again. Still too loud to speak much, Merlin offered a thumbs up, and the man blinked at him, surprised again, although it may have been to chase away water clinging to his lashes still blindingly. Merlin gave that close-lipped, polite smile that offered immediate exit to limited acquaintances to urge him forward and out, but when the strange man, a drowned cat in a suit, continued to look at him as though transfixed, Merlin decided to make an executive decision on part of the universe.

He turned, and went inside.

The man watched him go, Merlin could feel it like the prickle of lightning in the sky, but he dared not look back, not even out his ugly curtains until he was certain his guest was gone. When he opened the shudder for the third time that rainy first day, it was to a flooded, murky street made to a mud pond in front of his house, and a long trail of tire tracks he could trace like a piece of string to the gates of the beautiful Pendragon House.

-

The first of the letters arrived the following morning. Merlin had only barely begun updating his address, most of his mail sure to be forwarded by his mother in the coming months, but this first letter, addressed to him, was from someone he was vaguely surprised but not astounded to hear from. Arthur Pendragon, his landlord. He could assume it was just like the last few he had received, informative snippets about his tenancy or more fluffy introduction to the place he was so privileged to live in, and so he paid it little mind. Merlin set it aside. The man with the yellow car crossed his mind once or twice, but only in passing. He hoped he had made it wherever he was going without much more trouble, even if it was his own fault for leaving such a valuable possession vulnerable to the elements like that.

He spent the day cleaning and tidying, much as he had the day before. The sunny sky and renewing smell of rain set him in a mood of rebirth, of new beginnings, and everything in his cozy fixer-upper was an opportunity to make something lovelier than before. He had a day or two yet for his holiday before he would have to call into work, and until then, he intended use his time wisely.

The wallpaper was the first thing to go.

With the night came the smell of drying paint and the sound of cars passing his house one after another, the chatter of excitement and the glare of filtered, colored light. Merlin would have shut it out if he could, but to close the window would be to suffocate in paint fumes, his beauty rest be damned. He wanted a good night's sleep, not a hangover. In the earlier hours of the evening, he had thought this would be an eight to ten kind of affair. Then the music started, a whole brass band, it sounded like, and he knew he was in for something interminable.

Merlin rolled around his cluttered living room, everything from the bedroom shoved into it whilst his paint aired out. He perched on his loveseat, did a lazy summersault out of his pillowfort, baked cookies to warm the house, even put on his own record as though to spite Pendragon House for its inconsiderate racket. The latter was to no avail, and he turned it off after a few minutes; the clash of melody was giving him a headache. He checked his watch- almost three in the morning. He was agitated enough to round up; at most, he had dozed a little under two hours between nine and now, fifteen minute increments interrupted by raucous laughter and what he assumed to be drunkards skinny dipping in the lake. He wished he didn’t know, but again, his windows were all wide open, and if anything killed him, it would be curiosity, followed swiftly by this miserable Arthur Pendragon.

Just then, Merlin remembered the letter he had received this morning. Was it a notice? He could find it in himself to be less put off if he had been warned- at least then it would be his own fault. Eyes shot, he fumbled with the heavy envelope until the seal popped- who wax-sealed their letters? -and squinted to make sense of the elaborate script.

Hereby invited...party...courtesy of Arthur Pendragon…

That was about all he got out of it, and all he really needed to read. Merlin tossed it aside with a huff and, exhausted, covered his ears with  throw pillows.

-

The letters kept coming. The parties kept happening. The house was coming together.

Merlin had painted the outside a soft blue and rigorously cleaned the white trim, although he left the knobbed stair and wind chime as they were. The living room and bedroom were a brisk white, the curtains had been washed- Merlin didn't have the heart to throw them out -and he had livened up the space with a new dining table, a novelty painting of a farmhouse, and a little potted plant. The teakettle was operable, and life was good.

Still, the invitations came. Invitations to day trips into the city, rendezvous on the yacht, tours of the estate, and at the end of each was a reminder of the inevitable nightly house party.

Merlin had received seven now, and other trinkets had started to accompany them in little red boxes. A birdhouse. A teacozy. A brass watch, at least he hoped it was brass. All in all, it was unsettling, but Merlin had managed to put it out of his mind. It was thoughtful, and probably born of guilt, although, if Arthur knew he was a terrible neighbor, Merlin wished he would just start being a good one instead of perpetuating this compensation nonsense. It was the ninth night, and the eighth letter that finally convinced him. It had come in a box that was shaped frighteningly like a necklace from Tiffany’s, or some other such bizarre place, and Merlin had opened it with pallor and trepidation. The letter was on top, he could only guess its contents, but beneath that, in the box itself, was a simple, soft, blue...scarf. There was no price tag, no note, for when he did open the envelope, it was only his name in that elegant script he had come to be so familiar with. Somehow, that was enough.

Merlin made yet another executive decision.

He would attend one of these parties, only one, and put an end to this strange outreach of companionship. He was willing to make passing friends, would allow teatime some afternoon or another, but this gift business would stop, and by the stars and stripes, they would be on a mutual last name basis. No more of this dear Merlin business, no signed Arthur. It would be Mr. Emrys, Mr. Pendragon, chatter about the water pressure, the Sox game, and no more.

-

Merlin was unfit to be there. He didn't only feel that way, but was, surrounded by people he saw glimpses of in movie pictures and heard on the radio, talking about their careers and mixing brandy in their sequined dresses and tight suits. Even amongst those closer to his own economic class, college students wasted out of their minds, he didn't feel at ease. There was no theme, no center, no purpose to their frivolity- only music, loud and frenzied, and glittering champagne, dancers, fireworks above the tower raining stars into the lake. Whoever he spoke to told him something different; Mr. Pendragon was a prince, an actor, a war hero, a famous doctor, a mob boss. Not once did he hear Arthur. No one seemed to know him, or where he was, if he even lived in the house bearing his name, if he intended for there to be a shindig tonight. Apparently, the gates opened and people came, from everywhere, and no one was ever turned away.

No one was ever invited.

That put a knot in his stomach like nothing else, and he kept a white-knuckle grip on his little box of unsolicited gifts. He would find Arthur, if he could, and return them, explain himself if there was air left in the atmosphere. He would apologize. He would leave. The stars fallen into the lake would stay there, extinguished, and Merlin would soundproof his bedroom. The next letter he got, he would pack his things. The overwhelming sense of impending change, so much like doom, made his heart beat heavy and his teeth ache.

He had meandered for two hours, and like Persephone in the underworld, dared not partake. Unlike her, he could leave whenever he pleased, even if it didn't feel like it just then. The pull of destiny made him stay put, and with every passing moment, he was tempted to throw caution to the wind and join the fray.

Four hours in. Midnight. Merlin felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, the band meeting crescendo to the coo of a love song and the stars bright overhead, a moment of stillness and light, he stared, caught in the blue eyes of Apollo himself. He wished he had had something to drink. Heart fluttering in his chest, he half listened to the man welcoming him with a smile, leading him by the shoulder to somewhere more private where they could talk, and yes, he did have a lot on his mind, and indeed, the decorations were splendid. The click of a door brought him to his senses.

“What’ve you got there?”

They were in a study lined with chestnut bookshelves, each full of old, decorative books and ships trapped in bottles. The man who Merlin recognized as Mud Man With the Yellow Car had seated him on a plush lounge, black leather that squeaked faintly when he moved and smelled particular, but good. Its arms were too wide for his comfort, and he felt small. The man, much neater than when Merlin had last seen him, placed a cold glass in his hand.

“Just water,” he assured amiably.

Mindlessly, Merlin broke his vow and sipped.

Arthur Pendragon was a tall, broad man, who knew his way around a suit. In private now, he had shucked his coat to a hanger and loosed his ascot, red, to leave it hanging about his neck. He had never seen a man in suspenders any color but black or brown before, but for the sake of fashion, Merlin compelled himself to understand one's need for scarlet, if only to pair with a white suit. A white suit that looked fantastic, mind.

His host was watching him bemused, as if he knew what Merlin was here for. Merlin certainly didn't. He swallowed.

“Is that for me?” Arthur probed again. All eyes went to the repurposed gift box in Merlin’s hands, suddenly thrust into Arthur’s, who took it with mild surprise. Opening it, the look of someone enjoying a marvelous and delightful game was lost to one crestfallen. In the box, was a birdhouse, a teacozy, and a brass watch. Arthur closed the box. Had he continued to paw through it, he would have found the stack of letters, each written in this very study. Merlin, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, was relieved that he had stopped there.

“Would you like a drink? I'd like a drink,” Arthur hummed, and he was gone again, opening wine.

“So you're not a gift person,” he said cheerily. A new glass found its way into Merlin’s hand. “Or a, how do you say, luxury adventure person,” he was starting to feel guilty, “or a party person--”

“You don't even know me,” Merlin heard himself say. The half empty wine glass he didn't remember drinking set itself on the table. Everything about this night was shiny and ethereal, his whole body abuzz with newness and golden warmth. He didn't know he had passed four hours wandering this house, drunk on art and a myriad of mismatched strangers, didn't realize he had spent almost half an hour drinking with the mysterious Arthur Pendragon in his private study, didn't know how he had gotten to the point where he could hear the words coming out of his mouth but couldn't understand who on earth had put them there, but here he was, and, “You don't know a thing about me.”

Arthur furrowed his brow and stared into his glass, the box far from forgotten on the coffee table. “I know you like the color blue,” he said quietly. “I know you like to watch birds. I know you like to work with your hands when you could call someone instead.”

Merlin, at once feeling too big for his skin and yet very small under the pressure of Arthur’s attention, watched him carefully. He watched his body language, stiff even in as casual a position as he was, legs crossed and leaning. He watched his lips, red from the worry of teeth and wine, round themselves about his words, saw his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

“I know you don't mind helping strangers,” Arthur was saying. Merlin’s mouth was dry and his water was gone. Arthur was watching him now, too. His eyes were blue, bluer than anything, his jaw was sharp, his shave was close and he could smell his cologne and Arthur was saying, softly, “I know your name,” and then, “Merlin,” and then.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“We know each other plenty well,” returned the easy smile. The moment was gone just like that, leaving him breathless, as though he'd been kissed. Arthur hadn't kissed him, though. He hadn't touched him aside from the occasional brush of fingers exchanging a glass, hadn't tried to breach the distance. He was still talking. Merlin wondered how his a smile didn't reach his blue, blue eyes. “But you've avoided me quite avidly, I would say. I was starting to get ideas when-”

“--When?”

“Beg your pardon?” Arthur flushed red, not expecting the question. He was used to Merlin’s silence, had no way of knowing how unusual it really was. Perhaps he had rehearsed parts of this conversation. Regardless, he disliked being thrown off guard.

“Ideas. I've been here a week, when could you have possibly found time to get ideas?”

Arthur was incredulous.

“You'd be surprised to find I do have a brain, you know,” he seemed about to continue, but Merlin glowered. Arthur began again.  “...Ideas about you?”

“The Queen,” Merlin answered dryly.

“Victoria or Elizabeth?”

“Mary.”

Arthur winced, and poured more wine.

“You pushed my car,” he murmured. “No one asked you, there was no proposed reward, you just came out in your loafers and helped me.”

Merlin thought back to that night, the sniffles he'd had the remainder of the evening, the mud he had to mop up the following day. “I help people who need it,” he corrected. “The ‘who’ makes no difference to me.”

Arthur toasted him halfheartedly. “‘Sure know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?” His host glanced back to the box of rejected gifts, rejected friendship, and again, Merlin felt a pang of guilt. The distant sound of the party made its way to them, a bass beat that had always been there but had still managed to be forgotten. The clock read two.

Merlin took a drink.

“What do you want from me?” His glass clinked against the wood of the table.

“Are you flattered?” He frowned in confusion. Arthur repeated himself, clearer and more distinctly. “Are you flattered, Merlin?”

“I…”

Merlin didn't know. Why was he here, he thought, what brought him into this situation? Why had he set out tonight, bent to break his promise to his mother? Why did he insist on following that drag of purpose clutching his heart, leading him into danger such as this?

“...I am.”

There was a breath, Arthur waiting for a ‘but’ that didn't come. Again, Merlin was caught in the gaze of an Adonis.

“Would you come back?” Arthur’s tone was low, wistful, concealing. His look didn't waver, daring Merlin to lie, staring into his heart or perhaps just enjoying what he saw- both concepts he couldn't understand. “If I let you go tonight, home,” he sighed, every word sounded like a sigh now and the world was a void, “would you come back?”

The implication that his landlord might not permit him to leave should have been disturbing. Much of this should have been, in fact, he ought to have reported it or left or something--

“Yes.”

What.

“Yes?” Arthur smiled.

What are you doing?

More than smile, he beamed. He tried to hide it but couldn't, the relief overwhelming his composure and Merlin was damned if he saw anyone more beautiful than Arthur Pendragon was in that moment.

“...That's all I wanted,” he said simply.

Merlin was damned.

He knew then that if he took even the smallest amount of momentum towards Arthur, he would do something they would both regret. He would lose a potential friend, although an odd one, of his an admittedly lousy, endearing neighbor. He could always say he had been drunk, which he was, a little- he wasn't -and bank on Arthur being the same- sober, that is -and maybe, maybe then he could get away with it. Dangerous thought, danger, danger--

“Will you stay tonight?”

His heart leapt to his throat to choke him, treacherous thing.

“...Until the party is over?”

The clock read two fifteen, Merlin unabashedly eyeing those red, red lips.

He made an executive decision.

He left.

[myaekingheart]

6. Happy Birthday, Kakashi

disclaimer: I wrote this as an installment to a set of one shots a chapter to a fic I’ve been writing entitled The Scarecrow and the Bell that center on Kakashi and his girlfriend, Rei, who plays a big role in this so if anyone whose not following me and doesn’t know about my shippy bullshit finds this just by searching tags and shit, now you know and you have been warned. I’m so sorry lmfao

read the scarecrow and the bell on ao3

index | from the beginning | < previous | next >

               It was a cold, unforgiving day when she told him. He blinked a few times, unable to believe what she was saying. Did he even really want this? He didn’t know. He hadn’t thought about it. But yet here she was, his beautiful wife, pregnant with his child. As Aijo’s belly expanded, the reality set in deeper and deeper. Sakumo Hatake was going to be a father.

               And then it happened. Like lightning, she was in labor, gripping his hand and panting and crying. He had never seen such a pain. It was different than when a comrade falls on the battlefield, more visceral and desperate and raw. He watched her face contort as she pushed, his heart racing in his chest, until suddenly a cry broke through and everything shifted. The doctor held up his baby and his heart swelled. What should we name him? he asked his wife. She held the infant close to her chest, caressing his cheek with the trademark tenderness of a mother. She knew in an instant, just by looking at him, what he would be called. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               One year later, a bright baby boy with boundless possibility. He was intelligent and prodigal, the ideal son. They baked him a cake with a dog made out of icing and cheered and sang for him. His mother blew out the candles from behind his back and clapped her hands and kissed him on the head. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               At two, he was stumbling around the yard, splashing in the lake behind their home. A couple had just moved in next door, Yuruganai and Hana, old friends of the White Fang and his wife. Soon they would welcome their own baby. They attended the small party, introducing themselves with soft smiles and kind eyes. They gifted him a storybook that his mother could read to him before bed, that he cherished for years to come. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               The storybook stayed at his bedside every night. The couple next door gave birth to a baby girl, Rei, and Kakashi’s heart felt something it never had before. He announced he would be her ninja, her protector, and that he would let no harm come to her. He smiled at her in her mother’s arms, informing her that he was three years old today. She cooed and squirmed, her mother explaining she must have been saying Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               His mother’s voice had become an echo, the storybook collecting dust. His father had changed—he looked older, tired. He was grateful for an independent child who could care for himself while he was gone, though the family next door still supervised to ensure he would be alright. They even invited him to sleep over if he pleased. One night in particular, when the house was empty and he was all alone, he finally accepted their offer. They set up a place for him on the floor in the nursery, which he thought was lame but he did not protest. He was a student in the academy now, the first step to becoming a brave and strong ninja. He peered over to the baby fast asleep in her crib, making noises in her sleep. He hoped his father would return soon. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               The metal plate on his headband flashed in the sunlight on his way home, shiny and new. His father rejoiced, though he knew it was coming. His son was already a gifted ninja, better than any of his comrades. He was placed in a team with a Uchiha boy and a girl a few years his senior, under the direction of their sensei, Minato. Sakumo had high hopes for his little boy. He baked him a cake and invited the neighbors. Rei looked up at him as if he had put the stars in the sky. He patted her on the head and blew out his candles. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               The young shinobi progressed quickly, graduating to a chunin in just a year. His sensei had faith in him. Kakashi had wild potential. In this, however, Kakashi was doused in pride. He was a prodigy. He was gifted. These were things he heard on a daily basis. They were the foundation of his journey. Every day he came home, a young girl would sit on her front porch awaiting his return. He would tell her great tales of his travels, and of all the enemies he fought. She looked at him as if he put the stars in the sky. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               Kakashi was favored by all who hired him and all who worked alongside him. He was a bright and shining example of what a shinobi should be. He owed much of it to the teachings of his father. At seven, he idolized the man. At eight, he disapproved of him. The house had long since been quiet. Kakashi didn’t care for the neighbors anymore. He lived alone. He avoided the patch of floor where he had found his father lifeless. He spoke nothing of the man who gave up his assignment to save his comrades. He visited his grave every so often, laying flowers down and promising he would not be like him. Kakashi would follow the rules. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               At ten, Kakashi was promoted to a jonin. He worked tirelessly alongside his comrades to uphold the promise he had made. And yet somehow he still failed. Obito died, and gave him his eye. Rin was killed by his own chidori. He had lost everyone…except one. He watched Rei train tirelessly from the shadows, his heart breaking. It would never be enough. She ran to him one day, crooked teeth and wild hair, rejoicing in her own promotion to genin. A lump rose in his throat. You’re tiny. Weak. You’ll never make it. The face of a dear friend flashed in the back of his mind as he walked away from the last thing he had left, her cries echoing in his ears. He refused to turn back. He refused to cry. He celebrated another year as he had grown accustomed to: utterly alone, nothing special. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               At thirteen, he was approached in a hospital by the hokage himself, a familiar friend and kindhearted teacher. I came here today to assign you to the ANBU under my direct control. He tossed his book in the dumpster and entered the dark building, a disconcerting smell tainting the air. He strapped the sword to his back, the gauntlets on his arms. As he put on that mask, he was no longer Kakashi. He was an anonymous fighter, a hidden ninja. He was a blank face among a crowd of villagers. He cared not for himself any longer. All that mattered now was work. There would be no more happy birthday, Kakashi.

               Only a few months had passed when the hokage summoned him for a top-secret errand, announcing he and his wife were expecting. He was to guard over Kushina and ensure no harm came to her during her vulnerable months. He did as he was told, watching her like a hawk for the duration of her pregnancy. In the quiet moments, when she slept or when Minato was by her side, he often had lots of time to think. With one month before her due date, Kushina’s belly had grown rather large. Kakashi wondered how it felt, carrying around so much extra weight, knowing there was life inside of you. He thought of his own mother, a distant face, a hazy memory. He thought of the first time he met Hana, his father explaining her own pregnancy. He thought of the baby she birthed shortly after, a face he had not seen in years. He wondered where she was and what she was doing, if she was alright. If he let his mind wander long enough, he would no longer see the hokage’s wife before him but his old friend, wild red hair and crooked teeth. He saw her standing at the counter preparing dinner. The door would swing open and a vision of himself stepped inside, older and wiser and happier. He would wrap his arms around her distended waist and kiss her cheek. A future in which there was no pain or desolation. He willed away the thoughts as quickly as they came. He was fourteen, and none of those stupid, childish ideas mattered.  He twirled his finger around the group of dragonflies that encircled him and sighed. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               At fifteen, the village was in ruin. The hokage had died. The Nine Tailed Demon Fox had attacked, and his spirit was sealed inside of Minato’s son. The next few years were dark and ruthless. Kakashi cared for nothing. He was known in ANBU for his cold, distant demeanor. Every so often, he would slip into the bookstore Rei’s family owned, wander around and purchase something he would only mindlessly read. She was professional, mature, blunt. Seeing her was like walking into a graveyard. His spine chilled. He walked inside on a September day, picking up a book that the sannin, Jiraiya, had released a few years earlier. He approached the counter, paid, and made his leave. As he opened it up that night, the receipt tucked inside fell into his lap. He turned it over to find a tiny message written at the bottom in scribbled hand: Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               At nineteen, the third hokage had called for him, saying something about an important announcement. The door creaked open. A young woman stood before the desk with her back turned, her head down and her hands clenched at her sides. Kakashi, I have inducted a new member into the ANBU I would like you to meet. I have decided to assign her to your team. She turned and even with her mask, he knew her immediately. Wild red hair. Petite form. She was nothing like he remembered in their youth. They fought alongside one another, and she was smart and sharp and capable. Something within him snapped, a strange feeling spreading that he only remembered experiencing a long time ago, like something from a fever dream. He woke up alongside her in the woods with her mask crooked. He fixed it for her as she slept but not before taking in the features of her matured face and thinking that none of this could actually be real. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               He was twenty when he began leaving breakfast on her doorstep and finally continuing to fulfill that promise he had made so many years ago. She no longer looked at him as if he put the stars in the sky, but as if she had watched them explode one by one and the shards had fractured her skin. And then one day, there was a package on his own doorstep, an anonymous message reading Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               At twenty two, he was trying to find his way. Freshly reprieved of his ANBU duties and now assigned to train young and impressionable ninja, he was unsure whether he was fit for the task. They said that he had lost his kindness, that they hoped he would find his way back through the “power of youth” or at least that’s what Guy liked to say. And all the while, there was Rei. She was his constant, his rock, always there. Wild hair and crooked teeth. He cupped her cheek and pressed his lips to hers, their bodies instinctively falling back onto the bed and submitting to one another. She gazed into his eyes, breathlessly whispering Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               A soft smile touched his lips as the three children who changed his life awaited him. He was always late, a true disgruntlement to them, but he had errands he could not avoid. Still, as he approached, he looked to each of them and his heart burst a little. The broken young jinchuriki, the very boy whose mother he had watched over during her pregnancy, so determined to become hokage someday. A young kunoichi with untapped potential, fawning over the boy hellbent on revenge that he would later tragically lose to darkness. He did not know what was to come, all he knew then was the present but that was enough. He had grown to love these kids. He saw kindness, determination, power, potential. He loved them as if they were his own. He smiled down at them, apologizing for being late like every other day, and they rolled their eyes and complained but he didn’t care. Happy Birthday, Kakashi.

               And some day in the not so distant future, he would come home to find his glowing wife standing at the counter preparing dinner, wild red hair and crooked teeth. He would wrap his arms around her waist and kiss her cheek, the promise of new life underneath his hands. He’d hope for a future with no pain or desolation. Dragonflies would buzz outside. He would dust off that storybook from when he was a boy and set it on the shelf so it would be ready for a new generation of bedtime stories. He was thirty and those stupid, childish ideas were all that mattered. He would press his hand to her belly, cup her cheek in his hand, kiss her as if it was the last, and bury himself in gratitude for all he had won in this life. And she would gaze back at him as if he put the stars in the sky and whisper lovingly Happy Birthday, Kakashi.