#to watch an impossibly strong vampire struggle to pick up a person

[andreal831]

Rewatching TVD and I want to start a counter for every time their issues could have been solved by them remembering they are supernatural creatures.

[desiresiwant]

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

word count: 4.5k~

warnings: strong language, eventual violence, classic Niklaus resorting to violence and drinking away his problems

a/n: this is the 3rd chapter of my au longfic based off the The Originals (what if the child was a teenager/YA throughout the show duration and not at season 5?). This chapter features Klaus’s pov, an insider to his struggles accepting his role as a father. Rebekah and Elijah makes their return. Davina as well. If there’s a warning I skipped let me know.

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𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 | 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲’𝘀 𝗟𝗼𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲

       𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃. From her thick curly roots, to the smeared blood currently being wiped clean from her delicate features, to the soft beatings of her heart indicating she was calmly resting. In his hand, he held an old photo of him sitting next to Vanessa. Who was clearly the girl's mother given the identical features they shared, alongside a letter explaining the situation of his existence with clear instructions to NOT come to New Orleans.

        Yet the girl—Deena, as stated in the letter—came anyway. Hard-headed.

        Klaus remembered Vanessa almost as if it was yesterday. He met the young aspiring witch at a local art exhibit held in The French Quarter where she first struck his interest, besides being the only who wore silly socks with a tight-fitting dress. She was not only well-spoken in art, but she had a way with words in which Klaus wouldn't notice the smile he wore until she told him, and she was her own person with a peculiar taste in fashion. And he liked it. In fact, he loved it. They hit it off quickly and spent every chance they had with each other, until one day she disappeared without a word. Klaus assumed it was because of him and didn't blame her since she was too good for his world and she deserved more than what he could provide for her.

        "Impossible," Were the first words Klaus said. He tossed the photo to the floor and faced his back to Deena to slip her from his memory, to Elijah who spoke not one word until Klaus spoke first.

        Elijah picked the photo from the floor and placed it on the table beside the written letter before Klaus seized a chance to rip it. "Whether it's true or not, the child needed our help and we gave that to her. Nik—"

       "You expect me to believe this child is mine from a silly photo with a woman I dallied with years ago and some loveless letter of lies?" Growled Klaus. His mouth suddenly felt dry and though he did his best to put up a front, the fear in his eyes was evident and by the end of his words, panic had entered. "I am a vampire. I cannot procreate!"

        Rebekah rinsed the cloth of blood in the warm water of dark red ready to be refilled and continued to clean the child's face and arms the best she could. The scent of her blood was alluring, preying them to feed into their cravings with just a taste, a single drop of her blood until there was no restraint to stop. But they have lived long enough to control their thirst, and the blood lust wasn't as appealing when the victim's a child and presumed to be a Mikaelson.

        "Magic made you a vampire as us all, Nik." Rebekah pointed out. "But you were born a werewolf; it courses in your blood given by your father, so it is possible. Ludicrous but possible. And we can confirm it with your blood and hers. And a witch."

        That shut Klaus up.

        "The child has already been through enough, and we can't be sure of which witch we can trust until we figure out the origin of this madness. Let's not bother her anymore and hope she wakes soon." As Elijah spoke, he watched Deena intensively under his black lashes and compared her physical similarities to his little brother. Her lips. Her ears. Even her nose with a slight readjustment, accurately portrayed Klaus but there was no way to be sure without that spell Rebekah mentioned.

        Rebekah rolled her eyes. "She will be fine. With my blood in her system, she's healing a lot faster than before. And I know a witch we can use; she was just here not too long ago banging on our doors to hear her out. And by the looks of it, she cares enough to do anything for her," Rinsing the last of Deena's blood into the bowl, Rebekah placed the rag on the dresser and carried the bowl into her arms to be refilled. She caught sight of Klaus's quietness, his eyes never leaving the child and added, "And if we hold this off any longer, we might as well shave our heads bald and pay ourselves a visit to the loony bin, and I don't rock a bald look. I would rather stab myself with the white oak before I plug in a bloody razor."

        Rebekah left for the bathroom.

        They knew exactly who Rebekah spoke of—Davina Claire, the teenage witch who wanted but nothing to do with the Mikaelsons. More specifically Klaus. After Elijah thought about the decision, he began to view Rebekah's point and agreed. However, the decision wasn't up to him.

         Klaus could feel his brother's heated stare as he looked to him for answers he didn't have nor wished to answer. He stood quietly acquainted with fear more than anyone has witnessed since Mikael's invasion back in 1919. He does want the answer, but he's too prideful to ask for help and he was too afraid of the outcome.

        Elijah then understood he would have to make the decision for them both and found Rebekah's gaze as she exited the bathroom with a clean bowl of warm water. "Let's do the spell."

━━━━━━ ━━━━━━

        𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒. Her eyes never left Klaus as she made her way down the hallway and into the spacious room, waiting for a reason to use her magic against him, until she found Deena lying unconscious on the freshly made bed in the room she had once lived in back when Marcel was around and things were a bit hectic because of her. Or at least similar. She rushed to Deena's side with a gasp.

        "She will be alright," Elijah answered her panicked thoughts as she pulled back at the blood staining her hands when she reached out for her. She sent him a soft glare and carefully took Deena's hand into hers. "Will you be able to perform the spell?"

        Klaus, remain quiet. The quietest he's ever been.

        Davina noticed her friend appeared a lot brighter in her complexion despite her blood-stained clothes. Even noticing her cuts vividly healing before her eyes which meant she was given vampire blood, and she felt guilty. Like it was her fault for not protecting her or keeping her away from Klaus as she intended to do. And by keeping the supernatural world a secret to protect her, she felt she had done more harm than good.

        "I can try but since her blood is tainted, I'll have to—"

        "The blood on her clothes is pure. Can you use that instead?" Asked Rebekah.

        Davina narrowed her gaze from Deena's stained clothes. It was easy magic she's done before and responded, "I'm only doing this for Deena and no one else, so don't call me here again. I don't wanna be mixed up in your family drama." Her gaze found Deena's. "And she shouldn't have to either."

        "You have my word," Elijah promised.

        If Klaus was in his right mind, he would've had something to say about this but for the first time in a while, he had no energy to feed into petty drama.

        Because Davina knew she could trust Elijah out of all the original siblings, she began the spell. She emptied the bowl of marbles she found on the dresser and began to remove Deena's blood into the bowl leaving her shirt spotless as if it had been recently washed. She then faced Klaus. "I need your blood." She demanded.

        One by one, they looked to Klaus who was currently in his own world. He didn't hear Davina but he soon felt their stares and allowed Elijah's voice to be heard as he called his name softly. Of course, he was worried for his brother. He's never failed to hide his worrisome in times like this. Klaus followed his gesture towards Davina waiting for something he had. What was it she asked for? My blood? Without wasting another second, he bit into his wrist and held it over the bowl as his blood began to mix in with Deena's. He pulled back his arm as he began to heal and waited in the far corner.

        Rebekah practically hovered over Davina as she continued on with the spell and Elijah stood in the center of everyone, his eyes never leaving Klaus. About five minutes later, Davina stood from her seat indicating she was finished with the spell.

        Rebekah peeled herself from the wall. "Well, is it true? Has my brother officially knocked some poor woman up against her will?"

        Klaus saw the way Davina looked at Deena, the look was enough to give him the answers they longed for, but he needed to hear it from her lips. He was desperate as they all were for the answer. She sighed finally meeting Klaus's anxious gaze. "She's a hundred percent Klaus's child." Davina announced.

        Klaus was shocked into silence.

        Not one word has been spoken as they struggled to process nature's loophole. A child, a true Mikaelson, here in flesh by the blood and DNA of Klaus, the Original Hybrid unable to create any lifeform of the living. It was difficult to create a logical answer in their heads how any of this was possible. Klaus has slept with countless women throughout the centuries, so why is it now that it's possible for his seed to create a mortal being? What made Vanessa so special out of all?

        Rebekah felt bitterness towards the situation. Though she was happy her brother has a child he could watch grow old and she has become an aunty, she knew that kind of possibility wasn't possible for her. And she desired what Klaus had—a family. From her own DNA, conceived naturally from her body, children of her own. But she was a vampire. Unlike Klaus, she could not procreate. There was no loophole for her.

        However, Elijah failed to hide his glee. After years of cleaning up after his brother's retaliation, years of watching his demons mold his anger to fear that has built a wall between his misery and his own happiness; wanting nothing but the best for him and for him to let go of his grudges against the world and start letting people in, he believed this could be a chance for Klaus to start over fresh. For not only Klaus, but for himself and for Rebekah. Maybe with the child's presence, could diminish their negative ways and bring back empathy. Something they haven't felt in a while.

        Klaus shuffled into the desk behind him, his tear-filled eyes never left the unconscious girl. He didn't look at her with hate or displeasure; it was a softer look that couldn't be explained in words. There was too much roaming around in his head and in his heart and in his actions, it was too much for him to process.

        Davina suddenly lifted the blood-filled bowl from off the bed and placed it on the smaller dresser near the bed in case Deena moved in her slumber. She clapped her hands together, gathering their destruct attention. The awkward silence was too much for her to stand in. "If that's all, I'm leaving." She sent Deena an apologetic stare before she was already out the door.

        In a flash, Davina's backside was pressed against the opened door with a hard thud. Klaus held her by the neck, seizing to scare her by his threatening presence. "What kind of trick are you playing, Davina? Do you think I can be easily fooled? Do you not fear your worthless life?" He tightened his hand as she fought out his hold. She even sank her fingers between so that she could breathe.

       "I did the spell like you asked!" Davina cried out.

        Elijah sped towards the abrupt commotion while Rebekah took a hesitant step forward, in an attempt to pull Klaus from off Davina before he did anything he'd regret, but his grip loosened from her neck as an enormous amount of pain surged his brain. He fell to his knees while gripping his head like a maniac. His groans of pain and her lifted hand allowed them to put together the pieces.

        Davina stumbled back as she caught her breath, rubbing her now red neck, eyes frantic on the other siblings in case they were going to try her. They held their ground. "Look, Deena's my friend. And as much as I wish I had sabotaged the spell and made your lives miserable, it wouldn't be fair to her and I wouldn't be able to live with the guilt. She is your daughter whether you like it or not. And if you don't believe me, fine! Find another witch who's willing to do the spell. Not that you have many to call. I'm outta here."

        The pain stopped as soon as Davina left the room. Klaus fell to the floor relieved of his torment. He will have his chance to murder that witch with his own bare hands someday. For now, he was focused on regaining his consciousness.

         Elijah was already at his side to help him up. "Niklaus—"

        "I don't need your help!" He pushed away his brother's helping hand and stood on his own. Everyone stood in silence. Klaus took one last look at Deena and fled the room within seconds.

        Elijah sighed.

        "How is this possible, Elijah?" Rebekah asked, staring at the child trying to find the similarities. There were a few, the same Elijah pointed out earlier, but it was hard to believe the child was real. "Despite him being a hybrid...is—is this natural? Is she truly his offspring? And If so, can he produce more?"

        "This is all new to me as it is for you, but spells cannot lie. And I trust Davina. She is a hundred percent Klaus's offspring. Now for the lather, I will have to look into that."

        She stopped at his side. "But—"

        "I said I will look into it," Rebekah recognized that tone and held off from asking any more questions that couldn't be easily answered. "Why don't you find the child something she can wear when she awakens? I will go find our brother and talk some sense into him."

        Without a word, Rebekah sped over to where Deena's luggage sat to look for come clean clothes.

        "And Rebekah?"

        She glanced up with a hum.

        He motioned his finger around the room. "Make sure the house is empty before she awakens. We don't need an incident to occur or a hungry vampire's blood on our hands."

        She rolled her eyes. "I'm always stuck with babysitting when I can do more than that," She whined. "The child I can do, but a house of pre-war vampires? They are already a pain in the ass."

        "Just get it done."

        She rolled her eyes and continued to search through Deena's clothes.

━━━━━━ ━━━━━━

       𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 entering the bar he sat at to drain his sorrows in. It was only a matter of time before Elijah tracked him down. He never ventured out of his usual locations and his secretive spots were a work in process. Bringing up his empire took up the majority of his time having to fight through an army of vampires loyal to his dear Marcel. Of course, he couldn't bring himself to kill the boy he raised to make an example out of him, so he let him flee.

        But none of that seemed to matter now that he found out he's a father.

        Father.

        A strange title he couldn't force himself to withhold. And instead of believing his forced reality, he decided to drink forth to a past he lived before the child was a thing. His glorious days he might call it.

        "You learn of the existence of your child and yet you sit here to drink it away?" Elijah swiftly made his way toward Klaus.

        Klaus placed down his 5th empty glass of whiskey and released a stressful sigh upon Elijah's disturbing question. "I do not wish to hear your nagging, brother unless you have come to join me?" With his head dangled over the glass-stained counters, he signal the waiter to pour him another glass.

        Elijah then unbuttoned his jacket and ordered the waiter to serve him another round of whiskey as he took his seat next to him. They sat in silence. But knowing Elijah, he couldn't hold off the conversation any longer.

        "What are you thinking, Niklaus?"

        "I think of nothing. But I do think I need a stronger drink, don't you agree?" Klaus was clearly bothered by the question and ordered stronger liquor he could drown in, which meant there was something on his mind. Elijah knew what it was, but understood his tough-hearted brother needed a little push.

        "Your expression tells me otherwise." He thanked the waiter who placed down his drink, and took a small sip before he continued. "Are you afraid you will become a bad father?"

        "And so she has gotten to you with her puny lies? Oh, the Noble Elijah." Klaus mocked his title with a scoff. "The Elijah I knew would not be easily swayed by an amenable spell performed by the very witch who has tried to kill me more than twice and more to come in the future. A spell so that she can forge a weakness to catch me off guard when I have no weaknesses to be used!"

        "And the brother I know would never be troubled with such matter if you truly believe her spell was purged." Klaus's heart thudded faster than its usual speedy pace, which Elijah heard or else he wouldn't have continued his boring speech. "No matter how you feel or what Davina's true intentions are, I do trust her and I trust she would not lie about something as great as this. Think about it, Niklaus, the girl's mother disappeared without a trace and when you asked of her to be located, the witch could not find her on any map which meant she was either cloaked or dead. A cloaking spell is only used when you want to hide from someone or you have something to hide."

        "Yes, thank you, Elijah, for explaining to me the usage of a cloaking spell. Care to explain how to have a quiet drink without your brother pestering him with bogus ideas next?"

        Elijah sighed. "I wish you would not joke for once."

        Elijah wasn't phased when Klaus slammed his glass against the counter and faced his brother with an irritated look on his face. "Well, how else should I process this kind of information, brother? Shall we light a candle in a dark room, stare each other in the eyes, drink from goats' blood, then share our darkest fears and insecurities with one another?" He offered, humor on his tongue.

        Elijah wore no smile on his face at his brother's silly offer. "I wish you would be honest with me for once and not hold up such a wall as if I am here to shame you of the very thing I want you to have—a family."

        He faced the counter with the glass already at his lips. It was beginning to taste like water. "I already have a family." He boasted.

        "And now you have a daughter, who is family."

        The glass pressed heavily on his bottom lip when he suddenly froze. His eyes grew big hearing the D-word and family placed into the same sentence, no longer able to hold up his glass or Elijah would see his hand was shaking. Turning his head to control himself or Elijah would catch the glossy glint filling his vision. Forcing his heartbeat to slow or Elijah would detect his anxiety. A new weakness. One he kept struggling to deny.

        Elijah made a good point about Vanessa because anyone who knew her knew she would never run from anything not even Klaus himself, but of course because of his nature, the thought never crossed his mind. He only assumed it was because of him, not the result of an action they both consented to.

        Klaus could still feel his brother's stare. He knew that if he didn't say something now—the absolute truth behind the wall he kept gluing up—Elijah would get it out of him one way or another. And frankly, he just needed an ear to hear him out. And since Cami was not in viewpoint, he had no choice but to open up to his brother.

        "Fine, you win. You want to know how I feel about becoming a father? I am petrified."

       He finally faced Elijah who had been waiting all day for this exact moment to unfold, only to feel guilty for pressing the matter. But it was what he wanted, and Klaus would give him just that.

        "Given the lack of fatherliness I received, I don't believe the subject is far-fetched. I mean, the girl is practically a young adult, what do I have in common with her? I have lived a self-ruled life of volition and a deep crave for violence as I rain hell upon my enemies, to suddenly become a father of a teenager in less than an hour?" He scoffed. His eyes suddenly black with anger while gulping down his drink in one sip and slammed the glass (almost breaking it) against the counter which caught a little attention. "Her mother knew of this knowledge yet she decided to keep it from me. Just wait until I track her down, she will never hear the last of me."

        Elijah was finally able to understand a piece of Klaus's mind. There is potential and he was already showing it despite his crave for harming the child's mother. "You have missed her childhood; her first word, her first steps, her early years of growth and you feel guilty for that. But now you have a chance to miss no more of her development. This can be a new beginning for us all, for you, Niklaus. Maybe this isn't a bad thing."

        "What if..." He swallowed hard. "What if I'm not ready? What if I'm not...good at this? Good enough? I have no experience of this sort and I don't always have the best interest of whomever I come across."

        Elijah is taken back at his vulnerability and placed his hand on his shoulder as a form of comfort. "No one is ever ready for fatherhood, it just happens. But you are not alone in this, you have me and Rebekah at your side. Together we shall find a way. Always and forever." He smiled warmly.

         For a moment, both brothers shared the weight of Klaus's fears. Hope sparked in his eyes and with comfort he knew his brother would always be at his side no matter the gravity of the situation and it made him feel a little less lonely. Almost happy even, until he remembered Zoeè and the silly prophecy she spoke of conjured out of ignorance, and the witches who seek to fulfill it by sacrificing Deena.

        He stood to his feet with a mission written on his face. "Enough milking my sorrows, brother, I have Camille for that. Because we," While placing down his bill, "have a long list of witches to kill."

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

If you like what you read and wish to read more of this fic, you can read HERE

[prose-for-hire]

Face your demon

Pairing: Spike x reader

Request: Could you do A Spike x reader where the reader is in love with him, but doesn't show her emotions (except for getting easily flustered around him), but Spike overhears hears her talking to willow about it and he confronts her, ending in them being together?

Requested by: @wiccanindigo​

Requested tags: @fictionalhoomanofnowhere @artsymaddie​ @shy-ginger-in-the-graveyard​ @cameo-greaves​

​You were pretty neutral in public. Your face rarely shifted other than to a polite smile or perhaps a confused frown should the moment take you by surprise. Other than this human reaction, you would usually maintain a resting face. One that appeared to most as if you didn’t wish to be in their company. Or anywhere at all really.

You felt a lot. You really cared about your friends, the people you loved. It was just near-impossible to express this. At least, in a way that you were comfortable. It was much easier to hold people at a distance. That way, you didn’t risk rejection. Or painful, bitter emotions that you didn’t enjoy.

So, you tended to hide your emotional side completely. Rather than wrestle with articulating the way you felt. It wasn’t necessarily a conscious decision, just one that you lived with. You struggled expressing your emotions – not only on your face but also verbally. Any way, really. It could be so hard.

Luckily for you though, you had some very caring and empathetic friends. The Scoobies. They understood and gave you the time you needed – between fighting apocalypses of course.

You were sat in the Magic box with all of your friends around you. Buffy, Willow, Xander, Anya, Tara and Giles. You were characteristically just staring into the centre of the room as the usual antics played out around you.

You contributed now and again although not as passionately as the others, it must be said. You tended to bounce off of someone else’s point and repeat it if you agreed with it with a shrug. As if you would rather be anywhere but there.

You weren’t shy. In fact you came across as the complete opposite. Cool, collected. Near apathetic should your friends not understand how deeply you truly did care – you just didn’t express it as much as most. There was no need to gush in your book. You weren’t one to keep your heart on your sleeve and make the entire room look at it.

Well, that was until him.

Spike ran in, slamming the door shut behind him. It slammed so hard the entire store shook and he sauntered in as if it was nothing. It made the corners of your mouth tug into an almost-smile but you looked down to avoid anyone seeing.

There he was, your weakness. The one that could render you speechless. A flustered mess. A heat would rise in your cheeks and your voice would appear weak and just wholly unlike yourself.

You had it bad. He always did this, walking in with that swagger. Those cheekbones. That look…

His eyes were straight on you. As they always were. You were a mystery to him, one he was so desperate to figure out. You had noticed the way he always made his way to you. The way he dropped his voice and made comments about the others in the room in the hopes of you cracking a smile.

You spoke to him as much as you could, but often your words failed you. You didn’t want to give anything away. Couldn’t. You didn’t want him to tease you, reject you in such a painful way.

He was Spike, after all. He could have anyone he wanted you were sure of it.

The point was, though, that he wanted you. And you were too wrapped up in focusing on how to breath properly when he was around that you didn’t notice.

Spike found your resting face beautifully morbid. He found you to be strong-willed and the very little he sensed or heard from you he found himself clinging to. You would be stamped onto his brain for the rest of his un-life, he was sure of it.

He was in so deep. Thought about you constantly. Wanted to know what you were doing, what you were thinking. Imagined himself by your side. Taking you into his bed… oh, and I won’t even start on the dreams. They left him aching. Such deep, unending desire. For you. God, it could only ever be you.

“Alright, pet? Don’t rush to say you missed me, written on your face already” He smouldered in that way he did. Hoping for any kind of reaction.

You looked up at him before immediately looking away. A ghost of a smile on your face as you shifted in your seat. He took this as an invitation to sit beside you and so he did.

“Hi Spike” You just about managed before your voice wavered. You didn’t like the way he rendered you this flustered mess. But, at the same time you couldn’t help but completely love it.

Your usual cool demeanour gone. Lost in those beautiful eyes of his. You could happily live in his eyes for the rest of your life.

You managed to position yourself in your seat in such a way that meant he made up most of you vision, without it looking glaringly obvious to anyone else. He lived in your peripheral vision. At least this way a little part of him was yours.

You became a little brave and moved your eyes to look at him properly, no longer just from the side. He was beautiful. The way that t-shirt clung perfectly to his torso. The way his leather duster managed to land in such a relaxed way on his shoulders. Effortless cool. Or, that’s what you assumed.

You loved him. His looks. His personality. Just everything. You couldn’t escape it.

Something snapped you out of staring. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on you. Staring.

“Huh?” You asked, feeling a heat rise in your cheeks as he turned to face you properly too. You had apparently managed to miss the entire meeting. Not one scrap of the plan had entered your head. You were consumed by him instead.

“Y/n? You sure that’s okay?”

“We’ll be fine on patrol, right love?” Spike smirked at the rest of the room and raised an eyebrow which made everyone reconsider.

“We can switch if evil dead makes you uncomfortable” Xander offered kindly which made spike glare. He wanted you to himself.

“No that’s good- uh, fine. It’s fine. I’ll patrol with Spike” you rushed out at a completely different pace than anyone was used to hearing you speak.

What you were supposed to be looking for, you didn’t know. You hadn’t been listening just focusing on regulating your breathing. Wiping the sweat from your palms at the proximity. He was sat so close to you. You wanted to just lean against him. Whisper how you felt.

You and Spike walked out into the cool night air. Mostly in silence, although you could almost hear the cogs in his mind whirring to come up with something to say. You didn’t realise but he was trying to impress you. Trying to get you to smile. He loved it when you smiled. Near melted.

He then finally asked something he had so wanted to say to you. For such a long time.

“We could, uh, blow this off, go for a drink?” He let the proposition hang in the air.

You didn’t even begin to consider this had been something more than a teasing joke because he didn’t want to be stuck patrolling anymore. Just wanted to rebel against Buffy’s sudden authority in his life.

“Yeah, because I’ve always thought you’d look great with a redwood through your chest” You spoke, referring to what Buffy would do to him should he leave you or the demon to run through the streets.

“Pet-”

“It’d make a pretty accessory. Bring out your eyes” You deadpanned and he just stared. Why were you like this? Why did your flirting so quickly descend into just being rude?

It was like a disease. You were riddled with it. Any sense that your mouth would spill the contents of your mind and something took over. Possessed you, began to say the very opposite of what you wished to say.

You wanted him to ask you out for a drink. Tell you that you looked nice, that he felt lucky to have someone like you to take out. Have on his arm. Show off. You wanted to loop your arms around him and embrace him. Kiss his lips. Have him in your bed. His body yours and only yours.

But, instead, you had just told him he would look better dead. Or, well, more dead. He had taken this as a firm no, you didn’t want to go out with him. He looked upwards, trying to stop the stinging at the back of his eyes before he nodded firmly and just shrugged.

“Whatever, let’s find this vamp”

Oh, right. It was a vampire. You were supposed to be looking for a vampire. That at least narrowed it down… kind of.

Both of you took turns in glancing at the person beside them. So desperately wishing to touch them. Have some kind of intimacy. It was hard having the one that you loved so close and yet emotionally so far away.

There was a distance. A canyon between you that you both wished to cross. But it was so hard. There would be no turning back.

You never caught up with the vampire you were meant to find and Spike walked you home instead when it got too late. You tried to thank him for the gesture but he had turned and walked away. Licking his wound at the rejection you had inflicted upon him without realising.

Despite the fact you had hurt him though, he had needed to make sure you got in safe. Protecting you from harm meant everything even if you wouldn’t give him the time of day.

It had been a couple of days since this unwitting rejection and you and Willow had arrived early waiting to meet with the others at the Magic Box. Giles had gone to pick up some order sat the back. Which left just you and your friend. Well, that’s what you thought anyway.

She was the only one that knew how you felt for Spike. She had seen you watching him, a new expression unlocked on your face. As if she had won a quest or something in a video game and been allowed to see it.

Conversation had quickly turned to this man that you were so in love with it managed to fluster even you. You near hid your face from your friend at even the implication you liked him. But you were comfortable that Willow was being supportive.

You discussed that you liked him. Truly admitted it out loud for the first time. Not realising that the man himself was stood around the corner listening. He loved to hear your voice and so had stayed back because you seemed to speak less in his company.

Spike’s jaw tensed as he heard you talking about this mystery man though. He had never heard you gush this way before. Stumbling over your words to describe such longing. You usually appeared so calm, collected. He wished to be the one that sent you weak at the knees in the way that this nameless idiot did. He guessed it was probably Xander.

Stupid bloody Xander. Gormless nit.

“Maybe, uh, you should tell him? You can’t know his feelings unless you try” Willow offered.

Spike guiltily hoped that you would have to face rejection so that he could comfort you instead. Spend more time with you, prove to you that you could trust him with your emotions. He so longed to have your attention. Your trust.

“I can’t… I-it’s too hard” You sighed and his spirits lifted, maybe this would be his chance instead. While you tried to build up your courage, he could show you how much you meant to him. How much he wanted you.

Nothing could have prepared him for what came out of your mouth next. There had been only a slight pause while you sifted through your emotions.

“He’s so- he’s… he’s Spike” You had no other description other than this spike-ness was all that you wanted. You near craved it. But also these words explained how hard it was. How trying to speak to him was near impossible. Willow nodded in understanding and patted your shoulder sympathetically.

“It could be good for you, y’know? Facing your, uh, demon…” Willow’s voice dried up. Turned into a little squeak. You looked up, confused.

There he was, as if your longing had been a magnet to the man himself. Your eyes bulged and your mouth opened in shock. The most your face had ever given away.

Willow stumbled over some excuse that neither Spike nor you heard before she left for the exit. Allowing you to both speak.

“I’m the bloke you’ve been harpin’ on about?” He said slowly. He did this only because he wanted to hear it from your mouth again. As if he wasn’t entirely sure if he had dreamed it or not.

“We don’t have to make it into a big deal… I’m sure I’ll, uh, get over it” You tried, avoiding the rejection you could feel coming.

“Don’t” He said quickly, “God, please bloody don’t get over it. You’d break a poor dead man’s heart if you did”

“What?” You asked, frowning in confusion. He couldn’t possibly feel the same way… could he?

“Don’t be daft, love. Asked you for a drink didn’t I? Trailed after you despite you not even pretending to take an interest. Been there just in the nick of time before somethin’ nasty ate you?” He reeled off things he had pretty much done in the last fourty-eight hours. It made you gasp with surprise. How had you missed this? “Tell me I haven’t bent over bloody backwards for even a shred of your affection,”

“Spike…” You looked away, it was so hard. You didn’t even know how to begin to say what you needed to.

“Please, don’t shy away. Can’t stand it when your eyes wander…”

“Spike, I…” He took your hand, nodding subtly to show that he was there. That he liked you, that he needed to hear it. Whatever it may be, “I love you”

Spike pulled you into him immediately, knowing this must have bee hard for you. He was beginning to understand. You were like him, petrified of the rejection. The idea that the one that held such promise and stirred such feeling could ruin everything. You restored his faith in love. Rekindled his affections for the notion as well as confirming that he loved you too.

He crashed his lips to yours, his reply to your words communicated in this way. And you understood completely. Lips moving against yours, a display of affection only for you. he was firm in his love but so very tender. He embraced you close, a hand along the small of your back that made you shiver and lean further into him. Deepening this perfect kiss.

You parted, somewhat reluctantly and just gazed at the other for a moment before he spoke.

“I’m just glad you don’t have eyes for the whelp” Spike grinned and it made your face brighten. A smile. One that he savoured as you rolled your eyes at him being so pleased you liked him more than Xander.

He took your hand in his and sauntered beside you. Chest puffed out and proud to have you by his side. As if you had just gifted him the entire world.

Now you just had to break it to your friends. There was no way you would be hiding this.

[one-boring-person]

Would you ever do a part 2 to Six Bodies In An Alley.

I'm gonna be honest, I never really had any intention of carrying on with this, but I went back and read it again and came up with this, so enjoy!😊💛

Six Bodies In An Alley. (Part Two)

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: death, blood, being held captive

Masterlist

"What should we do with her?" Dwayne's question sends yet another bolt of dread through me as he speaks, fear coursing through me like great torrents of ice. 

The four...creatures…stand before the sofa, looking down on me as if it's my own fault I'm here. At one time, I might've made a joke about the way they're standing, but now I doubt I'll ever be able to poke fun at them ever again, not after what I've seen, after what they've done. Tears threaten to spill out over my cheeks as I recall the gruesome images of the past hour, grief tearing at my heart at the memory of what happened to my brother. Cold sorrow washes over me and I have to fight back a sob, making a strangled sound that catches their attention. Under their gazes, I cower and feel yet more terror flood my system, as well as a hot flare of disgust: they haven't even cleaned the gore off of themselves. 

"Just let me go, please! Please! I won't tell anyone, I swear, just let me go! Don't hurt me, please!" I plead with them, my voice laced with the debilitating fear in my veins. 

"No, we can't risk that." David shakes his head, cold blue eyes fixed on me, "You're staying with us either way."

"No, please...I'll do anything! Just let me go!" I beg him, my heart racing as I try to reason with him.

"No, you're staying here." He snaps back firmly, his sharp tone drawing a whimper of fear from me.

Cold fear floods me as I think over what he is saying: I'm basically a prisoner. What're they going to do with me? 

I shudder as the answer comes to mind.

"Aw, come on, Doll, it ain't so bad." Paul grins lopsidedly at me, the expression not quite carrying the same warmth I used to love seeing on him. 

I look away, my hands clutching at each other in my lap, fingernails digging into my skin enough to break the skin. 

"Ok, but how are we gonna keep her here? She'll just escape as soon as the sun comes up." Marko says, gesturing to my trembling form.

The four stare down at me again, seemingly considering the question until Dwayne speaks again.

"Lets just tie her up to something. That should work well enough." 

His words send another bolt of ice through me, but there's something in what Marko said that strikes a chord within me - why did he bring up the sun? 

Instantly, it hits me, weak hope sparking to life within me at the knowledge. The boys are quite clearly vampires, and so they must have an aversion to the sun, just like the ones in the old books do. A plan starts to form in my head, and I start hoping they can't mind read as well, knowing it will give me away as Marko approaches me with a rope, a smirk on his face. I let him manhandle me into position, watching as he ties my wrist a nearby fallen beam, securing it tightly so I have very little room to move, but not so that my circulation is restricted. 

As he finishes the blonde vampire steps back and David comes forward, a stern look on his face. 

"You better still be here when we wake up." He growls threateningly at me, before he and the others turn and leave through a nearby tunnel.

*

An angry ring has appeared around my wrist as I rub at it, wincing from the burning sting of the rope I only just managed to force off of my arm, the area flushed and irritated. It had taken me far too long to work the ties off of me, but I had to be careful not to break the skin or draw blood, in case I woke up the boys. Now, I'm regretting not finding another way of freeing myself as my hand burbs, but I do my best to ignore it, shakily climbing up and out onto the top of the Bluff, glad to feel the strong rays of the sun on my face. I never thought it would be as reassuring as it is now, but the relentless light makes me feel somewhat safer. 

Sighing, I look around for a way to get to civilization, chewing my lip as I do so, not coming up with any ideas. That is, until I see the boys' bikes pushed behind a nearby tree. Immediately, I feel a shot of hope go through me, and I rush over to them, picking one out. I can't remember whose it is, but I have to fight back a cry of relief when the engine instantly starts up again, the bike ready to take me back into town. 

Kicking it into action, I try to remember how I've been taught this, shakily riding off along the line of the cliff, back to the tree line the boys so often come out of when they're racing along the beach. I instantly regret this as I find myself trying to navigate the tight spaces and convoluted area, practically having to hold back a cheer of relief when the trees break off to reveal the beach, which I quickly speed onto. Sand flies up around me as I thunder along the expanse of land, the motorcycle's tyres struggling to grip as it travels over the loose material. Gritting my teeth, I ride the vehicle right up to the Boardwalk, ignoring the shouts of protest from beach-goers. 

Upon reaching the Boardwalk, I gun the engine once more, going along the sidewalk at high-speed, nearly hitting a couple of holiday makers as I do so. Heart pumping, I take the bike directly to my home, breaking about eight different traffic laws as I go, uncaring of the consequences this will bring once I'm out of this mess. As I get to my house, I park the motorbike out the front and race inside, slamming the door behind me. 

My mind goes into survival-mode, and I run upstairs, pulling a rucksack from my wardrobe, which I start to stuff with clothes and essential items, throwing in personal items, too. I check the time as I go, panic flaring up in me as I notice that there's only a few hours left before sundown, meaning I don't have much time left to get as far away from here as possible. Taking as much stuff as I need, I swiftly go back downstairs, looking around the place one last time before I duck back outside, going to the bike. 

It's only now that I realise I took David's motorbike, a fact I barely register as I climb back onto it, starting up the engine again. 

This time, I stick to the laws of the road, not wanting to be pulled over by any traffic police, cursing to myself as I get caught in traffic, my time slowly starting to ebb away. It takes a long while, but eventually I manage to get here so need to be: the Santa Carla Bus and Train Station. 

I leave the bike at the front of the large building, uncaring of what happens to it now that I no longer need it, more worried about simply getting away now that the opportunity to do so is so close. People shout in protest as I push past them, but I just go right to the ticket desk, buying passage out of this town. The ticket terminates in Canada, a fact that reassures me, as it means I can get as far away as I like without needing to stop anywhere else. 

A couple of hours later, and I'm watching the last rays of sunlight disappear over the horizon, my paranoia creeping up on me again as I watch this happen. The bus never got out as quickly as I wanted it to, and now we're only just leaving Santa Carla, meaning there is ample time for my four captors to catch up to me.

Thankfully, nothing comes for a good hour or so, the bus chuntering away down the highway, the passengers (all five of them) keeping blissfully quiet, none of them aware of the panic I'm in. I can feel myself finally starting to relax again, just as the bus suddenly stops. 

Looking out of the window, I notice now that there aren't any other cars on the road outside, and that it's completely dark, making it impossible to see anything. The other passengers start to murmur to themselves, glancing around in as much confusion as I feel, only to cry out in surprise when the lights cut out. 

It feels as if I've blacked out, everything going horribly quiet until I hear the first scream of agony. It's the driver, his voice wailing in a blood-curdling manner until it's drowned out by another person's, the cry a definite female sound. Terror explodes inside me, and I immediately know what's happening, though I can't move, the fear freezing me in place as shrieks of pain, followed by sickeningly wet sounds fill the air, my breathing coming hard and fast as I try not to make much of a sound. 

The lights eventually come back on, and I have to fight not to throw up into my lap at the grim sight around me. Four figures stand amongst the gore, faces twisted into snarling sneers. 

"I thought we told you to stay put?' David growls at me.

[wickedmilo]

TWILIGHT TALK IS PROHIBITED | MILO & EDDIE

PLACE: Eddie’s apartment TIMING: A looong time ago SUMMARY: Milo begrudgingly helps Eddie with his research on vampires WRITING PARTNER: @specterchasing CONTENT WARNINGS: Drug tw, addiction tw, substance abuse tw

Eddie’s legs bent at the knees underneath the coffee table as he opened a tattered leather-bound book placed atop the reclaimed wood. A bottle of vodka and a pitcher of lemonade sat close by, ready to refill his and Milo’s glasses when the time came. Jack White sang softly in the background; a song about youth and friendship. Eddie put it on tonight’s playlist with Milo in mind, hoping it brought him some added familiarity. He imagined his undead friend didn’t encounter much of that anymore, death made a habit out of confiscating comfort. 

His glasses slid halfway down his nose as he skimmed the text only for him to quickly push them up again in mild irritation. “It’s in here somewhere,” he mumbled. Eddie’s elbow rested on the table with his hand pushing hair away from his forehead. He looked more dishevelled than usual, a common occurrence when he shifted into research mode. Most people didn’t get a chance to see him like this, not that they made an effort to. 

“Got it,” he announced, letting his hand fall from his face. “Older, stronger vampires may have additional skills such as enthrallment, transforming into mist or bats, and throwing their voice,” Eddie read the text out loud before looking up at Milo. “Like I said, vampires are basically party city magicians with an allergy to sunlight. That’s why they do so well in Vegas.” He punctuated his sentence with a sip of his drink. 

Teaching Milo about vampires felt strange all things considered, but he needed to bring the subject to the forefront. The more normal it felt to talk about, the more likely Milo would be to tell him the truth—or, so he hoped. 

He studied Milo’s face for a moment and suddenly grinned. “I just realized we match tonight.” Eddie tapped the frame of his glasses. Why vampirism didn’t negate eyesight problems was beyond him, but he liked the emphasis they put on Milo’s eyes. 

Sprawled lazily on Eddie’s couch, cocktail in hand (if you could call lemonade and vodka a cocktail), Milo felt more at home than he had in weeks. He was comfortable, content just to enjoy his friend’s company, even if the subject they were studying wasn’t exactly one he was able to enjoy. Taking a sip on his straw, still scanning the book resting in his lap, the only way he was managing to stay so calm was by putting some distance between himself and the information. If he read it quickly, and made no effort to actually process what he was reading, then he may as well be reading a math book, or a book on structuring essays. Part of him wished, more than anything, that Eddie wasn’t so determined to learn more about vampires. Literally any other supernatural creature and he could throw himself into the research. But his subtle coping strategy needed to be enough for now. The alcohol dulling his sense of anxiety, and the resurfacing memories of his violent death, he focused on the sound of the White Stripes, unable to believe Eddie remembered how much he enjoyed them.  

“What is it you’re looking for again?” He asked, pulling a few pages of loose notes out of his book, setting them carefully on the coffee table so they wouldn’t get crumpled. “I’m telling you, Rio made me watch Twilight and it has all the information you could ever need.” Grinning at Eddie, taking in his tousled hair, and the glint in his eye that he only ever seemed to get when he was searching desperately for information, he felt a rush of affection, followed by a familiar wave of guilt. It still plagued him, the voice in the back of his mind telling him he should be honest. But it wasn’t an option, there were too many things holding him back. The most recent being the sense of normalcy his friend somehow helped him sink into. Would they still have that if suddenly Eddie was asking about his diet, and his fangs? His aversion to sunlight? Even with Orion things were different. Rio was a hunter, they were clinging to the same lifeboat. Eddie was human. Perfectly, beautifully human. And sometimes, when he was with him, he managed to feel human too.  

“Oh, hilarious.” he deadpanned, sitting up a little straighter to glance over at what Eddie was reciting from. “That is such bullshit, there’s no way anybody can actually turn into a bat.” At least, he didn’t think there was. Honestly, he was starting to wonder whether anything might be impossible. “Also humans can throw their voice so, you know… not that impressive.” He added, taking another long sip of his drink. Confused for a brief moment, he only realised what Eddie meant when he pointedly tapped at his glasses, and he laughed sheepishly, pushing his own further up his nose. “Yeah, yeah, I know… the nerd Milo is back. I lost my glasses the night I-” He broke off, his grip tightening on his glass as he realised how close to tipsy he was. Maybe he should slow down a little. “I got- I got way too drunk…” He finished his sentence, playing off the comment as casual. It wasn’t technically untrue. “Woke up in an old building... glasses nowhere to be seen.” He caught Eddie’s eye, offering him a smile to counter the dark truth behind what he was saying. He couldn’t think about that right now, he didn’t want to think about that. “I finally picked up a new pair… I took a photo of you to the opticians and told them I wanted to be as hot as you are. They gave me a set of your frames.”  

“I’m thinking about getting a sign that says any and all Twilight talk is strictly prohibited within this apartment,” Eddie mused, but a telltale grin tugged at the corners of his lips. He liked that Milo still made jokes, even about this. Take away his sense of humor and he wouldn’t be the same person Eddie spent years trying to impress. He tried not to think about how important Milo’s attention used to be almost as much as he tried not to let it matter that much again. His efforts were fruitless, of course, but he liked to pretend he had a say in the matter. 

Bullshit. Eddie laughed at the response, delighted to fall back into their old routine so effortlessly. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point I’m trying to make,” he said, referring to Milo labeling vampires as unimpressive. “Vampires aren’t that different from humans. Higher vamps, at least. Blood and shadows, big deal. They’re still just like us in the ways that actually count.” Referring to Milo as human was easier than he thought it would be, maybe because that’s what he’d known him as for so long. “I’ve known plenty of people who like their steaks rare and prefer working night shifts, it doesn’t mean they’re monsters.” 

Eddie took another drink, deeper this time, and felt the alcohol swirl his thoughts with heightened efficiency. So far, he’d been taking it easy. Eager as Milo was to see him drunk, Eddie didn’t look forward to the behavioral shift. People thought he came on too strongly sober; they had no idea how much he held back until he had a few drinks in him. 

The story Milo told left Eddie with questions. It made sense and sounded legitimate enough, but a nagging thought induced suspicion. Before he could press, however, Milo blindsided him. His cheeks burned even though he knew full-well it was sarcasm. “It’s not healthy to set unrealistic standards like that for yourself,” he replied, trying not to show his embarrassment. “It’s a good look though, even if it doesn’t compare to the original.” He gestured to himself with a flourish of his wrist, quickly avoiding eye contact by taking another drink. 

“Honestly, I’ve had enough of that franchise to last me a lifetime… or two lifetimes.” Milo admitted. “But the jokes are too good… I can’t stop myself, it’s becoming like, a legitimate problem.” For someone who supposedly didn’t enjoy the series, he couldn’t seem to stop bringing it up. He enjoyed the way it made people laugh. The way it made what he was feel more trivial, and light-hearted. Not failing to notice the way Eddie’s lips curved as he struggled to repress a smile, he decided immediately that all talk of Twilight definitely wasn’t prohibited within his apartment. “You think vampires are unimpressive?” He raised his eyebrows, settling back down against the couch cushions behind him. “Maybe don’t say that to any big scary ones.” He was careful with his words, not wanting to imply he was human any more than he needed to. It felt too much like lying when he looked into Eddie’s eyes. And considering he himself was far from a big scary vampire, he figured it was a fair comment to make.  

Faltering a moment, genuinely taken aback by Eddie’s perspective, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. This was Eddie. He already knew the way he saw the world, he had seen his many, many Youtube videos. If anybody was going to sympathise with the supernatural, it was the boy sitting opposite him. But it still meant more than he could know. Especially after Dani, and her harsh, unforgiving worldview. Stopping himself, before he could say thank you and completely give himself away, he took another drink to delay his response. Allowing a few beats of silence to pass, he composed his expression, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip. “Yeah… I agree.” He admitted, curious to hear more about the bloody steaks. “Is this a werewolf reference?” He asked. “Look, if we’re changing the species you need to give me a heads up, otherwise I’m going to get lost.”  

Glancing up at Eddie, his face flushing red, the scent of blood became stronger as it rushed to the surface of his skin. Pointedly ignoring the shift, focusing instead on the strong, almost overwhelming scent of vodka, it wasn’t too difficult for him to stay grounded. “Hm, maybe you’re right. The hair is probably unattainable.” He laughed at his own joke. “And honestly, probably responsible for 70 percent of your views. You know that, right?”  

“Becoming?” Eddie teased. “You’ve been talking about that series since high school. I’m starting to think you’re a genuine Twihard.” He remembered the comments about sparkling vampires, remnants of a time when Milo had some innocence to spare. Eddie’s smile faltered at the thought. He had so many questions, so much pent up anxiety over what happened to his friend. Did it hurt, were you scared, are you safe now? His concern contributed to why he wanted Milo around so often. Keeping him close meant no slayers. If hunger struck him, Eddie had that covered simply by being alive. “You see any big scary vampires around here?” Eddie asked, glancing around the room with a smirk. Milo didn’t need to know how worried he was, not yet. 

Eddie watched as Milo chewed on his bottom lip, wondering what he must be thinking. Talking about vampires, especially their moral standing, couldn’t have been easy. He hoped he wasn’t the only one reminding Milo that he still deserved his place in the world. When he agreed, Eddie let out a breath of relief. It felt like he did something right. “You’ll get lost either way, Summers,” he said with raised brows. 

“There’s more to me than my hair and my viewers know that,” Eddie corrected him pointedly. “I also have an irresistibly cherubic face and endless sex appeal.” By some miracle, he managed to keep a straight face for a few seconds after his shameless display of egotism. He meant it as a joke, for the most part. Tonight should have been about vampires, he supposed it was for a moment, but vodka had other plans. “And there’s the first sign I’ve already drank too much,” he asked, grinning apologetically. 

“Fuck you, I hadn’t even seen it back then.” Milo laughed, unable to deny what Eddie was saying. Technically he did bring it up whenever Eddie decided to talk about vampires, but to make him laugh. In the same way he was trying to amuse him now. Laughing again, the irony of Eddie’s question was too great to ignore, and he made a show of scanning the room. “I do not.” He agreed. “Unless you’re a vampire and you’re just not telling me?” There it was again, the guilt weighing on his shoulders. It shouldn’t be hard to keep the information to himself, to be selfish. He had always been selfish. But something about it this time felt so wrong, as though he genuinely had no justification. Eddie was a good person, who fought so hard for what he believed in. And here he was, not-living proof of the fact that his friend was right. Eddie’s years of facing ridicule and skepticism weren’t for nothing.  

Pulled out of his thoughts by the following comment, he offered a tired smile. “Yeah, that’s probably true.” He admitted, struggling not to dwell on how lost he already felt. In every element of his life, he was lost. A few people were trying to show him the way. Luis, Harsh, Rio, Macleod… and it definitely made things easier. But when he looked to his future he still just saw an endless nothing. A terrifying void. He wasn’t sure when, or if, that was ever going to change. “At least you’re with me though, right? You’ll keep me safe from the steak-eating night dwellers?” He teased, hoping to make light of the situation. He didn’t want this, he wanted to avoid thinking about what he was, and just enjoy Eddie’s company. Not for the first time he wondered whether he really should have insisted on studying another creature. 

His smile growing as Eddie continued to joke about his hair, he finished what was left of his drink. As far as he was concerned, the more alcohol there was in his system, the easier it would be for him to stay in the moment. To pay attention to his friend without getting lost in his thoughts each time something managed to trigger an emotional response. “Oh, I think it’s a sign that you haven’t drunk enough.” He countered. “I want to hear more about your sex appeal.” 

Eddie let out a clap of laughter at his friend’s rebuttal. Something about hearing Milo say ‘fuck you’ never failed to amuse him. With how much his parents hated cursing, it felt like a minor act of rebellion even hearing language like that spoken so casually. “Definitely not a vampire,” Eddie said through pursed lips. He wished things were easier for Milo, that trust would come more easily to him, but he understood why that wasn’t the case. “Believe me, I wouldn’t last a single night as one with the way I run my mouth.” He meant it. Eddie had a lot of respect for any supernatural creature who managed to survive a world hellbent on either denying their existence or ending it.

When Milo led the conversation towards his safety, Eddie felt a pang in his chest. The comment had been light-hearted, more of a joke than anything else, but it hurt to know he couldn’t admit to how badly he wanted to protect him. Not that he could even if he tried. In a way, he already failed once. “Exactly,” Eddie replied with a firm nod, trying to keep his tone as light as Milo’s. “Stick with me and your future will be completely free of steak dinners and shadow stalkers.”

He wanted the conversation to flow more freely, to not get so wrapped up in his thoughts. Maybe Milo had a point, maybe he hadn’t drunk enough. Eddie poured more vodka and lemonade into his glass and immediately downed half of the mixture. “It’s already fully on display, I dunno what else you need to know,” he said with a laugh. 

The background music changed to something he didn’t remember putting on tonight’s playlist.  

Uh, let's go to the beach-each

Let's go get a wave

They say what they gonna say

Have a drink, clink, found the Bud Light

Bad bitches like me is hard to come by 

Eddie cleared laughter out of his throat as he wobbled to his feet. “Are you drunk enough to dance?” His brow raised provocatively as he looked down at Milo. “Because I am,” he announced in a sing-song tone. 

Milo grinned, his eyes shining as he imagined that particular Youtube video. “I can almost see it now,” he said, dramatically raising his hands so that he could project a title into the air before him. “My Name Is Eddie Carridine, Vampires Are Real. Oh, And I Am One.” Pretending to think for a moment, he wrinkled his nose. “It’s not as catchy as your regular titles, maybe you could make a pun instead. Keep it short and sweet, y’know?” Watching his friend as his expression seemed to falter, Eddie’s smile slipped incredibly briefly, though he still managed to catch the shift. What could be bothering him? He almost wanted to ask, but with the atmosphere once again becoming lighthearted, and fun, he wasn’t about to risk bringing the mood down. Especially not when they were both drinking, that was very obviously a terrible idea. Smiling affectionately at the mention of being safe from other supernatural creatures, he momentarily forgot about Eddie’s demeanour. It was so obvious he meant every word that he said. This was someone who, despite only just reconnecting with him, genuinely wanted to fight for his wellbeing. He swallowed his emotion, refusing to show how overwhelmed he was by the sentiment. “Do I want to know what a shadow stalker is? Or did you just make that up?” He half teased, a laugh escaping him when Eddie insisted his sex apeal was on full display. “Shit, you’re right.” He pushed his hair back away from his face, leaning forward to pull the pitcher towards himself so that he would be able to refill his empty glass.  

Sadly he didn’t get the chance to, because he was quickly interrupted by an unexpected change of song. Even without his sensitive hearing, it would have been jarring. The iconic lull of Jack White’s voice was suddenly replaced by loud bass, and fast paced rap. The woman’s voice was loud, and unique. She carefully warped her words in a way that was instantaneously recognisable. “Uh, Eddie… your terrible taste in music is showing.” He laughed at his own joke, only spurred on when Eddie unsteadily jumped to his feet. Staring up at him, an expression of disbelief written across his features, he struggled to keep up his act of indignance. He was well on his way to being drunk, but was he intoxicated enough to warrant dancing? To let Eddie in on the fact that he secretly knew every word of Starships by Nicki Minaj? “Oh, jeez…” He muttered, abandoning the pitcher to pick up the bottle of vodka, taking a long drink straight from it before shooting his friend a look that told him, no, he wasn’t drunk enough, but yes, he was about to join him. He only ever danced to amuse people, to make them laugh. And this felt like the perfect opportunity to do exactly that. So he got to his own feet, the bottle still firmly in his hand, and began to dance in the same way he always danced; like a white guy in a 90’s music video desperately trying (desperately failing) to look cool. The moves were easy, and undeniably enjoyable. No matter who he was with, they always seemed to spark joy in his company.  

Milo’s levity managed to uplift Eddie’s mood. When puns were mentioned, his eyes immediately lit up. “How I Died In Vein,” he offered with a laugh. “In parentheses—Not A Type-O.” Admittedly, his title suggestion made more sense in written form than it did when said out loud, but he figured an explanation would be overkill. Joking about vampirism led him to hope the concept might be on the table for normalization.  

“Are you telling me you don’t know what a shadow stalker is?” Eddie feigned disbelief. “As their name suggests, they lurk in the shadows and demand unsuspecting passersby to answer three riddles. If you get two out of three answers wrong, they legally become your step-dad.” Surely, Eddie didn’t need to tell him shadow stalkers weren’t real after that but, if his description didn’t give it away, the impish grin he wore would. 

When Milo started dancing in all his whiteboy glory, Eddie nearly doubled over in laughter. “Don’t make your body do that, it deserves better,” he said through his sudden bout of hysterics.  

“Wow.” Milo reacted with obvious sarcasm, choosing not to comment on the fact that the wordplay was actually pretty clever. He wasn’t about to give Eddie the satisfaction. “I hate it. I hate everything about it.” Raising his eyebrows as he was questioned on Shadow Stalkers, it was only after the mention of step dads that he realised his friend really was just teasing him. He laughed, shaking his head at the prospect. “Shit, I argue with my actual dad too much to want a second one.” He admitted. The last thing he needed was two paternal figures lecturing him on his behaviour. Enjoying Eddie’s smile, he held his gaze, offering him a grin that came incredibly easy. He was grateful to move past the subject of vampires. At the very least in a serious context. And it felt good, being able to relax again. 

Throwing in a few extra moves when his friend told him to stop dancing, a genuine peal of laughter managed to escape him, somehow managing to catch him off guard. It was unlike the laughter from before, that felt natural but still very much controlled. This laughter escaped him without his permission, the irony far too great to ignore. “You’re the first person to tell me my body deserves better because of my dancing.” He explained, thinking back on every time somebody had said those exact words to him. Usually followed by the mention of rehab, or detox, or health retreats that sounded suspiciously like sobriety cults. “I can do better, you know? But dancing well is nowhere near as fun, and it never manages to get the same reaction so… don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying it.” He grinned, his cheeks aching with just how genuine his smile was. There weren’t many people who could make him feel comfortable, who could make him feel safe, and at home, and at peace with who he was. Eddie Carridine might just be one of them. 

[marshmallow-phd]

Midnight Hours

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Sehun x Reader

Summary: For you, being a good witch was easier said than done. Something dark was lurking inside of you and the others knew it. When you’re forced to tag along with Soomi and help a local wolfpack face a coming evil, you’re sent on a path that breaks into a crossroads. While you struggle with your inner demons, could the wolf Sehun be the key to your ultimate fate?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I 14 I 15 I 16 I 17 I Final

**

Molia clapped enthusiastically, cheering for you loudly as you came back down to the ground.

“That was….” You shook your head, still in a state of shock but also out of breath from the amount of concentration you had just used. “That felt like flying.”

Air wasn’t supposed to be that strong - strong enough to hold you in the air - but the things Molia had taught you over the past few days… it seemed like nothing was impossible. This was a territory you never thought to explore before. Your own imagination had been limited to mere shape manipulation. Molia was showing you so much more. She showed you how to pull water out of the plants around you. She taught you how to concentrate fire in your hands, like gloves. She helped you find the life source of the plants, using it to heal your own minor scrapes and bruises that you earned in your practices without having to go the vigorous steps taught by Soomi. 

Soomi. 

Guilt churned in your heart. You hadn’t thought about her since your first day with Molia. You disappeared without a word to her. She must have been worrying herself to death. You wondered if she was sleeping or eating properly. Her sensitive nature hadn’t been factored in when you took off through that window. You hadn’t thought about several things in that moment. 

“Was is it?” Molia asked, concerned. Your thoughts must have down casted your face, a one-eighty from the excitement only moments before. 

“I was just thinking about Soomi,” you confessed. “I left without telling her so she must be losing her mind right now.”

Instead of sympathy, Molia scoffed. “You shouldn’t focus on how she feels. I doubt you’ve ever been given the same courtesy.”

“Soomi has always looked after me!” you argued. Throughout your time here, Molia had thrown comments like that about the mothers and the coven. Mostly, you’d ignored them, knowing you’d thought the same things over your years with them. But with Soomi… you still felt protective over her. She was different from the others, different towards you. “She’s like my big sister.”

“Oh, yes,” Molia nodded, acid flicking off her tongue with each word, “I’m sure she’s always been the one next you when everyone else was against you. It’s just a ploy to make you compliant. Trust me. They did the same to me.”

“That’s all you’ve been saying this whole time!” You could feel your hands heating up, as they usually did whenever your emotions started teetering over the edge. For the most part you could control it, but the concerns of the mothers still echoed in your head, founded or not. 

How dare she judge Soomi without knowing her? All this witch ever did was give cryptic hints about her past, but when you asked for more details, she’d change the subject or act like the words had never left your mouth in the first place. You were thankful for what she’d taught you, but you needed to know more if you were going to stay. The constant riddles and guessing games were driving you insane.

But Molia didn’t fight back. She lowered her gaze, her voice no louder than the wind. “I’m trying to spare you the details of my story. It may not be the way you heard it, but it still is not a happy one.”

“But I want to understand you, Molia,” you pleaded. Inside, you were still fighting between the person in front of you and the thing that had haunted your visions. They didn’t go together. They didn’t feel like two sides of the same coin; they didn’t even feel like the same country’s currency. 

Yes, it was true that there was always fear in the unknown, but you couldn’t think of Molia – who was showing you parts of yourself that had been locked away for far too long – in a negative light. And yes, she was a vampire, but saying that all vampires were evil would make you no better than the ones who called you bad for your powers. Every group had both sides, so why should her kind be any different?

Visibly swallowing, Molia turned from you, looking out into the clearing with no real subject to focus on. Her eyes glossed over as her mind rewound to a time that most of the world had forgotten. 

“You think she’s your friend,” Molia whispered. It was almost quiet enough to hide the breaking in her voice. Almost. “But all she is doing is keeping you in line.”

You couldn’t believe that. You refused to. “No. Soomi’s not like that.”

Molia whipped her head, her eyes shining a murderous red. “How do you know? Can you read her thoughts? She’s been reporting your every move to the mothers since she was first assigned to watch over you. They did the same with me.” She closed her eyes and grimaced with a ghostly pain. “I thought I could trust Tatia. She’d been my best friend for as long as I could remember. But as we grew older… I don’t know what happened, really. One day, we were out in the fields, practicing our magic. She also had a strong connection with water so we tended to play near the river.”

As if she were projecting the images into your own mind, you saw her past happening before your eyes. The two innocent witches who knew each other so well. 

Their laughter chanted in your ears as they ran through the fields of tall grass, brushing against their arms and tickling their elbows. The water in the river was clear and flowed along at a gentle current. It was a scene that was so familiar, like a moment from a period movie. 

Splashing each other with the water, they giggled and ran around, careful not to trip over their long dresses as they played.

“That’s not fair!” the girl you didn’t recognize – who could only be Tatia – complained. Molia had sent an orb of water straight for her friend that was bigger than the former could manage. Her dark hair was soaked, clinging to her pretty face. 

“Little did I know that Tatia had harvested a jealousy,” Molia narrated. Just as her words broke through your mind, the scene shifted.

The sky darkened up above and the girls went from laughing in the sun to lying down in the dying grass, smiles absent from their faces. 

“Tatia never told me, but the other witches were fearful of my growing powers. And they’d asked her to start letting them know about what I was doing at all times. A wish she granted all too willingly.”

The field dissolved to a house made entirely of wood. Lighting was low, only the soft glow of candles gave you enough to see by. Molia was standing in front of a door that was partially cracked open. Through the open space, Tatia was leaning down to someone who could only be an elder, given their age and dress. She was whispering unintelligibly in the elder’s ear. A stern and decided expression was on the older woman’s face. When Tatia exited the room, she barely made eye contact with Molia before she hurried down the hall. 

“My closest friend in the world was no longer by my side. I was all alone. But not for long.”

Complete darkness took over the scene. The air grew cold. As the moon drifted out from behind the clouds, the mouth of a cave came into view. Two people stood close together, their body language giving off the feeling of a dance between predator and prey. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The man chuckled at Molia’s hiss. His eyes shined red in the night, giving away his true nature immediately. “But aren’t you the one who came to me?”

Molia turned her head downwards. “I had nowhere else to go. I don’t know what they’re planning, but I can feel them turning against me.”

The malicious nature of the vampire smoothed into one of sympathy. His shoulders dropped and he lifted Molia’s chin gently with his index finger so he could meet her eyes. “You do not owe them anything, sweet child. Come with me where they cannot touch you.”

Shaking her head, Molia pulled away. “I can’t. They’re my coven. Perhaps if I talked to them-”

“What good would that do? Do you truly think their jealousy will let them hear you?”

“I have to try.”

Screams erupted behind you and suddenly it was daylight again, in the town square. Two men held Molia captive with ropes tightly bound around her. 

“Mother, please!” Molia begged as she fell to her knees. The area was crowded with onlookers who kept their distance, children hiding behind their parents’ legs, but too curious to run away.

The elder from before stood a few feet in front of Molia, chanting as she read aloud from a book. A binding spell. The pleas that rang through the air fell on deaf ears.

Looking around desperately, Molia found the one person who had been her friend. “Tatia, help me! Please! Make them see reason! Make them stop! It was an accident! I swear!”

But she did no such thing. She didn’t even have the decency to walk away with a drop of remorse. She kept standing there, staring at Molia with a blank, unashamed expression. 

Then, the wind picked up. Lightning flashed from the sky that had been clear and blue just moments before. Several struck the thatched roofs of the houses surrounding the square, creating fires that quickly went out of control. The ropes that were wrapped around Molia burst into flames. Just before they could be burned, the men let go and jumped back. But they didn’t run away. 

Shivers ran over their bodies. Deep growls rumbled in their chests. Then the beasts burst forth. 

Strips of cloth that used to be shirts and pants flew through the air as the wolves landed on their paws. Over and over, they tried to get at Molia, who kept them at bay with her fists of fire. The witches, too, tried to close in around her, but lightning strikes stopped them each time they took a step. 

“This is exactly why the binding spell must take place!” the elder yelled over the wind. “It cannot be controlled!”

“I can control it!” Molia screamed back. 

The elder scanned the area as if pointing out the fires and mayhem that had been unleashed upon the village. People were screaming, running around to not get burned or to try and save what was left of their homes. 

Molia fell to her knees, her fire – both literally and figuratively – dying out. But still, a defiance shined in her eyes as she stared at the elder. “You will not have me,” she declared. Holding up her hand, she drew water out from the well nearby and willed it to freeze in the shape of a dagger. “But some day, I will have you.” 

Before she could be stopped, she plunged the dagger into her stomach. Water and blood mixed into the dirt as she fell down to her side. 

“NO!” 

You leapt forward as the vision dissolved away. Only Molia’s grip on your hand kept you from falling face first into the grass. 

“Its okay,” Molia comforted you, rubbing her cold hand up and down your back. “They buried me, but I’d ingested the vampire’s blood beforehand. I awoke the next night and started my immortal life.”

“How?” you asked breathlessly. “How could they do that to you?”

“Power does that to people.” Helping you down to your knees that were shaking violently, Molia adjusted so she was crouching in front of you. “Witches are the worst for it. They want to be the most powerful in the coven, the most powerful of supernatural creatures, whether they voice it or not. If anyone comes along that threatens that power, then they’ll do whatever they can to eliminate them.”

Your entire body was shaking now over what you had seen. “Th-the binding spell-”

“They’ve threatened you with it, too, haven’t they?”

You nodded, unable to confirm it out loud. 

“It’s their favorite threat,” Molia spat. “But I will never let that happen to you. As long as you stay with me, they’ll never touch you.”

“But Soomi-”

“(y/n).” With a wave of her hand, Molia took water from the grass around you and pooled in her hands. Under her breath, she whispered an incantation that you’d heard before but never had tried yourself. Divination was never a strong suit of yours, despite the visions in your head. 

In the surface of the water, you watched as Soomi observed you from around corners, a cell phone up to her ear and her lips moving quickly. The downside to this type of spell: no sound to know what was being said. She didn’t look wicked or scheming, like Tatia had, but you could still understand what was happening. The scene shifted to a meeting of the mothers and Soomi. The topic was a heated one – and you knew that it was centered around you. And your seemingly one defender sat there quietly, not speaking up once on your behalf. 

The image rippled away and Molia let the water slip through her fingers, back to the dying grass below. 

“They don’t care about us,” Molia said softly. “Those who plot against their own sisters don’t deserve to call themselves witches. They don’t deserve the gifts that have been given to them.”

You felt numb. You felt abandoned all over again. It seemed that was the theme of your life: abandonment and betrayal. 

As a child, your parents had given you up to be raised by the mothers; an old tradition that had died out long ago. But your family clung to the old ways, even sending your male cousin off to live with human relatives despite the fact that he showed signs of being gifted. They didn’t care that a child needed their parents. They tossed you away to be someone else’s problem. And you hadn’t heard from them in years. 

Now there was this. Why did everyone you leaned on step away? You could feel your fists tightening, nails biting into your skin at the tension. What you didn’t see was the triumphant smirk on Molia’s lips.

“What are you planning on doing?” you asked, looking up. 

“There’s something that we can do,” she replied cryptically. “It’s only on the blood moon that we have this ability, from what I’ve been able to discover. But I need you to keep an open mind.”

Closing your eyes, you said through gritted teeth, “Just tell me, Molia.”

“What are humans made of?” Molia laughed. “Mostly, anyway?”

You frowned, thinking back to the one human anatomy class you had long ago. “Water?” Your answer hung in the air until the obvious came to you. Snatching your hands away, you backed away. “You want to control people?”

“Not forever!” She reached for you again, but you dodged her hands. “Only long enough to show them that they can’t keep us down. I want you to take back your life. You could be head of the coven. We could be the ones who make the rules for once. Think about it, (y/n). Think about the things we could do if we were the ones in charge. For example: all the covens are divided. No one is willing to unite them. But maybe we could. We could start with yours and then another. Soon, the witches could be one again. And no one would have to fear their own powers. No one would be suppressed or scared.”

“But what you’re suggesting is exactly that.” Enforcing peace with violence was nothing but hypocritical. And you didn’t want to live your life that way. 

“It’s only temporary,” she insisted. “How many countries had to insight war to bring peace to their lands? To unite different tribes under one banner?”

That… ugh. You hated how she could make the most insane ideas sound logical. But she was right, wasn’t she? If you could really stop the infighting and bring the witches together, why would anyone need to worry? And you could make sure that no one was abandoned like you were. The more you thought about it, the more sense it made. Only one thing stopped you from fully saying yes. “Would some people get hurt?”

Molia stood up and looked down at you with soft eyes. A surprise given their permanent state. But you’d grown used to seeing kindness from such an extreme color. “(y/n), I will not turn you into a murder.”

You let out a breath of relief. 

“Good. It’s settled then. Tonight, at the height of the blood moon, we’ll face your coven and start our mission with one of success.” Her glee suddenly gave way to a more serious expression. “However, there is still something that could stand in our way.”

Pushing yourself up to your feet, you brushed the grass and dirt from your pants. “What do you mean?”

“Several years ago, your coven helped save one of the wolves’ mates. I’m sure you’re aware?” Molia waited for you to nod before continuing. “Since then, the pack has vowed to protect the coven in dire situations, should they need it. I’m afraid the pack might position themselves between us and the others.”

“I can’t do it then,” you said. “I can’t fight Sehun.”

“You still haven’t let him go?”

You scoffed, throwing your hands up in the air. “I couldn't if I wanted to. The mate connection doesn’t just go away. It’s always there, even if I didn’t want it.”

Molia scowled. “Even if? Think about it. Do you really want to be tied to a person like that? To someone that wouldn’t listen to you? Who said that they would have preferred for you to be human like the rest?”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say, again, that he was right about it not being Mina and that he probably saved Dana a lot of pain and heartache. But your own hurt was growing. You couldn’t explain why, only that the more you thought about it, the more your heart cried out in despair. Why did you have to live with this? Why weren’t you given a choice?

“He betrayed your trust, dismissed you. What kind of a mate is that?”

“What’s the point?” You kicked at the ground. “There’s only one spell that can severe the bond and both parties have to be willing.” If you were actually able to get to that point, you knew you would crumble. Perhaps you were holding on to that small piece of hope. That maybe if he didn't want to let go of the bond, then maybe he’d still want you, witchiness and all.  

For the past couple of days, he’d haunted your thoughts. At night when you tried to sleep, he was there, lying next you and running his fingers down your face. He asked you to come back to him, to try again. But then you’d blink and he’d disappear in an uncatchable smoke. 

Was it just wishful thinking? Or maybe a seed of doubt about what you were doing here with Molia?

But then the sun rose and using your powers occupied your mind. Molia kept you focused, distracted almost. But you also felt the happiest, most relaxed, and confident that you’d ever felt in your whole life. And you didn’t want to give it up. 

That all too familiar look flashed in Molia’s eyes. It happened every time she was about to divulge a secret she found particularly alluring. 

“What if I told you there was another way to break the bond?

You shook your head. “That’s impossible.”

“Not for a vampire.”

[mycupoffanfiction]

Wolf of Winter

Witcher!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Jaskier gets you to come to the inn, only for you to find your closest friend Bucky has returned from hunting in Toussaint, resulting in some unspoken feelings coming to light.

Warnings: A bit of mutual pining, some kissing, lots of fluff, soft Witcher!Bucky

Word count: Approx 1700

Masterlist

A/N: Hi loves, this was requested by @sherlocked-bitch​​, I hope you enjoy 💖 Please note this is more based within the video game universe rather than the TV show, though I have kept Jaskier’s original name, but there are hints that he owns the tavern in Novigrad like he does in the latest game when he’s a bit older.

I may do a Witcher!Bucky smut piece if people are interested 😏

Walking through the doors into the tavern, you smiled upon seeing your good friend, Jaskier who immediately waved you over to him. “There you are! You took your sweet time to get here.” He complained as he rushed up to you, too impatient to wait for you to come to him. “It’s five minutes past the hour, Jaskier, I’m hardly late.” You snorted and smiled as you followed your bard friend across the busy tavern floor. “Why exactly did you call me here?” You asked as the bard rather animatedly shoved a tankard of Sodden Mead into your hands. “Drink up!” He diverted, patting you on the back as you glanced down at the mead, noticing it was cloudy and he must’ve gotten it from the bottom of the barrel. “I’ve been reduced to barrel scrapings now, is that it Jaskier?” You teased with a playful smirk as you followed the bard around the side of the counter towards the back room. “It’s all we had left, be glad we even had some mead, or I would’ve given you that Redanian lager.” He retorted and you pulled a face at the mere thought of the bitter drink. “I thought so.” Jaskier giggled, walking you both through to the back of the tavern, away from most of the bustle and drunk folk that lingered near the front.

You paused when you set your eyes on the Witcher that sat at the table in front of you, dark chocolate brown, unkempt hair thrown back into a half bun with the lower layers hanging loose, a few shorter strands framing his strong features. He looked up from the tavern bench he perched on, hand clasped around the half full tankard on the bare wooden surface, jaw lined with scruffy, slightly out grown facial hair. “Bucky.” You breathed out his name in surprise, almost forgetting that other people were around you as well. The Witcher looked up at you with a slight smirk, streaks of white hair becoming more obvious when he leaned forwards into the low torch light. “You’re back.” You whispered, haphazardly plonking your tankard down onto the table as he stood from his seat, opening his arms for you. Throwing yourself against his chest, Bucky stumbled back and grunted softly, a barely there smile on his lips as he embraced you, his closest friend. “Hello darlin’.” He spoke quietly as he held you. “How was Toussaint?” You asked, voice muffled a little against the leather pauldron strapped to his shoulder. Bucky breathed in your musky, floral scent before letting out a hum. “It was good, sit down and I’ll tell you about my trip.” He gestured at the seating next to you both and you reluctantly parted from the warm embrace to settle down opposite him. You talked for hours about contracts he took in Toussaint, dealing with an illusive higher vampire as well as the time he spent staying in a vineyard. Hours passed into the late hours of the evening, Jaskier having excused himself to sit with another well known Witcher who frequented his tavern. Bucky groaned as you placed down your last card onto the table in front of him, empty tankards long forgotten in your game of Gwent. You had managed to win another round, much to Bucky’s discontent and he felt as if he was losing his touch. “I really thought askin’ other people to play Gwent with me while I was away would make me better, but fuck, I think you improved since last I saw you.” He grumbled. “Oh sure, I improved, maybe you’re just getting rusty.” You teased, pointing at him as he gathered up his deck to shuffle his cards, watching as you did the same. The normally stoic Witcher smirked and shook his head at you. He’d improved over the years, learning to allow himself to laugh after he realised it made others uneasy that he could barely even crack a smile and his response to humour had once just been a grunt, which to be honest, was still the common response you got.  Bucky sat back in his seat, picking up his tankard and sipping at the last drops of ale that sat at the bottom. “Y’know,” He paused, voice low and deep before he tipped his head back to get another drop of the ale before slamming the tankard down onto the table. You raised your brow, waiting for him to continue as you leaned forwards on your elbows. “I missed playing Gwent with you.” Bucky admitted, meeting your gaze with his deep blue cat eyes. You smiled as you tapped your deck of cards against the table, lining them up perfectly before you dropped them into the small wooden card box Bucky had bought you from the local Novigrad carpenter for your birthday one year. “I missed it too.” You sighed, though the thoughts that sat in the forefront of your mind didn’t come out, despite you wanting desperately to tell him. The words clung to your throat. I missed you. You wanted to say it, but the nerves took hold, making them feel thick and heavy on your tongue and you sunk back, elbows sliding off the table. Bucky could sense it, he could feel your hesitation, the want to say something you couldn’t muster the courage up to speak. He could feel how uneasy it made you and his intense gaze missed yours by a second as you turned away to get up. “I’ll head upstairs.” You painted on a smile, grabbing your card box as you swung your leg over the bench and stood up. Bucky was too quick for you and circled around the table quickly, stepping into your path and blocking you from leaving. “I wasn’t done yet.” His voice was deep, warningly so as he gently rested his hand on your shoulder. You looked up at the Witcher, eyes meeting his, lips parting slightly. It always felt good to be this close to him, to be able to see all of the details perfectly. Jaskier sang about Geralt, but he also sang about Bucky, the Wolf of Winter, the only other Witcher to have survived the most intense mutation, the whitened hair streaks among his brunette hair to give truth to the legend. “You were going to say something, what was it?” He asked and you internally cursed his observant mind, his ability to practically feel your thoughts and you narrowed your eyes at him, watching as he gave you a questioning look. In truth, Bucky was sure he knew what was on your mind, he’d even asked Jaskier to call you to the tavern for him in the hopes of him being able to admit his feelings for you. And while he was a fearless Witcher, capable of killing monsters and beasts and maybe a damn army of men, he struggled with his feelings. He wasn’t scared of them, but he was afraid to lose you, the one person he constantly longed to see, the one person he wished he had the courage to ask to go with him on his travels, the one person he dared to admit to himself that he might even have feelings of love for. As he watched you fumble about with your words, unsure how to even get them out, he sighed, letting out a soft grunt, your stuttering and beating around the bush ceased when you felt him gently stroke the backs of his calloused fingers against your cheek. Bucky leaned in slowly, lips parting as he met yours, feeling you lean up to him, your hands pressing softly against his chest as he captured your lips in a sweet kiss. The bustle of the cheerful folk at the front of the tavern suddenly seeming so quiet, your entire focus on Bucky. The hand that rested on your shoulder moved down to grasp your waist, tugging you impossibly close as he kissed you, pouring all of the feelings and emotions he could into the kiss, making up for what he couldn’t get across with words with the clear love and gentle passion he displayed to you. Bucky’s lips moved softly against yours as his arm circled your waist, holding you against him, your fingers sliding up into the soft, brown and whitened hair at the nape of his neck, tugging slightly and he groaned, pressing the plush of his lips against yours before slowly pulling away. His eyes met yours, dark and warm, taking you in with a loving gaze. “I um- I was going to say that I missed you, that I always miss you.” You finally replied to his earlier question, feeling the warmth of your interaction creep up your features, blossoming in your cheeks. “I missed you too, sweetheart.” Bucky gave you the warmest smile you’d ever seen from him and you grinned up at him, your fingers still intertwined at the nape of his neck. “I don’t want to be away from you.” He admitted quietly. “Neither do I, Buck.” You replied, voice soft and sweet as you leaned into his touch, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek. “I want to by your side, if you’ll let me.” Bucky spoke lowly, the air quiet and heavy with a loving need as you stood in the back corner, isolated from the rabble. You took in his words, the tension hanging in the air between you was thick, but not uncomfortably so and you smiled up at him, meeting his deep blue eyes as you leaned up on your toes. “I’d love to be by your side, Bucky.” You whispered to him before pressing a soft kiss to his lips, the gentle, slow movement of your lips against his sealing the response and he hummed against you, holding your waist tightly as he kissed you back with the same gentle intensity. Parting, the Witcher glanced down at you, the corners of his lips curving up into a soft smile, knowing he’d do everything he could to make you happy, finally admitting to himself that he loved you and you loved him, even when he had deemed himself unlovable. But to you, he was very much lovable and he was yours as much as you were his.

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[divine-bangtan]

Solidarity • I  (m)

BTS x reader, reincarnation!au, supernatural!au, angels and demons!au, slow burn, smut, angst, violence.

Summary: A few weeks away from your 22nd birthday, there are a number of things one would expect to have on their mind. Partying? Oh yes. Drinking? Most definitely. Being told by seven strange men you are the reincarnation of a powerful goddess and the key to winning a demon war? Uh…come again? 

Pairing: OT7 x reader, Goddess reader x demon Prince Taehyung, goddess reader x vampire Prince Namjoon, goddess reader x warlock Yoongi, goddess reader x incubus Seokjin, goddess reader x angel Hoseok, goddess reader x shapeshifter Jimin, goddess reader x werewolf Jungkook.

Warnings: None of note.

Word count: 2.1k

Masterlist I Next

Chapter One

“Eve?”

It took you a moment to realise the question was in fact directed at you, if the expression of disbelief on the young man’s face was anything to go by. For a few moments you could only stare back at him, wishing that you were in fact the person he was mistaking you for because seven hells this man was attractive. His brown hair, which was swept up in perfectly charming waves framed his enchanting brown eyes. Their endless depth had you enraptured, and you felt like you were swimming in them.

You realised just how long you must have been looking, because he took a step towards you. 

“Eve? It’s me, Jackson,” he repeated with a tone that held more hope. The slight daze you were in was suddenly shattered, and you blinked a few times before pulling yourself together, and gave him what you hoped resembled an apologetic smile.

“Oh...no, sorry. My name is (Y/N), not Eve. I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” you explained, flashing another small smile before turning away from him and beginning to weave through the mass of bodies. However, you only made it a few steps before a strong grip closed around your upper arm.

“Hey! What do you thi-”

“I know it’s you Eve, stop lying to me. You could’ve at least changed your appearance or something, it’s so obvious,” he spat, eyes narrowing whilst yours only widened in shock. “Not in a fighting mood this time, hm?” He drawled, a grin spreading across his face slowly. Before you could muster a response he was tugging you towards him, spinning your torso so that your back was flush to his chest. The caress of his breath at the shell of your ear sent shivers down your spine, and as he moved closer, his breath tickling your jaw, you stiffened. There was no warmth to it whatsoever.

Your wide eyes landed on those of your equally shocked friend Isabella across the bar in a silent plea for help, right as he buried his face into the crook of your neck and inhaled deeply.  

“Mm, you smell just as delicious as always,” the complete stranger growled into your ear, causing mild panic to stir within you. His hold on your torso only caused to tighten as you began to squirm, attempting to break free. 

“Hey, knock it off, you creep! Can’t you see how uncomfortable she is?” She yelled, barging through the crowd. Once again you were being dragged away, however, this time you were grateful for it.  Before you could look back to get a glimpse of his reaction you were being pulled in the direction of the bar, not that you really wanted to look at him again. “You need to learn how to shove your knee into their balls or something, that isn’t the first time that’s happened. Remember last week?” She scolded, still not letting up on the grip on your hand.

You worried your bottom lip between your teeth in thought, because yes, you remembered. Another guy unbeknownst to you had shown up at your work, twice. He never actually entered the shop to order a coffee or anything, no. Strangely all he did was stare at you through the glass window front for a little too long before disappearing.

As if that wasn’t strange enough, there was a similar occurrence to what just happened. On the train a couple of days ago you had almost toppled into a man in the crowded space due to an abrupt stop, and you could’ve sworn he took the opportunity to get a whiff as well. You could feel his eyes burning into you as you got off, but you didn’t dare to look.

“Yeah, maybe I should just stop using deodorant or something, really give ‘em something to smell,” you joked, pretending to actually consider it for a few moments. 

Isabella screwed up her nose, giving you a disgusted look as she slotted into a seat at the bar. “Y/N, please tell me you aren’t seriously going to, I live with you for god’s s-”

“No, of course not!” You exclaimed, tossing a straw at her and rolling your eyes. Pulling your phone from your bag, you unlocked it to check the time. “Shit, it’s almost two thirty. I don’t really feel like rocking the walking dead look at work, do you want to go?”

Izzy took another look around before huffing, shoulders sagging defeatedly. 

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna do the same. Nobody’s taking the bait tonight,” she sighed, pushing her chest together with her arms and wiggling her eyebrows at you suggestively. You prodded a finger into her ribs, causing her to jerk away and drop her arms with a yelp. “Hey! That was uncalled for.”

“We get it, you’ve got a rack to die for, and an ass to match. It’s so unfair how you can easily lure men in, they practically fall at your feet. What are you, some kind of siren?” you huffed, pushing the jealousy that began unfurling within you to the back of your mind. She was truly stunning, being Hawaiian and all, and just to be unfair, she possessed the voice of an angel and was somehow the nicest person you’d ever met.  “One day you’re going to meet a man who is worthy of you. You’re wasting your time here, if that guy back there is anything to go by.” 

“Well it’s not like I’m gonna meet a prince anytime soon, am I?” Isabella mused, staring solemnly into her glass as she swirled the leafy dregs of her mojito around.

“One can only dream I suppose,” you sighed. Before she could dwell on it in her mind any longer, you tugged her out of her seat. “Come on, let’s go say goodbye to the birthday girl and head home.” She nodded in agreement, downing he remains of her cocktail. As the two of you left, you couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling of being watched.

***

So much for not looking dead. Despite not holding any religious beliefs, you quickly said a silent prayer, thanking God for concealer as you dabbed away at your prominent dark circles with a makeup sponge. Normally you didn’t need any, however, as of recent your sleeping regime had been anything but normal.

Nightmares wasn’t the right word, they were more like extremely vivid dreams. Ones that woke you with a start, leaving you all clammy and breathless. 

You dreamt you were dying. 

You’d had bad dreams on and off for about five years now, but nothing like the ones that currently plagued you at night. They had started out of the blue a while ago, weeks back, and with each dream it seemed to be getting worse. It was beginning to show, you noted, as you continued your ministrations with the sponge. The makeup did a good enough job of covering your fatigue, but even then you could still see it. Not as much as you could feel it though, yours eyes felt like lead. It was definitely catching up to you,  and the fact that you were afraid to fall asleep certainly put you in a bit of a predicament. However, you had to make ends meet somehow, and this job was just a temporary thing...right? You scoffed at yourself, recalling all the times you had said that, the first time being over three years ago.

Just pick a major you thought to yourself, that’s all you had to do. Just make a decision and you can finally enroll in university, but somehow that seemed all too impossible, no matter how hard you thought about it. Maybe I’m destined for greater things you had once joked, well these greater things were really taking their time to manifest if that was the case.  

A soft knock at your door stole your attention, and you looked over to see Isabella leaning against your doorframe. You squinted at her in annoyance upon seeing how she looked like heaven incarnate, despite the slight hangover. “Oh, you didn’t sleep much again?” She questioned, raising an eyebrow in concern. “You tried the sleeping pills I suggested, right?”

You peered back at your worse for wear reflection, knowing that even if you lied to her she would be able to tell. “Yes,” you sighed. “But they aren’t working. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get some answers soon. First thing’s first though, gotta go get that money.” You joked, attempting to reassure her.

“Well,” she paused, taking a moment to look at the time on her phone, “you’re not gonna have a job at this point if you keep being late, and well...you’re late.”

“For fucks sake!” You cried as you too checked the time, abruptly standing to search frantically for your shoes. “God, I am so fired.”

***

The good news was that you were still employed upon your arrival, despite a very very pissed off boss. By some miracle your commute was not as long as you thought it would be, which was strange. It was as if time had been on your side this morning.  The bad news was that you were struggling a great deal to concentrate, having lost count of the amount of drinks you’ve almost spilled in a few hours.

“Here you go, Abigail!” You mustered, cringing at how your cheerful tone seemed a little too forced.

“My name is Ashley,” the customer deadpanned, and you garbled out a flustered apology. “Whatever,” she grumbled, snatching her drink and sauntering away to her table of equally rude company. Maybe you should become a psychology major, just so you could pick her and her friends apart insecurity by insecurity until they burst into tears in front of you. Then again, you couldn’t read people for shit, just the thought of going through that gave you a headache.

“Yikes, what did that coffee machine ever do to you?” Your colleague asked nervously, noticing the way you were stink eyeing the perfectly innocent apparatus. Upon hearing her voice you were snapped out of your murderous daze.

“What? Oh, nothing. I’m just really tired is all,” you responded, eyes seeking out the clock on the wall behind her. One hour to go.

“I can see that…but really, is everything okay with you?” 

“Gee, thanks,” you said rather dryly, followed by a deep sigh. “Not exactly, but don’t worry. Things will change for the better really soon, I can feel it.”

She cocked her eyebrow and eyed you skeptically as if silently calculating your sanity, before her attention was captured by an awaiting patron, and once you were no longer under scrutiny your shoulders relaxed. You always hated being the centre of attention. 

By the time the last hour of your shift had crawled by at a painstakingly slow pace , the sun was sinking low in the sky, casting magnificent hues of pink and orange across it. Perfect weather for a green tea, you thought, pulling out your wallet to place an order. 

As you were reaching out to receive the paper cup, you bade farewell to your colleagues, and in your tired, distracted state your grip wasn’t quite right. Before you lost your hold entirely you attempted to grab the cup properly, but it only crumpled and you yelped in pain as the scalding liquid spilled all over your hand. 

You snatched up a dishcloth that was sitting on the counter, swiftly wrapping it around your burnt hand, causing you to hiss at the rough fabric’s contact with your sensitive skin. One of your coworkers guided you over to the sink in the back, turning on the faucet to cold before you could insist you were capable of doing it yourself. Shit, you thought. This feels like it’s going to be bad, exactly what I need right now. Peeling back the cloth to take a look, you gasped right as someone was walking toward you asking, “Is it okay? Do you need some ointment for the burn?” 

“What? Oh, no I’m good.” You quickly covered your hand back up before they could see the damage. “I have some at home, so I should get going.” Before any more questions could be asked or concerns raised from those who had witnessed, you ducked past her and the others, making a beeline out the door. It was only when you had gone a few blocks that you turned down an ally, coming to a stop. Your breathing was uneven, and your hands trembling as you pried the fabric away once again, blinking in disbelief.

Your hand was completely unharmed. 

No burns, no redness, nothing. But you felt your skin blister and burn, you felt the stinging pain, surely you can’t have imagined that? For a few minutes you stood there staring at the undamaged skin, jaw opening and closing like a guppy. When your head finally wrapped around what had happened and was certain you hadn’t made this up, you decided that you weren’t going crazy like you thought.

Something strange was definitely going on.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think, comments are really important to fic writers! 

Tag list:

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[bazzybelle]

Carry On Countdown - Day Two

Notes: Here we go again! Thank you to everyone who was so sweet yesterday! I may have hidden under a blanket fort from the overwhelming love. Here is my fic for today’s prompt. Hope you all like it. 

Huge thanks again, go to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for Beta-Reading my story. You’re amazing! :) 

TW: Nightmares, anxiety, panic attacks.

Day 2 Prompt: Role Swap

Title: Hush, Love.

________________________________________________________________

SIMON

I’m bloody exhausted.

It’s been an impossible week. 

I just want to sleep and reset my mind for one night, if I’m allowed to. It seems impossible, given that I’ve been having night terrors every so often. They haven’t been occurring quite as often as they used to (therapy has been truly helping me with that, thank Morgana). Even with that, I still find myself waking up in a cold sweat, heart palpitating, gasping for air, and with Baz clinging to me, whispering soothing mantras in my ear. 

Hush, Love. You’re alright.

Hush, Love. I’m here.

Hush, Love. You’re safe. 

The problem is that if I’m not having night terrors, I remain trapped within insomnia’s unforgiving clutches. 

Merlin help me, I sound like Baz. 

We had decided, after America, that we would give our relationship a fighting chance. Or, rather, I decided to give our relationship a fighting chance. Baz would never coerce me into making a decision I was not comfortable with. He made it clear, from the beginning, that I held all the cards and that he would accept whatever it was I wanted. If I wanted him, he’d be here. If I didn’t, he would accept it, as much as it would destroy him. 

Through it all, I still want him. And I’m slowly starting to understand that no matter what, he’ll always want me too. 

Going back to therapy helps. 

I turn in bed and gaze at his sleeping form. The moonlight from my bedroom window is hitting him and he looks practically angelic. His eyes are closed and relaxed, shielded by his long graceful eyelashes. I want to place a kiss on his lips, they look so serene right now, but I hold back. His eyebrows look slightly furrowed, but I imagine that he’s most likely having a dream. His hair is splayed across his pillow in a dark halo. I resist the urge to tuck it behind his ear. I don’t want to wake him. Baz has spent so many nights being the shelter for my hurricane of a mind, he deserves at least one peaceful night. 

I instead pay attention to the steady rise and fall of his chest. Usually I can lull myself to sleep by following Baz’s breathing pattern. I attempt to do just that, but I am finding it more difficult to keep up with him tonight. His breathing is more rushed than it normally is. It should be enough to worry me, but I still don’t want to wake him, especially if it’s for a silly reason. I don’t want to be responsible for him losing a night’s sleep in vain. 

I decide to quietly exit the bedroom. I pick up my wooden practice sword from near the door. I figure if I can’t get any sleep, it might not be such a bad idea to practice my sword fighting. I’ve been getting back into swordsmanship during the last few months. It was difficult at first, considering I hadn’t practiced in over a year. I found that eventually, I’ve been able to fall into the familiar flow of controlling a sword. I soon joined a gym and found others who were also interested in learning sword-play. 

Both Penny and Baz have been so supportive of my rediscovered passion. Baz has bought several books for me on the subject and about the different styles of sword-fighting (although he has read them more often than I have), and Penny has made a small space for me in the flat that she has designated “Simon’s Safe Swordplay Space” (Baz had rolled his eyes at the alliteration). It’s in this small space where I spend the next half hour practicing some moves. I go until my arm can no longer hold the wooden sword without shaking. Accepting the wave of sleep that is sure to hit me, I relent. I lean my weapon against the wall and return to the bedroom. 

I anticipate that I’ll find Baz still peacefully sleeping. I imagine myself crawling back into bed with him. Maybe wrapping him in my arms and pressing myself closer to him. He loves it when I cuddle him like that. What I find instead causes my heart to sink to my stomach. 

It’s the position of his body that sets off the first red flag in my mind. Where Baz typically sleeps slightly turned to either side, long legs partially outstretched, I notice that his legs have been pulled tight against his chest, almost constricting him. His back, normally straight and placid, is now hunched over in agony. His hands are pulled rigidly against his chest, as if he’s trying to pull something off him. His breathing is rapid and uneven, almost as if he is struggling to fill his lungs. I know that feeling. I’ve felt that feeling. 

It’s his face, however, that shatters me to my core. It’s completely contorted into a grimace: eyebrows compressed together, his hair cascading like spilled ink over his sharp features. 

I rush to the bed and immediately push the hair away from his face. I start to gently caress his cheek, hoping that I can bring him back from whatever is haunting him. As soon as my hand brushes his cold cheek, he seizes up and begins to cry out. 

“LET ME OUT! PLEASE! LET ME OUT!”

He’s turned on his back now and is clawing at the air. His mouth is full, a sure sign that his fangs have descended. Tears are streaming down his face. I know where his mind has taken him tonight and I silently curse the person who did this to him. Even though he’s been dead for almost two years. 

I close the distance between us. The risk of being bit be damned, I won’t keep watching him suffer like this. I grab his hands and climb over him. I bring his hands to his face and I start talking to him. 

“Baz! You’re here. Wake up. You’re with me. You’re not alone Baz! You’re with me!”

“No… Please… no…” Baz has shoved me off of him and turned over again. It isn’t working. He’s fully back in that blasted coffin. I wish I knew what I could do to help him. I think back to the many times that he’s had to bring me back from my own dark place. I wrap my arms around him and hold him steady. He begins to fight me, but I refuse to yield. It isn’t an easy feat, considering his vampire strength. I place a calm hand on his head and lean in close to his ear and repeat the same words he would say to me. 

“Hush, Love. You’re alright,” I whisper as the fighting diminishes. Slowly, slowly, Baz starts to calm down. I deliberately move my hand to the side of his face and gently rub soft circles near his jaw line. I feel a slight movement, as his fangs start to retract. 

I continue. 

“Hush, Love. I’m here.” His breathing starts to slow. I can still feel him shuddering. My hand moves back up to his head and I start running my fingers through his silky hair. 

“Hush, Love. You’re safe.” I place a small kiss on the side of his face. I’m still holding him steady, but he has long since stopped trying to push me off him. From his strong, even breaths, his relaxed posture, the calm lines on his face, I believe that the worst of it is over. He should be able to sleep peacefully for the remainder of the night. I still need for him to feel that I’m here. That I’ll always be here. So, I continue to delicately caress his hair while repeating our chant. 

“Hush, Love. You’re alright;

“Hush, Love. I’m here;

“Hush, Love. You’re safe.”

[stragglewort]

Ghoul Parade -- “6.) Hollow Oaks, 515″

Picture by StreetWill, “Aucstp” - January 3rd, 2013

__________________________________________________

        The car seemed to whine as they both stepped out, James himself shivered as some sort of magical connection severed with the closed door.

        They found that complexes like Hollow Oaks were big enough to warrant an old, multi-buttoned buzzer to call for any number of residents (though without being nice enough to have a doorman to direct would-be visitors on who lived where). James fiddled with the marker in his pocket, mulling over exactly how he was going to go about finding someone he’d never met. But Jo? He’d started wandering a bit – something smelled off, smelled different. It wasn’t quite familiar, but it rose a strange feeling of… not panic, but uneasiness in his chest that seemed to climb into his throat.

        “Where do you think you’re going?” James called out from farther away than Jo had expected him to be. It wasn’t until then he realized he was halfway through the double doors and leaving his friend completely behind.

        “I… I don’t know?” He shook his head. “Something’s off.”

        “An accountant, a monster, and a master detective - what a lucky one.” James smiled, wide but a bit wavered. He sprinted over to the other man and motioned towards the door. “You’re leading, I guess.” He hummed, a bit amused. “Either we’re going to find what we’re looking for, or we’re getting arrested. I don’t know about you? But I’m willing to gamble it.”

        Jo laughed a little, though it came out a bit strangled. In about three hours he’d realized the existence of magic, of monsters. He was almost afraid that if he were to slow down the absurdity of it all would catch up to him.

        What struck him over the melding of smells and odd, reverberating feeling that echoed off the concrete was that same pounding heart. It sounded so close and he realized, without a doubt, it had to be James’. Only thing was that it was frantic, scared even. His friend’s face didn’t exactly match the drumming, leading beat of a panicking man. Maybe he was simply good at hiding it. They pushed into the dim complex, the smell of tobacco smoke and industrial cleaner stinging the inside of their nostrils as they passed the threshold. It made Joshua cringe.

        They wove together through the grid of vending machines, staircases, and numbered doors. They couldn’t bother with the elevator even if they wanted to, it was dusty with a note taped onto the seam –

                                “Out of order – please use the stairs”

          The first few floors didn’t seem to hold much interest. Jo could smell everything, and if he really focused he could hear it all, too. There was a woman scolding what sounded like a dog –

        The sharp inhale of a cigarette,

        Someone coughing,

        Someone laughing under their breath –

        Hearts thumping in a soft, droning, barely audible echo.

        Smells, sounds, and the dusty dark all seemed to melt into each other as if Jo were looking at it all through a single hyperactive sense. It felt the same as when he caught James in the library cellar but, now that he had an idea of what he was trying to find, it was sharper. Clearer. He churned his way around structure poles and boxes, chasing the tail of some invisible goal.

        “Hey –!“ James called out halfheartedly.

        Again, Jo seemed to have lost himself. It wasn’t until he heard his friend’s voice that he realized he’d been sprinting and, coming back to, swung to halting stop. “…I – where am I going?” He muttered, the words fumbling out of his mouth like an unfinished thought.

        “I was about to ask the same thing.” James laughed, finally catching up. “I was not ready to sprint up five floors today – enchanting your car and tracking vampires? Sure! But I did not sign up for cardio.”

        “…Sorry.” He scratched the back of his neck, awkwardly. The fifth floor didn’t reek of tobacco as much as it did other things - something floral, something chemical, something bitter and a bit sweaty – “What?” He mumbled, involuntary. He wasn’t sure if panic smelled bitter, but that was the first word to come to mind. Another whiff and there, like blood in the water, he could smell something else, feel something that wasn’t quite right. For lack of a better word, it wasn’t quite human.

        “What’s up?” James tried to peer through the dim hallway but wasn’t catching much from the half-obscured daylight seeping in from a far window. Jo didn’t answer. He just hushed and listened, trying to cut through the muddled static of human life that filled every inch of the building. He vied to focus on that one anomaly, the single pang of hesitant abnormality that floated through the hall like a pin in a wave of fabric. He could hear heartbeats, and he’d cope with the insanity of that later, but at that moment it felt useful. He could almost place the heart to the person, even. Every audible shift to an echoing rhythm. And somewhere in that hallway, hiding in one of the apartments there seemed to be someone with no heart.

        Five-fifteen. Somewhere in apartment five-fifteen there was something dead, and it was struggling.

        The worst part was that it didn’t take him much longer to figure out that it was exactly where he wanted to be. Boxes, shipments, and groceries from some personal buyer or online shopping list were stacked up in droves against the door. The small postbox stacked with bills – each one of them labeled with the same name –

        “Ms. Lorena Em”  

        He’d almost forgotten that was her actual name. Lorena. He’d forgotten that Lottie was just some shortened nickname her mom gave her that stuck in the mouths of her friends better than the legal one. Confusion and fear are two vastly different emotions. They can stick together or be as far apart as they so please but somehow, staring at those boxes, hearing the movement behind the door that shouldn’t have been alive, he couldn’t tell the difference.

        “Lottie?” He asked, a crack threatening to break his words in half. His arm raised to the door to knock, but James caught him.

        “Wait – give it a second.” He whispered. His hearing wasn’t exactly supernatural, but even he couldn’t miss the haggard shuffling of whoever was on the other side.

        When his voice reached through the door the figure quieted. They stopped moving, stopped breathing.

        “Lottie? It’s Joshua – are you home?” He didn’t knock, but he leaned against the frame, trying to catch a better hint. A sound. A word. Anything at all. Being so close he realized something odd. Even the doorway had a specific scent, a smell that reminded him of her, and whatever was inside wasn’t matching it. “Something’s wrong.” He gasped, and near instantly shot for the handle. It was locked, to no one’s surprise.

        “Great, we’re getting arrested then.” James said, watching his friend struggle with the doorknob. A quick glance around and he was relieved to find there weren’t any cameras, though he couldn’t say the same for neighbors.  

        Jo kept at the door, but it was more pounding than knocking – pulling than turning – as he threatened the well-being of the poor thing’s hinges. “Lottie, open the door – okay? We need to talk. We really need to talk.” It was impossible to tell if his tone was frantic, angry, or desperate. He couldn’t figure it out himself. Something about whoever was inside that room struck a chord in him that turned him fervent.

        “P-please go away!” A voice hushed from the other side. It was a man, high and tinny with panic, but undoubtedly masculine. “I’m… not interested!”

        “That’s not – God – open this door!” Joshua nearly yelled, pitched and worried, but bit the words back behind newly sharpened teeth.

        The voice on the other side whined in a short, harsh whisper that was barely audible, even for him. “I really – ah, really don’t want to do that.”  

        Joshua reeled back and before he realized what he was doing found himself smashing his shoulder against the wood, bending it. A reverberating thud shook though the walls. He wasn’t sure how strong vampirism was supposed to make him, considering he wasn’t exactly a bodybuilder in first place, but at that moment he didn’t exactly care. He was about to try again, but when he ran forward to break the door down he was met with nothing as it swung open before he could hit it, letting him tumble face first into the apartment.

        Nose to the ground he could hear frantic, whispered apologies and James somewhere behind him, laughing.

        “Oh no, oh no. Are… are you okay?” Looking up he saw a thinly gaunt, pale faced, and red-haired main staring down at him. When their eyes met, the stranger’s got wider – somehow, considering they were already quite large – and he staggered back, tripping over something and falling, leaving them both on the ground. “Oh, you’re a – “

        “Where’s… where’s Lottie?” Joshua picked himself up and, now standing, towered over the stranger. He wasn’t an imposing person by any stretch of the imagination (the sweater vest saw to that) but it didn’t take much to look scarier than the wry man starting back at him.

        “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that –“

        “Wait, who are you?” Something angry, inhuman, and boiling clawed at the pit of his stomach. He’d never felt so conflicted, so absolutely frustrated in his life. “What are you doing here?”

        “Jo, you’re scaring him.” James stepped between the two, hands held up trying to wave his friend backwards.

         Looking between them – James with a slyly sympathetic kind of face and the stranger who looked absolutely pitiful still frozen on the ground – he tried to breathe and bring himself back down to earth. Down to some semblance of calm. It was strange, he’d never had a temper before. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, drawn breath. “…Alright, alright – who are you?”

        “I’m, ah… Martin. Martin Finley?” The stranger sputtered as if he wasn’t quite sure himself.

        “Alright Martin, what are you doing in my secretary’s apartment?”

        “You won’t like the answer.”

        “I don’t like any of this. Now you’re going to tell me or – by God – I’m calling the police.”

        That seemed to get a rise out of the man as he scrambled. “Wait! I’m – Ah…” He hesitated, a tremor running through his whole body that seemed nearly constant. “I’m looking for, well, I don’t think it was supposed to be you? But someone like you? Someone who’s…”

        James’ eyebrows raised as he watched the scene unfold, coming to a quiet realization before anyone else could.

        “Who’s what?” Jo had a thought but didn’t want to accept it.

        “…Dead?” Martin hushed, fingers curling into the carpet. “Y-you know, like you?”

__________________________________________________

[bytemycupcakes]

Immortal Coping

“How do you cope with being immortal?” Victor quietly mumbles into the flower he’s planting, dirt gathering beneath his claws.

Trencil sets his watering can down, tilting his head, “In what way do you mean, Victor?”

“Like-” He leans back on one hand and picks the dirt from the claws on his other, “How do you deal with knowing all your non-vampiric loved ones are gonna die? That you’ll probably see the end of the world. Or human extinction… Stuff like that.”

“Well… First of all, it’s best not to think of the big things. We’re far more likely to run into a terrible fate in a few centuries than to last billions of years, Victor.” Trencil laughs, “Second… I find the pain dulls with time. I had a time where I thought exactly what you’re thinking now. I can’t say I coped well… I did several things I’m not proud of when I was closer to your age and trying to… Understand death as something I’m unlikely to properly experience.”

“Alright, but…” Victor switches supporting hands, “Jimothan won’t live forever. He’s pretty clear he doesn’t want this kinda life… So how are you gonna let him go when we get to that?”

Trencil gives an understanding nod, “Jimothan isn’t the first love I’ve had to lose. He’ll certainly be the hardest, but far from the last, either. It takes some experience, and a strong will to refrain from the destructive behaviors you’ll crave. But accepting it will happen once you know they don’t want to be part of this is the biggest step.” He pats down a bit of loose dirt by Victor, “We can’t force this life onto them after all.”

“Well-” Victor begins to rebuttal.

Trencil laughs, “Yes yes, we technically can, but that is wrong, Victor. And I surely hope you’d never consider it.”

“Of course I wouldn’t! But that doesn’t change that we can technically, and we shouldn’t act like it’s impossible.” Victor shrugs.

Trencil chuckles, smacking Victor lightly with a glove, “Alright you little smart ass, you made your point. You shouldn’t force this life onto your loved ones. The choice is for them alone. Personally I keep the offer open should they ever change their mind… And some have, though they ended up leaving me. But that’s part of this life. Not everyone can be around forever, and the centuries change you. Quite a bit in some cases. I know you don’t like thinking about it, son, but you will need to accept that not everyone will stay in your life forever.”

Victor frowns, knowing that kind of answer was a possibility. A possibility he didn’t want to accept. He sighs, leaning forward, hands folded within his lap, “You and Nat will stay around though… Right?”

Trencil hums, scooting himself over to his son and putting an arm around him, “I can certainly hope so… Though I cannot guarantee it. I’ll be around for you both as long as you let me, but you kids may be set up for very different paths.” He presses a gentle kiss to the boys temple, “But I’m sure if that time ever comes, you’ll be prepared for it. You’re stronger than you think, Victor. The key to these struggles is being confident you can get through it.”

Victor nods, leaving the two in a comforting silence. Watching the flowers sway in the gentle breeze and listening to the birds and bugs in the yard.

Until Nat runs out the back door screaming, “Vic dad brought home chickie tendies!”

Victor shoots up, running inside with his sister, “Oh fuck yeah!”

Trencil laughs, slowly getting to his feet to follow after them.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 19: No Sympathy for the Bloodwraith

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Cadence recounts one of the worst events in the Council’s history as the bloodwraith’s motives are brought to light. Taylor’s new empathy turns into both a helpful gift and a terrible burden.

[READ IT ON AO3]

New Orleans, 1921

“If you think the entire Garden Coven unwilling to march on you without hesitation, then you’re far more a fool than you’ve already proved yourself to be.”

The Nighthunter rounds on him with stake in hand. Even as unofficial allies his intent is clear: I will use this.

But Cadence doesn’t step back because he fears the weapon. He fears the man using it.

Has seen that wild look in his eyes elsewhere — though never in a human. It is the look that watches his every step, that hoards the limp limbs of their meal closer, that seeks only to gorge on thick veins and will not be sated until red ichor spills from their lips they are so full with it.

In a reversal of fortune it is the human who looks at the vampire with the gouging claws of bloodthirst and madness.

Any creature of sound mind would fear Reimonenq now.

“They can’t touch me,” the sneering reply, “those damn Accords keep y’all from actin’ as a faction!”

“Those same Accords demand the same of you!”

“It’s different for me an’ you know it, Smith.”

“No—honestly I don’t. You’re just as much a part of this community as any of us. You’re beholden to the Accords just as we are!” But the thing he’s still struggling to grasp, the thing that leaves him gaping even as Derek Reimonenq resumes shoving his things into a ratty sack, is far worse.

“Even with the legality aside — you just murdered three young women in cold blood.”

If any vestiges of warmth remained in his once-alive body they are dashed in the moment the man’s cruel laughter reaches his ears.

“Trust me when I say there weren’t nothin’ cold about it.”

A blind fury consumes him. Sends him rushing at the man with preternatural speed to pin him to the wall; the same grasp capable of turning concrete to powder wrapped around the mortal’s neck.

“You think this is funny?!”

“What it is, damn bleedin’ hearted fool, is justice!”

Derek shoves him back; only succeeds when the vampire is too stunned to speak or hold his ground. “You storm in here spoutin’ all yer high-horse shit about them Accords but you think I’m the only one what broke ‘em? You think those devil-whisperin’ freaks didn’ bend they’re own rules just the same?

“Those girls were unnatural. Even for they’re kind. I been at this all my life Smith — I know how to suss out the ones who ain’t got no hope a’goin’ anywhere but bad.”

“You killed them before they even had a chance. You’re no seer Reimonenq, you can’t possibly think you’re justified on a hunch!”

Derek’s upper lip curls. Cadence is almost surprised he doesn’t glimpse fangs.

“A Nighthunter’s job ain’t easy an’ it ain’t nice an’ it definitely ain’t simple. I already compromised every-damn-thing I believe in when I joined in on ya damn Council. But Come Hell an’ high waters if I stop makin’ this city safe for me an’ mine.”

Like a creature in her own right there comes a small hollow noise at the door. Low and center — the tap-tapping of child’s knuckles. The men break their brawl to watch — to wait.

The knuckles tap-tap again. Firmer this time.

Derek wars with himself for only a moment — opens the door and smooths the kind eyes of a father over those of the beast before.

Cadence knows it isn’t his spectacles that cause him to see a familiar child; not the honey-eyed daughter of Reimonenq but the wild ginger mane of Meredith LaPointe’s youngest. Her face frozen in terror as it will always be; carved behind his eyelids and in his soul.

Even in a town like New Orleans some hauntings have nothing to do with the supernatural. Some are personal.

The little girl stands with her nightshirt bunched in impossibly tiny fists. Wide eyes shining at the sight of her father before realizing he isn’t alone. When her lower lip begins to wobble the vampire realizes his mistake and averts his unnatural ruby gaze.

“You’re supposed to be in bed baby girl,” croons the same man who had burned three girls mere hours ago.

He picks his daughter up and tucks her in close. Cadence wonders if she can smell burned flesh and hair on his old army coat. “Where’s that momma’a yours…” Doesn’t look back to his guest even as he closes the door behind him, ventures deeper into his slumbering home.

Now alone the towering man begs for an answer only he can give — the same thing he had thought with the sunset a looming enemy at his back on the steps of Reimonenq’s domain.

Why is he here?

He has no stake in the Nighthunter’s life. In fact they’ve run afoul of one another more than most. For a man apparently so dedicated to upholding the tenets of the original Nighthunters he sure found himself in debt to the creatures he should so despise often enough. They’d met that way — another payment to Cadence’s three year debt to Carlo in strongarming the money that was promised.

And fucks sakes… there’s nothing redeemable about a man who would hold his daughter with hands still stained with the soot of a witch pyre.

The Council will come for him. There’s even a likelihood the vampire himself would be one of the men tasked with bringing him for his trial.

Maybe he just has to accept that there isn’t a reason for confronting Reimonenq alone.

Maybe he just wants to understand.

Monster to monster.

“What foul…?” He catches another whiff of burned flesh and a shudder rolls through him. He wonders if it should remind him of the battlefield. Still so strong even with thin walls between them — like Reimonenq hadn’t even left the room.

Curious.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the lumped and dark shadow of the hunter’s sack. Ready to cut and run even with a family awaiting his return on the city’s outskirts.

Cadence doesn’t have a family — or if he does he doesn’t know where to find them. Are they waiting for him? Are they just as ignorant to the truth?

All his unanswered questions and here the other man is almost eager to abandon it all. Jealousy is an ugly thing.

When he reaches for the bag it’s because he’s angry; because he wants to delay Derek as much as possible. Not just to face the consequences of his actions but so he knows what the fuck he’s leaving behind. Has to dial down his strength lest he send a myriad of Nighthunter’s essentials hurtling through the thin drywall.

Stakes clatter to the floor. A medieval crossbow lands arm-down and snaps the archaic metal off like shattering glass. Bare essentials of fabric tumble out and reveal the prize he had wrapped within with care and greed both; what remaining skin was peeled from muscle tissue and bone from the flames that had consumed them starts to flake off and settle on scuffed wooden floors.

One cooked finger snaps off and rolls under the nearby bed. The rest are curled up and in like spiders after they die of starvation.

He’s caused his fair share of bloodshed but this—

Trophies…

Cadence’s tears gather and the world goes blurry at his eyes. From rage, from disgust, from incredulity…

He rips his glasses off and shatters them in his fist.

To the Elders of the Garden District Coven, Carlo de la Rosa was at the center of the city’s vampire community. If they weren’t of his blood they owed him in one form of another — Cadence is proof of that.

He was old, powerful, and connected. He had to go.

To the malevolent specter of Derek Reimonenq, Carlo was a threat. Not just as the leader of the vampires of New Orleans but on a personal level as well. In the months following his death Reimonenq’s wife and daughter inherited more than his legacy — they inherited his debts too.

He was as remorseless as he was undead. He had to go.

The Elders witnessed firsthand the rapid rise to power of Denna Ostrowski; a shapeshifter rumored to have had over a hundred forms under her pelt. To the mundane world she was new money investing in the rich history of Louisiana. And money opens many doors — even among the supernatural.

She had her hands steeped in the cauldrons of both worlds. She had to go.

Only Denna came to town long after The Bloody Hand had been dealt with — near forgotten.

That didn’t stop her from learning as much as she could about the history of the Council; from allies to enemies. Learning where they lived, where they died, and where they had hidden every rotten putrid trophy hand.

It was a part of the past best left forgotten yet that didn’t stop Denna from destroying them all the way down to the bone. And for that her days were numbered.

Though they didn’t know it the Elders and their ghoulish pet saw eye-to-eye when it came time to level that gaze on Tonya Reimonenq. They called her Lady Smoke because those who ran afoul of her always disappeared without a trace.

Poof — gone like smoke.

She never asked for her gift; the Reimonenq Curse. But she took it and she used it without shame or guilt. Made a show of keeping her touch under expensive wrappings but everyone knew the truth.

She liked having such power; control over who lived and who died. And despite being of Derek Reimonenq’s decaying flesh and molded blood, Tonya had turned herself into a target — made herself a creature more than she ever was a human being.

“I was the one who brought him in front of the Council,” Cadence says without regret, without remorse; “I kept him from going into hiding. If I hadn’t gone to him that night the Garden Coven may very well have never found him.”

Cal frowns. “I thought you said he couldn’t be accused and punished. Which I still can’t make a lick’a sense of.”

“In the eyes of the Accords both sides were at fault — for different things, but equally guilty of knowing the laws and consciously choosing to break them.”

“What did the Coven do?”

The vampire shifts in discomfort.

“The girls Derek burned weren’t born into the families that made up their ranks at the time. The Elders back then had plans to blood them fully — sort of like an initiation you can’t back out of — but they were brought into the city from outside covens before it was done.”

“To put it plain they brought enemies onto Quarter soil,” explains Katherine with a tired rub of her eye.

Cal throws his glance back to Taylor and Vera and matches their confusion.

“I’m missin’ somethin’. ‘Cause no offense but I can’t see a guy like Elric agreeing to put kids to death over bein’ somewhere they shouldn’t’ve.”

“You’re right — Elric knew the girls were smuggled into town. The whole Council did, actually. Given the circumstances they agreed to turn a blind eye.” When he’s met with a silence that screams for him to keep going Cadence does, though the reluctance is clear on his expression.

“Listen — I never met them personally. I only know what I do from rumor and that’s putting it lightly. But one person heard from another who heard from God-knows-who-else that the girls all shared the same power—could do the same thing in the craft, you know?

“It was said they could remove free will. I don’t know how, or if it was wild speculation or the truth watered down. Even I laughed when the story reached far down enough to my rung on the ladder. Nothing of the natural world — be it magic or sensation or psychic connection — can truly take away all resistance to command. Even my kind, while connected to our Makers on a deep and intimate level, can resist their influence if we do so with all of our being.

“None of this mattered though. The Coven may have concealed their nature but everyone could put two and two together.”

“No one thought they were gonna try somethin’ shifty?” asks Nik. Cadence shakes his head.

“One of the Elders had a natural gift of his own; he could sever the witch from their ability to practice the craft. It was clear that was their plan — that the city didn’t have to worry. They just couldn’t do so until after being blooded into the Coven.

“I think most of us just felt sorry for them.” Doesn’t stare at the carpet underfoot but through it; both in the room with them and some place he thought he had left far behind. “I did. All around the country young men had been sent off to war and returned home empty husks, if they returned at all. There was a sort of cultural agreement that didn’t need words: children and their innocence was worth protecting.”

Kathy’s hand hovers over his before making a decision, offering contact to ground the man to the present. But the smile he gives her is hollow. The memories still haunt him — maybe they always will.

“Derek Reimonenq didn’t agree,” he continues to everyone’s surprise, “not that anyone expected him to. Neither did the Bayou Alpha but the war didn’t even give her back a body to bury, so she fell in with the rest. Everyone figured he would air his grievances and follow through as he usually did… bottle in hand.

“It’s the only time I can remember that the Council tried to find a flaw in their own laws. They wanted to convict him — everyone was demanding justice. But rather than two trials and needless punishment on the side of the Coven the only solution they could all agree on was a clean slate.”

“Which didn’t sit well with the witches,” Vera rests her hand on her racing heart like that will help — it doesn’t, “so they Cursed him. And all the Reimonenq blood ‘longside.”

Cadence nods tight-lipped; has said more than he thought he would have to and more than he wished to if his tension is anything to go by.

“Makes sense, now.”

Nik’s fingertips are warm on Taylor’s scalp. They card through his hair as if to remind them both they are here; that it’s all come down to this.

“Those Elder bastards were targetin’ power in the city but somehow usin’ Derek’s spirit gave it an agenda. Carlo for the past, Denna for revenge on his stuff — can’t say I blame it for hatin’ Smoke but —”

“And how exactly did I piss off ‘The Bloody Hand?’” Taylor asks in bewilderment. Nothing about the casual way the man shrugs reassures him.

“Dunno — you were convenient?”

“And we’re back to that now.”

“Sometimes a spade is a spade is a spade,” his mouth twists with deep thought, “though now we know why it wasn’t houndin’ on us the second you were outside a ward. They gave it a hit list but it chose the order.”

No one responds — what is there to say? Sure it’s satisfying to finally know, to understand.

But does it change anything?

It has to. Otherwise The Fate wouldn’t have led him on this; the altered path.

“This is good — this is a really good thing.”

The incredulity and judgment that bears down on Katherine isn’t personal — she knows that. More than that she doesn’t care. Not with the wry look she’s sending Ryder’s way. “Damn,” she laughs dryly, “it might actually be the only time in all this weird crap that things might work in our favor.”

“How d’ya mean?”

“You said it yourself; a spade’s a spade. Think about it, Nik — finally this is just a job like any other. Just creatures following their nature.”

A look of understanding comes over his weary features. “So maybe it’s time we follow ours, you mean.”

Like she’s reading his mind Vera speaks up where Taylor still struggles to connect the dots; “For the class, guys?”

Kathy’s smile is a rare thing. Rare and unnerving.

“We do what Nighthunters do best; we hunt.”

Even with everything he’s seen and endured the sight of rusted cemetery gates still form knots in his belly; dread and memory all tied up with the knowledge that at the end of the day he’s just as vulnerable here and now as he was that first night.

And you know what doesn’t help? Being in the Garden District again; that doesn’t help.

Being so close to their enemies — those literally plotting to kill them with more than one attempt under their witchy robes — that doesn’t help.

But it must be done. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Katherine had said while hoisting a rusted toolbox from its shelf in Cadence’s office, “since it’s proven already it can attack us anywhere — wards or no.”

“There aren’t any protection measures we can take?” Vera had asked; though they were all sure that if there was an answer they would have found it by now.

“Find a god and pray.”

That the cemetery is largely untouched is a miracle. Not for fear of ghosts and the scary stories tour guides like Tilly tell but for the fact that tourists usually just don’t give a damn.

Then again this is the closest cemetery to the Coven. That has something to do with it no doubt.

Cadence leads them through the dark and winding paths — Cal bringing up the rear. “No flashlights,” the vampire had insisted, “the moment we trespass is the moment the mundane authorities become just as much a threat as the witches.”

Lucky they have a vampire and a werewolf on their team then. Precision hunters pretty much known for their ability to see at night.

They keep close-knit ranks but let’s be honest; they’re about as subtle as the Scooby Gang would be in this scenario.

A joke he will not be saying within earshot of Cal if Taylor values his life.

Though the vampire insists—almost too much—that he hasn’t been to the Reimonenq crypt since Derek was put there almost a century ago he sure knows his way easy enough.

“Are you sure you’re okay with us doing this; vandalizing your family crypt?” Taylor asks Vera, because this just feels awkward especially with her here. And if she says stop you better know they will be stopping.

But nope; it’s all good. “I’m only frustrated I can’t get us in myself.”

They come to a stop — abruptly, like jostled dominoes — in front of an old stone grave.

Any other day Taylor would have walked right by it; dismissed it for another piece of city history made illegible from erosion over time. But through the greenish muck and years of wear, maybe because he knows what he’s looking for, it’s there.

REIMONENQ “Mourn not the dead, but those burdened to continue living.”

His heart sinks at the inscription beneath Vera’s family name — chances a glance her way, ready to offer what little comfort he can.

Her eyes scream of hatred but he can feel beneath the surface. All that anger stemming from a place of hurt, of loss; of regret. Hatred at the bones they hope to find within and regret for every life that could have been spared in the aftermath of him.

Cadence motions for Cal to help him strongarm the front slab.

“Wait,” says Vera through the stones in her throat and the tears in her eyes she refuses to shed, “gimme a second.”

Katherine holds her breath — thinks better of pointing out that they may not have a second to spare. They know; Vera knows.

But she also deserves this.

She removes her left glove while approaching the crypt. They step back, give her a wide berth and not just for her sake.

Fingers stretched as far and forward as they’ll go Vera lays her palm on the surface. Pushes with a fruitless effort but it probably isn’t the physical barrier she’s forcing back. At least that’s not what Taylor feels in her soul.

“When I was a lit’le girl Momma told me we didn’ have the luxury of choosin’ whether or not to be killers. That day I vowed to myself to be the first — to keep the Touch from ever takin’ a life so long as I held it.

“I was fifteen when she tricked me into usin’ it on a man — staged it like I was savin’ her life by taking another. And I’ll never forgive her for it.”

Taylor feels his heart begin to crumble, then crash into a deep dark sea in chunks as tears roll down her cheeks.

“But she proved something to me that day —” she continues, “— she proved she was right. That so long as we had the Touch we would be killers whether we wanted to or not. She may have tried to make me a hero but no one who can do what we do could ever be one.

“But here—lookin’ at this grave, knowin’ what I know and all that The Bloody Hand did? I don’t feel guilty anymore. I finally realize that I really never had a choice.

“It was always gonna be in my nature.”

Cal’s knuckles crack hollow in the silent cemetery. Cade averts his ruby eyes, swipes his tongue over the hint of a fang.

If anyone here can understand her, it’s them.

“That’s what makes him so evil,” Vera tugs on her glove with jerking frustration; and not for the first time turns her back on the name REIMONENQ, “he had a choice an’ he chose to kill. And I ain’t gonna forget that — no matter how ‘tortured’ his soul is supposed to be.

“Those Elders ain’t in the right in what they’ve done but he wouldn’t have been their weapon had he not chosen to do great evil first.”

Not a rallying cry or solemn eulogy — but her intent is clear.

No sympathy for the bloodwraith.

No sympathy for Derek Reimonenq.

Ryder insists on proceeding with caution—still a statement Taylor’s trying to wrap his head around to be honest—and earns Katherine’s grumbled agreement that they should at least check for remnants of the Elders’ visit.

Cal spots a couple of markings drawn in chalk by the base that set teeth and fangs on edge but ultimately Kathy concludes they’re nothing more than lay-hexes; the witch equivalent of spitting on someone and cursing them to burn in Hell. A bit ominous but not meant to guard the abandoned tomb.

Which, frankly, leaves Taylor more than a little unsettled.

“If they saw no need to enchant it, does that mean there’s nothing inside we can use?”

Nik shakes his head and steps back, allows the two creatures among them to really give in to that nature of theirs and pry the weathered granite from its seal.

“First thing any hunter does when dealin’ with the hereafter is t’learn about the life of the haunting dead. We got the life story and we got how he died —”

“Step two is consecrate whatever bones can be found.” Katherine finishes.

A groan of resistance cuts off with a loud THUD, the noise bouncing from crypt to crypt definitely more than loud enough to awaken the dead. Nice timing to start regretting not bringing Ivy along.

Cade props the front plate on the side of the structure, waves his hand at the irritating dust and sand set off from their force.

It must be nice not to have to breathe, Taylor would say — if he wasn’t hacking his lungs out and praying there isn’t any powdered body on his tongue.

When it settles and they can properly peer inside — the good news is that aren’t any corpses that might make him lose his nerve. One more fainting spell and Taylor might just have to live in shame in the backwoods of the Bayou.

The bad news, though, is also that there aren’t any corpses; rather a large black hole stretching into a void. Darker than the night around them, practically made of nothing.

The vampire sighs and pushes up his glasses. “It’s a small stairwell,” then looking back to Vera, “I know you aren’t to blame in the least but… there’s a reason no one has a basement in Louisiana.” Judging by the look she throws his way it’s better that she takes the high road and doesn’t comment.

“I can’t smell any water rot,” Cal sniffs the air again and the face he makes might as well curl the ends of his hair, “but there’s definitely dead things below.”

“Wow, dead things in a crypt, who would’a guessed?”

“Hey Ryder?”

“Yeah Kujo?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

There’s only enough space for them to go one at a time; and even that is being generous. Taylor can’t help but try to imagine the dignified Elder Daniels in her power-suit crawling into this muck — or Elder Vion hobbling through like a bag of bones.

Kathy volunteers Cadence to go first — an act the vampire looks like he objects to strongly. “Tall people aren’t really made for small —”

But it isn’t his height the huntress is concerned over; a revelation spurned by how she shoves him through the passage—crawlspace, really—and holds her breath as if waiting for something to happen.

Nothing does. “The inside isn’t bespelled. You can come out now if you want.”

If Cade could turn his head he would no doubt be glaring wildly. “Why bother, I’m already inside!” He seethes but takes cautious steps into the tomb, then into the earth.

Vera goes next, and of her own volition.

“Anyone else worried about the amount of oxygen down there?” And it’s such a clear opening for Nik to take a shot at the werewolf but Cal does have a point — while also looking a little green in the face.

So he and Katherine stay up top to guard the rather obvious and gaping hole in what should be a sealed grave. And for the sake of conserving breathing room, can’t forget that.

Nik’s hand is warm, solid as it coaxes him at his lower back. Only a few steps in he feels the drop of the descent. Waits until what little light from outside is obscured by the bodyguard at his back before he begins the journey down.

Down into the not-so-final not-quite-at-rest place of Derek Reimonenq.

Cal was right; there is a body down here.

But—and he’s just spitballing here really—he’s like… a little pretty-damn-sure it isn’t the guy who’s been dead for 98 years.

Ninety five, ninety four percent certain.

As he finishes igniting the last of the half-burned candle circle Cadence pockets his lighter and stands — doesn’t even have to hunch over. It had felt like they were walking for an hour in the pitch black but maybe he wasn’t that far off.

It’s not a tomb like anyone buried would have a tomb; more a room made sturdy with brick and mortar to do one purpose — and not even for forever. The candles have to be a new fixture courtesy of the Coven Elders and whatever hellish ritual they performed. Even the ground beneath them still holds traces of their visit; looks like Elder Daniels got her heel stuck in some as-yet unpacked dirt.

Derek Reimonenq’s body is probably supposed to be on the waist-height stone slab in the middle. Only it isn’t.

But someone’s is.

Ryder’s hand ghosts over yellow chalk marks on the walls. He pulls back a fingertip of the powder residue and gives it a little sniff; instantly regrets it with a recoil.

“Sulfur,” and he smears it back on the brick feeling desperately unclean.

Cadence joins Vera in looking up to where something large catches the reflection of the flames. He’s just tall enough to reach and brush the surface with a touch. “Looks like a quartz geode… I think I’ve read somewhere that halite can be cast to ward away weathering.”

“Explains why this place wasn’t swallowed up in Katrina,” agrees Nik.

There’s a long moment of silence before Taylor just can’t take it anymore.

“Is no one else gonna mention the dead corpse?”

Cadence snorts. “As opposed to the living one?”

Not what he meant.

But as the rest of the room’s oddities had been deduced the only logical progression was to the young woman laid to rest in a grave that isn’t hers. Maybe wasn’t supposed to be.

That she hasn’t shown any signs of decay isn’t even the strangest thing. No, that would be the pile of bleached-white bones serving as her funeral bed. Definitely more than what one human body should be made up of — but who says it’s human?

The almost medical distance with which Nik studies the long gash across her throat—not scabbed over but not bleeding, either, simply open—has Taylor looking away in discomfort.

While Vera may not have been initially as shocked as he, though, she keeps her distance beside him. “She’s so young…”

“Eighteen, maybe a tad less,” Cadence shrugs off the way they stare at him, “I tried out medicine a ways back, I think I can date a body.”

“Then how long has she been dead?”

“That’s the misleading part — but I think we have the halite ward to thank for that. Context included—I’d say she died the same night as Carlo de la Rosa.”

Vera sucks in a breath. “It killed her, too?”

“No, she doesn’t look like the other bodies.” Nik grunts and stands, wipes dirt from his palms and grabs one of the bones from under the girl’s knee to study it closely. “Conjuring the wraith — pulling Reimonenq’s spirit from the Veil, that’s some heavy necromancy, the kind you have to have in your blood. It could be one of the Elders but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say she’s our born Necromancer.”

Why is it that with everything he’s seen Taylor still has a hard time looking into her face, soft and so very still, and imagining her bringing that much evil into the world?

Ryder uses the bone to drag a wide circle around the dais in the dirt; follows the path just inside the candles and forces the other three back against the walls. “The Elders stood in a triangle — see the concentration of steps — and she did the summoning over the altar. When they were done… she wasn’t of any use to them and and had to go.”

“But she was one of their own,” Taylor protests, “they keep talking about how they’re trying to protect their Coven — she had to have been one of them right?”

It’s a heavy thought. Makes the air in the room feel a little thinner. Cal was right there isn’t enough for them down here.

“Come Hell and High Waters,” says Cade; and he probably means well but those words make him feel sick to his stomach now — some of that ends justifying the means bullshit.

“A sacrifice of one for the survival of the many. I wonder if they told her… that what she was doing was the right thing.”

“The right — they murdered her. There’s no way that’s right.”

“You’re questioning their morality now?”

Taylor falters. He has a point.

There’s just so much grief building up inside his chest he feels like his lungs might burst out of him. A terrible loss; losing himself, losing faith in something, losing trust and truth and…

And where the hell is this coming from?

I can’t breathe. Clutching his hand to his chest, heart seconds away from giving out, that familiar burn of breathing in too hard—too much. “I can’t breathe.”

Before he can collapse Vera helps ease him down to his knees, Nik suddenly at his side hands hovering — unsure of what to do, how to help, but filled with the desperate need to do something because feeling useless is a thundercloud gathering overhead.

“Rook—Rook breathe. I — what’s wrong? Can you talk? Talk to me Taylor, please —”

“Give him some space, Ryder.”

“Do you not see him having a panic attack?”

He gathers enough energy to rasp out only once; “Hey—huff—Nik—huff—backthehelloff!”

And because he can’t say it again he just waves Vera away with heavy slaps of his hands. He doesn’t mean to hurt her. Only to get his point across.

The breathing room they give helps a little. Not enough. Doesn’t stop the feelings he’s feeling or the confusion about those feelings.

They wait in silence while his panic subsides. Maybe it wouldn’t take so long if he understood what had caused it; but he’s met with nothing but patience and a whole lot of concern on Nik’s end.

When Taylor reaches out with a shaky hand it’s immediately grabbed; his entire being tethered to that one act. Nik squeezes first, he squeezes back.

His gaze drifts over the leather-clad shoulder to the body on the stone slab and… and he understands.

“I’m feeling her.” The aching grief twisting in his gut like a rusty knife, the purposelessness, the betrayal. “It—she—is everywhere in here. She’s suffocating.”

“She’s dead, Rook.”

“I mean her emotions—her soul. She wants to be known. She wants to be grieved.”

“So grieve her,” Cadence says, “however you can, you must. If you’re feeling that strong of an empathic connection there must be a reason why. It could tell us something we don’t know—something crucial.”

Taylor hopes to see some sort of confident support when he looks to Nik for help — but the worry is staggering. That makes it better, somehow; genuine.

“You don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t want,” his voice is quiet; hiding the scratch of emotion in his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs.

If only it were that simple.

On shaky legs he stands, makes his way to the altar where Cadence gives him a wide berth and waves for the others to do the same. Nik looks ready to stand by his side no matter what happens. He will, too. But he shakes his head, whispers “it’s okay,” and lets their touch linger until he’s too far to reach.

There’s no manual on this kinda crap — hopefully he doesn’t need one. He doesn’t think he does.

No… he doesn’t feel like he does. Which is apparently different now; a thing to worry about later.

Taylor inhales and brushes a trembling touch along the soft curve of her copper cheek.

“You swore a sacred oath to your Coven in blood, dear girl.”

Elder Vion’s voice rasps in his ear. Makes Taylor want to recoil out of a bygone terror. He’s half a step back when he remembers Nik is there and the Elder is not. And stands still.

“No one else would have you Cassiopeia. We took you in, gave you our protection.”

“We gave you a family — a home.”

Then an unfamiliar voice among them; young and trusting and tired—so very tired, dragged out of her bed in the middle of the night.

“Of course, Elder Millet, a-and I’m grateful! Please, please…”

“All of these things without expectation of repayment. Because our kind must stand together — must straddle the worlds of both dark and light and know balance in them.”

“You have been cursed, darling girl. But today we will turn that curse into a blessing.”

“But you made me promise —”

Then the feeling changes — grows old and damp and determined to do good by those who took care of her, by those who loved her.

The bones of a persecuted witch. Of three. The last three to fall victim to The Bloody Hand and the ones to call him forth from the hereafter.

They bind him in torment, in hellfire unseen.

The sight of them, knowledge that she could be one of them, makes her skin crawl.

Elder Daniels watches ever-present at her back as Elder Vion finishes the rite of conjuring; sprinkles the last of the dry spell over the bones. The mandrake powder tickles her nose. She holds her breath and prays not to sneeze.

The ochre within stains the bones her favorite shade of orange; the burned hue of a Bayou sunset. But combined with the flakes of iridescent mica that catch in the candlelight — the spell takes hold of the bones and claims them for their use. Leaves them a bright, almost bleached white as the powders are absorbed into the long-gone marrow.

Cassiopeia looks to her left for Elder Millet’s familiar motherly smile. It gives her calm and hope — reminds her of all the other fostered witches they are acting in faith for tonight.

This is what she was born for. This is why she was abandoned; because the Garden Coven was meant to find her.

She’s meant to do this; use her curse. This is how she’s going to repay them for all they’ve done for her.

“Cassiopeia, sweetheart,” Elder Millet doesn’t move—can’t move—from her spot in the triquetra; coaxes her forward still with a nod of her chin, “whenever you’re ready.”

A hasty nod; then she takes one final moment to steel herself and her nerves.

She’s meant for this.

The sulfur powder itches at her palms but Cassie resists the urge to scratch. Spreads her fingers wide and hears a pop in her thumbs as she reaches over and above the ritual bones.

On the other side of the altar comes the thud. thud. thud of Elder Vion’s walking staff on the ground a this feet. The candle flames around them flicker — almost to death.

Then comes the slow and throated chanting of Vion’s native tongue. The flames begin to grow.

The young witch buries that last shred of doubt way deep inside and trusts her protectors.

“Claw and blood, claw and bone. Bloodied flesh, endless stone…”

A whispered wind overcomes them. Fills the room warm near her toes and chilly to the touch.

Around the crypt it circles round and round — and grows.

“Soar with the zephyr, shriek with the crow. Life renewed I now bestow…”

She can’t quite tell if the shaking in her hands is the growing itch, her nerves, or the power of the spell. Nothing worth the reason to stop.

“My darkest will with blackened vein Unto this rotted soul I chain.”

“Again!” Elder Daniels commands. A tone that takes none but obedience.

“Claw and blood, claw and bone. Bloodied flesh, endless stone. Soar with the zephyr, shriek with the crow. Life renewed I now bestow. My darkest will with blackened vein Unto this rotted soul I chain!”

“Again!”

“I—I’m trying!”

“Try harder! Millet!”

“Cassiopeia you can’t break the chant. You can do it, I know you can!”

The whirlwind threatens to catch her voice and steal it from her lungs. Rattles the bones that stay together because they cannot imagine being apart — even in death. Hands stained with the sulfur’s ire and Cassie squeezes her eyes shut to keep it from getting in her eyes.

“Claw and blood! Claw and bone! Bloodied flesh! Endless stone!”

“It’s working! Jean—the knife!”

“You’re doing so good Cassie—we’re almost there!”

“My darkest will with blackened vein! Unto this rotted soul I chain!”

Taylor chokes on his own air; can feel the icy bite of the blade dragged across his throat. Sharp—so sharp it’s barely a pinprick but the wound left in its wake spills warm and wet down his front into his clothes soaking the ground taken in by the dirt and given a home here, below, in this awful place.

Ichor of the innocent to bind and control.

Before he can fall backwards Nik is there; familiar and solid and so so steady against the violent shaking that overcomes him.

He can still feel her— forces everything inside him to will himself not to see what happened next. Knows what was born from her spell, her devotion to the Elders, and her sacrifice.

Cassiopeia.

“She trusted them,” the words hang thick and dry on Taylor’s tongue, “she trusted them and they told her she was doing something good… she felt like she owed them.”

“And repaid that debt with her life…” Vera looks away; suddenly can’t stand to look at her.

Nik helps him back on his feet, brushes a hand through his hair and he leans into the warmth of it. Feels so cold now that the hot sting of Cassiopeia’s anguish is gone from him. Pulled out as if by a rusted hook embedded in his gut.

“Was it Reimonenq that did this to her?” asks Cade, who drags his finger along the curling edges of her wound.

“No, no… Elder Daniels, I think, was the one who sacrificed her.”

Nik frowns. “Why would you sacrifice the one doin’ the damn ritual?”

“The power in a ritual is beheld by the caster, obviously. With her death the entire thing should have been rendered null. But we all know that not to be the case.”

A strange look comes over the vampire’s expression for a moment; lips pursed thinly. He doesn’t look up from the body as he waves towards Vera. “Can you come here a moment? Take your glove off.”

“What? No!”

“Relax, you won’t be Touching me. I need you to Touch the witch’s hand.”

She looks between them all, Cassie’s body included, as if hoping one of them will speak up. “I won’t be Touchin’ anyone because I won’t do it. It’s too risky, especially here all… all cramped.”

“Please.”

Vera pleads at him silently. Taylor can feel her panic icy and crisp at the back of his throat. So he asks; “What do you think will happen?”

“If I’m correct,” whether he steps away from the altar and simply gestures, giving Vera space, is for her sake or his own is a mystery, “then nothing will happen at all.”

That it’s a risk he’s willing to take on behalf of Vera—that he isn’t the one doing the Touching and is all the more insistent anyway—is worrisome. But he’s their friend; they’re all in this together.

That—and the fact that if Katherine were down here she’d already be tugging Vera and her cursed hand forward without hesitation.

Curiosity, survival; whichever wins out it doesn’t matter. Not that it keeps the unfortunate inheritor of her family name from doing so slowly. As if trying to talk herself out of agreeing up until the last second.

“Which hand?”

“Either one will do,” then when her fingertips are a hair’s breadth away— “I seem to recall Derek wasn’t picky.”

Taylor wonders—quietly, in his head, and very much to himself—when the last time Vera actually touched another human was. Was there some sort of coming-of-age trigger for the curse? Or could she have been putting all the other toddlers on the playground at risk should she have decided to pull off her gloves and play tag?

Too long ago, the obvious answer. Obvious when Vera covers Cassiopeia’s hand first in fingertips — then her entire palm.

They wait. Nothing happens.

She shakes off her wrist—like this is something she’s at fault for—and tries again. Pushes this time enough to jostle the poor young sacrifice.

Again, nothing.

There’s a collective sigh of relief. All eyes on Cadence for answers, explanations, anything?

Nope. He just nods, as distantly academic as ever.

“So what does this mean?” Nik finally asks.

The last time he started rolling up his sleeves, Taylor witnessed Cadence’s transformation into some kind of merciless brute; a monster. Is it any wonder the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when he sees it again?

“It means I’m going to need something that can cut through bone.”

[lallemcnt]

go ahead and watch my heart burn (part four)

“When you look at him you see dark night opening, giving way to dawn.”

— Ibn Said al-Maghribi

-

“Talk to me.”

“You shouldn’t have to reassure me all the fucking time! I’m so sick of my brain and how messed up I am!”

“You’re not messed up, Lucas.”

Lucas is perched on the arm of Eliott’s sofa, head bowed and arms shielding his body. Eliott sits on the edge of the sofa at its other end, the exasperated expression on his face mirroring Lucas’ voice. The distance between them, a sofa separating them, feels like miles upon miles, an impossible space to close. Lucas understands his frustration, he even feels sorry for him, sorry that he has to deal with Lucas when he gets like this: frustrated and insecure, when Eliott hasn’t done anything to incite these feelings, when he has been nothing but understanding, nothing but absolutely caring, nothing but a flame in the dark on the days when Lucas’ anxiety has been particularly debilitating.

He knew this was going to happen, that he would mess it up, he just didn’t know he would only have a month of being with Eliott before it all blew up in his face. Abruptly, the frustration drains from him and he is tired. He moves towards the door, stuffing his feet in his trainers and pulling on his jacket. Eliott gets to his feet, following Lucas to the door, asking in a beseeching voice, “You can’t just leave, we need to talk.”

Lucas doesn’t turn around to address him, simply opens the front door and lets out a quiet: “Let me go” before shutting the door behind him and trudging down the stairs into a chilly late summer day. His shoulders instantly hunch up and he’s blowing hot air into his hands for warmth, not sure where he’s going exactly. Going, he scoffs to himself, more like running, like the coward you are. But the knowledge of his cowardice is not enough to make him go back to Eliott and explain.

Lucas recalls a conversation they had a few days after he told Eliott about his father. When Eliott asked Lucas about his anxiety and how it affected him. He didn’t push Lucas to speak about it or set up some kind of intervention. They had been watching reruns of shitty TV at Eliott’s, as usual, eating popcorn and drinking some kind of nasty-ass beer Lucas has brought over when Eliott had asked him:

“I- Can I ask you questions about your anxiety? I’ve been reading up on it and I know I’ll need to do more, but would you…would you mind that? Because I know it is different for everyone.” His voice was tentative, his hands clenched around his beer bottle as if he was scared he had crossed an unspoken line, entering into unknown territory.

It was completely out of the blue. Lucas wondered if this had been on Eliott’s mind the entire evening, he, himself, felt slightly uncomfortable and nervous, because talking about it never ended well, it only ever crushed his mood, his soul, leaving him disappointed. However, he knew, in his heart, that if this thing between them had any chance of survival Eliott had the prerogative to know, to decide for himself if Lucas was worth all the work, and to make this decision he needed all the facts.

Turning down the volume on the TV, Lucas had shifted to face Eliott, because he could be strong. Hadn’t all his years of quiet survival proven that? He could look Eliott in the eye when he inevitably concluded that it was all too much. That Lucas was not worth it.

“You need to understand that you can’t fix me, okay? I’m always going to be dealing with this and I want you to know that I won’t blame you or hate you if you decide to leave, okay? It is a lot. I know,” Pausing for breath, Lucas had taken a swig of his drink before continuing. “Sometimes I’ll get irritable for no reason, at myself and at you. I’ll be snippy. I won’t want to talk to you. When we’ve planned to go to a party or out for dinner, when the day comes round the thought of going may make me feel physically sick and I won’t want to go because I’m terrified of meeting new people or being left alone at a party with nothing to do or no one to talk to. Sometimes I’ll put off doing things and stay home for days because the idea is a lot more peaceful, comfortable and safe than going out.

“And you have to know, it won’t be your fault. I just need space sometimes. There’s something else, too. It’s hard to explain why…there are times when I think it’s because of my father, but I can be touch averse too, casual touches will annoy me and turn my mood sour. I used to be this really affectionate kid, and I still crave touch, but I also hate it at times.”

Eliott nodded thoughtfully along as Lucas spoke; being given the opportunity to explain how he feels and be heard was everything. Everything and more. More than he ever imagined he would be lucky enough to experience.

He doesn’t even know how this afternoon’s argument got heated so quickly, but when he reaches that level of frustration he can’t be talked down, no placating words can calm him, and Eliott contradicting him, telling him he wasn’t messed up made him more angry, and Lucas also knew that while his head was telling him to yell and slam the door and tell Eliott that he will never understand, that he doesn’t get it, that this will never work between them, his heart was whispering for him to get out of there, to cool off, before he said something he would regret.

He knew why Eliott was frustrated, Lucas had been closed off for the past week, refusing to confide in Eliott who had asked him several times what was going on. He was clueless, unsure if he was the problem. Lucas could have easily reassured him that it wasn’t him, but he was feeling mean and bitter. Communication. The age-old issue that tore couples apart on the daily. He knew Eliott would be struggling to understand if the issue was anxiety-related or if Lucas was just being an asshole, which he was want to be every now and then, but that only made Lucas more irate.

Walking along the Seine, Lucas kicks out at a rock and then another, physically exercising his annoyance. The thing was, deep down is wasn’t just anger he felt, it was fear and shock and insurmountable shame, and even the thought of explaining this to Eliott- it is enough to make him sink down on a bench in fatigue, because hasn’t he told enough secrets for once? Hasn’t even opened himself up to pain over and over again these last few weeks? So, seeing what Lucas saw in conjunction with someone else being worried about you and constantly asking if you are okay when you most definitely are not is too much. To be worrying about someone else’s feelings when you are consumed by your own mounting despair is enough emotional grievance to knock you out for a lifetime.

Today at 13:15

Le gang

yann: my dudes who’s up for a night of gaming at mine? bazzz: HELL YES I’M IN arthur: idk i’ve got this huge essay to get done by tomorrow arthur: and i haven’t started yet bazzz: yikes arthur: lucas!!!!!! have u done it yet?? bazzz: come on we haven’t hung out in ages bazzz: are you’ll really choosing work over spending time with ME?! yann: i have bEER arthur: bold of you to assume i’d bunk of uni work for beer bazzz: we’ve got arthur! yann: lulu! where u at? arthur: lulu! bazzz: lulu!

Lucas clicks off the chat, puts it on silent and pulls up Manon’s.

Today at 13:27

Manon

lucas: hey u around? Manon: hey!! Manon: yeah i am Manon: what are you thinking? lucas: ummm wanna go for a walk? Manon: i’d love to

After deciding where to meet, Lucas begins to stroll across one of the many bridges that cross the river. In an attempt to clear his mind of Eliott and their argument, he marvels at the beauty of his city, at all the history that these old and ornate buildings must contain; the grey water washing by them, dividing banks and creating islands. He walks by children already wrapped up in coats and hats but licking away at vanilla ice-creams. There are two men in suits locked in a heated exchange, jaws tight and eyes narrowed. A couple up ahead leans against the side of the bridge, entangled in each other’s arms, blonde hair whipping against their faces: Lucas looks away quickly at the surge in his chest. And just beyond them, he spots a red pea-coat: Manon. Dressed in woolly tights, her brown hair tied in a loose braid, she clutches a paperback book in one hand, her elbows rest on the off-white arm of the bridge, discoloured by the grim of urban life.

When they meet, Lucas falls into her outstretched arms as though this place, here, is a refuge amidst a storming sea. He doesn’t cry, but he remains there for a while. If Lucas had to describe Manon he would wax poetic about her. She’s closer to a sister to him than a friend, but then who ever said a person couldn’t be both to you?

Drawing away from each other, they smile and return to look over the bridge where Manon rests her  book. Lucas observes the cover and the authors name as recognition hits and he’s turning back to Manon, incredulously, as he exclaims, “No way! What the hell? Is that the last book?”

Manon is grinning and holding it up to Lucas’ face. “Yep! Had to pre-order it and everything. Just went to pick it up from the shop, actually.”

“I can’t believe it. We waited, what, five years for it and now it’s actually here? Fuck.”

When they were twelve, there was this fantasy book series everyone was reading about magicians and vampires, empires falling and rising, quests for lost artefacts and stolen celestial swords. Suffice it to say, Lucas and Manon were obsessed; they would queue up outside the bookstore for midnight releases with Manon’s older brother and parents, they would have reading parties together on weekends, but it was also one of those series where the last book kept getting pushed back until it’s release seemed a fallacy, but after seven years, the final book was out.

Lucas grabbed the book proffered to him and scanned the cover and back, flipping the book open like a fan. The smell of newly printed pages ready to be devoured and loved was an inexplicable bliss. He placed it in reach of Manon whose back was against the bridge’s sides and face directed towards Lucas, her blue gaze is searching. He pretends to be interested in the boats disappearing beneath him, but he’s forgotten Manon can out-wait him, she has the patience of a saint. What’s more is she has always thought of Lucas as a younger brother despite their birthdays only between two weeks apart — one week, six days, two hours and 19 minutes exactly if you ask Lucas — making her infinitely more willing to spend minutes, hours in silence until he is ready to open up or can’t stand the silence so he fills it meaningless words which eventually unwinds into the deeper stuff, because Manon makes the time to be there for everyone she holds dear. Lucas is one of those lucky people, he knows that.

In this way, while the wind insists on dispelling summer in favour of autumn, as Manon waits out Lucas and the sky grows grey in alliance with the wind and the Seine leads its placid journey, winding around the city, Lucas voices what has got him all twisted up inside for the past week, the catalyst for this argument with Eliott.

“I think I saw my father last week. At uni.”

This shocks Manon. Although he isn’t directly looking at here, out of the corner of his eye he sees her blanch at his words, she turns around, standing beside him as though in solidarity, as if she would be able to protect him from what has already happened. His heart clenches at this.

“How are you feeling?” She asks.

Bringing his hand up to chew his thumb nail, Lucas shrugs, which is ridiculous because he knows how he feels, he’s been sinking in this tumult of negativity for seven fucking days.

“You know what I wanted to do? I wanted to go up to him. I wanted to look him dead in the eyes and see if he would even recognise me, to ask him how he could do what he did and claim it was love? How you can do that to someone you’re supposed to love unconditionally? What did I do exactly to make him hate me so much? What did I do? I want to know so I never do it again, so I don’t provoke that kind of behaviour-”

“Listen to me, Lucas. No,” Manon is shaking her head and holding Lucas own between her hands so he is forced to look at her while she speaks. “You did not provoke anything, you hear me? I can’t explain to you why he did what he did to you, why he hurt you. But I do know one thing for certain, and I know you’re tired of hearing me say it but I will say it forever if I have to, this is all on him, nothing you did was wrong. It was all him. All him.”

Biting down on his lip, blinks back tears. “I don’t even know why he was there, and I didn’t want it to become this big thing but Eliott caught on to my mood, I mean, how could he not? And I didn’t feel like talking about it, not after telling him about my father, my anxiety. It would’ve just been overboard for him, you know?”

“No, I don’t know. Lucas, he’s there, right? Wanting to be with you. In relationships there are times where you don’t want to say how you feel and you don’t want to express the messy shit, but Lucas, if this is going on for an extended period of time you have got to let him in. It’s unfair otherwise. You’re part of a team now.”

Lucas sighs.

“Unless he’s been an asshole and said something-”

“No! He hasn’t-”

“-because then I’ll be having words with him.”

That brings a smile to Lucas’ lips. Hearing Manon threaten someone — even thinking it sounds ridiculous in his head — is always a shock because she’s Manon, always flocking to make sure everyone is okay, wearing their coats when it’s cold, ensuring everyone has a ride home after a night out.

“No, he’s great. I’m the asshole, but what’s new, right?”

Throwing an arm around Lucas’ shoulder, easily done because they’re the same height, Manon frowns. “Just talk to him, my love. For him, for your relationship, but, most importantly, for yourself. Now, say this together with me ‘I am not an asshole’.”

Lucas rolls his eyes but Manon is serious. She begins to open her mouth and when Lucas makes no effort to join her she stops and glares, full force, at him until he obliges with another sigh.

“I am not an asshole.”

“And again.”

“I. Am. Not. An. Asshole.”

“Whoop! That is so true, Lucas. You aren’t. Alright, let’s hobble along somewhere, it’s kinda chilly out here. I think my toes are about to stop working.”

“Okay, okay.”

Linking arms, the two friends find a coffee shop to sit at, a feat on days such as this when everyone is seeking the warmth of the inside, clutching warm mugs of hot chocolate between their hands they speak of lighter things, less serious but just as important.

-

By the time eight o’clock rolls around, Lucas is feeling hopelessly guilty about leaving Eliott’s place that afternoon. Manon’s words play on his mind: You have got to let him in. It’s unfair otherwise. You’re part of a team now. But because he’s the king of avoidance, Lucas has agreed to go to Yann’s for a gaming night and he’s rationalised to himself that that is okay, because he hasn’t seen the boys in a while and he misses them and Eliott is probably off hanging out with Idriss and Sofiane, so he’s okay and they can speak tomorrow. It can all be sorted out tomorrow.

On his way over to Yann’s, he begins typing an apologetic text to Eliott, it screams pathetic and cheap, everything he should say in person. Cursing in frustration, Lucas deletes it all, at least he tries to and he does erase most of it but his thumb slips onto the send button in his frustration.

Today 20:04

eliott

lucas: i’m

FUCK.

He shoves his phone into the front pocket of his grey hoodie, and of course this happened, he really can’t catch a break can he?

He gets no response. Radio silence. Hopefully hanging with le gang will be distraction enough.

For the first hour Lucas is caught up in the fervor of his friends’ excitement about a new season of a TV show about a family gang in Birmingham, England on netflix. They settle on Yann’s sofa, pulling up beanbags and lazy-boys to rest their feet on; despite their apparent enthusiasm they talk through the entirety of the first episode, making poor imitations of the Birmingham accent, Baz laments about how attractive the leading male is and Lucas can’t do anything but agree.

As the night goes by, however, Lucas becomes restless, he plays one game with Yann and then a team game with Arthur and Basile. He drinks flat coca-cola and chooses the music they listen to, but there, in the background of everything is Eliott’s face when Lucas left. When he is choosing the next song to play he thinks back to the many nights when they would talk on the phone before bed and Eliott would play Lucas the piano music he had grown to love, sometimes falling asleep to it, lulled by tender notes and impossibly smooth melodies. He should be there. With Eliott.

So he leaves, apologising profusely, promising to meet them at lunch on Monday, his mouth agreeing to anything while his one-track mind retains its steady focus on one boy. He is running in the dark, the sky jet-black where weeks ago the sunset was only beginning be set. Impossibly, a few stars peak through the light-pollution endemic to most cities and the moon is there, coaxing him on his way, as if to say hurry hurry you’re almost there. Out of breath and surely sweating Lucas does not stop. He doesn’t text Eliott; he will wait outside his place until he comes home, he will wait forever if that is what it takes.

Lucas is anxious now. He presses the buzzer for Eliott’s door, hoping against hope that he will be forgiven for walking out.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Lucas.”

Silence.

Lucas is there on the steps, panting from his run, his heart galloping in his chest for more than one reason he can count. It feels like an eternity before he hears the tell-tale sound of the front door buzzing and he’s pushing it open, climbing up the stairs to Eliott’s door. It is down the end of the corridor, the last one on his floor, and Eliott is there, in the doorway, watching Lucas as he walks towards him and it is agony: he can feel the guilt’s full force curling in his stomach. Lucas is suddenly self-conscious, he wants the floor to swallow him up. His steps are hesitant. He stops a few feet away from Eliott. Wanting to hug him.

“Can I come in?” His words are stilted, coated in uncertainty.

“Why are you here?” Eliott looks tired.

“I want to talk.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t budge a single inch.

Looks like Lucas is going to have to do this here. In the hallway. Where any number of people can just walk by. At least Eliott hasn’t shut the door in his face.

“I’m sorry. For shutting you out, refusing to talk to you. For being mean,” At this, Eliott’s composure starts to falter, Lucas understands then that his annoyed posture was all an act, possibly an attempt to guard himself from hurt, and that nicks at his heart a little. “For walking out earlier, I should have stayed. I’m just really sick of feeling vulnerable all the time, I feel like I can’t catch a break and then I take it out on you by being cold.

“I saw my father last week, unintentionally, he was at uni and it’s the first time since he left that I’ve laid eyes on him. It brought back all the shame and humiliation. I wanted to walk up to him, like I’ve imagined doing multiple times over the years and confronting him, but all I could do was run the other way. I hate that this man still has this power over me. Anyway, that’s not the point, the point is that I hurt you-”

Eliott is stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Lucas, pulling him into his apartment and holding him against the door.

“Please don’t be mad.” Lucas’ voice comes out muffled against Eliott’s chest.

“I’m not mad. The truth is I’d rather be annoyed by you than not have you at all. I want to know when you’re in pain and why. And you were, I could see it and it hurt to know you were fighting something on your own. I am so sorry, Lucas.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

“Remember what I told you, yeah? You are not alone.”

Lucas’ heart clenches at those words. How does Eliott think of and say things like that, so sincere like it is effortless, like it costs him nothing but the air he breathes to say them.

He pulls back from Eliott, head tilted up against the door. “You need to stop that.”

“Stop what?” Eliott cups Lucas’ face

“Saying those romantic things.”

“And you need to know that you have nothing,” He says fiercely. “To be ashamed about. You are not what happened to you. You are magnificent, and I can’t believe how lucky I am that you choose to be with me.”

“I love you.” The words slip out, Lucas widens his eyes and Eliott is laughing at Lucas’ brazenness. Simultaneously, his eyes shift and brighten, as if Lucas’ confession has changed the very colour of Eliott’s eyes, as if those three words have changed him.

A kiss, soft and tender. ”Not as much as I love you.”

Another kiss just as tender and slow, torturously slow. “Yeah, yeah. Now carry me to your bed, please.”

They stumble there, stripping off their clothes as much as they can while kissing and touching each other. As soon as Lucas hits Eliott’s bed though he is enraptured by the softness of his duvet and pillow and he sighs contentedly.

Eliott looks up from where he was kissing down Lucas’ chest and lets out a disbelievingly laugh when he sees Lucas snuggling into his pillows. He crawls up Lucas’ body until he is caging him in and looking directly down at him. Eliott, straddling Lucas’ hips now, plants a hard, searing kiss on his lips which Lucas is all too happy to reciprocate, clutching Eliott at the hips.

“You are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously into you.” Lucas winks.

Eliott rolls over, laying his head on Lucas’ chest. “You’re tired.”

“Yeah…Your bed…Morning sex, instead?”

“Sure.”

From his position on Lucas’ chest, Eliott caresses Lucas’ lower stomach, running his fingers lightly over the skin, raising goose bumps in their wake.

Je t’aime.

Moi aussi.

[mageicalwishes]

Crying In My Prom Dress - Chapter 2

Read on AO3: here 

Read the previous chapter: here 

Summary:  The Leaver’s Ball marks the end of the school year. The end of their time at Watford. Baz has a confession to make before it’s too late. But, will he ever pluck up the courage to tell Simon how he feels? Inspired by the song “Prom Dress” by Mxmtoon.

Chapter: 2/7

Words: 4,046

Baz

I’m at my desk, trying (and failing) to concentrate on my Greek essay, when Snow storms into the room. I haven’t seen him since earlier on the balcony. After what Bunce had said, I couldn’t face going to dinner. My mind was racing. It still is. “What’s ruffled your feathers, Snow?” I goad. “What are you doing? Why weren’t you at dinner?” he gruffs. “I’m studying, Snow. You should try it sometime, maybe then you wouldn’t be so hopeless” Again with the insults. I don’t really mean it of course, he’s the furthest thing from hopeless. Simon Snow is the most powerful magician alive. He probably has more magic in his little finger than I have in my whole body. He’s so strong, but even he is bound to struggle controlling all of that raw energy . “You’re such a prick,” he snarls, stomping into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. I should apologise. I want to apologise - but I’ve set a precedent. No apologies. If I took it back now, he’d just wonder why. He’d probably suspect it’s part of some grand scheme I’d devised to kill him (I don’t want to kill him). I doubt he’s perceptive enough to realise the truth. Either way, I still need to keep up my act - Better safe than sorry.  Perhaps I should just tell him? Bunce thinks I have a chance. Maybe she’s right. She thinks that Snow and Wellbelove aren’t right for each other. I’ve always thought that - but that’s just because I’m jealous. I doubt she's jealous, everyone knows she’s got a “thing” for that American exchange. Does he really feel the same? There is a chance he may. Admittedly, a very minute chance - but a chance nonetheless.

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Snow is tossing and turning. I’m shrouded in the scent of his magic - all smoke and fire. It’s intoxicating. I’ve been waiting for him to fall asleep for at least two hours now, as I desperately need to go down to the catacombs and feed. With everything he’s been through, Snow has never been the most peaceful sleeper. He’s always been plagued with nightmares. I’ve even had to resort to casting “Sweet Dreams” on him a few times - it’s painful watching him when they get bad. Writhing around, pleading in his sleep. I’d do anything to make them stop. I’m sparing with the sleep spells, though. I don’t want him to get suspicious. He can’t know how painfully soft I am when it comes to him. Despite all of this, he doesn’t usually struggle falling asleep. Something must be troubling him.

“What’s wrong, Snow? The Mage making you do his bidding again?” I tease. He just scoffs quietly in response, and then room falls back into silence. I look over at him - his curls are splayed in a mess against his pillow and he has his back to me. Suddenly, he whips his body round to face mine, his duvet tangling around his legs. I don’t know whether he can see me in the dark. I can always see him - but the whole vampire thing is a bit of an advantage in that respect.

“You’re proper posh aren’t you, Baz? he asks, his voice heavy with tiredness. I can’t help but snicker. “Shut up. I just - I just mean you’ve been to balls and stuff like that before, right?”

“Yes. I’ve been to a few,” I reply, hesitantly. Why on earth is Snow asking me about this right now? Is that seriously what’s been keeping him up, whether or not I’ve been to a dance before? He huffs. Snow’s always huffing and puffing - he’s never been the best with words.

“It’s just - I was wondering if you would help me? I know you don’t really like me and stuff, but I need help." Truth is - I’d do anything for him. As I said, I’m incredibly soft when it comes to Snow.

“Help you with what?” I ask.

“Dancing,” he answers plainly (as if asking your enemy for dancing lessons isn’t even remotely strange).

“Dancing?”

“Yeah. You know, moving around to music.”

“I know what dancing is, Snow,” I deadpan. “I mean, why are you asking me to help? Last I heard, you were under Wellbelove’s expert tutelage.”

“I was,” he grumbles “She got mad at me ‘cause I scuffed her boots. She says she doesn’t want to help anymore. I asked Penny, but she doesn’t know how to dance either. I just figured you would know. I can help you with something back if you want. Please, Baz.” Merlin and Morgana. How could I refuse that. I should say no, but I’m weak.

“Okay. You don’t need to help me back, though.”

“You’ll help me?” he says, disbelieving.

“That’s what I just said. Do you need a hearing test, Snow?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, Cheers. That’s great,” he says. “But you’re sure you don’t want something back. I could pay you. I mean, I don’t really have any money - I have some leprechaun gold though. You could have some of that. I don't know if you can spend that in any shops though, sorry.” I scoff again, suppressing the smile that is threatening to break across my face.

“That won’t be necessary. Like I said, I don’t need you to give me anything back. Call it a goodbye present.” I feel my throat tighten at the thought. No more Simon. Only nine days together left. Christ. I have to tell him, before it’s too late. I have to do it. He flashes me a soft smile.

“Cheers, Baz. I knew you weren’t all bad,” he murmurs, chuckling softly. I feel my stomach flutter. I’m so far gone.

“It’s no problem, Snow. We wouldn’t want the Chosen One to be bested by a Waltz - that would be horrifically embarrassing. Although, I must warn you, if you scuff my shoes, there will be consequences. I’m not quite as forgiving as Wellbelove.” That earns me a proper smile. He’s beaming across at me now, his dimple popping handsomely. I feel my heart swell within my chest at the sight of him. I wish he always looked at me this way. I wish I didn't have to be his enemy.

“I know, I know. You’ll throw me to the merwolves - blah, blah blah,” he teases, rolling back over to face the wall. “Does tomorrow after tea sound okay?”

I make a vague “Mm” noise in response - not trusting my voice not to waver.

“Okay. Thanks again. N’Night, Baz,” he says, his voice barely a whisper now.

“Goodnight, Snow.” Aleister Crowley - I am in way over my head.

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

When I return from dinner, he’s sat on his bed waiting for me. “Hey,” he says, picking at his thumbs. I think he’s nervous. I know I am. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to agree to this. Generally, I’d consider myself to be an intelligent person - but agreeing to dance with Snow was definitely incomprehensibly stupid. 

“Good Evening, Snow. Shall we get this over with? I reply, trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant. I definitely sound tense. I feel tense - How could I not? I’m almost certainly going to cock this up. Not the dancing, I’m actually fairly good at that (thanks to Daphne insisting that I take dancing lessons at the weekends all throughout primary school). Snow may be oblivious, but (despite my best efforts) I’m not actually unreadable. Bunce saw right through me. If I'm dancing with him, holding him like that, something is sure to slip. Knowing my luck, I’ll probably pop a boner or something mortifying like that.

“Sure thing,” he says, raking a hand through his curls. “There’s a storage room we can use. More room in there. I’d probably just end up smashing one of our lamps if we stay here. Is that okay?”

“Certainly. Lead the way”, I say gesturing towards the door.

I cast a quick “You shall not pass” on the door as I close it behind us. If somebody walked in on us, I’m not sure how I could feasibly explain what we are about to do. The storage room was clearly abandoned long ago. Cobwebs have taken over nearly every available surface. While I’m not necessarily phased by the cobwebs, I cast a “Clean as a Whistle” spell for good measure (I’d rather not have to rewash my blazer after we’re done). When I turn around, Snow is staring at me blankly. Honestly, I think he forgets he’s a mage half the time. He could do these spells too, if he wanted.

“How should we start then?” he asks.

“Well, I presume you want to lead. Correct?”

“Lead?” he asks, tilting his head confusion. I sigh, kneading my knuckles against my brow bone.

“Did Wellbelove teach you anything? Lead the dance, Snow.  If it helps, generally speaking, the guy leads and the girl follows.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Yeah I want to lead, then. I don’t think Agatha would want to do it the other way,” he bumbles.

“Okay then,” I say, taking a deep breath. My pulse is racing. I need to pull myself together. I mutter an “If music be the food of love, play on” spell under my breath - I can’t have Snow overhearing that. A lot of Shakespeare spells only work if you’re in love, this particular one is no exception to that trend. The room fills with the soft melody of violins, and I take a step towards him. We’re barely thirty centimetres apart now. We’ve never been this close - not when we aren’t fighting. “Okay, so. The lead typically places one hand on their partner’s shoulder and the other in their hand,” I say, holding out my right hand in offering. I’m playing with fire here - I’m sure I’m going to get burnt.

“Sure, cool.” He slips his left hand into mine and laces our fingers together loosely. His hands are rougher than mine, calloused slightly, and ever so warm. Snow’s all heat - he’s so alive . He smiles up at me slightly and I dart my eyes down towards the floor. I can’t look at him right now. Not when he’s this close. My eyes would almost certainly betray me - like I said, even I’m not un readable. Hesitantly, he reaches up and slides his other hand over my shoulder, tugging me impossibly closer as he does. I've wanted this for so long. I hold my breath - somehow, I'm afraid that if I don't, I'll shatter this fragile moment and scare him away from me. His touch is electric and I’m a live wire. I feel it radiating through every cell in my body - lighting me up from within. Together we’re a complete circuit, and I’m electrified. I’m alive. I wonder, does he feel it too?

I clear my throat, bringing myself back down to reality. “Alright then, Snow. We will start off with the basic steps. It’s really very simple, even you should be able to manage. Just listen to what I tell you and try to move in time with the music, okay?”

“Uh yeah. Sounds good,” he mumbles, shifting his hand within mine slightly.

“Okay. All you need to do is a basic box step following a three-count tempo,” I explain. I risk looking up at him again. He’s staring at me blankly, his mouth scrunched up to the side in confusion. Honestly, I’m not convinced Wellbelove tried at all. I sigh. This is going to be more difficult than I thought. “You’re a certified moron, Snow.”

“Yeah? And you're a twat,” he grumbles. I gaze back down at my shoes.

“Just - Just take a step forward with your left foot.” He goes to move his right foot - Honestly, this boy is impossible. “I said your left foot. Are you brain-dead?”. He doesn’t respond to that, but he corrects himself and steps his left foot forward. “Good, that’s what you do on the first beat of the tempo. Next, take a step forward and to the side with your right foot. That’s what you do on the second beat of the tempo” He obliges, stepping sideways clumsily. “Acceptable. Now all you need to do is move your right foot back to meet your left one. Even you can’t cock that up.” He follows my instruction and chuckles quietly to himself when he's finished. “There you go, Snow. Now all we have to do today is get to the point where you can do that - except actually in time to the music and not so fragmented.”

“Okay. Thanks, Baz. With your help I’ll be a dance master in no time. You’re a much better teacher than Aggie,” he said, squeezing my hand gently. Oh no. I think I’m blushing. Curse him and his bloody hand holding. I can feel his eyes boring into me - I refuse to meet them still. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have let him get so close. I’m going to give myself away. I take a deep breath, desperately trying to myself.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re far from an expert. And, while I appreciate your attempt at flattery, my threat still stands - do not scuff my shoes or there will be hell to pay.”

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

We’ve been dancing for at least an hour now. Simon really can’t dance - he has all the natural rhythm of a lump of granite. But he’s trying. I’ve done my best to keep my gaze on the floor, but occasionally I’d catch a glimpse of him subconsciously poking his tongue out the corner of his mouth (he tends to do that when he’s concentrating). It was painfully cute - the sight of him practically made me melt. We haven’t spoken much (bar the occasional insult or instruction), but every so often he’d smile up at me or give my hand a quick squeeze. I wish he wouldn’t. Well ... That’s not exactly true. I’d gladly take anything Snow is willing to give me. Every smile. Every squeeze. He's setting my body on fire, and it burns in the best possible way. But, it’s not what I want - not really. I crave more. And, these small concessions aren’t satiating me - they’re only making me hungrier. Hungrier for him. I want everything Snow has to give. His body. His heart. His mind. His soul. Everything. But, that’s not what we are. Despite this strange dance lesson truce, we’re still enemies (of sorts). We’re moving slowly around the room when he blunders - badly (taking a step forwards rather than backwards). Our foreheads collide with a loud thud, sending Snow falling backwards onto the stone floor, and dragging me down with him.

I’m laying on top of him now - our bodies pressed humiliatingly tight together. Our eyes meet. His pupils are blown so wide there is hardly any blue left, and his eyes are practically popping out of his skull with the shock of it all. He’s staring up at me, his mouth hanging open uselessly. This is mortifying. And it's all his bloody fault - the blithering idiot. My pulse has skyrocketed, and I can feel my heart hammering relentlessly against my chest. And that's when I feel it - my blood rushing downwards. Alesteir Crowley. This is not happening. Just stake me now. I leap up off of him as quickly as I can manage, and storm over to the door. “Lesson over,” I shout, swinging it open violently. I cast a quick “Silence in the library” bringing the soft music to an abrupt stop, and charge out of the room. I hear him call out to me behind me, but I refuse to turn back. I knew I was playing with fire. I knew I was going to get burnt - Yet I did it anyway. And now, here we are. I’ve ruined everything.

Simon

Fuck! Agatha was right, I am a hopeless dancer. I thought it was going well with Baz, as well. I much prefer dancing with him - He’s a far better teacher. It was actually fun with him. And now I’ve ruined everything. Typical . When I asked, I didn’t expect him to say yes - But then he did. I was so excited. I knew I’d probably mess it up somehow. I’m a walking disaster - it was bound to happen. I didn’t mean to make us fall. I just got a bit distracted (I was trying to figure out what he was staring at on the floor). Now I’ve upset him. He didn’t even seem angry - just frightened? I don't know why Baz would be afraid of me, but he bolted out of that room pretty much as fast as humanly possible. I must’ve made him uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to do that - He was doing me a favour. I didn’t mean to ruin it. There is no way he’s going to want to help me now. I want him to help me. I want to keep dancing with Baz. It felt good. But, now I've managed to screw it all up. Fuck, I'm such a moron. 

I sit up, pulling my knees towards my chest. My magic is bubbling dangerously close to the surface, rolling angrily within my veins. I need to calm down, otherwise I'll end up going off again. Nobody wants that. My throat feels really tight. I think I might cry - my eyes are prickling weirdly. I won’t cry. I don’t normally cry, even when it feels like I might. Not since I was little, anyway. The last time, one of the care home boys had stolen my ball while I was asleep. I bawled my eyes out when I realised it was missing. I was like ten though, so it's forgivable - I'd never cry like that now (The Mage would just tell me I need to strengthen up, if I did).  It doesn’t even really matter about the dancing - I only wanted to learn how because Agatha told me I should and I really didn’t want to embarrass her. I always feel like I’m embarrassing her. She’s so refined, and I’m so … Well, I’m just not. Baz is refined. They’re similar in that way. Baz is different in a lot of ways too though. Anyway, I don’t think it’s the dancing that’s upsetting me. I think I’m upset because I’ve upset him. I’ve made Baz angry before - I have the scars from our numerous childhood scrapes to prove it. That's familiar - that's all part of our game. That doesn't make me feel like this. I’ve never made him sad before, though. Well, not that I’m aware of - maybe I have (we haven’t always been the nicest to one another). I need to fix this. I’m just not sure how. Me and Baz don’t really talk all that much. But, we also didn’t hold each other’s hand or dance together until today - That change wasn’t so bad. So, maybe we could start.

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When I get back to the room, Baz is sat on his bed reading a book. It had been about an hour since the whole dancing fiasco - I stopped off at the kitchens on my way back here. I tend to eat when I’m tense. Penny says I need to find a more healthy “coping mechanism”, but I don’t really see the problem with it. He glances up at me, assessing me with a cool gaze, before looking back down at his book. He doesn't seem too bothered about me being back. The room smells of his fancy shower gel and his hair is slightly damp - He must’ve had a shower while I was gone. I’m still standing awkwardly just inside our doorway. I probably should've gone and sat on my bed - That would've been more normal. "Hey,” I say, nervously tapping my fingers against my thigh. “I’m sorry about earlier.” He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look up at me. I should’ve known he'd try to make this as difficult for me as possible - He can be such a prick sometimes. I scrape my fingers through my hair. I don’t really know what to do now. I sort of assumed he’d at least answer me (he doesn’t often turn down an opportunity to insult me). Shit. I must’ve really upset him. “I didn’t mean to - you know. I didn’t mean to pull you over. It was an accident. And I’m really really sorry. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable or something. Can we? You know can we still do it tomorrow? The dancing lessons I mean.” This time he puts the book down. He looks up at me, an elegant eyebrow raised in question. I continue talking. I don't really know why, I can't seem to stop the words from pouring out of my mouth. “I just mean that today was really fun. Well, you know - until I messed it up. But if you still wanted to, I’d really like to do it again tomorrow. You don’t have to say yes. Obviously. But it would be cool if you did. And I promise next time I fall I’ll make sure I let go of you first. Well ... I can't really promise that. But, I promise I’ll try to.” I stop, holding my arms across my body awkwardly. I don’t really know what else I can say to convince him. Maybe this was a stupid idea - I am prone to those.

Baz

Mercifully, it seems as though Snow is blissfully unaware of the reason behind my sudden departure. He’d definitely be a lot more freaked out right now if he had realised. Thank Crowley for his seemingly endless incognizance. I’ve at least managed to retain some of my dignity then - That’s good. But, Snow actually had fun today. I mean, I did too (obviously)- underneath all the stress of trying to remain outwardly unbothered by our physical proximity. However, I suspect we enjoyed it for rather different reasons. But, in spite of all the weirdness today, Snow wants to do this again. And really, who am I to deny him? Given ... how I feel, there are certainly worse things I could be doing than dancing with Snow. Honestly, it’s a delightful sort of torture - holding him so close, while a thousand unsaid words separate us still. I want this, and (for whatever reason) he wants this too. I can’t be certain he feels the same way I do. Bunce said she didn’t think he realised it himself. If he isn’t sure himself, how can I be? The only way to find out is to tell him. I want to. I need to - I can’t leave Watford never knowing. It would torture me. Alas, I’m unsure I’m courageous enough to take that risk. As such, this may be all I’ll ever get with Snow. Why deny myself what little I have? It can’t possibly go worse than it already has. “Okay, Snow,” I concede, ensuring my tone remains indifferent. “Same time tomorrow. After dinner.” His face cracks into a bright smile at that.

“Brilliant. Thanks, Baz. I really am sorry about today - I promise tomorrow will be better. You’re amazing … You know, for helping me out and everything. Thanks so much.”

Simon

Why did I say that? I need to calm down - I’m going to freak him out. I don’t know why it feels so important to me that he agreed. I mean, I liked dancing with Baz today (obviously) It felt different. I liked holding him. Not in a weird way, it’s just when he’s with me he’s not out there planning my demise. He’s right where I want him. I mean it’s just dancing, I’ve danced with other people before. Last Christmas Eve, I danced with Agatha and Mrs Wellbelove (not very well, I didn’t do any proper steps like today - but it still counts). It feels different with Baz, though. I don’t know why. He’s just a good teacher, I suppose. I don’t feel as awkward dancing with him as I do with Agatha and her mum. It feels right, somehow. Baz is the last person I’d expect to like dancing with. I mean he’s evil. Well, not really evil - But he’s a vampire. And he’s always plotting (he’s wicked smart). But, I definitely like this better than fighting. 

[pelikinesis]

ended up typing a lot about JJBA

finally making my way through JJBA Stardust Crusaders. On the one hand, from what I’ve seen of JJBA in general, a lot of shit happens basically for *THE DRAMA*, but due to artistic choices, clever execution, and committing to its own outlandishness, it really does work on a certain level. and if you’re down to meet it at that level, you’ll have a good time probably.

at least, that was my initial takeaway after having watched the first two seasons. But even though the whole point of JJBA is that each series creates its own paradigm (Phantom Blood is basically Great Expectations meets vampires meets sunlight kung fu, and then Battle Tendency replaces the noble and pure-hearted Jonathan with his conniving shonen Tom Sawyer-esque grandson, Joseph), I feel like Stardust Crusaders is easily the biggest change.

not just because of The Stands, but actually because the main cast broadens to including at least 4 characters early on. It’s really the only way a character as stoic and seemingly-unflappable as Jotaro can really work in a story. There always needs to be another character on-scene and similarly invested in his quest to react to all the shenanigans going on, so he can bide his time just glaring impassively at the obstacles in his way before he gives them the ora ora ora and then yare yare da ze at the right moments.

And while Jotaro is starting to grow on me, i imagine i would have been way more into his character when i was in my teens or early twenties. But these days, I’m much too aware of how the story twists and turns so that Jotaro always looks SO FREAKING COOL. Like, i couldn’t manually activate that particular section of my suspension of disbelief even if i tried. if i could do that, believe me, i would, because i can see the appeal of Jotaro at a distance. And maybe by the time Stardust Crusaders is over, that’ll change things.

but as for right now, I equally like Jonathan and Joseph, though since I relate more to Joseph i’d pick him if i had to have a favorite. Phantom Blood is really short, but since Jonathan is such a simultaneously straightforwards but also immensely likable character, it works. 

If anything, it’s the other way around: if Phantom Blood were longer, that might be a problem, because Jonathan barely changes at all as a character (because he’s already a precious cinnamon roll too pure for this world) and essentially just learns Hamon as far as development goes.

If it had gone even a few more episodes, Jonathan might have started to get stale. But since he’s taken from Erina and Speedwagon and the rest of the cast (and US) far too soon, his passing is tragic, and all the more fondly remembered for it. That’d be kind of a shitty thing to say about an actual person I think, but since this is fiction I guess that’s alright to say.

and Joseph is just...incredibly entertaining. nonstop. He reaches near Deadpool-levels of zaniness, but since he’s picking up where the almost impossibly noble and heroic Jonathan left off, it feels fresh to begin with, and then Joseph continues to grow and change throughout Battle Tendency. 

At first he seems to inherit little of Jonathan’s character, due to his cocky demeanor, but those sparks of brilliance back in Phantom Blood that added a garnish of depth to Jonathan go supernova in Joseph and never look back, because he’s all about outwitting his opponents. So as compelling as the fights get in Phantom Blood, they become absolutely fascinating in Battle Tendency as Joseph pulls gambit after gambit out of his ass while having to fight the Pillar Men who are way above his weight class.

In Stardust Crusaders, they “preserve” Jotaro’s image usually by having Polnareff or Old Joseph fall into the situations that do a number on their bodies, minds, and dignity. I’m not saying Jotaro never struggles or gets worried, it’s just that he shows it a lot less than everyone else, and since (thus far) he always comes out on top a lot quicker or at least more abruptly than the rest of  the cast, I find myself being a lot less concerned about his well-being and the possibility of his victory when he’s in danger.

And for what it’s worth, that’s completely telegraphed and likely deliberate. It’s my understanding that he’s the one that faces DIO in the end, so i would imagine there’s a payoff for him being handled relatively ‘safely’ in comparison to the rest of the main cast. I say it’s telegraphed because in the very first episode, characters comment about how powerful his Stand, Star Platinum is, and of course those attributes seem to transfer over, or at least get conflated with its user as well.

This wasn’t originally what i wanted to talk about though, precisely because i’m not yet done with the series. I actually wanted to write a bit about Hol Horse, because he’s just such a great antivillain, but I realized that what really makes JJBA so compelling, aside from its fascinating artistic direction and the fact that it’s very good at doing the main things it wants to do, is that the writers understand drama--and I said it was conspicuously, even overly-dramatic earlier, but right now I’m focusing on each episode’s ability to build and release tension.

No matter how wacky the show gets, it’s unfailingly adept at ramping up the tension. Even when I’m presented with a character so grotesquely, cartoonishly evil and unpleasant that it begs the question of how such a person could exist in the world as is. Even though I know the writers are unsubtly trying to play me so i rejoice when the bad guy gets ORAORAORA’d into the stratosphere. Even though everything at the forefront of the plot often ORAORAORAs whatever verisimilitude the setting has. I still cheer when the bad guys get obliterated. I still worry when the good guys are on the ropes.

And so I have a hard time critiquing the writing of JJBA. Maybe I’m just not qualified to form an opinion more refined than, “I enjoy it and it’s special, but not for everyone.” I guess what I would say, is that the story is extremely compelling to me as I’m watching it. But when I stop to think about it with some distance, the impact of the story beats and the characters’ fates become greatly diminished, and when it comes to other stories the opposite is true.

Because when I think about His Dark Materials, or Final Fantasy 6, or my other all time favorite stories, I feel a lot more strongly about them even if I haven’t read, watched, or played them in years. But on the other hand, maybe nostalgia has a lot to do with it. That’s probably a topic better suited for a back-and-forth discussion than as a stream-of-consciousness post though.

I wanted to return to the topic of Hol Horse for a second though, because by the third time he shows up in the story, he’s the POV character of the episode, and the main cast are positioned within the narrative of the episode as the antagonists. And it’s the weirdest thing, because I don’t know how many stories have managed to pull this off, or even try to do it.

But it works, because Hol Horse has already been established as being an ineffectual villain, but we don’t hate him because it turns out he failed to kill Avdol, and he hasn’t done anything absolutely reprehensible. He’s a bit of an everyman who is way in over his head and doesn’t want to die, and he even kinda sorta helped out the heroes once.

All that makes him sympathetic to a certain extent. And over the course of his episode, the tension comes from the question of will he or won’t he put his trust and faith in Oingo’s prophecies. It actually reminded me of the Biblical stories of Abraham and Isaac, or Job. Any time the character has their faith tested. Hol Horse gets that exact arc, and we see him struggle on whether to trust his own instincts and judgment, or entrust his life to the will of a higher power (I guess. It’s a Stand, so...).

It’s because Stardust Crusaders does stuff like this that it gets away with being structurally formulaic. It’s really just a sequence of them running into enemy Stand users, struggling to survive, figuring out how the Stand works, then coming up with a way to use their own Stands and/or the environment to overcome them. 

Except when there are other resolutions, including but not limited to using the enemy Stand’s power against their users, using their enemies’ fear of Dio against them, and Jotaro overcoming the setback of being de-aged back to 7 years old through the strategy of Jotaro being able to kick a grown man’s ass at 7 years old.

In every way, JJBA is just an explosive riot of unfettered creativity, with enough strong consistent elements to give it a unique flavor, and if nothing else, i feel like i should be taking pointers from how it creates dramatic tension.

[kimjongdaely]

My Pet Human [Chapter 13]

Vampire!AU

Pairing: Chen x Reader

Warnings: mention of blood, violence, slavery and sexual situations.

Summary: Every wrong step, every wrong turn led you to this moment. This moment where you would belong completely, utterly to the vampire Kim Jongdae, who never even wanted you in the first place.

Prologue│Chapter 1│Chapter 2│Chapter 3│Chapter 4│Chapter 5│ Chapter 6│Chapter 7│Chapter 8│Chapter 9│Chapter 10│Chapter 11│ Chapter 12│Chapter 13│Chapter 14 [M]│Chapter 15 [M]│Chapter 16│ Chapter 17│Chapter 18│Epilogue

Time is an odd concept when you live in a house of vampires.

It almost seems like years since you came here. It feels like years since you truly hated vampires. You almost can’t remember what that felt like. Can’t remember a time where you weren’t in this house.

He makes you forget.

It’s still a complete mystery to you how a person can change so quickly from one thing to the next.

“Jongdae, aren’t you tired of sitting there all day, doing nothing?” You ask, a sigh leaving your lips as you focus hard on your paint brush, the motion of moving it across the canvas and not on the vampire sitting behind you.

“No.” He answers almost too quickly, sitting completely, utterly, deadly still for almost half the day. “I find this fun.”

You sigh again, finally setting your paintbrush down and turning to face him. “Why are you even out in the daylight? Doesn’t that exhaust you? Don’t you feel ill?”

Jongdae tilts his head at you, his brows furrowed and a frown on his lips. “Yixing used to do this. Why didn’t you say anything to him?”

You frown at the mention of Yixing. “Yixing did it occasionally. You’ve been here all day for the past—what? Week?”

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest like a child. “So? I like being here.”

“Well, you didn’t like coming here before.” You point out, and he only pouts harder.

“Is it fun picking on me?” He whines, pulling you close by the waist and nuzzling into your neck. “I want to be here with you, is that wrong?”

You feel your heart skip, a small giggle escaping your lips as his hair tickles you. “Okay, okay! Stop that, you’re tickling me.”

He stops, but doesn’t move away. Instead, he opts for pressing soft, gentle kisses against your neck.

You run your hand through his soft hair, turning to peck him on the cheek. It feels so natural to do so, though it’s happening all so fast. “Alright, be a good boy and don’t bother me, okay?”

He hums in reply, sitting upright and staying perfectly still. You let out a smile, turning back towards your painting.

It’s two hours later when you see a flicker in the corner of your eye. Jongdae shuffles in his chair, a pout on his lips. “Can I at least hold you?”

You turn towards him in surprise, blurting out, “What?”

He let’s out a quiet whine, shifting again and looking like a sad puppy. “Please?”

Slightly confused, you nod. That’s definitely a first.

His face practically lights up and he scoots closer to wrap his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as you work. This is all so bizarre to you, being the one to receive such affection. Ever since that day where Jongdae told you about his lover, he’s been clinging onto you like a puppy. 

He seeks you out when you’re away for more than fifteen minutes, refusing to leave no matter what you say or do. Of course, there’s not much you can do. He’s a vampire who can easily overpower you, and has heightened senses. Sometimes it freaks you out, but so far it’s been sweet—but very annoying.

You still haven’t figured him out. You’ve given up at this point of ever hoping to understand him.

With the knowledge of his lover, you understand at least why he hates humans so much. Yet it seems he has taken incredible fancy to you, and you’re terrified to admit—so have you to him.

It’s not just him seeking you out, but you trying to seek him out as well. When he’s in the room, your eyes naturally follow him and his every movement. Every single time you see him it’s like seeing him for the first time, always that same sense of awe.

It’s hard to say what relationship you have with him. You often share kisses and cuddles, but you can’t say that there’s feeling behind them. At least, not on his part.

“What are you thinking about?” He murmurs, voice deep and breathy in your ear and you hold in a shiver.

You struggle for an answer—you can’t possibly tell him you were thinking about him. Him and his lovely smile and strong arms around you and his beautiful voice and his amazing scent— “...My parents.”

You feel him stiffen, but due to the angle, you can’t see his expression. He asks smoothly, “What about them?”

It’s your own fault for mentioning them, but now you feel tears prick your eyes at the blurry memory of them. “Just...how they died. I-I hardly remember them but...I miss them.”

Jongdae is silent for a long moment. Then he presses a kiss to your jaw, murmuring, “How...did they die?”

“The Assembly killed them.” You answer, tone bitter when you remember the Assembly. The horrid organization of cruel vampires that imprisoned you for most your life, that destroyed so many innocent people.

His arms tighten around you, almost reassuringly. There’s a long moment of silence before he pulls away. “Are you hungry?”

“Hm?” You blink, surprised at the sudden question. You haven’t eaten since that morning, and it’s already past lunchtime, but you haven’t even noticed your own hunger until he mentioned it. You suppose you were too focused on painting—plus, his presence often distracts you. “Yeah, a little.”

His eyes sparkle curiously as he stands, pulling you up with him. “Let’s go eat.”

You sputter as you follow him down to the kitchen. He forces you into a seat, taking the spot in front of the stoves. “Uh…Jongdae? What are you doing?”

“I’m going to cook!” He announces excitedly, rummaging through the fridge and pulling some ingredients out. “Don’t worry, I’ve been watching you cook.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—” You start nervously, though he waves you off and turns on the fire.

He grabs a container filled with leftover rice, pouring some oil into a pan before he adds the rice. “Just relax.”

Relax is the last thing you can do. You glance around nervously, expecting something to go horribly wrong like the stove to explode or something. But over time, you realize that Jongdae is handling the cooking extremely well, almost as if he’s done this often.

“Jongdae?” You can’t help yourself as you move next to him, watching as he flips the rice on the pan expertly, wrists moving delicately. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

“From you.” He answers simply.

“Just by watching me?” You ask incredulously, looking at him with wide eyes. “Were you practicing?”

He shakes his head, though he doesn’t take his eyes off the pan. A little more and the fried rice is finished. “It’s my first time. Now go grab a plate.”

You obediently grab a plate, setting it down next to him so he can pour the rice on it. The smell is amazing, the appearance even more so. It’s impossible to believe this is his first time cooking. “Wow. That’s amazing, Jongdae.”

He beams, looking quite proud. “Don’t praise me until you’ve tried it.”

You sit down, and he follows, sinking into the seat next to you. His chin rests on his palm, looking relaxed as he watches you intently. You lift the spoon to your lips, taking a bite of fried rice. The taste is amazing, and would probably be something served at a five star restaurant. “Wow!”

His eyes are wide. “Is it good?”

You beam at him, your mouth still full and nod furiously. His face lights up, grinning from ear to ear. “Then I’ll cook for you everyday.”

You almost choke, but force yourself to swallow. “E-Everyday? You don’t have to, Jongdae! I’m your Pet, I can’t possibly—”

He pouts, eyes sad. “You don’t like it?”

Your heart stutters at his heartbroken expression and sigh in defeat. “Fine. Cook for me then.”

His face lights up again, and he begins humming as he watches you eat. He looks so utterly content like this. This past week has been like a dream. Jongdae seems more like a child, a puppy, than the cold vampire you thought you knew him as. It’s all so confusing, but you would take this Jongdae over the old one any day.

“Jongdae?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

The next morning, when you enter the kitchen for breakfast, Jongdae is already there. He’s wearing a white sweatshirt that looks a little too big on him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he cooks, and black jeans. He looks a little too good like this.

He senses you—of course, with heightened senses and all—and turns towards you with a smile, greeting you warmly, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” You greet back, unable to stop the smile growing on your face as you approach him. He’s frying eggs, and they look amazing—though you’re skeptical of the taste, since Kyungsoo’s eggs looked delicious last time too. Vampires can’t stomach human food, so they can’t taste-test their own cooking. Although...the meal he cooked the previous day was certainly delicious.

Once he’s done, he sets the food in front of you—toast, eggs, ham, juice. Just like yesterday, he watches you eat with utter contentment, an odd look sparkling in his eyes.

“Why’re you staring at me like that?” You finally ask, unable to help yourself. You feel much to self-aware like this, and you’re not sure if you should feel freaked out or pleased by the attention.

He shrugs. “I like looking at you.”

“Jongdae.” You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You—I don’t even know what to say to you. You’re too confusing.”

He doesn’t seem offended in the slightest, or even care about what you said for that matter. He just smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

“To where?” You ask, your eyebrows shooting up on your forehead in surprise.

He doesn’t answer, but stands, pulling you up with him. “Come.”

You sputter as you struggle to follow him. He’s too quick as he pulls you out the house and into the car.

“Where are you taking me?” You demand, though he completely ignores you, revving the car and driving to the road in seconds.

After a while, you grow impatient, crossing your arms and glaring at him. “Jongdae, please, tell me where we’re going.”

“You’ll see when we get there.” He merely answers, and silence ensues once again.

“You know you’ve been acting super weird this past week, right?” You frown, sounding more upset than you actually feel. You just feel so confused, unable to catch up to him.

He sighs, grip tightening on the steering wheel. “…I know. I just…I’m trying to make up for how I acted before. And well…” He trails off, glancing away and pretending to check the side mirror. “I’ve given up.”

“Given up on what?” You ask, feeling more and more confused.

“Given up on keeping a distance.” He whispers. “On pretending I hate you. On pretending I don’t feel something when—” He sucks in a breath sharply, gripping the steering wheel even tighter until it seems to almost snap. He slowly exhales, calming himself. “I’m still trying to figure everything out. I’ll...stop if you want.”

“No.” You immediately blurt, but then you feel heat rush to your cheeks as you add, much softer, “I actually like this side of you better.”

He manages a smile, glancing at you from the rearview mirror, humming. “I like being near you. I like holding you and kissing you. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know I’ve made you feel that way plenty already.”

You allow a small laugh to bubble from your mouth as you nod. “At least you acknowledge it.”

He chuckles as well before he stops the car. He turns towards you, suddenly more serious, yet his eyes are soft. “We’re here.”

You glance around outside, having forgotten about your surroundings. You gasp as you quickly unbuckle yourself, stepping out the car. “This—”

“This is your hometown.” He confirms, standing next to you.

You press a hand against your mouth to hold in another gasp. You look around, finding old ashes of houses, weeds and plants taking over what used to be your town. But you still recognize it.

You walk, walking down the road you remember playing on with other kids. You no longer remember your parents’ face, but your feet naturally bring you to the spot where your house used to be. You don’t fight the tears when they come, old, forgotten memories coming back in blurred snippets. You can almost hear the other children laugh, the sound echoing with the wind.

“I—” You struggle for words, sobs escaping your lips. Jongdae is by you in seconds, arm around your shoulder as he holds you gently. You turn towards him, burying your face against his chest.

You don’t know how long you stood there crying. Jongdae did not say anything, did not move as he held you. His touch is cold, but it warms your heart.

When you finally calm down, you pull away, only slightly. His arm is still around you, his side flush against yours in comfort. “Thank you, Jongdae. This…This means a lot to me.”

“Anything for you.” He whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

Previous Chapter│Next Chapter [M]

My Pet Human Mini Masterlist

A/N: Thank you so much for being patient. The next chapter or two will be filled with Jongdae fluff! Be prepared!

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