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not-me-simping-for-blasty · 4 years

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Wrong Number, Asshole - A Bakugou Katsuki Soulmate AU

All Parts

Part 21:

You were nervous, practically fainting under the pressure as you pulled open the hospital’s front door. The trip to Jaku was fairly easy, only a brief 45 minutes, and in that time you hadn’t managed to calm yourself at all.

You stomach was rolling with nerves- twisting and turning and making you feel so very sick. You tried to reason with yourself, tried to convince yourself to lower your expectations. There was nothing for you to be worried about, here! You hadn’t lied! Or hid anything, or pretended like you were a good person when you maybe weren’t.

Bakugou did that. He did that and he was the reason your eyes were still puffy and why your head still ached. He had things to apologize for- not you.

So why did it feel like all you wanted to do was throw your arms around him and forget everything and just be happy?

The longer you sat with it, the more you thought you understood. Even if he was bad, even if he did bad things, he was still your soulmate. He was still the other half of you and you were selfish- so, so selfish and you couldn’t make yourself give that up. Couldn’t ever possibly make a strong enough argument for abandoning him. You knew that, even if you didn’t want to admit it. It was why you were even at the hospital after all.

You shook your head, trying to focus on the matter at hand.

“Hi,” You greeted, hoping your smile seemed genuine to the receptionist. “Bakugou Katsuki, please, room 427.”

She just looked at you funny, tapping at the device in her ear. “Yeah, I got another girl down here asking for Dynamite? Where’s security?”

You heart began seizing, lungs stuttering with panic as she continued to stare you down. After a long fifteen seconds she spoke again.

“Well, isn’t it your lucky day. Apparently, he wants to see you. What a surprise.” She announced un-enthusiastically, handing you a slip of paper. “Take the stairs to the left, all the way up to level 4, and then follow the instructions on the paper.”

You just nodded in a daze, holding the paper in your shaking fingers and moving towards the stairs. Suddenly, you were even more nervous than before. You pushed open the stair doors, and realized this moment felt bigger than you. Bigger than anything in your entire life. Every singular event and decision had brought you here and the only thing you could do was stare dumbly at the stairs in front of you.

No. You knocked a closed fist gently against your forehead. I’m fine. I’m been waiting forever for this shit. It’s just stupid Bakugou.

You took one step, pulling your shaky legs along with two hands on the guardrail. Another step, only pull. Another step another pull. You were conquering the stairs, and this moment, gaining momentum before you knew it. With feet moving unbidden and sure and careful and climbing, you rise, steps taking you higher and higher until you hit the 4th floor. It’s a maze of hallways from there, a strange puzzle of paintings that all look the same and tiles that are two shades too dark and doctors and people rushing past and shoving, but your feet are steady, one after the other, fast, fast, faster, and you don’t falter. You don’t falter and you walk down another hallway, look at your paper, take a left, walk a little further, look at your paper, take a right, walk further and faster and further and farther, past room 423, past room 424, past room 425, past room 426, turn another corner, rush past a man wheezing in a wheelchair, skid to a stop- room 427.

You heart hammers in your chest- beating against your ribcage and threatening to burst through your too-thin skin. Your breath shudders, fingers shaking as you push the door- push it open, and wider, and widest, and open.

His face is the very first thing you see. It’s all you can see. All the machines and the hospital bed, all the bandages and the IV’s stuck into his skin- they all fade away. There’s just him and his blonde hair and the way his shoulder’s slope and the defined musculature of his arms. He is real and breathing and solid, and so, so, beautiful. Bakugou’s every breath seems to arrest you, keep you in place and strung tight like a live-wire, electricity running trails of fire through every vein- and his eyes.

His eyes that are darker, deeper, duller- less like raging volcanoes, and more like delicate rubies. They’re red. Red like nothing you’ve ever seen before, and startling and surprising, but it’s not an angry red. Not a violent red. You decide then that Bakugou is a soft, dignified red- he’s hot wax cooling over a sealed envelope, like a slowly healing cut just beginning to fade.

Something in you slots into place. You feel it in your mind, in your bones, in your chest. You’re not itchy anymore, you’re not searching. There is no puzzle left to solve and your finally have all the pieces to your soul; no longer aching anymore for something you knew you should’ve always had. Your skin is finally yours- no longer loose and ill-fitting and stretched thin saving room for someone you hadn’t met yet. You felt right- finally. Settled for the first time in your entire life, like somehow, you’d always knew you’d end up standing exactly where you were.

You think Bakguou must feel it too. He nods something almost imperceptible, but his face softens. He looks so sure- so confident as he looks at you. Like he always expected you to be exactly who you were. Like some part of him too always somehow knew this was going to happen.

You’re tearing up before you can help it, rushing into the room and to his bedside.

“What are ya fuckin’ cryin’ for, idiot?” Bakugou huffs, but his voice comes out strained; buried under thick, barely-restrained emotion. “Nothin’ new left to cry about now, stop it.”

“I can’t,” You’re wiping at tears with your sleeve. “After all this time- my whole life- It’s just- you’re- you’re you. ”

“Course I fuckin’ am.” He says. Bakugou then clears his throat, voice becoming much softer. “Always was to you.”

“I-I know. But it’s just- you’re real.”

He can’t say it back, you can see it in his pinched face and blushing cheeks, but Bakugou nods. You know he feels the same.

“It’s- I- I just didn’t think I’d ever be here,” You start, sinking easily into the chair next to his bed. “And after everything I jus-”

“I’m sorry!” His voice interrupts the relative quiet, cutting through like a knife. He nearly screamed his words, and when you look over at him Bakugou won’t meet your eyes. He’s studying the hospital blankets beneath his fingers, folding and clenching them between fingers gone white from the pressure. “I- I mean that. More than fuckin’ anything.”

“I know.” You say.

The room goes quiet again, and any of the calming completeness you had felt earlier seemed to be fading. Suddenly it’s not just the feeling of finding your soulmate running through you, but the feeling of finding Bakugou. Bakugou who is sitting in front of you, injured and weaker than Dynamite and he doesn’t look like someone who could hurt anything or anyone but then you remember that video- that scream, those eyes.

“Just- fuckin’ say it already. I can see your face, idiot.” Bakugou’s voice is authoritative but not pushy. Inquisitive but not demanding. “It’s- I know your holding back, so just fuckin’ quit it already, alright?.”

“It’s- I just need to know. You said, on the phone, that it wasn’t you, in the video.” You close your eyes. If you look at him any longer you think you’ll lose your nerve. “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

“I-” You watch as his face falls, eyebrows pulling together. Then he’s turning red, wringing his fingers together and casting his eyes toward your shoes instead of your face. “Can ya- can I- I just have to think. Give me a second. I have to make sure I get the fuckin’ words right.”

You nod. Bakugou seems to leave you for a moment, eyes un-focusing and fingers twitching minutely. He suddenly looks up, meeting your eyes.

“It’s- I shouldn’ta said that shit. It was- I did that. Me.” He admits, words tight and strained like they’re hard for him to speak. He’s got a hand pressed to his mouth, head turned sharply to face the window. He refuses to meet your eyes once more. “But- I’m not- I’m tryin’ not to fuckin’ be like that anymore! I’m workin’ on it or whatever. Since then! E-ever since then.”

“Okay.” You nod. “What happened to the person? In the video?”

Your question seems to upset him, and he throws his hand harshly against the bed. Bakugou breathes- eyebrows pinched together tightly until his shoulders aren’t held together so tensely anymore.

“I told you. I didn’t- everybody always talks about that fuckin’ stupid-ass video but it was only the camera!” He grits his teeth suddenly, sharply inhaling and exhaling until his jaw relaxes once more. His eyes still remain screwed shut. “I meant that. What I said on the phone. The fuckin’ person was fine! Wasn’t fuckin’ hurt. J-just scared.”

You want to believe him. More than anything you want to believe him, but those eyes you saw were hard to forget. They almost seemed like they belonged to someone else- like they couldn’t possibly have belonged to the same guy who’d called you sunshine and helped you with your anxiety and cleared his schedule every night at exactly 7:00 PM. The Bakugou you had come to know was so far removed from the man in the video- the scary, feral, thoughtless man who seemed to attack someone without just cause.

You closed your eyes for a moment, bringing your hands together in your lap. He said he was trying- he made it very clear that was true with his careful breathing and the way he asked for time to think about his words first. The Bakugou sitting in front of you was not the same man in the video. His eyes weren’t violent erupting volcanoes anymore- they were slowly crystallizing gemstones. Precious, valuable things still slowly changing into something new.

“Okay.” You nod. “I believe you.”

Bakugou cracks open his eyes slowly, looking intensely at you. Something anxious in his eyes melts away, relief filling his features and settling in the barely-there curve of his smile. His shoulders relax and he takes a deep breath and a crackle, a pop and-

“Did you? Was that-” You point at his palms. “Was that your quirk?”

“No! Fuck no, why would you even fuckin’ say that- obviously not, because my quirk is fuckin’ cool not some shitty, embarrassing, tiny-”

“Bakugou.” You interrupt sternly, staring him down. “Honesty, remember?”

He groans, and flushes. His hand crackles again, something small and dancing just across his palm and Bakugou races to cover it. He then wipes his hands on his hospital gown harshly, turning his entire body toward the window to cover the way he’s still blushing. It doesn’t work though. You see him all the same.

“Yes.” He admits, and he just sounds so defeated, it makes you crack a smile. “But don’t fuckin’ say anything, okay? It’s all your fuckin’ fault, damn woman! Started the first time you called me and I can’t get it to fuckin’ stop no matter what I do it’s-”

“Can I see your hand?”

“H-huh?”

“Your hand,” You reach toward him gently. “I wanna see. Give it.”

Bakugou doesn’t look at you, just raises his arm and jabs it out toward you. The movement is stunted and awkward, like he can’t control his limbs right, and when you look at him his entire neck has started going red too. He waves his extended hand impatiently, urging you to get on with it.

Slowly, so very slowly, you poke a single finger into the smooth skin of his wrist. Just a feather-light touch. A near-weightless pressure against soft skin.

Pop.

You poke him again.

Pop.

Suddenly embarrassed, you pull both your hands to cover your eyes and blushing cheeks, and begin giggling uncontrollably.

Pop. Pop. Crackle.

Bakugou moves so brashly that it startles you, and he’s pulling his hand back to him, and curling it into his chest. He’s using his other hand to press into the crackling one, finally smothering the sound of a last few pops sounding off. When you finally peek between your fingers, he’s somehow redder than before.

He’s adorable and you’re laughing and you can’t stop laughing because he’s shy and embarrassed and so defenseless against you. Every part of you is warm from the top of your head to the burning tips of your toes, your smile spreading so wide that it over takes your entire face.

“It’s-it’s not fuckin’ funny!” Bakugou shouts. “Stop goddamn laughing, you shitty fuckin’ woman! It’s a good quirk! It’s not fuckin’ funny!”

“It is.” You agree, gasping to catch your breath. “It’s a very good quirk Bakug-.”

“K-Katsuki!” He shouts suddenly, interrupting you entirely. He seems surprised at his own outburst, blushing again and smacking his hand against his forehead. He groans. Loudly. “It’s- I- Katsuki. That’s my name.”

“O-oh. Okay.” You say shakily, heart beginning to race once more. “K-Katsuki, huh?”

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Bakugou screams. Just howls something deep and defeated and animalistic from the bottom of his chest. It fills the room, seemingly taking up all the space, and you could’ve sworn the windows were rattling. You start laughing.

“Fuck! Oh my god! You fucking did this to me, shitty woman! You- you’re- stop fucking laughing!” Bakugou is screaming, arms gesturing wildly. “This isn’t fucking funny! Something is seriously fucking wrong with me! A-and and you don’t even fucking care! You just think it’s funny! I’m fuckin’ broken, fuckin’ suffering, and you’re laughing!”

“It’s- I’m not!” You shakily defend, barely able to complete the words.

“See now you’re just fuckin’ lyin to me! Goddamn fuckin’ liar for a soulmate!” He’s yelling, hot air and fire and irritation seeping from his lips. “You know, it’s just my fuckin’ luck too, you know! To end up with such a fuckin’ idiot for a soulmate! Who just fuckin’ keeps laughin’ and lookin’ cute an-”

Bakugou screeches. He throws his hands down on the bed, palm up, full-on miniature explosions beginning to spout from his fingertips.

“What the fuck did you do to me? What the fuck- I-I didn’t say that! You didn’t hear anything! Would you quit fuckin’ laughing at me?”

You just hold your palm up, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. Bakugou stares at it, burning holes so intensely and brazenly, so utterly focused and enraged that it sends you into further hysterics. It takes you a good five minutes to sober up.

“It’s- I’m not. I’m not laughing at you.” You lean forward in your seat, just a little bit closer to the guardrail of the hospital bed. “You just- you make me happy ‘sall.”

Bakugou gags. Audibly. The sound rips from his chest and up his throat and contorts his face.

“Don’t just fuckin’ say that!”

“What the hell?” You ask incredulously, hands flying wildly. “You literally told me you like me over the phone! Literally yesterday! But now you’ve got a whole ass problem with me saying that you make me happy? What the fuck, angry man?!”

“It’s- I didn’t- fuck!” He shouts, voice raising to cover yours. “Stop makin’ me remember all this embarrassing shit! You’re doing this on fuckin’ purpose! I know you are, shitty woman!”

“I wouldn’t make you remember it so much it you just fuckin’ owned up to it in the first place, you coward!” You screeched. “If you already said it, and I said I like you, then what’s the big fuckin’ deal, huh?”

Bakugou suddenly goes quiet, his hands fidgeting with the sheets. He chuckles. “You said you like me. Again. Fuckin’ dork.”

“Oh my god! You’re fucking infuriating! No-no don’t just sit there and fucking grin at me! That’s- stop!”

And truly, you meant it. You wanted him to stop looking at you like that, stop crinkling up his eyes, and most of all stop smiling because you didn’t think your heart could handle it. Everything about him made your blood boil, and every nerve stand straight on end- but it was good too. So warm and comforting and just funny.

He was Bakugou and Dynamite and your Soulmate. All in one, awkward, crackling, loud fucking package.

-//--

ee hav sum fluff ,, as a ~reward~

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ellitx · 4 years

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Chapter 5: Reticence

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁

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art belongs to _01ki_

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Night had fallen fast upon the ruins. The hours that had gone by that were previously painted with hues of red, orange, and pink had all but faded leaving only a matte black canvas with no stars to be looked upon.

The darkness was thick and only a small source of light had allowed you to see a limited portion of your surroundings. Other than the darkness and yourself all that seemed to exist was the cold wind that brushed against your bare skin.

Cold water soaked your whole body, almost freezing as it went. Your face is drenched, the drops coming together to run into your eyes and drip from your chin. You released a shaky sigh and lowered yourself even further at the lake to cool down your burning face.

Today was rather… eventful, so to say. You bit your lower lip remembering the time you had gotten intimate with him. It made your heart race and face go burning hot just reminiscing those scenes that happened an hour ago. You sunk yourself even more until your entire head was submerged by the cool waters.

Stop thinking about it!

You scolded yourself and shut your eyes tightly to erase the salacious thoughts breaching your head. Truth to be told, you still can’t believe if it was real or just a fragment of your imagination. If it’s the latter then you should be ashamed of yourself for having thoughts such as that.

Forgive me father and mother and to the Celestia! You cried internally and buried your face in your hands. The water did not even help you to cool down your already burning face, sinking yourself further and deeper into the lake.

But even so, you can’t help but remind yourself how much Venti had poured his love onto you. His kisses were desperate and needy, clinging and holding you close to him in fear of losing you. Your fingers lightly traced the edge of your lower lips faintly remembering how his lips brushed against yours.

The beating of your heart raced and you lifted yourself, gathering the air you needed after letting yourself doused underwater. Another sigh spilled from you as you gazed upwards and stared absently at the blank canvas of the midnight sky.

A promise to stay together…

A sudden worry about your wisp friend has entered your head. You do wonder if he has really disappeared or not. It feels odd he’s missing in the group as the three of you are always together. You pray to the Celestia that he’s fine and safe, hoping he’ll come back to the two of you.

Your mind fades into dullness and everything is a foggy illusion. The quietness of the spring calms you; taking your mind off of things. All the things you honestly are unconcerned about. It’s the water. Your mind swirls, and it’s like standing on an everlasting waterfall. Ever so beautiful, but it can never last.

You blinked and your scrutiny went towards the stream, noticing a turquoise light shimmering underneath. A brow arched from your front in curiosity, letting yourself sit properly to get a good look at it.

Like a butterfly that was tranced by the sight of nectar, you were attracted to the mesmerizing glow of the waters. Unable to turn away, you reached for it and felt your own fingers roaming on your leg.

Your leg…? Now that you take a closer look at it, with a little bit of trouble observing in the dark, there were marks circling around your thighs. A light teal jagged pattern surrounded it combined with little shapes of triangles and diamonds.

The calmness that once blanketed you was now replaced with turmoil. You can feel the uneasiness in your chest waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wants to protect you but there really isn’t any danger. It sits there like paste propelling you towards anxiety you just don’t need.

You let out a slow controlled breath and attempted to loosen your stiff shoulders. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath to calm yourself and say the marks have no effects on you— or so you think it was.

Though it was once again discarded the moment your eyes cast towards your chest and shoulder. A shape of a diamond was plastered right above your chest, with little triangles left on the edge. You were definitely sure they weren’t there before yet the marks continued appearing that almost coated half of your entire upper body.

A sense of dread washed over you at the display of these unknown symbols that appeared out of nowhere. Maybe you should go back to Venti, you’ve been staying here for who knows how long now, not to mention there are monsters lurking here that might attack you.

You’ve cleaned your body already and you don’t want to make him wait for you any longer. Standing up, you wrung your hair and let the chilling waters drip back to the stream. The fact that the marks glowed even more peeved you that it might attract attention from anything wandering nearby.

Unfortunately, the gods didn’t heed your pleas of hoping no one will see you. Your body shivered when you felt eyes piercing right through your back, watchful and almost too engrossed. You covered your chest and turned around to see any entities within your call.

Your throat bobbed in fear and anxiety, hastily grabbing your clothes in an effort to hide your bare self. It didn’t do much to cover you entirely, but it was still enough to obscure your front.

“Venti…?” You shakily asked out to the quiet ruins. You already expected only silence to greet you until a familiar chiming of a bell reached your ears. As the light drains away there is barely enough even for shadows. Whether you like it or not, the darkness comes and under it everything in this forest is hidden.

Even the stars and moon cower behind a dense layer of cloud, giving the air that tincture you associate with the world before a storm.

Your ears become sharper and your mind paranoid, every snap of a twig is a predator, even if it is a fawn. For each aroma, your brain jumps to the most fearsome thing it could be and your body prepares for flight, fright, or freeze.

For the most part, you just freeze. Running will give your position away and you’re not much of a fighter. All you can do is wait while the blackness comes and pray that the dawn is not far behind.

You settle in for a wait but it’s only minutes before a strong gust of wind charged at you. You shut your eyes and held your feet onto the ground, clutching onto the cloth as your hair fluttered against the air.

The small chiming was louder than before, almost close to you. You slowly opened an eye, taking a peek up to the time that white dotted eyes were staring at you. You shrieked in alarm and fear, startled by the small creature abruptly appearing right in front of you.

Your feet slipped in sheer panic, accidentally causing yourself to fall down and swamped yourself by the chilling waters of the lake.

—

“Th-thank you…” You muttered before taking the dry cloth offered to you by your dear wind wisp friend. It indeed surprised you to see Barbatos was here all this time. You thought he had suddenly vanished during the war against Decarabian as Venti had never really mentioned or talked about him when you were with him.

Well, it was a little bit of your fault you never asked about his whereabouts. Still, you were relieved and glad to know he was still alive and well all these years. A small smile crept to your face before patting his head in thanks.

Barbatos nuzzled on your hand then looked at you expectantly before flying over your shoulder. You blinked in confusion then giggled before carefully handling him on your palm and putting him down.

“Stay right here, okay? I’ll go change for a while.” You stood up from your kneeled form and headed behind the tree. However, your little friend followed after you making you stop in your tracks and furrowed your brows in worry.

Barbatos tinkled in delight and continued cuddling on your shoulder to erase the frown glued to your face while he rubbed himself against the diamond symbols on your skin. You awe in wonderment when a faint glow emitted from both you and him, though now was not the time to be amazed. You don’t want to get yourself cold from this breezy air, and as much as he was being cute and all, you still need to dress.

“I’ll be really quick! Just stay awhile for a bit.” You pleaded and this time he reluctantly abided by your words much to your relief. You made your way to the large plant as you hurriedly slipped your arms on the sleeves and tied the back of your dress, untucking your hair after that as you flipped it over your shoulder.

You placed a hand on your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart against it. It still scares you what these designs on your skin are, though you do feel some sort of aura mizzling over you.

A pang of throbbing pain in your head struck you; it seems like you’re exhausted. The headache told you it was time to rest someplace quiet, to ride out the storm within your brain, for in time pain does ebb.

There are days tiredness comes in both forms, physical and mental. Your body really needs to rest as well as your mind, to get rid of the anxiety swarming your entire being. Without rest, your body will spiral into exhaustion.

A yawn escapes from you and you notice Barbatos from the corner of your eyes peeking behind the tree. You gave him a tired smile and motioned for him to come closer to you.

You really have to look for Venti, you don’t know how long you’ve been making him wait for you. Albeit you’re really drained and sleepy, you have to force your legs to carry you in search of the said bard.

Barbatos took notice of your fatigued state and tugged your sleeves in a struggle to make you stay awake and catch your attention. “We… We need to find Venti.” You mumbled as another yawn evaded.

He furiously shook his head and urged you to sit down on the ground, making angry jingling sounds. As if he’ll let you wander in this kind of time. It’s already late and dark, not to mention how tired you look so far.

You sink down onto the ground and rest your back against the rough trunk of the tree. The sleepy feeling must be how Teyvat feels when the summer has passed when it needs all those months to regenerate and come back in the spring.

The small creature flew over to you and settled himself on your palms. The tunes that he played to you to dreamland is a song you’ve heard and thousand times before and never enough. The chords are like a well-worn path, one your brain follows along willingly.

The mellow tinkling lulls you to sleep. In moments, your body relaxed, breathing steadily.

After making sure you were dozing off and in deep sleep, Barbatos took his chance to nestle himself on your neck. He can’t believe his powers drained out after marking you, and it’ll take a whole day for him to recover and revert himself back to his human form.

He didn’t think ahead and carelessly poured out his Anemo powers onto you just to let the symbols design your skin. He channeled himself onto you, letting the small wisps of wind gradually restore his powers.

—

The reverberation of a wistful sigh grabbed his attention, perking his head at you in silent concern.

Your eyes wandered everywhere, almost like a frantic search. Barbatos doesn’t need to ask what— or rather who you were looking for. It was already obvious to know who it was. It’s none other than him— or should he say, Venti.

You puffed your cheeks, slightly vexed your lover has left you all alone. “He even promised to stay with me… and now he’s breaking it?” Hearing your muttered words made him panicked as he swung his head, trying to defend “Venti” in his current form.

A series of continuous wailing of a bell made you look at him before giving a mirthless chuckle and fondle his hooded head to calm him. “Maybe he just went somewhere to do something…” You said cheerlessly, gazing over the waters of the lake to distract yourself.

You shouldn’t think of things like that. You know he won’t ever do that to you and he never will. You looked over at Barbatos and propped your chin on your palm, playing with his little antennas.

“Well, at least you’re here with me~ I really miss you a lot.” Your laughter was so free and pure, so childish despite the one you recently gave that sounded so empty and hollow. It came to his ears in a tickle and bounce— and it was only the moment he could do nothing but join in such generous mirth.

You leaned back and placed your hands on the ground to support your body as you looked up to admire the blue sky. The sensation of calmness and serenity wafting through you eased your mind and body, taking in the gentle breeze of the old ruins.

The tiny elemental being watched you in admiration. Your eyes blinking from time to time that allured him, allowing your lashes to flutter softly. Your eyes are simply spellbinding and captivating that he could get himself lost in there.

He unconsciously floated to you and snuggled himself on your hands. The memories of you and his friend being together made his heart wrenched in shame and guilt of what he was doing. He thought he was already sure the feeling that caged him was already absent, and yet here it was again coming back to humiliate him, one that he absolutely resented.

Your hums created a wordless melody of sweet-sounding harmonies, echoing in the winds to send it along to the other side. Until your next words that created a song had battered him with hurtful misery.

“Fly, fly away. Like a bird in the sky. See the world on my behalf, to the heavens may you fly.”

—

The sky was black tranquility married to the poetry of stars. It was the softness that called your body and brain to rest and let the heart go to its steady rhythm. Night came as a reward of sorts, a restfulness above to calm the soul.

The two of you traveled to the garden you once slept in, hoping Venti would be there. You’ve been waiting for him to come back the whole day and there was still no sign of his presence greeting you. You were nodding off as you continue and patiently await, expecting him to come back to you.

You pulled Barbatos close to your chest, absently staring off at the cecilia flowers he had come to collect for you. The petals shined brightly under the moonlit sky. Indeed it was beautiful and radiated elegance because of its pure colors and one of a kind flowery, though a feeling of sorrow ran through you the more you looked at it.

Fiddling the stem between your fingers, you brought it close to your nose, breathing in the fresh scent that reminded you of him. You were getting drowsy and drowsy as time flew by, each second felt like an hour the more you waited.

The collection of various flowers placed on the ground cushioned your fall as your petite body collapsed. Your wisp friend let out a frightened chime and summoned the winds to immediately check up on you.

A sense of relief washed away his worries that you were simply asleep and tired. It’s already time and he can feel his energy recovering— enough to alter himself back to his human form. It was all thanks to your anemo energy within you that allowed him to transmit the vitality from you to him.

He glided to the bushes, facing the small pond as it mirrored his appearance. A gentle gust of fresh air blows around him, the leaves dancing with the winds in his direction.

He has always loved the wind, for it comes to him so boldly, touching his skin. In soft breezes, it is finer than silk, smoother than water. In the gales it sings through the trees, sending loose leaves on a dancing fun air ride, hypnotic and beautiful. Almost like how the crowds have gathered around him to listen to the strumming of his lyre.

Today is almost still and he found himself in silent anticipation. His gaze went back on the rippling water, reflecting his appearance once again. Turquoise optics stared right back at him, eyes casting downwards to his chest while his fingers trailed over the same marks drawn on your body.

His pale skin allowed the symbols to gleam even more in the garden. Its teal light granted him to feel the Anemo ran through his body, the powers returning him once more in need to go in search for the true beholder of the winds.

Venti turned his head to look at your sleeping form. His eyes glued to the pattern on your thigh, faintly glowing that matched with his. Now, where were his clothes? He remembered he left it here before he was reverted to a little elemental wisp.

His hands reached for the white top that draped on the tree’s branch, slipping his arms on the sleeves and slowly buttoning up his shirt before leaving the top open to observe the marks drawn on his chest. The more he looks at the patterns inscribed on both yours and his skin, the more his heart raced in incitement and interest.

His hands hovered to his mouth to hide the wide smile and blush that clambered up on his front. This is bad, really bad. He was smiting for you all over again just like before. It reminded him that he was the one who covered you with these and how much you enjoyed it when he was creating it for you.

His throat bobbed before shaking his head to erase the thoughts, letting himself focus to get dressed. Venti had finally finished wearing his attires, leaving the cape and midsection outfit left on the ground, not bothering to wear it anymore. He carefully approached your unconscious form and knelt down to brush your hair away that had fallen from your face.

Your soft skin felt ticklish as you squirm in your sleep when his fingers brushed your cheeks. You slowly opened your eyes revealing the kindly tranquil of [eye color] orbs and met gaze with him.

Your entire body system awoke, the exhaustion was all but gone when you immediately pulled him into a tight hug. Venti wrapped his arms around you and cradled you in his arms, kissing your head as a greeting.

You buried your face on the crook of his neck and clutched onto his shirt firmly. "Where have you been?" Your voice wavered when you asked if he could faintly hear your soft sobs against him. “Sorry for the sudden disappearance. Something… came up.” His words trailed off causing his excuse not to be really effective which he already expected to happen.

There’s nothing he can do about it when he is in that situation, but he was very reassured that he can finally hold you close to him. Not being able to show his affection for you was unbearable especially how you were so worried about where he had gone off to.

The subtle kisses on his neck made his focus go back to you. Every time you place them there, he knew he’d adore you for all time. Those sweet kisses on his neck made his heart quivered as he pulled you close to him and lifted your head to meet with his gaze.

The pout on your face induced him to want to shower you with kisses and apologize for leaving you all alone. His lips pressed against your head then close to your eye, from your nose to your cheeks then down to your lips.

He was firm and gentle as he pulled you in, burning your lips with his mouth. You can hear the soft whisper of his breath as he exhaled. Venti inched closer and encircled his hand with yours, lightly pushing you down onto the ground as he penned you between him.

His mouth moved downwards leaving a trail of kisses on your skin until he stopped on your neck. You whimpered as your body shuddered when he lightly nipped on it, giving small sucks that had you released a small cry.

Even without telling a soul, it was common knowledge that both of you were lovesick and amorous. It was in the way your gaze lingered on one another, the way your voice became softer, and in coquettish smiles that he’d never worn before whenever he’s with you.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #venti x reader #genshin impact venti x reader #yandere venti x reader #genshin impact venti #yandere venti #genshin impact reader insert #genshin x reader #yandere #yandere genshin impact #elliwrites #Illusory Sense

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scarletwidowaf · 3 years

Text

Ghost Of You - Chapter 4

AN: this is my favorite chapter so far! Its Mostly fluff and wholesome. Again, didn't checked mistakes so I'm sorry in advance .

words count: 1880

masterlist | story index | AO3 | wattpad

The two ex-avengers were lying on their motel shared bed.

The place was in a pretty good condition which was a nice change after the last 4 motels the group found themselves at.

Natasha was lying under the covers, her red long hair in a messy bun and a book in hand.

Next to her, Wanda was sleeping peacefully.

The younger woman was finally getting better after the brutal cold she suffered from in the last few days.

Natasha couldn't help but appreciating how cute and peaceful she was.

Her hair messy, nose red and cheeks flushed.

Thats how their evening went.

Wanda peacefully sleeping while Natasha reading a book and glancing at the younger woman every now and then.

At some point, when Natasha glanced at the brunette next to her she met with green eyes, who were watching her curiously

Natasha couldn't help but smiling at the sight in-front of her.

"Is everything okay?" She asked.

Wanda nodded weakly.

"You love reading, dont you" wanda asked.

"I do. It was something i loved doing ever since i was a kid."

"Why?"

"Many reasons, its comforting and enjoyable and in a way, its an escape, even if its just momentarily"

"Do you feel the need to escape?"

"Like right now? From this bed?" Natasha asked confused, a small smile on her lips.

Wanda smiled but didn't answer.

"So, What are you reading this time?"

"The Catcher in the rye. Its a classic"

"Is that so? Will you read to me?" Wanda asked, her cheeks getting flustered (even more than it already was).

"You dont have to of course, i didn't really thought how weird it might seem-" wanda ramble and Natasha smiled before moving her attention back to the book.

"That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can."

She read out loud, cutting the girl mumbling.

Natasha looked at wanda again.

The younger girl's body was pressed to her side, as she was clinging to her for warmth. Wanda looked at Natasha with a smile.

"Making sure I'm listening?"

"Something like that" she responded.

Wanda smiled at her. Her eyes sparkle.

That moment Natasha couldn't help but smile.

'Jesus christ', she thought, 'they really can'

____

"Natasha?"

Wanda felt stupid as she called Natasha's name into air.

How do you even call a dead person? She thought.

The young woman stood in the middle of the no where in particular, not far from her cabin.

A red pickup truck parks not far and its headlights illuminate the woods, where it begin to darkened.

The sun was half way down and the sky was painted in beautiful shades of orange, red and purple.

Wanda chose this spot because of the beautiful view it revealed, a small waterfall was pouring from a spot not far from her and into a lake. It was truly a sight.

Wanda really thought things trough this time.

she wasn't sure what the future holds for the two women but she was tired of wasting their precious time with fighting and crying over their bad luck. So she organized a date for them.

She spread a big mat on the floor and layered it with many blankets and pillows and even lit some candles around them, far from something that could catch fire yet close enough to light the space.

She even organized a picnic basket full of food and snacks natasha loved and some surprises for the date.

And most importantly she was definitely dressed to impress.

A high waisted skinny jeans, the ones who made her ass look extra good and she knew Natasha liked (she knew that since she wore it a few days before the snap when the two women traveled in the streets of Paris and natasha's thoughts were very loud while she walked behind her)

With a white top who didn't leave much space for imagination, cleavage and toned stomach were visible and wanda just hoped the weather will stay as warm as it was.

After shouting natasha's name over 10 times the younger woman got frustrated.

Wanda was about to give it up, sit and cry while eating cake but when she was about to turn around she met with Natasha smiling at her.

The older woman was dressed differently, which was odd, it seems like although she was dead she could do almost everything (except touching wanda which was frustrating enough), she could hold a book and read, she could eat food (although hunger was never an issue for her) and she could change clothes.

When they found out the older girl could do that natasha was pleased, relieved to change into something that wasn't the clothes she died with.

Natasha was leaning against wanda's truck, an amused smile painted on her red lips.

"You called?" She said with a lighter tone and wanda sigh in frustration.

"How long where you watching me like a creep, romanoff?"

"Long enough" natasha moved from tree to wanda's side. Her eyes scanning Wanda.

"I was just enjoying the view" she said. Her tone flirty.

To make things worse she even bit her lip, making wanda's cheeks grow red.

Wanda smiled before she sat on the pile of blankets and waited for natasha to occupy the spot next to her.

"Do I'm making you feel uncomfortable?" Natasha asked when she sat.

"Not at all nat. Im just not used to get this kind of attention. You were always holding yourself back and vision was.. you know.. vision" wanda confessed.

Natasha smiled softly.

"Well, i was a coward and vision was vision so.."

Both women smiled at each other. Their eyes sparkle with joy.

"So, what's up with the setting, not that I complain" the older women said as her eyes traveled to wanda's outfit.

"I wanted to arrange something for you. As a apology for bringing you back purely"

"You always arrange a super romantic date in the middle of the woods as an apology? Because if this is the case i think i deserve many of those after all this time"

Natasha joked and wanda rolled her eyes.

"You're an ass you know that?"

"Ive been told"

"So, what's in the basket?" Natasha asked.

Instead of answering Wanda opened it lid and pulled out the first item. A headpiece she made herself.

Natasha stared at the white flower crown with confusion.

"Why-" she started asking and wanda cut her off.

"I made this for you. For your birthday"

"Okay first of all: This is not my birthday and you know it, and two: you remember I'm dead, right?" Natasha said with a raised eyebrow, yet didn't show any sign of resistance when wanda put it on her head.

"I know its not your birthday, but I missed 5 years of life, so i think i deserve an extension"

Wanda couldn't help her smile when she saw Natasha with the crown. The older girl's cheeks were a bit flushed and she bit her bottom lip to hold her smile. Her green eyes sparkle with joy and warmth.

"I love it" natasha admitted

"Good, because there's a cake too"

"Of course there's a cake" natasha said in amusement.

Wanda smiled brightly before she turned back to the basket and started to take out the edible items in it.

Natasha couldn't help her staring, the younger woman was beautiful, just as she remembered and even more. The Wanda Natasha was looking at at this moment was not the same Wanda she remembered.

It was like wanda somehow managed to grow up at her absence and natasha couldn't help but appreciate the women she became.

"Are those burgers from bob and Amy's?" Natasha smiled and wanda nodded

"I know that they're your favorite" wanda said as she pass Natasha her burger.

"You're kinda perfect you know that?"

"Ive been told"

By the time they finished their burgers while holding a general conversation the sun was already gone and the only light that's been left was the from the candles and wanda's truck headlights.

"You should turn off your lights" natasha said with a smile and wanda did as she was told.

It was dark except for the soft candle light.

"Now i can barely see you" wanda pouted.

Natasha smiled.

"Dont pout. It makes me sad because i cant kiss it away"

Wanda stopped pouting.

"I think I found a solution for that" wanda said and natasha raised her eyebrow.

"I found out what went wrong in the first place and i think i can fix it."

"why me wanda? Why not your brother? Your parents? Vision?"

Wanda looked down at her lap, her eyes glitter with tears.

"Its been too long for them, there's only a short window of time where it can be preformed."

Natasha smiled sadly.

"I know there's a catch wanda. What will it cost?"

"Its nothing i cant handle"

Wanda whispered.

Natasha bit her lip.

"No"

Wanda's eyes widened.

"Nat-"

"No." The older woman repeated.

"So what? Do you want to stay like these forever and hurt the both of us in the process?" The pain was visible in wanda's eyes.

"Of course not wanda" natasha whispered while her eyes traveled wanda's face. Aching to touch it.

"Then what?" Wanda asked.

"I think you need to let me go."

"No."

"Wanda-" natasha tried her again but got cut off.

"I refuse to let you die" wanda said with anger.

"Im already dead wanda"

"You dont get it, do you? I love you! Let me save you. You said you're a selfish person natasha, than prove it and choose to stay"

Wanda's tears were smudging her makeup and natasha sigh in defense.

"I love you too"

"So stay" wanda begged.

Natasha smiled sadly at wanda before she pulled the basket to her lap and pulled out a small vanilla flavored cupcake wanda brought and took a bite of it.

"Theres something i wanna try. Close your eyes" she said and wanda looked at her confused.

"Just do it, ill be here when you'll open them again" natasha said before she took another bite.

Wanda did as she been told.

Before she could open her mouth to say anything she felt soft lips ghosting over hers and a hint of vanilla flavored cake.

The younger girl was taken back.

She could almost feel natasha's lips and if she tried hard enough she could almost feel her breath.

Almost.

When she opened her eyes she found Natasha taking another bite from the cake with a small sad smile tugged on her lips.

"That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty.. ..you fall in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are." (-the catcher in the rye)

#wanda maximoff #wanda x natasha #natasha x wanda #wandanat #natasha romanoff #Black Widow #Scarlet Witch #Avengers

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jincherie · 5 years

Text

florescence | iv

❀ — pairing: taehyung x reader x seokjin ❀ — genre: hybrid au, hybrid tae, hybrid jin, poly au, fluff, smut (future), angst ❀ — words: 5.1k+ ❀ — rating: sfw ❀ — warnings: a pinch of angst... oops ❀ — notes: fiddling and editing, i felt that i needed to expand this bit more so i added some context and cut the end scene off to make the feature of the next chapter

Okay, so maybe you’re lonely, and maybe there is something missing in your life, a void that you maybe want to fill with a companion that may or may not be of human origin… You’re perfectly content not doing anything about it though, until your best friend calls you in desperate need for your help and you suddenly end up coming home with not one, but two hybrids that may or may not have been on the way to the chopping block had you not taken them in. They’re more than a little rough around the edges, and the situation is less than ideal but… maybe the best things don’t always come in perfect, shiny packages. Maybe they just need a little time to bloom.

— posted; 16.11.2019 // masterlist || prev. | next.

"You're not going to be returning to a happy audience, y/n."

Startled from your position where you are crouched tying your shoe, you look up and take in the sight of Changkyun's feline form leaning against the wall beside you, white-tipped tail flicking idly behind him. Somewhat amused yet chagrined since you know exactly what he's talking about, you let out a sigh and finish tying your shoes before rising to a stand, dusting your hands against your jeans.

"I know," you respond, somewhat dryly. The cat hybrid is a little too smug for your liking, having been privy to the problem that's been making itself known in your life this week. "I can't help it though. If they want to keep eating pancakes and meat dishes then they gotta put up with me leaving the house for work. I need food tokens because that's capitalism, babey."

The hybrid snorts, rolling the ring over his lip with his tongue before deciding to deign you with a response. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone else refer to cash money as food tokens, but you know what it has a nice ring to it, so I'll let you have that one."

"Thanks for the charity," you laugh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. The kids that had been under your care for the evening are fast asleep in their beds, so you don't have to worry about them catching you leaving and throwing a tantrum. Their mother, a lovely woman who works as a secretary to the CEO of one of your local well-established businesses, has already returned home to thank you and pay you. Staff meetings that run late into the night are particularly gruelling for her, and you made her promise she was going to get some good rest before she retired. Changkyun, the household hybrid who has too strong of a personality to ever be anything but the only hybrid in the house, has followed you out to the front door, and is making the most of his remaining time to bother you to the best of his ability.

"Have they told you why, yet?" Changkyun seems unwilling to let the previous topic go, persistent in his efforts to pull the latest information from you. Begrudgingly, you play along and give the nosy cat what he wants. He's awfully invested in your current affairs for some reason, probably because he'd been nagging you to get hybrids of your own for so long and now you'd finally ended up with some, to his glee.

"No," you huff. Your eyes slide away from his form, falling upon one of the lovely paintings displayed on the walls as you pout. "They haven't said a word, but they're still acting the same."

You don't like the look that enters the hybrid's sly eyes. "I can help, you know." He takes a step closer, leaning forward with a shit-eating grin. "I know what's bothering them. Just let me--"

"Rude cat, if you know then why don't you tell me!" you protest, poking his chest in a manner more playful than anything. "And stop trying to rub on me, I know what you're doing. They were really grumpy with me after you did it the first time so don't think I don't see you trying to stir the pot, cheeky cat."

Changkyun grins, eyes closing in his mirth as he steps back with his hands up in surrender and lets out a laugh. "Ok, fine! Take all the fun out of it! Live without ever knowing the truth, see if I care..."

You roll your eyes, knowing he's still playing with you. "Right, well, I'm going to go before you somehow manage to indirectly upset my hybrids even more. I'm watching you, Changkyunnie."

At the appearance of the nickname you've given him, the hybrid can't help but let out a purr as he laughs and bids you farewell. "Bye! See you next week! I wonder if you will have sorted out your little problem by then."

It's very tempting to flip him the bird, very tempting, but somehow you manage to restrain yourself and you think it really is a testament to your willpower. You bid him farewell and make a quick escape, mind a little hung on his words as you make your way from the house and down the path to where you parked your car.

Will you have resolved this "little problem", as he so blasély put it, by this time next week? You aren't sure, but to be honest you are a little doubtful. Why? Well...

You’re unsure if anyone ever took the time to try and explain the concept of working and jobs to your two hybrids.

You say this because you kind of assumed that they’d know what you mean when, barely three weeks after you brought them home, you told them you were going off to work and wouldn't be back until later—except it quickly became clear that was not the case and they did not, in fact, know what you meant. You’ve been growing closer and closer each day that passed and despite what their guidebooks said, they aren't continuing to act as withdrawn as they had been and aren't refusing to let you close. You’re overjoyed, of course, at the development, but you had no idea it would mean they would get so clingy.

Somewhat disgruntled at the turn of your thoughts as you climb into your car, you recall how it had all gone down that first day you'd returned to work. “What?” Seokjin’s voice climbed in pitch as he looked to you in alarm, attention torn from the pancake batter he’d been stirring. You showed him how to make it without help the other day and ever since he’s been trying to perfect it on his own. He blinked like he couldn’t believe what you just said, and you swore you could hear a hint of fear riding in his tone. “You’re what? You’re leaving? Why are you leaving?”

“I have to go to work,” you explained clearly, a little amused and endeared at the fact he’d evidently thought you’d be at home with them all the time. “I need to make money to pay the bills so we can keep living here and making pancakes, you know.”

When you brought the hybrids home, you’d immediately taken some time off work—you know how critical the first few weeks are in establishing comfort and an environment and dynamic where they feel safe. You suppose you never paused and thought about whether they realised you’d have a job that you would have to return to at some point. Perhaps this was your fault.

“Wh—do you have to? Do you have to go?” He was still holding the wooden spoon he was stirring with, looking at you with wide eyes. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to,” you affirmed, sending him an apologetic look. You almost forgot Taehyung was in the kitchen with you until you felt a tugging on your shirt and looked to the stool where he was perched and—oh, no, he was giving you the puppy eyes, the most potent pair of them you’d ever seen in your life.

“Hey, don’t give me those eyes, mister puppy.” You reached and booped his nose; his cheeks flushed and his ears lowered. “I won’t be gone long, you’ll survive.”

To your complete and utter surprise, Taehyung pulled away and angled his body in the opposite direction, effectively turning his back to you and rolling his eyes. You were left gaping at the uncharacteristic show of attitude. He… just rolled his eyes? At you? What…

Seokjin decided to pursue a different avenue in the hopes of persuading you to shirk your responsibility and stay. He droped the spoon into the bowl and rounded the counter in a few large steps, moving quick and taking your hands into his hold. He whimpered sadly, already making a very strong argument. “y/n, please don’t go.”

You were weak-willed when it comes to these two hybrids, as you quickly found out, but it is because of how much you care for them that you were able to resist. It wasn’t without another half hour of whining and clinging that you were able to leave the house, though. You work as a nanny for a select few affluent families, so its not like you’re working fulltime office hours, and most importantly you’re always going to come back. You have no idea why they’re so opposed to the idea of you leaving at all when they’ve shown they understand your reasoning…

The previous days you’ve come home after work, you’ve received a fair spread of responses. At first, they clung to you. When you came home after that first day of work (mind you, you were gone barely five hours that time) from the second you walked through the door, your two hybrids all but tackled you and stayed firmly attached to your side for the entire night after that. If they could, you were sure they’d shackle you to them.

The night after that, the reception was a little different. They were upset that you’d left again, and proceeded to let you know—for about the half hour that they could last without cuddling on the couch, that is. All you had to do was pull pudding out of the oven and your treason was forgotten, hybrids by your side and pressed against you once more. This, understandably, lulled you into a false sense of security of sorts. Perhaps they’d get over it soon?

Nope. The days after that, they switched it up in favour of something they seemed to think would be more effective. You’re no stranger to the cold shoulder, and usually quite sensitive to it, but to be honest… their attempt humoured you more than anything. The visible conflict in their expressions every time they attempted to brush you off is probably what was funniest. Every time they ignored you, or didn’t respond, it went against their nature and their usual urges. They’re soft, cuddly boys, you’ve found. And they might be grumpy, but even as they’re trying to make a statement, they can’t help but long for the way things usually are. Their cold shoulder usually lasts about an hour, and then they break. Nowhere near long enough to really have an effect.

But by today, when you arrive home from the job with Changkyun, you think it’s beginning to wear on you a little bit. When you ease the front door open, banging your toe on the frame and letting out a curse in the process, no one comes to greet you. The house isn’t empty (you can hear them scuffling about in their room) and the lights are on, but still, it feels… a little lonely. You huff, slightly grumpy that they’re still throwing a tantrum over this. As much as you try not to let it show, it is frustrating. You have to work! It’s not something you can simply stop doing because you want to, or your hybrids want you to.

You halt in the hallway to the kitchen, making yourself pause and take a breath. You’re frustrated and a little grumpy, yes, but you don’t want them to pick it up. They’re sensitive to these things, you’ve found. You watched a video on Facebook about kittens that made you cry the other day and barely a second after the first tear touched your cheek had Seokjin almost broke down your door, worried to high hell and back because he smelt it and thought something was wrong. You’ve been very careful since then, not wanting them to feel upset or uncomfortable as a result of your own emotions.

Once you’re sure you’ve collected yourself enough, you continue into the kitchen, placing your bag on the table as you walk past. Humming and knowing that the quickest way to get them out of their mood is food, you open the fridge to stare inside, hoping an idea for dinner will come to you like a vision from above. Your fridge may be many things, but it’s not prophetic, and currently it’s not stocked with much food either. Huffing, you close the door with a little more force than necessary and turn away, wincing at the following bang. Hopefully the eggs are ok.

You’re not much in the mood to make a big meal tonight, so you make the executive decision to pull the tortellini you’ve been craving from the freezer and set it on the bench. Begrudgingly, after a moment of consideration, you pull out a few vegetables to add to the sauce mix. You suppose you better put some effort in, since you’ve already chosen the lazy meal.

True to character, as soon as the tortellini begins to cook in the pot and the smell begins to permeate the air, you hear the sound of light footsteps creeping down the stairs, attempting to go unnoticed. You wonder if they underestimate the extent of your human hearing, or if they’re just really bad at being sneaky.

They don’t go into the kitchen straight away, but they go to the living room, as close as they can get to the source of the smell without giving in and talking to you. You roll your eyes, partly amused and partly miffed. You suppose this is how it’s gonna be.

Considering how easy of a dish it is, it doesn’t take you long to cook and serve it. Instead of calling them to the kitchen to grab it, you slip out of the room and make you way to where they’ve started watching Netflix, next to each other on the couch.

Whether they don’t hear you coming or are still hell bent on ignoring you, you’re able to sneak right up behind them, the back of their heads peeking just over the back of the couch. Your hands slip forward, fingers weaving through the silky locks atop their head and ruffling them. Both hybrids jerk, Seokjin letting out a surprised yelp as he turns partly in his seat to shoot you an alarmed look.

The tension in their forms melts away in the next second as the tips of your fingers and your nails lightly drag across their scalps, brushing just barely the bottom of their ears. You think you hear a sharp intake of breath, surprisingly from Taehyung’s direction, but can’t verify it before your hands leave the top of their heads and your smiling at them as they turn to face you.

“Dinner is ready, bubs,” you say, somewhat humoured by the visible conflict on their faces—they manage to settle on remaining disgruntled, though, much to your disappointment.

They rise from the couch, pouting, and follow you to the dining table. They seat themselves without another word, and as soon as they see you reaching for your fork and taking your first bite, they follow suit. You think they plan to stay silent throughout the entirety of dinner, but you manage to wear them down enough that Seokjin lets slip a few sentences of how their day went and what they got up to. Aside from that, dinner passes quickly and somewhat tensely. It’s an odd tension, though, as though it’s not yet fully formed and kind of incomplete. Like there’s a lack of conviction and commitment to it.

As soon as they’re done eating, like the sweet boys they are they take their dishes to the kitchen, rinse them off and load them into the dishwasher along with the other containers and utensils used for dinner. You rinse your own bowl as well once done and pop it in with theirs; without even a glance in your direction, Taehyung adjusts it so the fan won’t hit it and then slides the full drawers in, placing a dishwashing tablet in and turning it on. Efficient; he certainly wastes no time about it.

Already even before this point, you knew that they were going to try and bolt the second they could—and it seems your predictions come true, as the second they hear the dishwasher turn on and begin its cycle, the two of them are inching towards the edge of the kitchen, barely an ounce of sneakiness to their name. Fighting a sigh, you dry your hands before taking a few steps and using them to definitively grasp their own. As you lace your fingers together, the two hybrids freeze, Taehyung shooting you a wide-eyed look and Seokjin faltering in his stride.

"Will you two stay, if you're not too tired?" You ask, a shred of vulnerability more than planned making itself known in your voice. "They added some movies I really like to Netflix, and I really wanted to show you. I thought we could watch them together...?"

You can tell the second you look at Taehyung's face, his features softened and eyes shining, that he's given up giving you the cold shoulder for the night. Seokjin's slumped shoulders, tension having fled at your words, also tell you that he's on the same page as his brother. You brush your thumb over his hand and feel his grip tighten as he turns to you, smiling slightly.

"Of course we're not tired yet, what did you want to watch?"

You spend the rest of the night curled with them on the couch, tension long gone and only warm affection drawing the three of you together, and can't help but think maybe this was the last of their protests. They're sweet, these boys, and you know part of the reason they're upset is that you're leaving when they want you to be here, spending time with them.

But alas, it is not to be, and your optimism is quickly shot down.

Their reaction to your continued absence during the work days persists. Each morning you wake and get ready for work, your two hybrids are there almost every step of the way pleading with you to stay, offering any bribe they can think of onto the table to aid their bid—cuddles on the couch, snacks, movies, naps. Admittedly, each day it gets a little harder to steel your resolve and actually go to work, but you try not to let them see that they’re gradually wearing you down. They’re too endearing for their own good—it probably isn’t healthy for them to have you as wrapped around their fingers as they currently do.

At this point, you get the sense that it’s not just one, but a number of reasons at play that make them so averse to you leaving for work. It occurs to you that they’re probably still a bit insecure, given their background and the fact they haven’t actually been here that long. But at the same time, it feels like it’s also more than that.

You work as a nanny and babysit children, but since you work for families who are usually perched on the upper echelon, it’s not uncommon for you to be spending a lot of time in proximity to other hybrids as well. Ever since they were first created, hybrids have been a symbol of wealth and affluence. Despite much more of the middle and working class having them as companions these days, in a sense that earlier attitude still stands. A few of the families you work for have hybrids, two of them having more than one. Thankfully, none of them mistreat their hybrids, in actuality you were surprised upon first working for them to find that they’re treated almost as well as the children are. It makes you happy to see such a shift from the common attitude, and the hybrids themselves are all so lovely that even when the kids have crummy days and want nothing more than to throw tantrums, you have no complaints.

Despite just over a week and a half of avoidance about why they’re so grumpy, it seems today is the day you’re finally going to gain an insight into the cause of their behaviour and push your hybrids over a line you didn’t even know was there until they cross it.

It’s a Friday where you’ve just arrived home after working with one of those families with multiple hybrids, that you seem to push your own over a line of sorts. You’re a little tired as you come through the door, eagerly slipping your boots off and hanging your bag and jacket up. Neither of the hybrids come running to greet you, as they might have done before you ‘betrayed’ them and started leaving the house for work. You’re less amused than you might have been in days prior, and more pouty—ever since they started cuddling you you’ve grown addicted, and you miss the warmth and affection when you’re away.

Well, you suppose today you’ll either have to go find them or let them gradually come to you.

Humming to yourself, you bring the take-away boxes of stir fry the family had been so kind to share with you into the living room, plopping them on the coffee table with some cutlery. They tinkle and clank together obnoxiously, as most metal items do, and you open a box and sit back, waiting for the sound and the smell of meat to rouse the hybrids from wherever they’re hiding.

You don’t have to wait long—Taehyung is the first to appear, his eyes lighting up on instinct the second he sees you, before he catches himself and smooths his expression, averting his eyes to the food on the table and taking one of the boxes and some cutlery. Even when he’s pouting, he can’t stand being too far away from you; he perches on the cushion next to you, but as far away as the armrest will allow him so that he can still let you know he’s not happy you left this morning. He’s so cute, sitting there and pouting as he shoves stirfry in his mouth, you can’t even find it in yourself to be annoyed at his childlike behaviour. The two of you eat in silence until Seokjin comes, the male’s soft footfalls announcing his presence before the sound of his inquisitive sniffing does.

You look up as he enters the room, curious to see if the fox hybrid will continue giving you a weak attempt at the cold shoulder as he has been for the first hour or so after you get home every night. He does, but when you give him a pleasant greeting with a bright smile you can see his resolve waver. He grabs his food and cutlery and sets up on the couch adjacent to this one, pointedly avoiding your eyes lest his resolve completely shatter. There is a small amount of tension in the air but you decide to let them finish their meals before you address it. Enough is enough but you’re all also hungry.

The second both of them are done and sitting back in content, you stack the boxes and push them further into the middle of the table so they don’t tip. Your movement brings you closer to Seokjin, and he sniffs subtly before his nose wrinkles and his brows draw down harshly. He doesn’t say anything, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip instead, but you catch it nonetheless.

Curious at the reaction and knowing (hoping) you don’t smell bad, you turn to Taehyung and lean closer experimentally to see if he will give a similar response. He does, still not looking at you—surprise filters through you when you see his features twist into a scowl. Wow, this past week you’re really seeing a new side to the shy baby, huh?

“Alright, what is it?” you ask, throwing the question into the tense air before either of them can bolt and fester with whatever mood they’re in. “Why are the two of you so upset and why do you pull that face when I get close? Do I stink?”

To his credit, Seokjin appears a little sheepish at being called out, cheeks flushing with brief embarrassment—Taehyung on the other hand remains steadfast and petulant, crossing his arms. His ears are lowered and still, he refuses to look at you.

“…No,” Seokjin answers you, eyes flicking away. He’s pouting, tone bordering on a grumble. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

You blink, surprised at the sass and distance he’s suddenly putting between you. It didn’t take you long after they arrived to realise that Seokjin preferred open communication and honesty, but had a little trouble working up the nerve to say things sometimes and hence stayed quiet instead. But this time he’s fibbing to you, brushing it under the rug and attempting to dismiss it when you can see something is up. You can’t help but wonder what brought that about.

“Oh?” you say, turning your gaze to Taehyung—the action makes you catch him while glimpsing at you and he rips his gaze away, cheeks flushing as he scowls more. “It’s ‘nothing’ that has the two of you so grumpy?”

Seokjin’s brows drew together, lips tugging down into a frown. Your words seem to set him off a bit, as he’s suddenly on the defensive. “No. Maybe. What do you care? You’re never here anymore and you—you probably don’t even care about us anymore. You’re too busy caring about—about other h-people. Whatever.”

Your brows shoot up as he stands suddenly, Taehyung following suit—you can tell that Seokjin wants to stomp off and keep being dramatic by ignoring you, but he can’t seem to make himself skip saying goodnight to you. So he says it, but makes sure to imbue it with as much sass and attitude as possible. “Goodnight.”

Completely taken aback, you watch as they file out of the living room and no doubt go to make their way upstairs to their room. You’re not angry, but you’re definitely a bit confused and feel a little guilty, among other feelings that quickly begin to make themselves known. The two of them know that you look after children for your job, and when you told them it didn’t seem to make them bitter or envious—it seems more than a little out of character for them to be upset that you leave them to babysit kids now.

You’re actually a little hurt, if only because you’re also confused and have no idea why they’re acting this way. You have no idea, and they won’t tell you—you could probe further, press harder, but will that make them tell you, or will it push them further away? You don’t want to risk upsetting them more, and if that’s a possibility you don’t think you could make yourself follow through with it.

Sitting there on the couch, completely alone and very aware of the absence of their warmth, your chest aches a little. You’re new to this, you don’t know all the things a new hybrid owner probably should, and it shows. Your first instinct is to focus on them—what is their problem?—but now that you sit here and ruminate a little, you realise that this is more than a little bit your fault. If you were a more knowledgeable owner, then surely you’d have at least an inkling as to what is wrong. But you don’t, you’re so painfully in the dark it’s shameful enough to make a fresh wave of guilt course through you.

You need to find out more, research a little, but you’re not sure where to start. You have no clue what is bothering them in the first place, and even less idea as to how to solve it. Deep in your thoughts, you rise and begin tidying up after dinner in a bit of a haze. You almost drop the cutlery on the way to the kitchen, but manage to catch it just at the last second. After cleaning what you needed to, you made your way to your bedroom and curled into the bed, a frown tugging your lips of its own accord. It takes you a while to settle down and fall asleep as your mind races and leaves you in its wake. You really hope this whole thing doesn't go on for too long, because it's only been a single night that they've ignored you like this and it sucks.

The next day after you work-- a different house to yesterday, one with two male hybrids of the labrador variety-- the reaction is much the same, if not worse. They don't even come out when you call them for dinner, having arrived home early enough to actually make it today. At some point, they come out and take their plates of food, but you miss it, which you're quite upset at yourself for. The first and only time you see them that evening, is by chance as you emerge from your room after a shower and catch a glimpse of them scuttling back to their own. Their dishes are on the kitchen bench when you go to fetch some water, and it makes your heart twinge a little. They're really not going to talk to you at all? You don't think you're doing anything that bad! You have no choice but to leave for work, you need income so you can support yourself and now them. It's not something you can just drop and never deal with, and you have a feeling they know that and yet... something is upsetting them. You just want them to tell you, so that you can try and fix it however you can.

That night, you contemplate knocking on their door and seeking them out, and even get all the way to the closed door of their room before you halt, hand in the air. Ultimately, you can't make yourself do it. Perhaps, if they want to be alone, then leaving them alone is best. Heart hanging heavy in your chest, you turn on your heel and silently make your way to your room, but not before you utter a soft "Goodnight, boys." knowing that no matter how quietly you say it, they'd still hear it.

Your mood is looking like it's about to quickly spiral, so in an effort to prevent it you find yourself in the middle of a self-consolation session. Tomorrow you don't have any work, a day off you've been looking forward to, so surely that will cheer them up and make them emerge from their shells? You miss them, and as you curl into your bed once more without the lingering warmth of their usual cuddles that you seem to have grown accustomed to, you feel lonelier than ever.

You really hope that tomorrow, things will turn around a little.

a/n: i hope u enjoy it n please let me know what u think! the next part is already partially done so it shouldn’t be too long before the next part is out! hurray for the academic year ending here !!

masterlist || prev. | next.

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infinites-chaser · 4 years

Text

dark night fireworks | mlqc | lucien/mc | dreams and memory

spoilers for ch.13 and somewhat inspired by ch.16

warning for drinking and vague + non-explicit sexual content

“Lucien,” you whisper, as if speaking his name aloud will somehow make it real.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. The only thing that matters is this moment. This moment a million times over. And what’s a moment in a dream if you make yourself believe it’s true?

‘oh, love, even if I wake up and it all disappears and becomes a mess

oh, love, I’ll wait for this night again’

xii.

Once, when you were young, you caught a butterfly, trapping its delicate wings between your hands. Most of your childhood memories have faded to sepia and tones of grey, but this you remember in vivid color. It comes to you now in fragments, like a painting ripped to shreds: The butterfly's wings, bright yellow blurs that tickle your palms. Your father's horror. The warm wind, his panicked scolding, and the wide blue sky.

You remember him telling you that trapped things, once let go, are never the same after. He told you catching the butterfly crushed its wings, and it would never fly straight again. You cried, you think, as you often did, and opened your hands.

You can't remember the rest. Did the butterfly emerge from your finger prison, its cocoon? Did it fly away? Did it fly straight and true?

Memory is reconstructive. If you reach for the pieces enough times, your mind will build its own answer.

But, now, the truth: the butterfly was already dead. It had been dead since you first snatched it from where it danced in the golden spring sky.

When you laid your palms flat, the butterfly's bright wings had stirred once and then fell still. You cried. To this day, you're still not sure why you don't remember this, your Schrodinger's butterfly. In your hands, it had become a lesson from your father, something with the possibility of being not quite dead. In your memory, it becomes immortal, that butterfly you remember entrapping but can never vividly picture flying free.

The bar is not pink, as its name, The Peony Pavilion, might suggest. Its walls are a deep purple that fades upward to dark blue, then a black which stretches across the ceiling, uninterrupted save by tiny pinpricks of light. The floor, by contrast, is a softly glowing grey, carpeted and plush, muffling even the heaviest of footfalls of more intoxicated customers or louder, untrained personnel.

It is crowded normally, seats filled with patrons, troubled dreamers, and drunks. On busy nights, a spiraling chandelier will descend from the endless ceiling, shimmering with the colors of sunset: yellow, pink, and white. The air will still-- the frequent visitors know what’s coming, they tell their newer compatriots to be quiet, to wait.

A woman will unfold herself from a crouched position in the half-light, hair like unbound midnight, her dress a pure sparkling white. On cue, the patrons will clap and cheer, but she will gaze past them all, her eyes worlds away, caught up in a vision only she can see. She'll sweep a bow. They'll all fall silent.

The clock will strike twelve, and the lights of the chandelier will dim to a shade of purple, a twilight hue a few hours softer than the color of the walls.

The woman will open her mouth and begin to sing.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the bar’s doors are closed. Only the bartender stands behind the counter. All seats sit empty, save two.

xi.

He catches your attention from across the bar. (It’s easy. You’re the only two inside.)

One stolen glance and you're lost in his eyes again, like a moth to a dark flame. You're reminded, briefly, of the sleepless nights you once spent following him through the city, a lonely journey down moonlit alleys, into the cinema, into bars. They're nights from a time you know you can't return to, a time you, even after everything, still hold dear.

You read about the primacy effect one time in a psychology textbook, following along for a few pages over his shoulder before you stifled a yawn. He’d marked the page and closed the book, and turned to caress the top of your head with a gentle smile.

The study those pages had described surfaces in your mind now, as he raises his glass and drinks, dark eyes never leaving yours. The scientists had split their participants into two groups, and given them the same list of traits in different orders, one presenting a fictional man with his flaws first and strengths last, the other, the reverse. They'd then asked each group for their impression of the man.

Despite being given the exact same listed traits, they had opposite responses. The first, remembering most clearly his flaws, thought him a terrible person. The second saw him simply as human, and sympathized with those natural flaws.

At the time, you hadn't understood it. You couldn't think of how it related, out of the study and academia, back to everyday life. Of course now, you do. You're in his experiment. (You're in the second group, presented strengths first, flaws last.)

You can't help but continue to stare, your traitorous heart twisting with endlessly conflicting feelings at the sight of slim fingers you still remember holding, and the elegant panes of his face that you’ll never forget.

ii.

He'd explained primacy again, after you'd watched Memento, a movie he'd called one of his favorites. You don't know anymore if that was true. You don't think you know a single true thing about him. But still, you remember it. His words. The movie. The Polaroid. Don’t believe his lies.

The movie starts centered around the main character, and it’s intensely subjective, he’d said. We see him and his world through his eyes. We learn the details of the plot along with him, even as he forgets, and by the time the movie tells us he’s not as good of a person as we’d like to remember and we finally step out of his head and question his character, it’s too late. We're back at the start. A beginning at the end, an ending at the beginning.

The movie’s a bit like those classic math puzzles, he had said, and had chuckled at your groan. We begin with two trains going in opposite directions towards each other: one from the past, in black-and-white, going forward, one, in color, from the present going back, and they meet somewhere in the grey in between, at the start of the movie. Only, we’re introduced to his positive perception of his present self first.

So we call the movie’s arguable villain hero, up until the movie’s end. Just as you would like to think of him not as Ares, as a villain, up until this dream ends.

xi.

You know you’re dreaming when you blink, and he’s gone from the shadowy corner only to reappear right next to you, your name on his lips with a smile.

“Lucien,” you whisper, as if speaking his name aloud will somehow make the moment real. As if a dream could ever become reality.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. The only thing that matters is this moment. This moment a million times over. And what’s a moment in a dream if you make yourself believe it’s true?

He raises his glass to your lips, a silent invitation.

You meet those dark eyes. You drink.

(A different movie, but. You fall. He's your totem, your ever-spinning top. You wait for the kick.)

iii.

The world shifts and swirls around you. Only he stays steady, awash in a sea of sunset colors and midnight starry lights. You take his hand, your anchor, and he lets you.

Your dress is a soft purple now. Now, you say, since you think it used to be pink, and before that, white. (If the bartender would speak, she'd tell you it looks like the chandelier: dripping in crystals, iridescent, reminiscent of the fading day, the coming night.)

There's an invisible glass wall between you and him. (You don't remember Ares. You don't remember why.)

You press up against it, and it shatters.

iv.

He calls your name, and you surface, dizzy, from your daze.

"Why did you come here?" He asks. His hand's hovering, almost reaching, on the verge of taking your glass away or perhaps tucking an escaped strand of hair behind your ear.

"Why do I do things? Why does anyone do anything?"

You're definitely a little drunk.

"What I do isn't meaningless just because there are things I don't remember," you say, and what you mean is things you've made me forget.

"The world doesn't just disappear when you close your eyes, does it?"

"Memento," he notes with that same gentle, enigmatic smile. "Touché."

Then, musing, quieter:

"So, you remember that night."

"I remember everything."

(You both know that's a lie.)

ix.

(a tangent.)

Once, you asked, waking from the middle of a nightmare to a starless night:

"Daddy, why do I forget so many things?"

Your father held you close without a word. (You weren't expecting an answer.)

Now, you think it suits you, being a girl cut loose in time.

Your head hurts.

You'd ask the bartender for a glass of ice water, but the silent, white-clad woman's gone. In her places stands a gleaming door. Behind the door lies silver stairs.

Your temples throb again, and you think, fresh air. He takes your hand, and you let him. You pass through the doorway together.

viii.

(another tangent.)

A question without a proper answer: what does it mean to forget?

You searched it on the internet for Miracle Finder, found Wikipedia pages on the different types of memory and how your brain wires them all. Each article was long, convoluted, and a little pretentious.

(You gave up.)

Spoiler alert: neuroscientists still don't know.

You asked Lucien. He doesn't, either.

(The beginning of the hypothesis of an answer, buried in words about synapse strengthening and weakening: forgetting is just another word for loss.)

A better question, but one you'll never get a proper answer for: when your memory of someone is erased with Evol, which part of the brain is it affecting? What neural connections are lost, overwritten by the unnatural?

After all, Evol goes beyond the explainable, but it'd be wrong to say it doesn't affect those circuits at all.

A quick lesson that Lucien will never teach you: memory loss isn't like what you see in the movies.

There's many types of memory. You already know the first two: short-term and long-term. The temporary. The eroding. (outside these two-- the already lost)

(Memento's different. In it, he's lost the ability to make new long-term memories. Not quite memory loss. More like he can't feel time.)

Within the eroding are two subtypes: explicit, and implicit, or conscious and unconscious.

First, within explicit:

Semantic memory, our memory of general facts. It's how we familiarize ourselves with the world. (The sky is blue. Grass is green. The city the company headquarters are in is Loveland City.) A knock on the head to important bits involved here, and you won't remember the name of the president or how many cents add up to a dollar, but you'll still remember your childhood.

Episodic memory, the memory of our personal experiences. Many people argue this is the memory that makes you you. Say the amnesia-inducing Evol removes this. You forget an important event (a dream, a nightmare where he was Ares and you still called on him for protection, and he came, he saved you).

There, you say. Question answered. Problem solved.

But wait. The lesson's not over yet. There's still implicit. The unconscious part of your memory. (Freud's favorite.)

Implicit memory contains multitudes. (We'll just focus on a few.)

The important bits: implicit memory stores the memories necessary to learn. Procedural memory covers skills.

Then there's association, and key to association are your emotions. (You'll remember things that make you happy, make you angry, make you sad. You just won't remember why.)

Lastly, priming, also known as pattern completion. (If a puzzle was put in front of you, you'd be able to solve it, if you had before.)

Long story short, memory loss by Evol, if scientific, doesn't wipe them all out. Let's say it just wipes episodic. No more memory of the event. No more memory of the event itself. Let's say the emotions remain. Let's say you're still primed. But we digress.

(Lesson over.)

vi.

You race up the stairs, past pipes, through smoke, and burst onto the roof, giddy, flushed, his hand in yours the whole way. In the night air, your dress shimmers and darkens to a midnight blue, just a touch shy of the black of the silk of his suit.

The roof is wide open and empty, save for a delicate floating canopy of fairy lights. Beyond the rosy glow, vivid colors of fireworks shatter bright against the velvet curtain of night.

He pauses at the sight of the fireworks, the city far below, and you stagger back against him, one hand raised to the sky, laughing, drunk. Neither of you notice when the silver stairway disappears.

You loop your arms around his neck and stare up into his eyes. At first, the light doesn’t reflect off of them and you almost freeze, but he clasps a hand to the small of your back and draws you closer. When you blink up at him again, the dark of his gaze is warmed by the shine of the veil of lights.

“Where are the stars?”

“Shall I go and fetch them for you?”

Before you can respond, he leans in and catches the swell of your lips between his, dark eyes closed.

The first kiss is gentle and teasing, like his words. The second kiss is yours when he pulls back for air and you follow him. The third devours you.

His hands move in opposite directions; one floating up to cup your cheek and draw you in further with a caress, the other creeping down your back, leaving a trail of fire, aroused nerves, in its wake. It settles on the back of one of your thighs, and grips rough, possessive, hard and--

you gasp a single word between stolen breaths,

Lucien.

His name burns stronger than any alcohol on your lips, on his, it consumes you both, and you're glad of it, you're content to go up in flames. Your hands move to match his, to mark him as your own. You think this is perhaps what fireworks feel like, the moment before the end.

(You explode. It's not as pretty as a fireworks display.)

You arch your back against him and you suddenly remember the butterfly, those vivid splinters from your childhood so small they could hardly be called memories. You are not certain of much anymore but you are certain of this: You are his Schrodinger's butterfly, dancing futilely, dead in the palms of his hands.

He pulls away, panting, and you want to, but this time you do not follow. You don't move at all. Trapped things, you hear your father say, voice shaking, the butterfly long gone, once let go, are never the same after.

Your mind doesn't remember, but something in your heart does: this has happened before. He's altered your memory so many times, but you still can't remember to forget him.

(Emotional memory, and now. Priming. Some part of you sees the same pattern fall into place.)

His hand, cold against your flushed cheek moves to cover your eyes, and you know: you won't remember the ending of this, either. You don't try to stop him.

"Go back to sleep. Forget this nightmare."

His voice comes, silky smooth and soft. Sad, you want to think, though you know it can't be.

"What if I wake up, and this isn’t a dream? What if that's the nightmare?"

"Then find your way back here. I'll be waiting."

You close your eyes under his cool fingers, and wake to warm sheets.

In your dream, he's still smiling. You're sure of it.

xx.

You're waiting for someone. Someone's waiting for you. (You aren't sure which it is. You aren't sure who.)

The butterfly's wings flutter in your small child hands, light yellow heartbeats tickling your fingers. The sky is grey. A chill wind blows. Your father is silent, frozen and smiling. Gone.

You remember (or at least you tell yourself you do):

When you opened your palms, the butterfly flew straight. It flew true.

#mlqc #mlqc lucien #mlqc fanfic #mr love queen's choice #mlqc xu mo #val writes #this one is. super trippy and pretentious and i love it but it also makes -1 sense #also completely based on the aesthetic of sunmi's pporappimpam ieofklsjsl #minirant but i h8 tumblr for not having proper paragraph breaks i wanted to do smth cool with the numbering instead but uh. i cant count so #the reason the vii is missing is bc i can't count not bc it's deep or anything

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kpurereactions · 4 years

Text

Love Shot

CHAPTER 1

A/N: Hello lovelies, Ive been working on this piece for quite a while now and im finally ready to post it. This was inspired by one of my favorite fics of all time, Good Girl, but given my own little twist. I hope you all love Love Shot as much as I do.

Pairing: Exo x Reader

Rating: Drama, Angst, Smut, Fluff

WARNINGS: Language, Eventual Violence, Lots of Smut Later on

Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

I let a smile touch my lips before taking a deep breath in, nodding once at the crisp evening air before turning to lock the door of my new combined studio and apartment. It was the first day where fall really felt like fall. The scent of rain lingered under the dense clouds and the sun was already halfway gone. I had moved back to Seoul only three months ago after being gone for only a little under a year. I had originally came to Seoul to get my masters in painting and painting theory, though I quickly gained enough local fame and connections that no one could quite understand why I left. So I came back.

I stood on the side of the road, my arm outstretched as I wait for a cab. My closest friend from school in the city was opening his gallery tonight and from the posts on my snapchat I could tell a lot of old classmates were already there. Song Mino was the first friend I made when I first moved here. He was talented and refused to fit into the art box the professor tried to force all his students into, as if art should be something someone else tells you to do. It should be your own thing. We had that in common. My style is simplistic. Aesthetic. Easy to look at, but the more you look the more you see behind the top layer. We both strived to challenge the viewer, and because of that we grew really close in our attempt to stick it to the man.

The first show is always the biggest event of an artist's career, and knowing I was seconds away from Mino’s brought another smile to my face as excitement seemed to run through my toes. I couldn't believe how hard he had been working, despite him refusing to let me see anything he had made to showcase.

The gallery itself was breathtaking, I couldn't help but note the obviously more ‘manly’ stain he had chosen for the wooden columns that broke the continuous glass of the front of the gallery. I was the one who helped him make his mind up. I took it in as it was its own work of art before I even walked up the short staircase to the front doors. The tall white walls were similar to my own space, but his had matching wooden floors and walls that were scattered around the room that broke your vision from seeing everything at once. I gave myself another smile as I noticed familiar faces of old classmates and Professors.

It didn't surprise me when I first walked in that I was being asked about the past year and how I’ve been. I was hard to miss, not just because I stood taller than a majority of the women in the room. The constant questioning reminded me why I chose to fail at reaching out when I got back. I made a point to keep trying to catch eye contact with Mino, who only seemed to mask the chuckle from escaping his lips, choosing to leave me to struggle with the boring repetition of the conversations I was having. I finally found the opportunity to excuse myself and all but power walk over to Mino, pretending not to see anyone else I recognized.

“American style!” He said excitedly, pulling me into a hug.

“Don't you ever leave me to the wolves like that again” I whispered in his ear before pulling back. “Mino this is awesome, I’ve only seen a few pieces but im so proud of you!” I said covering up my mild threat before hugging him tightly again. He chuckled with bright eyes before giving my arms a squeeze. His eyes widened as he remembered the man standing next to him.

“Y/n, this is Junmyeon. He is a curator who graduated a few years before us. I've been telling him about your work.” He said as my attention moved to the slick haired man.

“You were talking about me at your own opening?” I said reaching for his hand to shake it.

“I actually asked specifically about you.” Junmyeon said with a soft smile that slowly grew.

“Oh, wow.” I tried to get out past the sound of my heart fluttering at his radiant smile. “Its very nice to meet you then.”

I was informed that Junmyeon was planning on stopping by my studio in the next few days, which brought on a new wave a nerves I've never experienced before. It wasn't until Mino placed his hand on my back to excuse the two of us could I finally breathe.

“Jesus, why is he so intimidating?” I said looking back over my shoulder as he dipped his chin to take a sip of his drink.

“If you think he’s intimidating your crazy” Mino said, leading me over to the first piece he wanted to show me.

“Did he asked to buy any of your work?” I asked before he could change the topic.

“All of it.” Mino said with a big smile.

“All of it?!”

“Yes. He’ll probably buy a lot of your stuff too. It’s more his style anyways.”

“Oh my god.” I said shaking my head.

I let Mino take control of the conversation as he began to explain the clay molded figure in front of us. I spent the rest of my time there following Mino around, while sipping on my wine and listening to him talk. Even though, as much as I was paying attention, it was hard to get your mind off of Junmyeon.

“Promise me you wont sell this one. I know you promised everything but see if this one could be an exception. I want to buy it.” I said pointing at a tall, organic figure of a woman. The memory of when Mino had made it flooded back as it was my first time to ever pose for another artist.

“Ill ask.” he said smiling before taking my hand and leading me to the next piece.

I tried to stay as late as I could. Mino was off somewhere talking art leaving me once again to be interrogated by my former classmates who all seemed to be very smug about the fact that I had yet to have an opening. It didn't matter what valid excuse I would give, they only cared that it hasn't happened yet. Thankfully I must have looked as uncomfortable as I felt since a hand wrapped around my arm to pull me back. I was just about to thank Mino for coming back and saving me when I turned to face Junmyeon.

“You didn't look too excited about that.” He said looking back over to the three girls who were all staring with confused and almost jealous looks in their eyes.

“Good to know it was obvious.” I said taking a sip of wine. Just as I was about to say something else Mino walked up.

“I think I'm going to head out. I have a pick up early in the morning.” I said, trying not to make it sound like I was at my ropes end with the girls who had added whispering to their staring. I smiled and quickly kissed Mino’s cheek softly before turning to Junmyeon and shaking his hand again, trying to do so without having to hear a protest from Mino.

The air outside sobered me up a little, and because of how nice it was outside I couldn't help but smile and start to walk down the sidewalk. Mino’s studio wasn't that far from mine, just a few blocks down and a horseshoe turn away, so I placed my hands in my coat pocket and began to walk. I let my eyes wander from the fashion that was passing me to the way the lights reflected off the puddles left from the rain that morning. Just as I was really starting to enjoy my walk the sky opened again, soft raindrops falling from the sky.

I sighed, of course this would happen. Clocking where I was I dipped into an alley, deciding the fastest way to get out of the rain in my heels would be to cut through the alleyways. Usually this idea was fine. I would maybe run into one or two strangers, but they were usually restaurant owners who were taking the trash out or sweeping their areas so the sound of voices deeper in the alley didn't really bother me.

“Kai come on! Oh my god no.” I heard a man laugh deeper into the darkness of the alley. But as I got closer to my studios back door I realized the figure I could hardly make out at first were men. Multiple men. Usually this wouldn't bother me but as I got closer the feeling of fear in the pit of my stomach started to deepen and deepen.

I took a deep breath when I started to pass them, my heart beating a million miles a minute while trying to keep a poker face to seem unphased so they wouldn't pay me any mind. Until they did.

“Hey wait!” I heard one of them call. I quicken my step slightly. Not to show I was scared, but just incase. “Wait, where are you going? I’ll walk you home.”

I looked up to see a half lit face walking backwards in front of me. I squinted slightly to try to get my eyes to adjust to what was under the ball cap he wore, but there was no use.

‘Shit’ I thought. I was staring too long. I looked away and quickened my step again.

“Oh come on! At least tell me your name!” He shouted after he stopped, his voice now behind me.

I was able to breathe again once my key was in my door, officially sure he stopped following me. But still the shape of the man's mouth was enough to stay in my brain as I flicked the lights to my gallery on and made my way upstairs to my bed.

___

“Mino I swear they were so scary.” I said pushing my denim painting shirt up past my elbows before wrapping my hands around the coffee cup that sat in front of me.

“I just don't understand why you didnt call a cab when you left.” He said sitting back in his chair, obviously taking it out on himself for not seeing me off safely.

“I just wanted to walk. I didn't plan on going through the alley.” I grumbled. I hated when Mino tried to school me. He was only a few months older than I was, and although I knew here it meant something different, he also knew that where I’m from it didn't.

“Do you at least remember what they looked like?” He asked, noticing my mood change.

“Um.. kind of. There were like five or six of them, but I only got a good look at one of them. He was a little taller than you, pillow lips… he was wearing a hat so I really didn't get a good look at his eyes. But he had to have been an athlete of some sort.” I said, my words getting quieter as I realized I would have had nothing to go off of if something bad had happened.

The coffee date ended with Mino once again scolding me, which I knew I deserved, but there was only so much I could take without pouting all the way home. I couldn't help thinking about the man in the hat. Why he was there in the alley with his friends. Why did he follow me, but then give up so easily? It's not like his friends were calling him back. If he was going to bother me in the first place, why give up? The more I thought about what had happened the more I worked myself up. They probably saw me unlock my door. What if they showed up in my studio? What if they came back with more people?

I half thought about texting Mino, but knew there was no point. He would be more worried about it than I was and he had better things to do then baby sit me in my own home. So instead, the moment I got inside I turned my windows down, making sure no one could see inside my studio incase they were passing to see if I was there. It was weird, though, this new set fear was enough to put me into overdrive. My inspiration hit me in my face and I couldn't pull a fresh canvas out fast enough to get the blurred images of last night down.

———

Music played loudly as I was lost in my own world. A galaxy of light and dark colors swirled and blended into one another across my canvas creating the confusing, but exciting pattern that seemed to get better with every stroke.

I was pulled out of my own head when the sound of someone's voice yelling over the music made me look up. I smiled to see Junmyeon and two other men trailing him into the room.

“Oh! One second please!” I said trying to press pause with the clean part of my palm. “Sorry, I didn't realize how loud that had gotten.” I said wiping my hand on my shirt before shaking Junmyeons hand.

“Its fine, good to see your working so hard because I brought with me two potential buyers.” He said gesturing to the two men on his left. “This is Byun Baekhyun and Kim Jongin.” He said.

I smiled shaking Baekhyun's hand, but the moment I met Jongin's eyes I felt my body stiffened slightly. He was familiar. Almost to familiar. I forced the feeling to be shaken off though, there was no reason why he would have possibly been brought into my studio if he had been hiding out in the alleyway behind the building the night before. Or at least I had hoped. But there was something about the way he smiled at me that made me feel like he knew it too. That he had seen me the night prior too.

I tried hard not to think about it. If Junmyeon was there, I was safe and if he was the man he probably wouldn't try to do anything with two other people there to witness. I turned my attention back to Junmyeon who asked if he could look through my paintings.

“Oh of course. And the racks on this back wall have more in it. I rotate them so the ones that are up are only there because they have a similar theme.” I said before trying to smile as normal as possible and turning back to my easel.

My drive was gone. I was too busy focusing on Jongin, who stood there supporting his chin in his hand as he listens to Junmyeon explain why he liked a certain piece. I took this opportunity to text Mino. Now if any would be a good time to alert him.

Mino, I think the guy from last night in the hat is in my studio with Junmyeon. I don't know what to do.

“Y/n, were looking to fill a room. Do you have any others with these same earthy tones?” Junmyeon said, pulling my attention away from my phone.

“Oh, yes. There over here.” I said smiling, slipping my phone into my back pocket before leading the men over to the opposite wall. I walked them through my color schemes, explaining to them the way I had everything organized just incase they changed their mind on a color or style they wanted. I was surprised Junmyeon and Baekhyun were able to distract me from the thoughts swirling in my head for the rest of the time they were there, but it helped that Jongin stayed behind us, obviously not trying to chime in.

“Y/n, thank you once again for taking us in on such short notice. We will take the one on the wall and the two that have been stored if they are not already spoken for.”

“Of course, Ill wrap them for you so they’re ready to be taken.” I said turning to make a mental note as to which ones it was.

“Thank you again. We will be in touch.” He said, bowing his head slightly before taking my hand in a soft, yet firm hand shake.

“Thank you.” Baekhyun said sweetly as he took my hand next.

“Good to see you again. I hope to see you in the future as well” Jongin said with a small wink before taking my hand and giving it a firm shake.

The moment his hand touched mine my heart dropped. There couldn't be a way that was really him. The moment the door closed I reached for my phone again only to see Mino hadn't responded. It didn't stop me from quickly typing out another message, though.

It was him. It had to be him. Why else would he tell me it was good to see me again before winking if it wasn't him?

I looked up to see their backs bending one by one to get into the large black vehicle they came in, and once I was sure the door to the vehicle was closed and they weren't looking I quickly walked forward and locked the door again before backing up to my easel where I desperately tried to finish my work before deciding to just give up.

I couldn't focus. Not while finishing, not while making myself dinner, and not while I was laying in bed trying to fall asleep. I rolled to my side and reached for my phone. 3:00am. I sat up, swinging my legs over the edge of my bed, taking my blanket with me and wrapping it tightly around my shoulders. I made your way up to the railing of my room slowly which allowed me look down onto my gallery. I wrapped the blanket closer over my shoulders before letting my elbows rest on the railing so I was more comfortably looking out the window. I smiled to myself finally feeling calm again. I loved how quiet the streets were at night. How all the colors of the lights around seemed to mix together on the rained on asphalt that laid below them.

It felt calm. But as my eyes were scanning I couldn't help but see two figures standing across the street. I squinted my eyes to try to catch a reflection of who the people were only to realize it was Jongin and Junmyeon. I stared at the two in shock as they talked across the road. They seemed to be laughing. I tried to calm myself down, telling myself they were probably just out getting drinks and just so happened to be standing across the street from my apartment. But then I remembered what the time was. I couldn't stop myself from panicking, and just as I was about to turn to hide myself, my eyes met with Jongin’s.

I didn't know it was possible for my heart to drop even further into my stomach as he gave me a devilish grin and wink. I scrambled back to my bedside table where I quickly reached for the remote that controls my space, knocking it off the table before I was able to press the button that made my windows go solid.

Chapter 2

#exo #exo fic #exo mafia #exo smut #exo reactions #exo drabbles #Junmyeon #Suho #Minseok #Xuimin #Baekhyun #Lay #Yixing #Jongdae #Chen #Jongin #Kai #Sehun #Chanyeol #Kyungsoo #DO

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all-you-need-is-paul-mccartney · 5 years

Text

The Couple Next Door IV (Roger Taylor x Female!Reader)

Find Part III Here

A/N: Happy Early Valentine’s Day, Y’all! I wrote a lot for the next part of this series, so I decided to split them up in two chapters. I’m posting this one tonight, and the other will be up at some point tomorrow afternoon.

This chapter is in 3rd Person Omniscient for Rogie like the previous one, and the reader will not be in this chapter but the next one, so I apologize if it’s not that good.

Don’t forget to show your support and enjoyment for the fic by leaving likes, comments, and reblogging!

Summary: Roger has a chat with the band, and does some more thinking.

(Roger can be Ben Hardy!Rog or Real!Rog. Whatever stirs your soup.)

WARNINGS: Swearing, s l o w b u r n, Mentions of sex (BuT nO sMuT [yet(?)]), no revision and editing bc I’m lazy, I think that’s it.

This one is leaning more towards an M rating than a T, so read at your own risk.

“Eh… no no no. Take it from the top. Roger?”

The blond looked through the window to Freddie, who just made it to the practice.

He was wearing some ridiculous flashy outfit as usual, a pair of massive white sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose while an equally distracting burgundy coat made its presence known on the singer’s shoulders. Whether he wore a shirt underneath is still a mystery.

In his right hand, Freddie held a steaming hot cup of tea, gripped tight by his long fingers, each nail painted black. From the waist down, although he couldn’t see, Roger wouldn’t be surprised if Freddie was wearing booty shorts.

"You okay, Love?“

He only responded with a simple thumbs up, and an unenthusiastic look on his face; and although Fred didn’t seem too convinced, the music started playing, and Roger tried his part again.

"Been out of the flow all morning,” Brian informed the frontman, biting his thumbnail and crossing his legs from the wall he leaned against. “He got here, and didn’t count us in the first few times we played. Figured he needed some time to play for himself.”

"Hm,“ Freddie acknowledged, taking a peek at some loose papers scattered around the control desk and taking a sip of his tea.

"And how long ago did you two decide this?“

"Forty five minutes ago,” John grumbled at his spot at the control desk, legs crossed, and head propped up with his hand in bore.

"We tried confronting him and he’s not speaking,“ Brian explained. “Gave you a call and no one answered the phone. We assumed you were on your way.”

Freddie looked around the room, and he pointed at the second, empty seat at the control desk. “Where’s–”

After another timing mistake, Roger flung his drumstick towards the window, shouting profanities when the stick just riccoched and hit him right back, and startling the other three men in the process.

"… Y/n,“ Freddie finished carefully, eyes wide and focused on Roger’s movements.

"We both assume she’s got somethin’ to do with it. He won’t say anything.” John mumbled with a shrug.

Freddie pursed his lips, and sighed, scanning the control desk for the PA system’s button.

"Rog, my Love. Just… put the drumsticks down.“

Roger, who was about to send his second drumstick against the wall to meet the fate his first one did, lowered his arm slowly to his side, eyeing his band’s frontman in the window, who was twiddling his fingers at him.

"Good. Now, come on in here. We’re all gonna sit down. Have a chat.“

Roger’s shoulders slumped, and he left the recording room so he could regroup with his three other bandmates. Roger just frowned. Just as he suspected, Freddie was sporting a pair of body shorts.

Freddie moved his eyes from Roger to the empty seat next to John.

The drummer dropped into the chair, letting it roll him a little bit away from the staring eyes of the others.

"The others here tell me you’ve been a little… upset, since you’ve been here this morning."

Roger scoffed, and tried to stand from his chair, but Freddie dropped a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I know there’s something wrong,” Freddie quietly mumbled. “We just wanna help you. Tell us what’s wrong, and you’re helping us, too.”

Roger chewed the inside of his cheek, looking guiltily towards John and Brian. “… Hope you know I didn’t mean to shout earlier, yeah?"

"Kind of assumed so, yeah,” John offered a kind smile, to which Roger tried to return, but he just looked uncomfortable.

"It’s uh… it’s just, um…“

"Is… y'know… is y/n okay?”

Roger’s smile fell. “Wait, why? Why would she not be okay? Did you get a phone call from her?!” Roger stood up, “oh my God, is she okay?!”

"Hey, hey, hey, calm down, calm down!“ Brian intervened, hands up. "She’s fine. We’ve heard nothing from her. We were just asking you.”

Roger sat back down, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and sighing deeply. “Look, I’m sorry. Yes. Yeah, it is her. She’s… Driving me nuts right now.”

"Why now? You two were perfectly fine last week.“

"It’s been the interactions with the neighbours,” Roger complained. “do you know how hard it is not to start sweating every time we hold hands in public now?”

John frowned. “But… You hold other girls’ hands all the time. Why would y/n be different?”

"I don’t know! I don’t know and that’s why I’m like this!“

Freddie smirked, and Roger could sense the glint in his eyes despite them still being covered by his sunglasses.

"Seems to me,” Freddie popped his lips. “Roger’s in love with y/n.”

John smirked at the thought, and Brian had this wide grin on his face Roger really wanted to slap off.

"Fred, I really don’t think that’s the problem here–“

”‘Ts weird. I’ve always had a thing for y/n, maybe I’m in love with her.“

"Seeing a girl naked by accident doesn’t mean you’re in love with her, John.” Roger snapped back nearly immediately, to which Brian chimed in:

"Funny how you’re the one telling John that when I had to say the same thing to you in high school.“

Roger was mad, but he was even more embarrassed. His face was a deep scarlet, and Freddie wasn’t sure if the colour of Roger’s cheeks were because of his fury, or because he knew Brian was right.

"Come talk to me, Roger. Talk to the King of Love,” Freddie coaxed Roger with his index finger as he fell back dramatically on the sofa against the wall opposite the control table.

Roger simply rolled his eyes and relocated to the empty seat on the sofa by Freddie’s feet. The frontman kicked his bare legs out and crossed them over Roger’s lap while stretching this thin arms and placing them behind his head.

"When’d this all start happening, Rog? I mean the weird feelings.“

To this, the drummer simply shrugged. "Last week we had dinner at the neighbours’. The husband was talking about children, and marriage, and it was like…"

Brian and John raised their eyebrows expectantly.

"It was like I wasn’t acting anymore.”

Freddie gave a knowing smile, and hummed gently. “Did you feel comfortable? Being domestic and romantic with her?"

"Fred, I’ve lived with those two for three years, and they have zero personal space.” Brian’s eyes moved from his reflection in Freddie’s sunglasses to the stressful gaze in Roger’s. “… is it different?”

"Bri, I had women over all the time when we lived with you. I had no reason to have a girlfriend. I slept around, got the physical affection I needed, and she was just a friend…“

John pursed his lips. ”Was,“

Roger nodded a little, his eyes casting downward and burning holes into his already torn jeans. "Yeah. Was."

The blond suddenly looked up at his other bandmates. "We’re pretending to be a couple in a conservative, strict neighbourhood. It’s not like y/n would allow me to invite groupies home with us while catty neighbours spy on us from across the way. I’m not getting the physical attention I used to have, especially since sleeping around is impossible now."

The room then fell silent, and no one exactly made an immediate effort to say anything.

And then John gave a half-shrug.

"Why don’t you ask y/n?"

"Ask her what?”

"Ask her to give you that attention,“ Freddie finished John’s point in a matter-of-fact tone.

”No,“ Roger gasped. "No. No no no!"

"What? It’s a great idea,” Brian tried to reason.

"It’s bloody suicide! What would she think of me?! A sex-addict? A creep? A waste of time?“

”Roger,“ Brian stopped Roger’s listing. "She’s a single, gorgeous woman who loves you with all her heart, romantically-speaking, or not. You two already have this sort of secret commitment thing happening anyways but with housing rather than physical affection.”

"And your point is…?“

Freddie took over for Brian then with a sigh. "She has nothing to lose. You have nothing to lose. Why would adding onto your deal be a bad thing?"

To this, Roger didn’t respond. He didn’t have an answer. Freddie continued. "You sleep with women with no strings attached all the time. Living with your best friend while also bedding her doesn’t seem like a bad idea. What are you gonna do, catch feelings for her? You’re just horny.”

"… Do you really think that’s all that’s wrong?“

"That you’re stressed and just need a good lay?” John clarified.

"Absolutely.“

It was almost as if a weight had been lifted off Roger’s shoulders. All of his past issues were gone, out of his mind.

He had nothing to worry about.

"There’s that smile we all needed,” Freddie gushed at Roger, who lowered his head in mild embarrassment.

"C'mon Rog. Let’s get to work.“ Freddie jumped up to stand before the control table, and Brian took a seat next to John. Roger returned to his drum kit inside the recording room, and after a count-in, Roger started drumming.

Needless to say, practice was flawless for the rest of the day.

_______________________________

A/A/N: I hope y’all enjoyed! Remember, new chapter up tomorrow!

@culturefiendtrashqueen @luvborhap @amy-brooklyn99 @scarsout @kimmietea @ohtheseboysilove @demo-wise @suavishowell @bohemianahoy @pippin248

#bohemian rhapsody #roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy #ben hardy x reader #john deacon #brian may #freddie mercury

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lizzy-bennet · 5 years

Text

An Eternity of Unspoken Things Fandom: Doctor Who Pairing: Whouffaldi Length: 2,500 words Rating: G Also on Ao3

Summary:

“Everything you’re about to say I already know,” Clara tells him on trap street. “Don’t say it now.”

So the Doctor doesn’t, and the words he never says get buried like a seed deep down in his chest, and they blossom there, blooming against his ribcage like roses, their thorns piercing his skin, and it hurts and it hurts and it hurts.

Which is why, in all those billions of years he’s trapped in his confession dial, sometimes, (when the stars change or when her painted portrait weathers yet again with age or he finds himself drowning with grief and rage), he’ll try to say those unsaid words to the Clara in the TARDIS in his mind.

He loves Clara.

This is a fact the Doctor knows, like how he knows that daylight lasts on Filea IV for exactly fifty-three minutes, or that the rain on New Saturn sounds like a song.

It’s just a simple thing. An obvious, everyday notion. The TARDIS travels in time and space, his two hearts beat, and he loves Clara Oswald.

But he doesn’t say it.

# “Everything you’re about to say I already know,” Clara tells him on trap street. “Don’t say it now.” Outside, the raven is waiting, but here, she pulls him into a hug and he stands there in her embrace, feeling the weight of her arms around him, like she is his anchor, holding him steady in a world that’s nothing but a stormy sea.

But then all too soon, her arms unwind from around his neck and his anchor leaves him.

His anchor dies.

And all he can think is:

He didn’t get to say it.

# He is in his confession dial, and every day he slams his fist into the wall and every day he burns himself up and leaves blood on the stairs while grief eats away at his bones because Clara’s in his mind but she’s not in the world. And then there are those words, the words he never got to say. They got buried like a seed deep down in his chest, and now they blossom there, blooming against his ribcage like roses, their thorns piercing his skin, and it hurts and it hurts and it hurts.

Which is why, when he’s at his weakest, when the stars change or when her painted portrait weathers yet again with age or he finds himself drowning with grief and rage, he thinks about saying those words to the Clara in the TARDIS in his mind.

It never quite works out.

# Once upon a time (so, so, so very long ago now) he stood in an arena, with a guitar in his hands and sunglasses slipping down his nose, and stared at the (wonderful, beautiful, impossible) girl standing in front of him and said: “When do I not see you?”

And he meant it then and he still means it now because it’s true. It’s true, it’s true, it’s true.

“I see you,” he says again, and it’s slightly different than the three little words his two hearts beat out, but it still has the same meaning.

He’s spent at least a thousand years inside his confession dial and yet Clara’s still as clear as day to him. There was once a time - when he had a different, boyish face - when he couldn’t see her. He had thought she was a trick or a trap, a ghost or a riddle. And he had been wrong, she was just a girl, an ordinary girl with an extraordinary heart and he had been blind. So when that old body died in golden flames and this new body was born, he’d made sure it was born with the promise that he would always, always, always see her.

He’s never broken that promise.

He thinks maybe he should say this to the Clara mirage in his mind. That he should tell her what he never told the real Clara on trap street, confess what he’s kept locked up tightly. The words wait there, beneath his breastbone, wanting and waiting to be said.

But he’s not that sort of man, not really. He’ll have to let her know how he feels the long way around.

So what he says out loud is:

“There is an emperor, and he asks the shepard’s boy, ‘How many seconds in eternity?’”

# “I figured out it was you, you know,” he tells his imaginary Clara in his imaginary TARDIS. (He’s not entirely sure how many centuries it’s been since he’s started this conversation with her. It’s hard to keep track.)

“You were the voice in my dreams, when I was a child in that barn on Gallifrey. You were the one whispering those words in my mind. Did you think I’d never put two and two together?” Clara raises an eyebrow. She has just as much sass as the original, this mental copy of Clara, always ready to cut him down to size.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

(Stars, he misses her.)

“Well,“ she says, “it did take you this long.”

He exhales a laugh and closes his eyes. He still remembers her soft whisper in the night; her voice curling out from the darkness like music, speaking words that’d get woven into his dreams and sewn into the idea behind the name he calls himself.

He’s always loved her, he thinks. Right from his very first face.

But he doesn’t say it.

“’Fear is a superpower,’” he says instead, repeating her exact words from that night. “‘Fear can bring us together, fear can bring you home.’ And that’s exactly what I’m going to do, Clara. I’m going to bring you home. I swear it.”

(He dies with that promise on his lips, and he comes back to life with it written into his bones.)

# “Look at you, with your eyes and your never giving up and your anger and your kindness,” he’d told her one time, when she was by his side and breathing, when they were somewhere back in history. “One day, the memory of that will hurt so much that I won’t be able to breathe, and I’ll do what I always do. I’ll get in my box and I’ll run and I’ll run.”

And he’d been right back then, but he’d also been wrong. Because it’s true that the pain of his grief is gut-wrenching, true that it’s blinding and leaves him breathless. But instead of running, he’s staying. He’s staying here in this nightmare, for Clara. Because tasting death every day for billions upon billions of years all in the hope of seeing her again is nowhere near as frightening as the idea of running and dealing with the fact that she is gone and he cannot get her back. He wonders if Clara ever knew how far he’d go for her, and even more than that, he wonders if he should just say it all now, out loud, so the words can be out there in the world.

But it’s like he’s on the edge of a cliff, tips of his shoes right over the precipice, and he just can’t jump. So he doesn’t say those things. Instead, he continues to tell her the story he never finished from before.

“And the shepard’s boy says, ‘There is a mountain of pure diamond…’”

# “Have I ever told you the story of the shepard’s boy?” he asks her. Clara looks at him sadly.

“Yes,” she whispers, “you have.”

(Of course he has. He has every day for thousands and thousands years.) “I’ll tell you another story then,” he decides.

“Doctor,” she says gently, “you’re dying.”

He ignores her.

“There is a story,” he continues, “about how the sun loved the moon so much, he died every night just to let her breathe.”

He sighs, shuts his eyes, feels the pain pulsing through his mind.

“I suppose, Clara, what I’m trying to say is…” he’s only got seconds left, ticking away. “What I’m trying to say is…”

The seconds slip away, he closes his eyes, and as he dies, he thinks:

I understand the sun.

# He’s dying. Again.

He thinks it might be for the five-hundred-thousandth time. And he’s not sure he can go through everything again. All the pain, all the dying, and the way his mind screams and his skin bleeds. He is so, so tired. How easy it would be, he thinks, to just stop. To just sleep.

But he can’t sleep, not peacefully, not yet, not until he tells Clara what he never did.

Which is why he finds himself back in his mental storm room, staring at her. Her back is to him, and there is white chalk in her hand and a blackboard in front of her bearing the sentence, “How are you going to win?” and for once, he ignores it. He is too tired to strategize, too weak to spend the rest of his life here in his mental TARDIS storm room, trying to think his way out of this impossible maze. He just wants her to listen.

“Clara,” he says quietly, as he feels his breath getting shallower, the space between his two heartbeats getting longer, “I’ve got to tell you something before I die again, before it’s too late.” But Clara isn’t interested, she just taps those familiar words on the board again. How are you going to win?

“This is important, Clara.”

She shakes her head, a motion that sends her dark hair flying around her shoulders, making it look like raven feathers, and he inhales sharply at the sight, his hearts twisting painfully in his chest.

“No, Doctor,” Clara says, and she still won’t turn to face him, won’t let him say what he needs to so he can go in peace. “What’s important is this: How are you going to win?”

“You don’t understand, Clara,” he says, and he hears the frustration in his voice, hears an almost feral sort of desperation there too. “Maybe this is how I win. Maybe it’s by finally, finally telling you what I should’ve told you before. Now, before I fade away.”

He loves her, loves her like she is the sun and the moon and then stars. Loves her so much that it hurts, hurts so badly he cannot breathe. And perhaps this is what victory is, what winning feels like: getting to say these words to at least one Clara, even if it’s not the one that counts.

“Look, Clara - “

She still won’t face him, so he reaches for her then, trying to take her shoulders, spin her around to face him, to listen just for once, but the Clara in his mind slips through his fingers like smoke, and he’s left holding a handful of air as he realizes once again that she is not there, not really, not in the way she should be.

He shuts his eyes, sinks down to the floor, puts his head in his hands, and thinks:

She’s right. She’s always, always right. What’s important is that he win. And then he’ll tell her everything after.

# It’s been four billion years, he thinks as he stares at the sky. Maybe, maybe almost four-and-a-half billion. So the stars have changed, the constellations been broken and reformed, and every star is unrecognizable. Every star except for her.

You’re my North Star, Clara Oswald, he thinks silently as he looks at her. You’re always going to be guiding me home.

And out loud he says, “Not much longer now.” # This is it. He knows it. He can feel it in his bones and in the beat of his hearts and in the steady way he breathes. All the wall needs is one more punch. Just one more. He can see the daylight coming through it already, all golden and bright and promising that tomorrow will come and tomorrow will be better.

The Clara in the TARDIS in his mind takes his hand in hers for the very last time. “‘And when the entire mountain is chiseled away, the first second of eternity will have passed,’” she says, finishing the story he started oh so very long ago. “Today’s the day. First second of eternity. Got anything to say to that, Doctor?”

He glances over at her. There are so many things he aches to tell her, so many things he wants her to understand. But they’re close to the finish line now. So, so close.

So he simply says:

“See you on the other side, Clara Oswald.” And for the first time in what feels like an eternity, he smiles.

# Clara, Clara, Clara. For all those years, her name was like a never-ending melody, always winding its way through the back of his mind, and now she is here, with him. They are kneeling together, side by side, in the cloisters on Gallifrey, darkness wrapped around them like the night.

And the universe, well, the universe is burning. Time is fractured and stars are dying and the universe is burning, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all, because he’s got her back. Clara - his Clara - is there beside him, and that is all that matters.

He’d do anything for her.

(No, the back of his mind corrects him, he’d do everything.)

”What is it?” Clara asks (and oh, how good it feels to hear her voice out loud and outside his mind). “What were you bargaining for in that confession dial?” He nearly laughs at that. He’s died every day for a sliver of eternity; broken each of his precious, pithy rules; killed a man (and perhaps, he thinks idly, time itself); and the notion that he’d do all that for anything less than her is incomprehensible.

He looks up, and he expects Clara to be teasing him or testing him, but he’s surprised to see that she is not. She is serious, her eyes studying him, waiting for an answer. He falters for a second, feeling lost as his light blue eyes search her questioning dark brown ones.

“What do you think?” he asks.

She shakes her head, and he frowns, because Clara is clever. So, so very clever. But she can’t see it. Why can’t she see it? “You,” he tells her, like the answer is as simple to him as breathing, as obvious as the moon in the sky. He can’t imagine a universe where he wouldn’t die every day for her. “I had to find a way to save you.”

He can’t fathom his words being a total surprise to anyone. (It’s obvious, isn’t it? he thinks. Obvious he’d go this far - farther, even - for her.) But Clara sits there, speechless and stunned by his words. Then she blinks, inhales sharply (she needn’t, her lungs no longer need air, but muscle memory is there), and says, “l have something I need to say.”

So does he. He’s filled with sentences he never said, with words he’s held inside for longer than stars have been alive.

But he can’t say them, not now, not when they’re so close to escaping, “We don’t have time.” “No, my time is up, Doctor, between one heartbeat and the last is all the time I have,” Clara says. Her fingers curl around his wrist, and he is struck once again with the sensation that she is his anchor, holding him steady in the eye of the storm. And slowly, under her touch, he stills, letting his anchor stabilize him.

“People like me and you, we should say things to one other,” she tells him. “And I’m going to say them now.”

And, finally, after four-and-a-half billion years…

So does he.

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highgaarden · 4 years

Note

Klaroline Time Travel, please for the inbox game.

send me an au and i’ll write five headcanons about it.

i got this prompt a few days ago and thought - hey, it sort of fits in with one of the prompts in @klaroline-events’ june bingo: curse.

two birds, one stone? is that allowed? anyway, if it’s not allowed it’s okay, i had fun writing this all the same! another one for my drunk writing: a series tag, which as usual was written in one sitting whilst i giggle throughout.

sweetness that i took for, sweetness that she gave me to me;

though my heart has long been given to you summer's turn is nigh swifts and swallows swoop and yearn for you with all that's in the sky but blow the wind and come the rain and come my love again

she’s on the ground when she comes to. her head’s a mess and her back hurts, and she licks the inside of her dry mouth, suddenly wishing for blood to coat her parched tongue.

the last thing she remembers is freya, davina, her own twins and bonnie standing in formation around hope; some kind of spell to slow down her age or something. she’s in her twenties and every day klaus grows more and more volatile about it, so it was deduced that something had to be done.

in that salt circle hope didn’t look too happy about it. last night there had been a huge argument between father and daughter - everyone had stayed well enough away, even hayley, who shrugs at her as if to apologize this was how their girls' summer break from the salvatore school was going.

“minutes ut horis et diebus et hebdomades,” bonnie and freya chant.

hope groans.

“quantum pugillus capere potest,” lizzie and josie continue, fingers clasped together, their eyes turning white.

hope snorts.

“ex harenae spatia veluti clepsydris metiuntur,” davina bellows as wind starts whipping the air around them.

hope rolls her eyes.

“tempus extendit!” they chorus together.

the witches chant and hope checks her wristwatch, and then a storm rolls in, breaking everything. the twins are flung to different ends of the room; freya loses her footing and has to dig her nails into the floor to avoid being dragged out the window that's burst open; bonnie bleeds through her nose and drops to her knees; davina flings herself over hope when the little baby tribrid starts to convulse--when it hits her, when it really hits her, that something has gone terribly wrong--

she's on her back. in a cemetery, her throat is bleeding and tyler - tyler? - is shouting down at her, but she can't hear anything he's saying.

she raises her hand. around her wrist, a charm bracelet glints, and her vision blurs: "no," she gasps, death taking over. she hasn't worn that bracelet since her eighteenth birthday.

ii.

klaus sits on the edge of her bed, his gaze swallowing her. she hears a crooning in her ears that she attributes to the werewolve venom taking space in her veins, smoking out the seams of her. she is burning up; this isn't real - how is this real? this isn't happening - she must be hallucinating, she was a woman in the abbatoir watching as a spell self-destructed, and now -

she was a girl again, and she was dying.

"what's going on?" she whispers, frustrated even as gravity as she knew it malfunctioned around her, making her weightless yet heavy to the bone all at once. "this doesn't make any freaking sense."

"me persuading you, trying to save your life?" klaus cocks his head to the side. it's funny - he is so hard and unreadable here, so many years ago. he wore his rosaries and beads like they meant to be anything more than an accessory peaking just underneath his collar - he wore them like they armour; a badge of honour, hard worn after a bloody, grisly fight. and yet looked and smelled clean. so clean it cut through the putrid leaking out of her neck. "you do think so low of me, then."

"didn't i just say that?" she coughs, splattering her blanket with a fine red mist. this wasn't how it had gone the first time around. he was sitting there, staring at her, those same old hungry eyes she remembers even years later like a broken dream. she can't help herself. she stares him down, much like the first time, but then - her mouth parts, she licks her dry, parched lips, and says, "i've seen so many things."

klaus, ancient monster klaus who barely knew anything more about her than her name, klaus, the being just short of an omniscient deity,old as blood and weathered as a mountain - he doesn't laugh. he nods, once, hearing and listening. he says, "i don't doubt that, sweetheart."

she almost smiles. she's oddly satisfied. "maybe i am ready to die."

"then you're lucky," klaus says, "not many are."

"because you don't give them the chance," she says, coughing again. man, werewolf bites sucked. this memory got it down so perfectly, she would curse the witches' powers if she weren't so impressed.

"who says i don't?"

she watches him with interest. "i thought you maimed first, ask questions never?"

"maim isn't kill." klaus grins. "maim is slow, painful, yes, but it gives them just long enough to plead their guilt, swear fealty to me, no? my maiming is my mercy."

"you write poetry or something?"

klaus laughs quietly. "i did some editing work for shakespeare, for a fashion. can't say i've ever written anything, no. my talents lie elsewhere."

she thinks about the wisp of his dress shoes against the hem hre ballgown. klaus leading her into a room with wide, arched ceilings. one of my passions, he said.

"i know," she says, quietly, with so much rueful affirmation in her voice that klaus reels back suddenly. as if realising he was sitting with someone who was far more familiar with him than current logic would suggest.

it felt like strange company to be having on her death bed. he had talked her out of dying last time. would he, again, in this memory?

was this a memory?

she thinks about how powerful the witches were in their own right. she thinks about their combined power. she thinks about how her blanket scratches heavily against her drenched, hyper-sensitive skin.

she's not sure this is just memory.

and - and if it weren't just a memory, and the spell they'd tried casting had tried to temper with time, and she was here, in the PAST, was she - oh god - was this - ?

"klaus," she gasps, clutching at his hands. klaus' eyes widen.

"i don't know who you think you are, girl," klaus begins in a snarl, but everything flashes bright and hot -

iii.

"and how am i doing?"

he knows his lines by now. he had been confused, enraged, elated all at once when he'd first landed slap dab in the middle of a patch in time he'd already lived through, but he's seen things in his thousand-and-something years, so he wasn't all that surprised. he'd tried to switch things up at first, say things he'd held back all those years ago, and watches caroline's face change.

it was fascinating, seeing things all over again. it offered him perspective. arguing with caroline but being able to detach himself from the moment and study all the ways that make her tick. knowing her for so many years now, he knew when she was bluffing. it was the way she would refuse to meet his eyes. back then, she never met his eyes.

stubborn little woman.

she turns. her gaze was sharper than the chill of the uncharacteristically cool spring afternoon. and then all at once she softens, and the bloom around her inexplicably gain more colour. the rest of the pageant dulled around her as she grew larger than life. "you look... perfect."

he'd never realised that little breath she had let out - like he had met her expectations yet again. exceeded them, in fact. she held herself carefully around him, like she was made of thousands of little strings which would at any point unravel, leaving her bare for him.

odd, because he could only ever remember her being determined not to relinquish any control over to him. it had never occurred to him that her grip over it wasn't as unwavering as he'd thought.

iv.

caroline speeds through these scenarios she didn't have a name for, now that she had determined their level of harm - they appeared to only be swaths of time, ripped to shreds, trying to come back together. she wondered about the reality of bonnie, freya, her girls and davina's ministrations.

what had they done to Time?

she couldn't call it memories, these moments she steps into. maybe time was reconstructing. her meetings with klaus weren't in any chronological order. at some point they were in her office, two years ago, him pleading with her to help him save his daughter. experiencing it the first time around hadn't been easy. the second - she could watch him with new eyes and notice all the other, smaller ways he seemed to be falling apart. the things she'd never noticed.

like the way he could stare at her, and oh how he stared. the way he would level his eyes to hers when it looked like she was ready to break eye contact; he would catch her gaze and hold, pulling her back, tethering her to him, unrelenting.

he's looking at her right now as he shows her his paintings. it's the night of the mikaelson ball all over again, and she is in her gifted dress and klaus is in his relish of the moment. how she had come to him after letting him dress her. now that she's older she knows now, what it must have meant to him. this small claiming, the first of many.

but there is none of the heat in his gaze, because he's not that klaus yet. he's not in love with her, yet. he's not looking at her as if he'd like nothing else than to just press the very tips of the hair that brushed his forehead to hers, just hold her there, and not think for a while.

yet.

she knows how this will go. did klaus know, then?

"you make it sound like it was the easiest decision in the world," she finds herself saying, "choosing me."

klaus looks surprised. she'd interrupted him mid-rant about some kind of debate, michaelangelo vs donatello or whatever. "was i not making myself clear enough when i said i fancy you?"

"liking - despite yourself - that's not choosing." she gives the half-done sketches in her hands a quick glance before putting them back where she'd found them. "we both know i'm not just your fancy of the week."

klaus' face clouds over. "and here i thought courting you would be easy." it sounds like a joke, but it's not. she can hear it in the sudden shift in his voice, how it becomes just that much silkier.

"you didn't really think that," she says knowingly, playing into his charade. enjoying the danger. some things never really change, she wants to laugh.

a small smirk breaks through the hard set of his mouth. "no, i really didn't. you're too smart to be seduced by me."

caroline blinks. her own words, in his mouth, shouldn't startle her so much. how well he knew her, even having just met her. "that's why you like me," she says. only just loud enough for him to catch it.

he doesn't say anything. just lifts her gloved knuckles to his lips and kissed her there.

she makes an excuse to leave. klaus is unwilling to let her go so easily but he's playing at being a gentlemen, because back then he'd thought she'd received him better. it was kind of adorable in a way, if it didn't vex her so much.

what was happening? where the hell was she? why was she stuck in a weird loop of all her interactions with klaus? was hope okay? when was she getting out of here?

she walks on, the trail of her dress getting dirty and muddled in the damp earth. she could smell in the air that it was going to rain, and yet she walks and walks and walks through the lawn of the mikaelson estate until she reaches the edge, and the air around her wrinkles and gleams, as if trying to force a doorway through.

she... takes a step forward. and another. she goes easily through the barrier - she almost wonders if she'd imagined it.

she's still in the mikaelson estate.

so she keeps walking - until she sees a familiar figure ahead.

it's klaus.

she gulps. had he come look for her after all, shucking the gentleman and bowing to the monster?

she keeps walking. until she's close enough to see that he's looking a little more dishevelled than he did at the ball. his bowtie was lose around his neck. he'd lost his jacket, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

he looks at her. the way he's always looked at her.

she breathes in. "you're here too," she says on the exhale.

"enjoy the ball?" he asks, in lieu of a confirmation. he eyes her in the dress. "i almost forgot how lovely you looked, that night. i never knew if you kept the dress."

"i did," caroline laughs, shakily. "deep in the back of my closet, hidden from prying eyes - but not well hidden enough."

a corner of klaus' lips quirk. "tell me."

"my girls found it," caroline shrugs. "and hope wore it to her miss mystic falls pageant."

"did she win?" he asks, hungry for this bit of information about his daughter in the years he was dead, lost to time.

"of course she did," caroline half-smiles. "she was in the care of lizzie's craftful hands. i raised my daughters in my image. not all - just the good bits."

"i love all your bits," klaus says. he smiles at her, softly, cataloguing how she looks now, in the dress he'd given her years and years ago. "you loved me for far longer than i'd thought, caroline."

caroline, to her credit, doesn't blush. no, she's too much a woman now. denial had lead her nowhere for so many years. "gonna gloat about it now?"

"nah," klaus says, putting his hands in his pockets as they fell into step, into the cold night.

the grass, almost frozen in the morning dew to come, crunch under their feet. they walk until they reach his lake, because of course the mikaelson estate would have a lake. klaus pulls his hands out of his pockets and offers her his arm, which she takes, and leads her to the bench that overlooks the reflection of the night sky on still, dark waters.

"i wish you'd taken me here instead, that night," caroline says, still in that casual offhand voice she'd adopted since meeting him. "way more romantic."

"i thought you would've been averse to romantic, so soon after we'd met." klaus shrugs. "also, the full force of my courtship would have had you on your knees, caroline. a man has to start slow."

"i thought you would've liked me on my knees," she says impishly, and he nearly falls off the bench.

god, klaus had died and come back to life so many times a creature that just refused to go quietly - and yet with her he's this fumbling bashful boy. she nudged him with his knee, through the many delicate layers of her dress. "how was your trip down memory lane?"

"enlightening," he says mysteriously. she doesn't bother to hide her grin.

"so was mine," she says. "all those times you must have wanted to rip my head off. i was a daring idiot."

"not an idiot," klaus argues. "sure, you could have held your tongue at any point - but you were certainly daring. you bore the brunt of my affections for you like armour. any lesser woman would have crumpled."

she doesn't meet his gaze, but he catches her chin before she can look away. "no, love. none of that, please. we've come so far."

he's pleased when she bites her bottom lip, understanding. he never had to explain herself with her. she was always perceptive, always listening, always deciphering. his clever caroline.

"so has hope," caroline says, and klaus groans quietly. "she's the brightest kid at the school, klaus. she knows her power and knows her limits. she can benchpress the boys under the table," she laughs in recollection, and he can't help but join in, "and you can't do anything about her growing, klaus."

klaus sighs. long and wrought out, and in pain. "i have missed so many of her years."

"what are you going to do, stall her even more? let her miss out on the beauty of aging, with lizzie and josie?" caroline catches his eye. "they've become family, our girls. we are family now - let them grow and know loss."

he's a bit dumbfounded by the wisdom she's displaying but has time to clear his throat and say, rather gruffly like when he's trying to mask awkwardness, "we're not a family. not really. you have alaric, and..."

"and alaric is my business partner, the father to the girls," she says sternly. "alaric is not... you."

it's weird, his gaze has been on hers all along, but it's like he's refocusing, seeing her for the first time. "what are you saying?"

"i'm saying that i didn't just come to new orleans because the girls wanted to spend summer break there." she licks her lips nervously. "i'm saying i came for me, too. it was a really nice holiday, klaus."

"before i bungled everything up, i expect," klaus mutters. caroline laughs a bit. the air around them had slowly warmed as their conversation lengthened, and was sizzling now, lighting up klaus' face in sparks of white and gold. "time to go back, sweetheart."

"you should work on your apology to her," caroline says, taking his arm again, and follows him as he stands and steps right into the middle of their ritual earlier.

lizzie and josie were there, and hope was in the middle of the twins sandwich - freya and bonnie were consulting a grimoire and davina was drawing chalk on the floor. they all looked up and stared at them, jaws dropping.

"looking good, dad," hope says, impressed, then her eyes land on caroline in the dress. "oh my gosh - it looks like it was made for you."

"um, it was hers?" lizzie says, snorting. "can't believe you're on honour roll."

"lizzie," josie chides. she tilts her head at klaus and her mother, looking them up and down, the way her mother’s hand was wrapped loosely in the crook of klaus’ arm, where only hours ago they had determinedly not touched this entire break. "so, weird trip?"

"you could say that," caroline says airily as the air re-seals behind them. "think something like a charles dickens novel."

"cool," hope nods. she looks at her father expectantly. "what have we learned about messing with time, dad?"

"to not do it," klaus concedes grumpily. "now off you go before i lose my mind over that gray hair growing down your temple."

"i do not have grey hair!" hope gasps, affronted, and storms the room, the twins giggling in tow.

"bet you wouldn't mind some slow-aging spells for THAT!" klaus calls after her laughingly, and she must have heard, tribrid senses and all, and mutters something about him might being right.

#kcbingo2020 #klaroline #klaroline fanfiction #drunk writing: a series #hannah writes things

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angstalottle · 5 years

Text

Lana On The Case

Part 3

Lana knew she shouldn’t have been expecting much, especially after spending the last week lying in bed stewing in her own filth and misery.

That didn’t change the fact that her current appearance still shocked her.

Her skin had gained an ashen quality about it and dark circles under her eyes.

She was sure is Red hadn’t practically force fed her she was have lost much more weight then she already had.

She felt drained and heavy, like her life was sucked out from her when Hannah left her…

Keith showing up had given her a small glimmer of excitement perhaps even hope but as soon as he was gone and she was left alone to her thoughts they turned right back to the fact that her best friend was gone from her life forever.

That thought hurt even more than knowing her sweet wonderful Hannah killed people.

Job offer or not Lana likely would have spent the rest of her life lying in her bed if her aunties hadn’t decided to do something about it.

One moment she's dozing staring into space, the next Blue has pulled her covers away while Re dumped a bucket of warm soapy water over her.

The two manhandled her out of bed and into some clean clothes before giving her two options.

One was to stay cooped up inside and suffer through them inviting every nosey friend they could think of over to omard her with questions and pinched cheeks followed by of course the dreaded relationship advice that everyone over a certain age believed they knew.

Or go down to the police station and actually do something with her life/

Though neither option was particularly fun in the end Lana chose to go out mainly because Red had also made a swinging joke which of course practically sent her bolting through the door.

The police station like everything else in the village was only a short walk away from the Altea estate, you could get pretty much anywhere by cutting through the large gardens that have unfortunately fallen into a state of disrepair.

The lady of the manor had died when Lana was away and since then the place hadn’t been the same, like some of the beauty of the world left when she did.

As far as she knew the only daughter of the family Allura was away for school or something while her father worked in London.

Lana had fond memories of Allura, being a few years younger then the girl and quite a bit poorer, she always seemed like this fairy princess that could have anything or do anything.

Looks like not even princesses could escape tragedy.

Lana hiked up her skirt as she climbed over the thick mess of weeds and flowers careful not to disturb anything as she passed through.

Even if everyone took the shortcut it was an unsaid rule that you were not to disturb the gardens or ever go close to the house.

Of course when Lance got her foot caught in a bramble and fell face first into the ground she broke that rule by flattening at least a dozen flowers beneath her.

“Oh dear are you alright?” A woman wearing a veil and long white gloves asked as she hurried over from the main house.

Odd appearance aside what really caught Lana’s attention was her snow white hair. A characteristic that was common amongst the Altean family.

Going off her build she could have been anywhere between 20-30 but without the face or hands it really was impossible to tell.

Lana felt her cheeks burn as she pulled herself up and dusted herself down frowning at the rip that now worked its way up her blue skirt.

The woman put her hands on her dress and examined the rip tutting softly “we really must get the gardener back in this place really has fallen to ruin.”

Now that she was closer Lana could smell the sweet scent of roses coming off her in such a large volume it would almost be suffocating if they weren't outside.

“Do you work here?” Lana asked trying to swallow her embarrassment while this strange woman kept hold of her skirt.

One strong breeze and she would see next weeks washing.

The woman chuckled “not exactly. I used to live here I never actually planned on returning but in light of my father's disappearance I suppose I didn’t have much choice.”

Lana couldn’t help but flinch, since what Hannah did came to light any case of men running off in the middle of the night or simply not returning after a day out is now considered suspect.

Their still digging up all the bodies and people have been flocking from all over in search of their missing husbands, fathers and brothers.

Lana then realised something very important.

Mainly that if Alfor was missing and this woman was his daughter then it must have been Allura!

“Allura?”

Lana couldn’t see her face but she imagined a smile on those pretty pink painted lips she used to know very well.

“That’s me, im sorry but who are you?”

Lana had her suspicions of course that this was all a scam, someone swooping in to steal the Altean family fortune, but she wasn’t really in the mood for any other mysteries right now.

That and according to Keith she was pretty forgettable.

“Oh im Lana… I used to play with you in the garden as a kid.”

“Oh my i'm so sorry Lana, im afraid my memory hasn’t been that good since the accident. She gestured to her veil and gloves “I got caught up in the Blitz and i'm afraid my appearance paid a higher price then by mind.”

Lana felt guilt crawl into her stomach, well at least she didn’t outright accuse her of being a con artist. Besides Coran was a dear friend of the family, there's no way someone would be able to just take over Allura’s life without him noticing.

“Im sorry, I didn’t realise.”

Allura waved her off finally letting go of her skirt “don’t worry about it, ive made my peace with my situation, it is a tad lonely though, people aren't exactly eager to visit the manor these days.” She sounded so sincerely sad that Lana couldn’t help but feel for her.

She knew what it was like to lose everything because of a situation out of her control, the war had stolen many things from them, Lana was lucky to keep her beauty at least.

“Well then I suppose I have no choice but to come round for tea, I would invite you to my aunts cottage but they tend to get too excited around anyone they used to know.”

Lana gave her the best smile she could manage and was rewarded by Allura taking her hands and kissing them.

Once again her face turned an interesting shade of red.

“That sounds simply wonderful Lana, how about Thursday at 8 o'clock?”

Lana had lost her ability to form words so simply nodded earning her a small chuckle in response.

“I don’t want to keep you if your busy so ill just see you Thursday?” Allura asked startling Lana out of her stupor.

“Yes I should go, but i'll erm see you then I promise.”

Lana stuttered deciding it was best to continue on her way before she made an even bigger fool of herself so mustered up what grace she had to give an awkward curtsy realising that was dumb halfway through and instead turned and hurried on her way hitting herself muttering “stupid stupid stupid” over and over again until she finally arrived at the police station.

As expected of a small town the police station was fairly quiet this time of day home only to the drunks that were picked up the night before and only now being released to go back to their family or in some cases the church.

Of course one would expect it to be much busier with the number of bodies being dug up but unfortunately since Hannah left and it became national news the investigation had been taken over by some fancy out of state law enforcement that walk around in nice suits and a stuck up attitude to match their overall pompous appearance.

Going off the sour atmosphere in the station no one was too pleased to have the villages first ever big case stolen from under them.

Lana did her best to smile politely as she made her way to reception preparing herself for awkward small talk with someone she really hoped wouldn't recognise her.

“Hello im here-”

“If you got a crime to report fill out the form if not get lost.”

The woman behind the desk looked too young to be working, her slight frame and big doe eyes making her seem like she couldn't be much older than 15 but then again looks can be deceiving. Like the fact that despite wearing big round glasses and squinting at a book in front of her the glass within the frame appeared to be purely decorative and not actually serve any function.

Lana cleared her throat “no actually i'm here about the job. Im expected.”

This time she at least bothered to look up from her book and glanced Lana up and down “what they replacing me with some tramp, i've worked here ten years and they bring in some totty to take my job”

Lana quickly held up her hands feeling actually pretty threatened by this tiny angry lady “no! No i'm the new consultant im supposed to be working with Keith and-”

“Oi Keith! Some broad here says shes your new partner!” She yelled and just like that, all eyes were on her.

Lana smiled awkwardly at them really wishing a hole would appear beneath her and swallow her up whole so she could escape this situation.

However the only thing the universe sent her was a very flustered keith running in from the back.

He was carrying a stack of papers and had that god awful mullet tied back in a ponytail that honestly didn't look half bad on him.

“Thanks Katie i can take her from here.” Keith dropped the papers on her desk “Also Griffin needs you to file these for him.”

“He could do it himself” Katie grumbled grabbing the papers and flicking through them “he didn't even bother filling some of these out!”

Keith quietly grabbed Lana’s arm and pulled her towards him as Katie got distracted with her angry mutterings “Sorry about her, she's just pissed that her dad lost his job to a hot shot whos dad just happens to be a governor.”

“Ah where would be be without nepotism” Lana chuckled letting Keith led her back into a small office where five other people were sat. She assumed the cells were behind one of the closed doors and perhaps the archive room behind another.

It had been a long time since she had been back here, it was certainly before the war was even a possibility and she had broken the wrong persons window and ended up having to wait for her mother by Corans desk.

People tend to say that places from your youth always seem so much smaller when you visit them again. Until now Lana wasn't really sure she bought into that nostalgia fueled nonsense.

But seeing the row of chairs her feet used to dangel off while she prepared an excuse for her behaviour for her furious mother now looked like they would fall apart if she just got too close let alone sat on one.

At least not all the changes were bad. Coran really did deserve that nice office and the title Detective neatly painted above his name.

“You know I was starting to think you wouldn't be coming” Keith said as they came to what Lana assumed was his desk. It was a little away from the others and scattered with paper work in various states of finished. It lacked much personality beyond a couple of knives and oh boy keith standing next to an incredibly attractive man that Lana realised fairly quickly must have been his older brother.

“To be honest i wasn't sure either, my life kinda went to hell but Aunt Blue and Red practically shoved me out of the door.”

Keith chuckled in response as her perched on the edge of his desk “that sounds about right. Though I hate to say it but you've kind of come on boring day. Everyones so desperate for something to do that their even taking the grunt work from me.”

“So what your just sitting around all day?” Lana asked right as a hand collided with her behind.

Lana likes to think herself an understanding woman. Or at least she tries to ever since the instadent where what she thought was a gropper on a train turned out to be a blind man having dropped his cain. So rather then turning around and grabbing the arm of whoever just did that to break over her knee she calmly turned to them.

She came face to face with a tall man that she unfortunately recognised.

James Griffin top of the class when they went to school together and by far the most arrogant man she ever met. And that was before he got a cushy job thanks to his dad.

Lana glared up at him giving him a chance to apologize or say he had mistaken her for his girlfriend that was into that kind of thing.

Instead he just smirked “wow Keith how did you find yourself this hot piece of ass.”

Ok she was going to break his nose now.

Unfortunately before she got the chance keith stepped in front of her “don't talk to her like that Griffin, Coran hired her himself as a consultant and i'm sure he wouldn't take that kind of behaviour.’

James rolled his eyes but did visibly tense as he shot a glance at the closed office door. “Whatever. This whole thing is just for press, whoever heard of a woman police officer. Their far too emotional.”

“Last I checked you were the one that cried when i kicked you in the nuts as kids.” Lana huffed crossing her arms.

“Ah buck teeth Lana! My my you did fill out nicely. How about after work I take you out?” Jame smiled looking her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl.

“How about I tell your mother that you slap my ass, if i remember right she was a reasonable woman.”

Oh how quickly his attitude changed. He swallowed whatever response he had ready and scurried off to his office next to Corans.

“What a creep.”

“Yeah but a rich one.” Keith sighed “you ok?”

“Yeah just kinda pissed i didn't get to make that jerk squeal like in highschool.” Lana noticed a small smirk appear at the corner of keiths lips at that and decided to take it as a win even if she could still feel his disgusting hand on her.

Unfortunately the next few hours were not as exciting.

Lana pulled up a chair across from Keith and kept herself busy by flicking pieces of paper at him, an activity that he avoided joining in with for exactly ten minutes.

They were so wrapped up in their game that they didn't notice coran standing next to the desk until after Keith made the winning shot and jumped up to let out a victory cry.

“It's nice to see you've found a way to keep miss Mclain here entertained during our slow day.” Coran chuckled as Keith startled and quickly cleared his throat trying to hide the blush quickly creeping up his face.

“Detective i can explain”

Coran held his hand up quickly cutting him off “no need, I understand the importance of a bit of fun to avoid dying of boredom. The time for that has now sadly passed im sending you to look into a missing persons cases.”

Keith and lana exchanged a look, while lana’s was excitement Keiths was confusion.

“Sir while im happy for a case why not give it to someone else? Im sure all the others would kill for a case right now.”

Coran simply chuckled to himself handing over a case file “because Kogane your the only officer here I trust not to get side tracked while investigating. That and i'm sure Lana here will make sure your eyes don't wander too far.”

Lana wasn't really sure what he meant by that until they got to the scene of the crime.

Or as everyone else calls it the ‘Galra Gentlemens Club’.

When the club first opened it was met with outcry from the church and the school boards and well anyone with too much time on their hands.

Now after being open for more than a decade, those same people have become the most lucrative clientele, who know stuck up prudes could have such deep pockets for the sinful arts.

Keith had kindly offered to give Lana a ride on the handlebars of his bike since the club was located uphill from the station and there was no way the poor old police car would make it up the whole way. Apparently a replacement was on its way but they had been promising it since before the war.

Lana had of course told Keith that while she appreciate the offer she would find the very idea outlandishly improper, so of course made him ride the handle bars while she put her years of missing the bus and not wanting to be late training to good use.

After a quick check with her compact and a nod to Keith they entered the club.

Lana was no stranger to Gentlemens clubs, she had been to more than a few during the war to meet with people who were usually a lot more willing to give up information when they had a few drinks in them.

This club was no different, everything was a sickening deep purple as if the colour alone could make it classy or hide the disturbingly prominent wet patches on the couches.

Lana tried her very best not to stare at the men already here this early on a weekday morning and instead focused on following Keith back to see the manger.

“Just let me do the talking, guys like this aren't always that nice to women” Keith whispered as he knocked on the door and it swung open to not show a greasy man but instead a very tall muscular woman with short black hair wearing a suit.

Lana felt her mouth go dry just looking at her.

“A-are you the manager here?” Keith asked clearly feeling equally intimidated and aroused as Lana was.

“Yeah i am, who wants to know?” She asked leaning against the doorway and looking down at him. Her gaze however moved quickly from keith to Lana and a smile spread across her face.

“Usually we don't hire new talent outside of auditions but for a beautiful girl like you im willing to make an exception.”

“I” Lana squeaked finding herself speechless for the first time in a long time.

Thankfully Keith came to her rescue before she could actually contemplate working for this greek god of a woman.

“Actually we came from the police station. You called about one of the dancers going missing?”

The woman nodded and stepped back into the room hurrying them inside before closing the door.

“Yeah my best girl Ezor, she was seen leaving the club last week but no one has seen her since.”

“Does she often disappear like this? Perhaps to visit a gentleman caller miss...?” Keith asked pulling out a notebook while Lana looked around the office.

“Zethrid…. And trust me she's not the sorts to make house calls.”

It was fairly empty save for a punching bag in the corner and a few pictures on the walls. Most of them were group shots of all the dancers in costumes. But those actually on the desk seemed only to contain Zethrid and a slim woman with pink hair tied in a high ponytail. It was just the two of them over and over again smiling like they didn't have a care in the world.

“Is this Ezor here?” Lana asked picking up one picture showing the two in the park, judging from the bunting and celebrating in the background it was the day the allie ‘won’ the war.

Zethrid nodded “yeah that's her… we actually live together and yeah she disappears sometimes but never for this long and never without contacting me.”

“Is it possible she ran off with a sweetheart?” Keith asked taking the picture.

“She wouldn't. I know she's been taken its the only explanation.”

Something told Lana that this relationship was deeper than friendship “The last night she was seen, was there anything unusual happening?”

Zethrid thought for a moment “now that you mention it there was a black car parked outside the club all day. I didn't give it much mind incase it was a customer trying to work up the nerve to come in but it left right after she did.”

“Did you happen to catch the plates?” Keith asked hopefully only to let out a disappointed sigh when she shook her head no.

“But the car was old looking with a dent in the drivers side door.”

Keith noted it down “thanks we will be in touch.”

He led the way out but Zethrid grabbed Lana by the arm before she could leave “please i can't imagine life without her… she's my best friend.”

Lana knew what it was like to lose one of those. So she smiled and put a hand over hers “I promise ill do everything I can to find her.”

Once they were safely outside keith let out a groan “you should promise people anything, it just means you'll get attached to the case.”

“Isn't that the job of a detective though? How can i love a case if i don't care about it?” Lana huffed hitching up her skirt and getting on the bike.

“I'm just saying that it will end up hurting you more if we find her dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Lana rolled her eyes “ever the optimist huh Mullet. Besides we have a lead how many people in town have old black cars?”

“Excluding the police cruiser i'd say seven.” Keith noticed the sceptical look Lana was giving him and rolled his eyes.

“My brother owns the mechanics remember, i help out sometimes and not many people really have cars round here.”

Lana sighed “maybe we should get a second opinion from your dreamy brother.” she batted her eyelashes playfully at him as he climbed onto the handle bars.

“Shut up and pedal we've got a lot of groundwork to do.”

Five hours!

It took five hours to find all the cars, to check for dents and alibis.

In that time Lana fell into two ditches, got attacked by a chicken and the rip in her dress traveled up to past her knee.

As her mother would say she's only some red lipstick away from looking like a whore.

Lana wished she could say that time was well spent and while watching Keith getting chased by an angry family of pigeons that had taken resident in one of the old cars they ultimately ended up on a dead end.

So while the light began to fade and the two slowly walked up to the station the mood was sour.

“It could always have been someone from out of town?” Lana suggested holding the split in her dress to try and keep it from travelling any higher.

“No they would have been too noticeable. If someone from out of town drove through here everyone would know about it by now. We must have missed something.”

Lana shivered in the cool air and was surprised when Keith handed over his jacket without taking his eyes off the path.

The red really did suit him better but the warmth from his body made her feel better.

“We should check surrounding houses tomorrow, maybe one of the cars was taken without the owner realising.”

“And what they dented it and then undented it?’ Keith snorted “no if the dent was fixed it would have had to come through the shop. Shiro may be able to help.”

“I'll try to hide my disappointment” Lana laughed earning her a playful push from Keith which she returned.

The two were laughing and having a moment of fun that when cold hard reality finally came crashing down Lana felt like she had been punched in the face.

Just as they walked in the car they were looking for pulled in behind them.

Old, black and with a large dent on the side.

The only problem was that it was Coran driving it.

#langst #fem lance #1940s detective au #klance #allurance #pidge #Coran #james griffin

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e1ana · 5 years

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leisure writing :)

recently by brain has been all AHHHHHHDHHBSGDVJHS BCHJNNH and its really negatively impacted my writing, especially for my fics :(

i’ve decided to go on a short hiatus for them for a bit to let my brain catch up. i’ve just been writing random stuff and letting it go in a n y direction to give my brain break and i think??? this might??? be the best?????? decision ive ever made????? my brain just feels so un-fried. its awesome.

so far it seems to be taking the shape of a YoI fic? idk. I just finished the show for the second time and i absolutely love it! I guess by brain’s been wired on Yuri!!! for a bit now so i’m not surprised at the direction its headed.

i’m still letting it go in any direction though, and i’m not sure if im going to put it up in a03 (i might if i decide i like it, but im not working on it with the intent of uploading it.)

so yeah. here’s the first bit of that. i though i’d upload it on here just bc i can and idk what else to do with it. hope you enjoy :) rating is teen bc of some cursing but thats it

(korkad means stupid in swedish)

Rain.

It wasn’t a loud sound - just the gentle pitter-patter of it against a window can paint a room in a quiet, soothing blanket of white noise. Viktor Nikiforov buries himself further in his comforter. Mid April drizzles really were something else.

Begrudgingly, VIktor pulls himself from his bed. He looks out of his beside window to find a sunset that perfectly matched with the serene morning rain.

He yawns and stretches, a soft grumble coming from his lips. He stands up and walks to his kitchen. Every morning is practically the same - wake up, debate going back to sleep, brush teeth/expensive and extensive skincare, eat, and go straight to the rink. Getting up at 7 am might sound overkill, but the lax speed of Viktor’s early morning routine needs extra breathing room.

He drags a hand full of some kind of sweet smelling lotion down his face, massaging it in with the melting pot of other creams and serums. The concoction is thick on his face, though not totally unpleasant. Viktor feels a bit more invigorated now, the cold water startling him up. Nevertheless, he starts the coffee machine. He swings his legs as he sits atop the counter and scrolls through his instagram. A sharp pinch on the cheek startled him from his trance.

“I told you to stop sitting on the counter, korkad. Nobody wants to cook on your ass juice.”

Ah, the overlooked step to the routine - cope with an insufferable roomate at ‘too early’ am.

“Good morning, Chris. I hope you slept well.”

Maybe insufferable wasn’t the right word for Chris normally, but his unrivalled snark and Viktor’s early morning sluggishness were not a fantastic mix. Chris grabs him by the sweatshirt and nearly yanks him off of the marble tabletop. He makes a show of wiping the area where Viktors butt once was. Finally, the sweet sound of gurgling and spluttering signifies the end of the coffee maker’s cycle.

Viktor pours in a fairly reasonable amount of sweetened cream, the dark brown going caramel colored and scented. He takes a long gulp, downing half the mug in one go. He looks up at Chris, who is now leaning against counter one on arm and glaring. He offers a smile at the glowering man.

“Okay, now you can be a sassy bitch.”

Chris rolls up the towel and flicks it at Viktor’s butt, drawing an undignified squeak from the slightly shorter man. He snorts a laugh, but thankfully gives Viktor his space for the rest of the morning.

He finishes the rest of his coffee quickly, the caffeine already buzzing through his brain. He checks his watch - nearly time to leave. He packs a few protein bars and water bottles along with his sweets and shirt. He calls out to Chris before grabbing his keys and locking the door.

He pulls his sweatshirt hood a little tighter around his face, slipping into his freezing cold car. He clicked on the heat, despising how long it took for the damn thing to heat up.

The drive to the rink was slow today. He wasn’t in any rush, and the slow rain hitting the metal roof of his car made for a nice serenade. He watched the outside pass by slowly, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel absentmindedly.

When he pulled up to the rink, he noticed two things. One, it was bustling with activity. Usually, the place looked practically deserted at nine in the morning. The swarms of people and clicking cameras were an odd sight.

Two, a man stands outside of the rink, wringing his wrists. He bites his lips and looks impossibly nervous. He blinks a couple of times before waving his hands frantically at one of the reporters. Viktor can’t help but laugh out loud in the solitude of his car. He pulls into the driveway, eyeing the dark haired man the whole time.

He’s vaguely familiar - Viktor’s sure he’s seen those blue framed glasses sitting on some side bench at some competition somewhere. He isn’t unattractive either. His black hair and brown eyes contrast with the pale skin of his babyish face. It gives him a look of purity. It’s a nice look. Admittedly, it’s aided by the ample blush on his cheeks and the way he rocks from foot to foot nervously. It’s a very cute habit, Viktor’s always thought.

Victor steps out of his car. Maybe he slams his car door a little louder than normal to make some of the reporters turn their heads, maybe he doesn’t. Regardless, they’re hounding on him in seconds, asking about this jump and that score. He answers all of their questions with a blinding smile, hoping that his glance towards the man goes unnoticed. Well, rather, where the man was. The glass door swings violently and Viktor catches his bag disappearing around a corner.

It takes longer than Viktor would've liked to get rid of the reporters and slip into the rink. His tight routine is now skewed fifteen minutes late. He stretches quickly and laces up his skates as quickly as possible to increase his time on the ice.

He approaches the entrance gate, one foot already on the ice when something whirrs by him. His gaze is captured by none other than the man who was stood outside.

Immediately, Viktor becomes enraptured with him. All he's doing is skating around the perimeter of the rink. Somehow, though, the swinging strides of his legs and the way his arms lift ever so slightly from the elbows when he glides paint him in the picture of grace. Viktor can’t help but stare as he completes another circle. Finally, when the man passes him a third time, he turns to look at Viktor. The grey haired man’s cheeks heat up under his unsettled gaze.

“Do you need some-”

Red creeps up the neck of the other man, his eyes widening when he realized who he’s talking to. He spins back around and pushes off even faster than before.

Viktor steps onto the ice, heart pounding. Fuck. Fuuuck. He internally moans at the increasing awkwardness in the air. Damn his annoying fame and prestige! Here he was, embarrassing himself in front of someone he vaguely remembered who could potentially be important and was definitely attractive. Embarrassing himself just by existing.

Whatever. He flicks his ankle out, starting a slow circle around the rink. If an onlooker glaneed over, it might look like the other man was chasing him. Though it was practically the other way around, Viktor considered.

Eventually, Viktor felt warm enough to do some actual exercises. A few combination spins, a few brackets. Nothing obscene. He starts his program once he feels his joints ease into the jumps.

The feeling isn't the same as the first time he did the program. Victory - it was the theme of his piece. Clearly, it’d gotten him where he wanted the first few times. The thrill of first place was incredible. It inspired him so much, the feeling of winning pushing forth his every movement. It had felt so overwhelmingly good. Now, after his fifth medal, the program didn’t mean much. His publicist had pushed him to do the same program every year, if not with a few major improvements each time.

Regardless of how many new spins or complicated jumps he added, the piece was tired. He was bored of this. There was simply no other way to put it. Even as he landed the perfectly executed triple axle that had been worked into his program, Viktor felt his heart sag.

He ran through the program a few more times, each with decreasing vigor. He didn’t even notice the man skate by him (albeit with a wide berth) and exit the rink. Drenched in sweat and disappointment, Viktor literally laid down on the ice. Maybe it wasn’t the most professional move in the book, but the freezing cold felt good on his hot skin. He hummed and got back to his feet, skating one last cool down lap before exiting and sliding on his blade covers.

He took a cold shower. Unusual, but the weight of the day didn't seem like it could just be melted away. He closed his eyes, letting the freezing water run down his body. It soothes is aching muscles and bones. Technically, the hot alternative would be better at melting away the lactic acid in his muscles. He could have a long soak in the tub when he got home, though - the temporary relief of cold water was more than satisfactory for now.

He stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his hips. The cool air inside of the building almost felt warm in contrast to Viktor’s cold skin. He pulled on a new shirt and pants.

Viktor was surprised to see the other man slinging his bag over his shoulder. He didn’t appear to see the higher ranking skater, ad he sidled to the door without a second glance. Before he stepped out, though, he turned and froze.

“I… uh…” he paused and looked up, searching for the right words. “I wanted to thank you for earlier. You know. With the reporters. So, uh. Thanks.”

Before Viktor could pipe back with a cheery ‘no problem’ or ‘the pleasure's all mine, tell me your name and let me take you for a drink in my very expensive sports car,’ the man was gone. Viktor followed suit as fast as he could, but there was no catching the man now. Gone, forever.

#e1ana's fic #my writing #ah my brain #yoi fanfic #victuuri #viktor and chris are besties and flirt ode #and thats on period #original concept #yuri on ice #ok im done tagging now >:)

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vitavitale · 3 years

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drabble IV — Nightmare (At His Core)

It took me over a year to write about V’s encounter with Nightmare and I will genuinely not understand why. In any case, I’ve finally gotten around to it. Remember that this is all headcanon-based since my V isn’t, you know, canon. Except in my heart. Beware of 13,038 words, whew. I tagged it as “coming of age” because that’s how I interpret this event even if it may not play out that way. For easier reading, find this on AO3.

Trial after trial, failure after failure were not sufficient deterrents to a man driven by a greed that was unbecoming of him. He had never been so fixated, so stubbornly determined, so mad while he dedicated almost all of his time to the study and practice of necromancy. To resurrect life from death was a risk, and a business few had the guts or the aptitude for. This was a craft better left untouched, but he trifled with tests and from each failure he learned, improved, and tried again. The cycle continued for many nights; between jobs he would make the time for study, and of time he had plenty to dedicate to his obsession. A desire for strength was born in him from his apparent lack thereof. To have tasted power, however, in the aid of his familiars was almost like poison to the mind, for he had seen within his new means a potential for invulnerability. The illusion of becoming untouchable, undaunted, and subsequently intimidating and dangerous was too powerful for him to dismiss. Rather, he indulged in fantasy. Griffon and Shadow protected him as they attacked for him, and while he loathed his reliance on others he saw the opportunities such help would yield for him, and he saw value in becoming as threatening to others as others had been to him. There was something like revenge in his fixation on power.

It was not only his familiars he'd gained from, but he had conjured demons in the space of a couple of years from whom he would make further gains, draining their diabolical energies to amplify his own. Rite after rite he performed, drawing a demon to the mortal plane only to take from it before returning it to its Hell—or to slay it entirely. This really did appear to work, and every success tainted his expectations for himself. He saw his potential grow, day by day, until an idea was born—and this, he thought, would be the thing to make him more frightening than any demon alive in Red Grave City. This he sought not out of malice, but for self-esteem. Pride, worth, a need to be useful and effective when he believed himself useless and weak.

Perhaps Griffon had been at fault for the decision his master made. Indeed, it was from Griffon's mouth that V had learned of the demons dwelling in the underworld, those that lived and even those that had died. Among the deceased was one so destructive, so terrifying that even its name told of the menace it posed: Nightmare. Once in service to a devil of an emperor, the beast was slain by a man with only half the blood of demons in him. But it was this creature that haunted the warlock's mind for many a night, so it might have been only inevitable that the idea was spawned to return to it life, to conjure it for his own, and to his body bind it as he did Shadow and Griffon. V was only a child when he first heard of Nightmare, and then took only superficial interest in it. Years down the road brought it back to memory, for better or worse, and it was at the age of one-and-twenty that he'd decided to resurrect the demon. Necromancy was necessary for this, a skill not known yet enthusiastically learned while upon the idea the young man brewed.

So it was many nights, many tries and many failures later when it seemed a breakthrough was at hand.

Neither Griffon nor Shadow held very much esteem for their master's plan. His descent into obsession concerned them, but it was his decision to conjure so formidable a demon that worried them above all. While V may not have noticed, his familiars certainly had: the forces with which he surrounded himself had been detrimental to his body. He was far more human than anything, and his human body could only take so much that was well beyond its capabilities. Forces of a supernatural nature were hard on any human's body and mind, but V had gone a step further with his exposure to them. He would have more than enough on him, only now he sought to add too much to the load all too quickly. He was already frail of health, but he saw fit to weaken his bones and muscles as well. He had begun tiring as of late, and he tended to chalk it up to overwork, sleeplessness, and an almost nonexistent diet. But his demons knew better, and ultimately so did he. Or, at the very least, he had a hunch—one he didn't heed. That was his first mistake, but V insisted on making another. Griffon let him know as much, arguing that V had no need to take pointless risks, but men like him were not easily swayed. There was some kind of art to stubbornness like his.

Oh, but to be so young and foolhardy! The boy knew so little of the world, yet he'd known that it was rife with all manner of peril. Two familiars were not enough. He would head out into the desolate country under the cover of night to practice his black craft. A sigil was drawn up for the purpose of conjuring, a symbol of the demon he hoped to bring forth. Night after night, he tried. Tried and failed. But a step he'd been missing for weeks became clear to him. Infernal or otherwise, the soul was intangible. Its body had been destroyed completely, and V would not have been content to conjure a ghost. With magics old and new would he craft a body, and it would be with or without his demons' help that he would conceive of a form he hoped the soul, if in existence at all, would inhabit. Born in the mind's eye, but taken form in the flesh. V would resurrect the demon he sought, believing firmly in strength of will and the blending of techniques.

“I think I have it,” he said when he had his next epiphany. He was all enthusiasm, eager in the eyes, jotting instructions down in a notepad in an effort to preserve what he'd learned before memory would lose it. These would be looked over and memorized. It was late into the night, and he had the audacity to wake his slumbering familiars for the news. “I've finally figured out how to reconstruct the body!”

Griffon awoke with a start, though held on to his perch on the sofa's backrest. “Huh? What?” Barely gotten his eyes open and already V strode to his side, pad in hands, noticeably excited given the tone of his voice. “The what now...?”

“Nightmare's body, for its soul.” It'd been all V would talk about the past several days. It surprised him that Griffon had forgotten so readily, but that was like him. V had left the lights on through the night for his work, and the yellow glow to the sitting room was bothersome enough for his drowsy familiar. Nevertheless, the warlock would pester him to open his eyes. “I've been going about it the wrong way, but I think I now know what I must do.” His eyes fell upon the page he'd scribbled on. “I have to create it, shape it, with my hands. You know how Jewish folklore tells of mystics imbuing golems with life? Think of it that way, only I'd be...borrowing that part of the process. Then...I should channel the soul to the new vessel during a rite of resurrection. If I'm right, the demon should accept it.”

“Never heard of that part before,” the demon mumbled.

“I'll be improvising.”

“Oh, so that's your big discovery? That you've gotta make it up as you go?” Griffon was being sarcastic with him, likely because he was chafed that he'd been woken up for no good reason.

“I'm at least one step closer.” V was resolute when he countered, frowning his disapproval at the demon who'd appeared to think so little of V's ambition. “You could be a little optimistic.”

“I don't see why I've gotta go along with this utter fuckery. You're only hurting yourself.”

V didn't want to hear that. It was fortunate that he'd stepped beside Shadow, who was not dead to them but ignored their discussion while she rested on the floor, with his back to Griffon by the time the criticism was delivered. He would not acknowledge it, not even Griffon, and it was to his detriment that he kept silent. Though he did not agree, he also did not argue, and that must have been the plainest evidence of his conscience weighing more heavily than he'd let on. But he did think of something to say, and with it stepped into his own bedroom after turning off the lights. “Good night.”

V would sleep as peacefully as his subconscious allowed, for the few hours that were left of the night. But the sun was set to rise before long, and soon he would resume his practice until night again would fall.

He'd fallen asleep fast, curled on his side as was his habit. His study had exhausted him, both physically and mentally, but that didn't stop memories from reshaping themselves, painting themselves in fresh colors, and stitching together pictures that the sleeper had no desire to see. Still, they would appear to his mind's eye and wrench his heart from its boney confinement and wring it dry. There suddenly was the face of a demon with rows of pointed teeth, a short, stout abomination snapping mad like a rabid piranha. He fled from it, the white of his hair blurring his vision as he scrambled from its wrath. He saw a broom closet, hid in it and held on to the door knob for dear life. In his panic he could not grip it firmly, and his soul quaked from the snarling and the thrashing and the clawing against the door. His whimpering barred any screams for help, but all the same he heard his mother's voice outside. A great dread sickened him but fear left him petrified. He could not understand her. The door was left alone, he heard part of his name called and the sounds of flesh tearing and a thud on the floor—and he awoke with so violent a start that his heart raced, he cried out when he shot right up, and he caught the first light of the morn peeking through his window. His chest heaved with every labored breath, and he felt his eyes wet with sorrow. Just like it'd been the first time, like it was new, like he didn't see it coming.

But with the memory he was intimately acquainted, frequently re-introduced to it, and was fast to realize that it was yet again a dream. One of several nightmares.

A nightmare.

It almost seemed a calling at this point, to obsess over a demon so appropriately named. V hated to cry, but here his psyche took advantage of his helplessness to draw the tears forth. He wiped them away, sniffled through a stuffed nose, and sat silently as sleep was as good as forgotten. No use in trying again; he preferred to set to work, do whatever he could to forget that which haunted him for seven years going. But loneliness was not his safe harbor now, for a shadow had crept into his room to observe. To find that he had suffered no physical harm, the demon took form and joined his side on the bed. Like a cat she purred her concern, her inquiry and her comfort. V was not surprised to see her, he knew this was her way. Like a pitiful child he pouted and shed his tears, looking at her with some reassurance behind a curtain of grief. Guilt was too strong for so wretched a youth, and here he was sick with it. Seven years was virtually the same as seven months. With Shadow offering her comfort like a parent, V could not help but appreciate her—and feed his misery with memories of feelings he'd had once before, before even the seven years. It was a double-edged blade but, all the same, he ran his fingers through her crown to comfort her in turn. He whimpered, “I'm fine,” sniffling still. And she knew he would be: she'd seen this too often to assume different.

V would get up after all and give himself a good wash. He didn't care for breakfast but forced himself to eat a single slice of toasted bread. Over his routine, thought of his nightmare and his mistakes diminished, and while they remained present, they'd at least lost enough intensity to allow him to get on with his work. He could think about his goal, his rite, his approach to it all and how he'd shape the demon's vessel. By noon, he was all but absorbed in his crafting of the thing. A very simple shape was drawn among his notes, which would serve as the foundation for the model he sought to shape from earth. So, he would go outside, look for mud or deliberately make it, and wear down his haunches as he crouched from his secret labor. No devil-hunting or charm-making today. As desperately as he needed income, he seemed to need a new familiar even more. But he was wise to hide himself from his neighbors and had gone a distance to where no man should eye him and peg him as an unstable eccentric. V did very well wear the look of a youth who was touched, his hands deep in wet soil and incidentally rubbing some on his face whenever he had an itch to scratch.

Now, it didn't take long to make mud. To craft from it, however, was the tricky bit. V had never played in the stuff before, he'd never known what it was like. He thought he hated it the moment his hands mixed water with soil; the sensation was cause for repulsion. He should have brought a pair of gloves with him... Alas, he wasn't the sort to think things through, though that didn't stop him from pushing on. He was quick to learn how much water to use for the softness of soil he required. Once he'd gotten the hang of it, he knelt on the grass to alleviate the aches in his joints, more or less settling to mold the form that would be his golem.

Griffon had peeled from his master's body to observe him, sat almost right beside him beneath the canopy of a thin tree. If he had any criticisms or advice, V would largely ignore them. The frown on his brow was hard and it drew clear shadows beneath the deeper wrinkles on a face too youthful for any grimace. V didn't need his notes to begin forming the soil; he'd had the image clear and ever present in his mind's eye, and guided by little else but that and his drive he pressed and pinched and rolled chunks of dampened soil, and dunked his hands into the pond he'd knelt beside to wet the earth even more. He needed it all to stick, and if it wouldn't then he'd spend the entire day, possibly even night, out on the desolate field. Fortunate that the week had been so rainy, but if showers should fall in the middle of his work he would be foiled. But, weather notwithstanding, he'd gotten his pieces to stick. Very nearly mud, the consistency, while solid enough to hold form. V's fingers would easily become difficult, caking in dirt as long as he'd work over the forming vessel. Bits would come off and others would stick where they shouldn't, and V had constantly to dip his hands in the water.

“V, why the hell are you going to all this trouble?” Griffon watched him toil away, unimpressed by the boy's wasted effort. He couldn't approve of the way that warlock was tiring himself out, testing the limits of his own patience, and running headlong toward ruin. Because that was all the good Griffon saw coming out of this wild goose chase: a pained, miserable, defeated V.

The young man on his knees saw different. He spared Griffon a sharp glance to communicate his feelings. However, when his eyes settled upon the amorphous lump in his hands, he felt his confidence shaken. He stood to relax his legs, staring at the unfinished vessel that was crumbling in places, losing form beneath the pressure of his fingers in others; and though his snowy-white hair fell to conceal one half of his face, he felt Griffon's several eyes on him anyway. He knew what that bird was thinking. Still, he stepped back and took a seat very near the trunk of the tree to shade himself beneath its leaves. Against it would his back rest as over the muddy object his eyes would rake. It was half formed, the top molded more completely than the bottom; legs were harder to build than he thought, and the arms...were not quite separate from the body yet. Frustration suddenly dawned on him as he realized this may well go nowhere. But he'd lost hope so fast, after only a few minutes at work.

He had one deep frown come upon his countenance before getting up from the grass. “This is stupid,” he relented at last, exhaling irritably as he stepped toward the pond to set aside his craft and rinse off his hands. Griffon must have believed he'd finally gotten through, because he'd begun assuaging V's concerns with useless, likely hollow words of solace. V was perhaps cruel to ignore him, but something like the devil was in him and he knew that, one way or another, he had to have the one called Nightmare.

With his hands soaked and as clean as he could get them, he shook the excess water away to grab the shapeless figure of dirt—but not before he stilled where he stood, examining the thing and thinking a little more about it. While his hands dripped, Griffon watched him, blinking his golden irises at the perplexity of man.

“Uh, V? You're awfully quiet.”

He was thinking.

“Don't tell me you're mad.”

Mad? Funny. He'd certainly felt mad, at times, and he supposed he was. A madman. But even a mind gone beyond earthly bounds had its plans to complete and successes to achieve. V was not finished here, not by any stretch. When gray began to creep beneath the sun to steal away the blue of the sky, he knew his dirt doll would turn to pure mud. He'd have no use for it if it could not keep its shape. Time was, however, still his to act upon, the heavens clear and peaceful, affording him the chance to make refinements. His own impatience would not best him. To be so young and pressed for time—an oxymoron in the flesh.

“V, come on, you're gonna get soaked out here. That lump of dirt ain't worth it. You don't even really know what you're doing.”

The warlock had picked it up after all. “I think,” he answered while rounding out the form, “it's worse if I don't try. If I fail, it should be because...this simply isn't the way. I...don't want to have put in so little and that be the reason for failure.”

“Why don't you not look for this demon? There are about a zillion others—”

“That,” he snapped to cut off his friend, “is not an option.” At least, not for now. V frowned at Griffon, but any inkling of anger was a hollow one. The boy was determined, not angry, and he'd made that plain with a wistful sort of tone and some distant, far-off pain in his eyes. Griffon had no further argument. The pair descended into silence; but nature would not leave well alone. More gray crawled overhead, eventually ushering in the first droplets of another summer shower. When they tapped on V's nape and sent a chill through his paper-thin body, he shivered instantly. The decision to retreat had come and Griffon was returned to the warlock's skin. With his prize, however misshapen and incomplete, in his hands he abandoned the little pond to hasten home. Maybe to build there.

It was only a drizzle that speckled his clothes and hair on his walk back. But upon returning to the sanctuary of his flat, a proper shower broke that kept him homebound. He had mud on his face, on the ends of his hair, stuck to the soles of his shoes, and entirely in his hands. With his familiars retiring to the small living space, V set about a thorough cleansing of his person. Before he'd known it, he spent his day at home when he should have been out in the field; but the day was gray, even with the rain having cleared, and it matched his mood. Somber, morose. He'd gotten a dish on which to place his vessel and stored it in the refrigerator to keep fresh. Meanwhile, his bedroom was where he isolated himself, well cut off from the raptor and the jaguar lazing the afternoon away. He supposed they could afford it: what else had they to do? They could be so much like pets, obligated to nothing and owing no one.

The grimoire had been opened to the last page, where the original content of the book ended and his own notes began. Several sheets and scraps of paper, that's all they were; but on each were written spells, instructions, all manner of information he would have needed on call. Among these were his latest notes, the ones on Nightmare, on necromancy, and on golems. It should have made sense, yet here was his brain revolving around things anyway. With the book laid out before him, his legs folded on the bed and his knuckles to his cheek, he thought about failure. He thought about what it would mean, since his vessel was shit, and he'd never conjured life from death, if he couldn't claim the demon he sought. It wasn't only a matter of principle—he could get over botching a rite. It had more to do with what it would entail, the fact that he'd have dashed his hopes for acquiring the power he believed he needed: the power to protect himself, to turn the tables and prove that he was not all prey but predator, too. He was easily intimidated, easy pickings, and he loathed that with a bitter passion. It was why he needed another demon. He needed the strength, he needed the confidence, even if it came from beyond himself, but he needed it. And he loathed also to be as needy as this. He loathed his weakness, his appearance to others and how he was regularly perceived by them. If he wasn't a freak for his white hair, he was effeminate for his body, childlike for his behavior, stupid—

Weak to demons. But...if he had a familiar like Nightmare, he didn't have to be any of those things anymore. Didn't he? Quarry and foe alike could no more undervalue him or judge him a creature too meek to take them on, or to take from them: because one of their own made of seemingly unstoppable force, a weapon of mass destruction itself, would be doubtlessly perceived by them; and, if necessary, would annihilate them. According to what V had heard, Nightmare was beyond any lesser demon he'd known of. Incomparable to even Griffon and Shadow, combined.

How he would ever subdue and tame such a beast was rightly beyond his imagining. The boy had gall to think that he could dare at all. Or maybe it was that he didn't think.

He still didn't, even poring over his notes and mentally constructing the outcomes on his bed, he didn't think far enough ahead. But if he did, he would only shake himself up at the size of the task, and he didn't need that. He had to enter the rite undaunted, possessed by conviction, and wrench the demon from its lifelessness with that same vigor he'd conjured Griffon and Shadow. So he mulled over other things, and briefly considered going out tonight if the weather permitted. Frankly, he wanted to. To delay was pointless. Ready or not, his vessel was finished—and so was he. To live this kind of life, in the kind of shape he was in, was not something he'd been looking forward to for however many years remained for him. Even if he would die by the conjured colossus' retaliation upon resurrection, he would at least go out in a way that would not leave him feeling unfulfilled. If lightning was to strike him squarely, in a month, it wouldn't happen until he'd had Nightmare spread across his body. It may have been more a matter of life and death than even the warlock realized. Regardless of the circumstances or the consequences, V was a man of a settled mind. Sitting as idly as he did, boring himself over the information that'd become monotonous to read so repeatedly—well, he supposed he'd made up his mind at some point.

Grays and yellows colored the sky when V bothered to peek out the window of his sitting room. He'd had a whole two of them, one by the front door and another in his bedroom; but the blinds to the latter were always kept shut. Privacy concerns, as he lived on the bottom level of his building where his neighbors and his absent landlord would walk about. Birds drawn by the rainfall called out on the rooftops, among the trees beyond the property, and on the street. While the bulk of the shower had passed, still heard was the pitter-patter of rain drops just beyond the glass. The weather was clearing, the sun shining like a hunk of polished citrine behind the scattered cloud cover, bidding its radiant goodbye to the day that closed. The moon chased it not far behind, nightfall near.

Griffon and Shadow were at as much peace as afforded by the event-free afternoon, and they appeared dead to their master's arrival. When he turned from the window to get a look at them, he could only think that they were sweet to snooze on the sofa—one taking up all the seat, the other perched atop the backrest cushions. Such a shame that they were so against his endeavor.

V had his supper early and offered to his familiars scraps of old cold cuts he didn't want. It was clear to them that he'd intended to do something, because he was all astir in his bedroom as he'd dressed himself for the night. Only, he was donning not sleeping clothes but something else entirely. On his legs were a pair of utility pants, slim, and a belt around the waistband; a wallet chain consisting of skulls of a silver tone; on his feet were gladiator sandals with straps that were thin along the length of his feet, and bore buckles at the ankles; leather cuffs adorned his left wrist, an unconventionally long, silver-plated signet ring the middle finger; a fingerless leather glove covered his right hand; and, in a daring move, he chose to garb the upper half of his body with a sleeveless, knee-length coat held together only by laces affixed to the garment's inner lining across the abdomen. No shirt, no nothing underneath all that leather: only his skin and the tattoos that adorned it. It was brave of him, to cover so little of himself—he partly regretted it already, looking himself over in the bathroom mirror—but people would change, and tastes would evolve, and V was just another one of the many young adults on the Earth who would experiment with fashion. Still, he'd never before worn anything so revealing, and his chosen outfit was quite modest in that as it stood, but it felt comfortable and that had to be the most important thing when it came to clothing. His qualms notwithstanding, he thought he liked the way he looked. His signature choker remained where he'd always worn it. His hair was the only contrast to all the black he'd dressed himself in. Every single article was black, as was the string of his choker, but his hair seemed to...set things askew, a little. So white like freshly fallen snow while all the rest of him could easily blend into shadow. Well, that wouldn't be a great issue tonight: he sought to walk out the door under the cover of darkness. He wasn't sure he'd wear such a get-up during the day.

When he emerged from the bathroom and walked into the sitting room, Griffon was the first (and, in fact, only) to voice his impression of the night-clad youth.

“Whoa-ho! What the hell is all that?” For the sake of a better look, the hellion descended from the sofa to hop right up to V, and eyed him up and down in a very rare moment of silence. “You gonna go out slumming or what? You look like hell in those rags.”

“Don't we already live in one?” V reminded, bored with his critique. He was messing with his collar, undecided whether to flatten it down or wear it upturned.

“Not only that, but don't you think you're gonna catch a cold walking around with your, uh, chest out?”

“It–it is not,” V argued bashfully, suddenly tugging on his lapels. “You can hardly see it.”

“No, I see it. Think I see your nipples too—”

“No you don't!”

“Oh! So I guess all six of my eyes are wrong. Am I wrong about that thing being too big on you, too? I think you gotta tighten those laces, kid.”

“Are you finished?” V was completely flustered when he had no need to be. Suddenly, the styling of his collar was unimportant. He had a blush he fought hard to suppress tinting his face, and he thought he would resent Griffon for the rest of his life for spoiling what little confidence he'd managed to scrounge. If Griffon could see such unflattering things, others were likely to see the same. But V wasn't about to change his clothes. Night had fallen, he had no time to waste now before the sun was up again.

Out of sheer defiance, the warlock marched to the kitchenette. His treasure of dirt had been taken from the fridge and given some water to keep from crumbling some little while ago. He hadn't needed the thing too fresh; he would water it like a plant, only with drizzles and drops intermittently. To little effect, however, as it would, as if out of spite, continually chip away regardless of his efforts. Looking at it again made his subconscious frown. He still hated it. Maybe he hated it more than he did at the start. He hated himself for being impatient enough to hasten his work on it. It could have turned out better if he'd learned, gone through trial and error, in due time; but he felt he didn't have that same time to lose. The impetuousness of youth, the desire for instant gratification—it ruined him thus far. But he needed supplies, and he at least had the wisdom to gather them beforehand. Even if Griffon had utter shit to say, V would walk all around him and dodge his bullets.

Thankfully, the raptor did not moan for long. He was left to loiter in the center of the room, watching V dart in and out. Shadow couldn't have cared one way or another; or, perhaps, she was wiser to simply let the boy be. Lounging on the sofa suited her. Ruby-red eyes blinked every so often. V had made a little pile of materials by the front door: a lantern, a canister of salt, five wax candles, a matchbox, a vial of ritual oil, an athame, and of course the grimoire.

Oh, and the vessel in its dish. It was the final item V had retrieved, and with it collected he was prepared to head out. Ultimately, he didn't give a damn about the state he was in, his appearance to demons either allies or foes. It was not his dress that would determine his success but himself: spirit, drive, skill, smarts. All materials minus the dish were placed in a rucksack. V slung it over his shoulder and carried the dish in both hands the minute he'd locked the door to his flat, familiars dissolving into soot-like particles and attaching to the warlock's body as if ink. He wore his coat's collar upturned after all.

A terribly long walk would see him to his destination. It was the same spot he'd been going to for the past fortnight, every night he wanted to try to conjure Nightmare. He'd memorized the path by now, and he would always go in shadow, at night. The poor, unfit thing would have to trek from beyond property grounds to a hilly area backed by a meager woodland out onto the fringes of town. The border, as it were, between named places. Red Grave City was one, to which V lived closest, but the means to move cities were not his. It was always a long walk anywhere for him. Tonight, he would benefit from clear skies and quiet townsfolk. While midnight had not yet struck, the residents around here were generally of mild manner and disinterested in goings on. They would be in their homes, doing as country families do. If they should spy a lanky young man traversing beyond their overgrown yards and vacant lots, they wouldn't give it a second thought. V realized he went through a lot of trouble for a whim, but what was one more night to try?

It might not have been midnight when he set off, but once he'd arrived at the designated spot he was certain that it could not have been earlier than eleven. The exertion tired him out, so all he took was a short breather with his eyes full on the patch of dirt and grass on which he'd made his previous attempts at summoning. He could certainly recognize it under the cover of night; but of course he'd been here countless times already. He remembered where, upon the hill, he would stand, and where the forested wall opened to the east. He remembered the trampled grass underfoot made by his coming and going, and the placement of lit windows in the town in the far distance.

Surrounded by such perfect seclusion, Griffon and Shadow could emerge from their hideaway. Of Griffon this was expected, but not so of Shadow: she was not in the habit of being present during her master's rites, and for her to suddenly sit beside her infernal comrade was a genuine surprise to the young warlock. Her reason was understood, however, and it filled him with some palpable regret. Shadow may not have been as vehement in opposition as Griffon was toward his goal, but her feelings were the same, and still she would let him know with scarcity and subtlety. As evidenced by his being here, he was not swayed by their shared concerns. For her, more so than for Griffon, V had a look of nigh-unreadable apology. In the darkness, her eyes were almost luminous rubies. A contrast to his dimmed peridots.

The dish was placed on the ground by his own trodden path. He fetched the lantern from the sack and switched it on—nothing quite so archaic as an oil lamp, but battery-powered for ease. The rest of his materials were laid out before him; and taking the dagger and lantern, he stepped carefully about the area to find the precise spot where he'd cast his prior circles. They were not hard to find, the etching in the soil still visible even after days of rainfall. V cleared away any debris that'd fallen during the day before setting the lantern between both the circle of summons and the circle of protection. He didn't want to think about the potential pitfalls he'd encounter once the rite would begin, but he would call himself a liar if he'd ever claim he wasn't nervous. He had never before practiced necromancy and there were about a dozen ways his inexperience—along with his deliberate improvisations—would foil him. This was not merely a game of chance he was playing, but one that involved real risk to his flesh and soul. He may not have anticipated failure, but he did fear from it nevertheless.

All those other instances when he'd failed to conjure the demon were failures only because the demon was deceased, and had no physical form with which to manifest. But now V would provide one for the spirit to inhabit, and that was entirely new to him. What's more, he hadn't bothered to practice at any point prior to tonight. His first shot at necromancy would also come as the real thing.

He didn't think about much, as a matter of fact, apart from the steps he was to take and the outcome he so desired. It was his intent that he should, and would, focus on, with nothing more to distract him. So, he cast his circle with salt before casting that of the demon, using his athame to carve the circle in the soil, its blade lightly coated with the necessary oil. It also carved an inverse pentagram within the circle, and the five candles were then arranged to sit on each point of the pentagram. The wax was dabbed with oil as well, and the candles were thus lit. Before the young sorcerer would enter his circle, he set what he'd need within it, and his familiars were wise to sit by the rest that was unnecessary so as not to interfere with the rite and its air. A strange stillness came upon the three, the wind dead and not one of them uttering a sound. Perhaps they knew it: what was about to take place would either ruin him or free him from his obsession.

It was also possible that such freedom could ruin him. Maybe he didn't consider that, but the raptor and the shapeshifter did. They watched their master outfit his circle, blade and oil left of center, grimoire and dish right. The vessel he'd prepared was taken into his hands, its dish abandoned beyond the circles as he had every intention of needing the molded dirt no longer after tonight. If the rite didn't work, he'd try another way. He was already decided on that.

Before V would step into his circle, he gave the lump of soil his final attentions. It wasn't like mud anymore, and it hadn't ever been since he'd brought it home; he knew that was the first mistake, remembering that golems took life from mud or clay—but both came of the Earth, were earth, and V would believe that plain soil would serve its intended purpose. So, he was satisfied before long with what little he'd managed to do with it and gently placed it in the middle of the inverted pentagram. Hands were wiped off, he took in a long breath, and entered his own circle at last.

“V.” Griffon.

“What?”

“Just... Watch yourself with all that, all right? We're right here if shit goes to shit.”

Gratitude needn't come across verbally. V felt it, his familiars knew it without knowing it, and nothing else was said between them. Eyes closed and incantation in mind, palms turned upward at his sides, he steeled himself and spoke words which were new. The candle flames did not waver, and neither did V. “To the lords of Hell and its kings and masters, I ask that a soul stripped of form and life hear my voice, and I implore unto thee, most fair and wise and powerful, with all of my humility, to send unto me thy lost and lifeless kin: that which is singularly named and so bears the name of Nightmare, once brought into being and commanded also by thine banished emperor-kin Mundus; and to this soul I offer life from death, death to rebirth, all powers and wisdom restored, and a vessel for its material form, and every liberty to refuse my supplication.”

His voice was loud and clear, firm and mature; he thought he felt electricity round his fingers. The young man did not yet open his eyes as he honed on the name, the image of the demon in his mind's eye, and the essence of the very thing he wished to will into being. His body was numb to the world around him, his mind ignorant of all things in existence apart from himself and the vessel, and the demon to inhabit it. Not a draft caused the grass to stir or the trees to wave their limbs, not a part of his body seemed alive but the easy rise and fall of his chest. But something had changed, something between the circles, and V felt it like a great oppressive eye, watchful from above. He did not lose his nerve to it but remained focused, knowing and feeling the adjudicators who had come to assess the sorcerer. From the very outset he sought permission to restore one of their fallen. He'd come to learn that it was sound practice to offer every respect to the forces he'd bargained with, and to resurrect an infernal spirit was no different. If V should open his eyes, he would find the flames twitching in the deadened night. But with his body so faintly tingling now, shoulders to waist, he knew it right, only then, to put into sweet, soothing words more of his modest, magic, flattering intent; and for this, he spoke gently as a poet recites to one who is beloved.

“How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.

“For he hears the lamb's innocent call, And he hears the ewe's tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.”

He meant himself the shepherd, the demon he sought his flock—or a member of it, and while he was aware of the religious symbolism loaded into Blake's poem, he hadn't a fear of dashing his hopes as he had used these very words to summon in his presence a score of other, lesser demons. He needn't his grimoire to check his memory: he remembered every line, every foot, syllable for syllable. In this, V was experienced. He had come to learn that infernal creatures quite enjoyed poetry, often as much as he.

If the demons were decided in his favor, the spirit of the deceased should find its way to the proposed vessel. But V need only open his eyes if he wished to spy weird, dark miasma twist and dance about the earthen offering; and if he had, he'd have disrupted the flow of things and his concentration would break. That which went unseen was surely felt, however. In the subconscious were sensations translated into images before the mind's eye, sufficient communication that informed the sorcerer of what went on around him. He could feel the darkness, the infernal curiosity and diabolical greed filling the space within the summoning circle. While it was all aware of him, he'd protected himself expertly to allow no evil thing any passage through his barrier. The anticipation was beginning to find room in his mind, and that was a flaw to be entirely avoided. But while he tamed his own spirit, focusing on his intent and his breathing, the energies swirling above the dirt vessel were joined by another. A faintly thing to V's tuned senses, and when left alone it was far weaker than anything he'd sensed before. Lifelessness!

“The demon, Nightmare,” he acknowledged politely, “I bid thee come.” Truthfully, he couldn't have known what it was. The boy clearly was not beyond taking such liberties; but if he should be welcoming, peaceable, and respectful, the spirit should take to his voice—his vessel most importantly. His will remained strong, his intent clear, and with both combined he visualized with all of his psychic prowess the soul pouring into the desired golem. This, too, was new to him, but he sensed it came without challenge. Through mental murmurs he invited the soul to find its comfort and refuge within the earthen form. His hands had begun to move toward one another, palm to face palm but never joining when they hovered before the warlock's center. Calm as he could manage to be, now was when he opened his eyes. To his surprise, a diluted mist hovered above the crafted soil, black like smog but flecked as if with glitter of a violet hue. That was his own magic at work. A heartening sign.

His power, small as it was, had a color to it.

There was more to V's work than will. The closing of his hands was not plain pantomime. Envisioned between them was the soul and its designated vessel, and by drawing his palms closer together he suggested he'd been helping merge the two. The power of suggestion, backed by the power of will, could have been an unstoppable force if executed correctly. If V were any master sorcerer, he'd have doubtlessly infused the vessel with all of the demon's soul in less time than this. He could be patient when it mattered, however, and in this instance he was collected and determined not to fail. The oppressive air that'd permeated the environment amplified the nearer V's hands drew to one another, and there came a point when wind began to stir and blow against the warlock, pushing his hair from his face and disturbing his garments. This tipped him off against pushing any further: he remembered he had to be respectful, to allow the soul a chance to refuse him. He'd never forced his will upon the demons he wished for familiars, never felt it right, and he would not make that mistake now. Griffon and Shadow were his by choice, by mutual agreement, and they'd become friends, even like family for it. V remembered this, knew said friends' eyes were on him all through the rite, and he was prompt to correct himself—and thus the pressure was eased off the miserable spirit, as yet undecided about the offering of renewed life. Perhaps it wasn't impressed with its gifts, with him. That...had to be all right, to the conjurer. He'd have to accept that and let the spirit return to its plane, free.

With the slow separation of his hands, a curious shift in air tickled at his consciousness. He hadn't realized he'd been frowning, but the moment he did he softened immediately. The phantasmal wisps before his eyes, along with their violet glow, had begun to bleed into the misshapen vessel.

So...it had accepted! But of course, the allure of life was irresistible. V did not think for a moment, instead focused entirely on his work. He was absorbed by the sight of the soul feeding into the lump of earth, to fatten it up with life and grant it the gift of sentience. V's hands would come together only when the last of the entity entered the vessel, and this he did to signify the finalization of the first phase. He'd eased off on his psychic influence only for this step so that it would be Nightmare's decision to enter the vessel, not his. Once that was done, however, V would wait. To observe the outcome, to see what would go wrong. His hands rejoined his sides as he watched with, now, apprehension, the vessel illuminated only by the dancing candle light. As he understood it, he was not to engage yet, not until the demon was fully formed and in control of itself. Only then could he attempt to tame the beast, and then bind it to him through the awaited rite of bondage. His heart was as strong as he could have made it, but it still alarmed him to watch movement within the inverted pentagram. The soil once lifeless stirred and shifted, and before his very eyes began to deform itself. It was abrupt, violent, and it had stricken V with genuine nervousness with every motion across the ground, fidgeting left and jerking right, and sometimes nearly flipping itself over—and all the while changing shape, gaining mass, growing. The flames snapped wickedly in the air, and even V could feel it, a sudden explosion of demonic energy that flooded the circles and the area surrounding. It was smothering, but V held fast. He fought it like an ocean, as if wave after wave crashed down. If he'd lose his footing, he'd be pulled into the sea of darkness and potential malevolence, and forced to suffer the torment of a likely vengeful spirit. How was he to know that it was not already at peace, and that he'd come only to disturb its eternal slumber?

Uselessly, he put his arms up like a shield in front of his face as if that would have any effect over the whipping winds. Griffon and Shadow could only watch while on pins and needles, but they were in agreement that the second things turned south, they would charge in to his aid. That young man could get himself into such messes, but he hadn't quite learned to learn from that. One could call him stupid for it, but he preferred to think of it as drive. The grit to stand firm and unflinching was necessary in the face of adversity, and it was proven to him now that such a necessity came twice as strongly when dealing with a demon of so much size and power. Based on what he knew, Nightmare was built like a tank and commanded like one, an annihilating force V should have been wiser not to play with. And when he saw just how large it'd grown, taking on an amorphous form that exceeded even that of the vessel it claimed and turned inside-out to make it unlike any useless heap of anything he'd seen before—and when he realized it hadn't stopped expanding—he understood, finally, that he'd bitten off more than he could chew. And he paled a little at the sight of it now, beyond the obfuscation of his arms, stretching to a height far beyond his own and eclipsing the circle it should have fit into.

Large and bulbous, glossy and flowing as if wet, black as tar, no more resembling the dirt in which it was reborn. It claimed a human shape, as much of one as V could have crafted out of earth, but appeared to re-imagine itself of its own accord. Parts of it were not as V had built, but he didn't have a care for the shape. He supposed he never really did. He simply needed the thing alive, and here he'd achieved it. His golem, his golem, alive! And in the center, toward the top of its...whatever V would think was a head, glowed an orb like a great violet eye, and like an eye it darted in all directions as if it saw for the very first time. Like a human it stood upright on two legs, two disproportionately large arms hanging at its sides. No digits, but broad, round ends like clubs for “hands.” By the candle light, he could note several hooked claws protruding from the thing's arms. Parts of its body looked craggy, almost unnatural, as if shrapnel or rocks had wedged into its hide. This was the demon he'd brought to life from eternal death. This titan called Nightmare, a thing of destruction. It towered above the sorcerer, a dark and hulking thing that could easily snuff him out with its weight alone. His heart was fast in his chest.

It jumped at the sight of the demon's sudden movement and V felt he'd almost folded to the instinct to step back. Ungainly on its smaller legs, slow and heavy, the beast lumbered with every dragging step forward it took. Forward, unto the protective circle!

With its restless eye it perceived him, his body language and the demons not far from him. All things were new to it, like it had the whole of life to relearn. When V's arms came down and his eyes pierced the dark, it was perceived that there was no defense, no offense, and full attention. Ah, but here it seemed to remember—some memories had not gone, and with them had also come the memory of mercy. If Nightmare had remembered any more, it would have likely tried to kill him for his intent. But the demon was almost like a newborn: it knew too little of others, and itself, and regarded the black-clad warlock beneath it just as an infant would fix its indeterminable gaze on a thing of interest.

If V had had the opportunity to savor the success of his first resurrection, he might have. He might have patted himself on the back for once, admired the golem as a thing of beauty, but as he was uncertain and on high alert, he could not think of anything but the very real chance that the demon might retaliate after all—or go berserk. But he remained in the circle, watched the demon hesitate before the uppermost grains of salt on the ground, and felt his heart skip a beat. The demon stalled, right outside the protective circle, and stood motionless as its eye looked in all directions. Perhaps it wondered what stood in its way. V needed to find his nerve or he'd lose the demon to its untamed instincts: he could not afford complacency now that he'd gotten so close, with work still needing to be done in order to claim the demon for his own. So, he would appeal to it, with a voice that came across more meekly than he'd intended. “Nightmare...?”

His voice surely caught its attention. If only he knew it was perceived as only noise.

“Do you understand me?” he probed. “You are alive. You've come back from death.” That stirred nothing. “It was my voice you heard that guided you here. To me.” He was gentle with his words, cautious as he assessed how they'd affected the golem—but no indication of its awareness, of its comprehension, gave him next to no encouragement. He wondered if Nightmare had ever understood spoken language. But, if that hadn't gotten through to the demon, then he supposed something physical might. Much to the horror of his watchful familiars, V pushed himself forward to extend an arm, to reach out his bare hand, to...touch.

“V, what're you doin'?!” The raptor could not have left well enough alone.

Violet pulsated.

The small warlock had stepped beyond the perimeter of salt. He broke his protection and exposed his vulnerable soul to infernal powers for the sake of connection. And he sensed it. At the back of his mind, a tingle; at his fingertips, something sentient and...perceiving, at least, cool to the feather-light touch but so very warm with devil's blood at its core. The silence might have unnerved him, but to know that he was not dismissed gave him heart. “You can feel me?” he wondered with his eyes cast up, searching that deep and indecipherable purple for his answer. Whether or not it was a product of psychic communication, a sense of calm ran through his fingers, and comfort grazed at the very door to his mind. That dark and obsessive demon within him smothered itself the instant man touched demon, demon touched man, and in its place was born a tender affection. His hand was soft over Nightmare's arm and free from its claws.

Now...he admired it, just a little.

But if he could get inside that titan's mind, he'd know what he looked like to it. And to be acknowledged by the thing that gave it new life was new, also, in this way: because it was novel to feel warmth, respect, and to sense that no subjugation would come from the pale little hand that seemed also to lay claim. And it was a strange contradiction. Nightmare seemed to remember something familiar, something like dominion and disregard that came with a claim of its own over the newborn. But these impressions were faint and centuries distant, and Nightmare was not roused to belligerence by a perceived wrong but remained placid and curious before the human boy it almost, almost could have known as a father. It felt, it understood, in its own innocent way, and therefore it sought. But why, why did the black-and-white figure that so kindly welcomed it suddenly peel away in retreat? The demon only wanted to know him, experience him, and mimic his gesture with an arm of its own. It tried to graze him with the claws on its arm, but the human stepped back with a change in his demeanor. Was this rejection? Was this human false?

V's circle was breached by inhuman hands and feet, its protectiveness nullified when V had broken it. He found that his salt did not burn when the demon walked through it. He was swift in collecting his grimoire and scrambled out of the circle entirely, ignoring one familiar's calls to cease and desist as he still so stubbornly held his ground to win favor he didn't know he already had. “Nightmare!” he called with firmness, attempting to command its attention. He was so sure he'd angered it. The grimoire was opened to the page he needed and he, in utter darkness, recited more from memory than from print. “How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! / From the morn to the evening he strays; / He shall follow his sheep all the day, / And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.” He glanced to find Nightmare had stilled before him, within his broken circle. That's good. He inhaled a breath to steady himself, to soften, to finish. “For he hears the lamb's innocent call, / And he hears the ewe's tender reply; / He is watchful while they are in peace, / For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.” In a maddening mix of apprehension and anticipation, V watched the violet orb spin: the demon was thinking. Even if such a creature could not understand the human, artful tongue, he knew that a creature could still sense emotion, and from within words so delicately crafted and sweetly delivered, emotion was the only intent he'd meant to convey. Like music soothed savage beasts, poetry soothed soured demons.

Nightmare appeared to like the sound of those words. Its confusion was dashed for a moment, and now only watched V with its same curiosity. When a fleeting moment of broad silence passed, Nightmare wanted to inch closer to him—and was again stilled when another string of pretty words touched its consciousness. Was it meant to stand still when the human talked so affectionately? It decided not to move again.

And this, V determined, was a sign of domestication. He thought he'd tamed the beast, at least halfway, so quickly!

“V,” the raptor persisted, “I don't like this! That thing's an accident waiting to happen!”

“Quiet! I know...it knows.”

“It knows you're a chump—!”

“Shhh!” V pressed a finger to his lips when he'd turned to Griffon but donned a friendly, inviting air when again he faced the colossal golem. He smiled, his eyes glimmered, and he approached it with calm. “Nightmare,” he said quietly, intimately, “will you...be my demon? Will you bind to me?” Predictably, no response, so V reached his hand out again to connect—and tried again, focusing on intent rather than speech with a harder, genuine look over his countenance. “I need you, and I...hope...you need me, too. Will you be my familiar?” His palm was firmer on the demon's flesh this time, but not at all merciless or pressuring.

V never believed he was telepathic, but with Nightmare on the other end of the communication, he could have sworn his feelings had been answered. The demon stood still, as did he, and here he would perform the rite of bondage. His technique evolved, every time, and he'd come upon the simplest form of claiming a familiar to date. If magic was all about intent, then for ceremony there was little need. Through incantation and intent, and mutual agreement, the warlock would bind the demon to himself as effectively as he'd ever done. Griffon swallowed every last complaint to let his master be; Shadow had been wise from the start to observe.

Nightmare was still as it watched the little creature who'd given it life. His words it understood vaguely, but his touch was the easiest language it'd ever known. The golem it came to be was nothing at all like the machine of chaos in its previous life. Whether or not that had something to do with the man who'd willed it into being would ever be a mystery. But it, like him, was calm and patient, and listened to a language it largely heard as noise. He uttered words on and on, and some were pretty while others were fair, and some were soft while others were hard; and when he would speak the same word, “Nightmare,” he was warm with his intonation. And the demon, within, felt a warmth as well that had come upon it quite suddenly. A whole change in the air confused it. But so long as the giver of life held his touch and gave it comfort, the golem would be peaceful in its trust.

Magic leaked into the air from his lips, every syllable of incantation imbuing the forces of life and nature, Earth and Hell, those that were human and diabolical—all, combined, alive with the distinctive violet hue of his art, would grant the warlock that which he sought in all fairness of practice. There was power in the atmosphere, a presence of miasma that was inherent in all demonic dealings, but V was no stranger to the forces whirling about his body or the sensations bouncing and dancing all across his skin. This was a power only he could wield, which only he understood in the way that was so personal and individual, his and his alone. His eyes had been closed for concentration; and as he felt the demon's spirit closer to his own, he bridged the gap by granting the demon knowledge of his sacred name. “My name is Vitale.”

Vitale, not V, who he really was, whom he would always be. All his familiars knew it, and now, too, did Nightmare. He'd forbidden anyone else the privilege—to such an extent that he would forget a moniker was only a moniker.

And maybe, with the bond formed and the final pledges made, he could be less of V, more of Vitale.

“Come, on wings of joy we’ll fly To where my bower hangs on high; Come, and make thy calm retreat, Among green leaves and blossoms sweet.”

It shot through him—power, life, trust, a connection. All of Nightmare, all at once, vanishing from sight as the finest black particles to join with its master on his body, new markings alongside those previous, fitting snugly between each one to fill more of his skin, claiming him for itself in so doing. But this demon took more than the warlock had counted on. It cloaked hair so white in its embrace and painted it black, a deep, true ebony that could have contested even the darkest of shadows. It startled him when his eyes opened, and he grabbed at the strands and his scalp as if to make sense of what had just happened. With the demon finally bound to him, the air fell flat. Magic, left; power, absorbed; spirits, gone. Only V now, and his familiars.

The changes in him were not only skin-deep. Somehow, in some way, he felt Nightmare's weight on him. He felt its strength, too, albeit faintly in his psyche; and he felt his strength, greater than it had been minutes ago, spiritually, but still quite subtle materially, in presence. It was like Griffon's or Shadow's, but Nightmare was a demon on an entirely elevated level. And it must have been for that sole reason that V could feel his body suddenly so tired—and this to such a degree that he slouched a little as a result. His two familiars neared him, relieved to see that he'd survived his experiment.

That's right... He'd succeeded. He hadn't even remembered what hell he'd put himself through for the past several weeks. It all paid off. But he didn't think of it. He used his foot to clear away the casting on the ground, the salt spread in all directions as it was rendered ineffective anyway. When he took one solitary step forward to pet his doting shapeshifter, he felt a weakness in the knees that nearly downed him. It was a stumble, that was all...! No one pointed it out to him, and he was thankful for that.

He'd never felt that before, not even when he'd run himself ragged.

“I gotta hand it to you, kid,” Griffon praised, “you stuck to your idiot guns and got what you wanted. You've gotta be feeling so good about yourself.”

V couldn't help answering distractedly. “Yeah.” He ran his hands through Shadow's fur all the while she circled him, offering fond nudges as though to comfort him. “It's...kind of strange.” He did not eye Griffon.

“What? Too much power for you?”

Was that it?

The answer had to wait as V spent a moment collecting the candles, pouring salt over the area, and defacing the inverted pentagram. This circle, too, was cleared away. But his silence often spoken volumes, so he did not doubt that his demons were already forming conclusions in their dark minds. Their eyes were certainly fixed on him as he had his back turned. When he should have been feeling joyous and fulfilled, he found that, instead, he was...undecided with his feelings, ultimately.

“What about your hair, anyway? I've never seen that happen before.”

“It's strange. I don't know if I'll get used to it,” the warlock admitted, knitting his brows as he caught sight of a strand of black hair falling in front of his eye. What a change—and now he was as if a perfect shadow, black on the bottom and black on top. God, that must have screamed something about him.

“It's not that bad on you, actually,” the chatty demon observed, his tone impressed. But he wanted to know about Nightmare, and he wanted to know that V was satisfied and had finally gotten over his obsession with it. “But we're avoiding the subject, aren't we? Tell us how you feel. I mean, after everything you went through, was it worth it after all? Sure, the big lummox agreed to entering the rite and all—and I'm still shocked it didn't go berserk on us—but it didn't exactly strike me as the intelligent kind. I'm not saying you gotta talk to be smart, but—”

“Sometimes talking less masks stupidity.” V flashed a fleeting smirk. “I guess...I feel all right. Exhausted, but...all right. I think the pressure's just finally catching up to me.” A soft breeze rustled the canopies some feet away. What time had it been? He packed up his materials as Griffon continued to talk his ear off. V blocked him out for the most part, concerned by the strange sensation in his legs. It wasn't tiredness, it wasn't pain. He knew the difference. Lacking a better idea, all he could compare it to was weakness; and all he could figure was that it was his fault in the end, because he'd been so desperate and power-starved that he threw all caution to the four winds for the sake of summoning a demon that was potentially out of his league. Maybe what Griffon had said, about “too much power,” was right. Maybe it had been too much for V, but he'd never given that the kind of thought it deserved. All he wanted was some semblance of self-reliance, the knowledge that he could really hold his own and fold in fear to no one, not man nor demon. It was all he wanted and he'd found it. He had it. Nightmare was his. A demon once under the command of an emperor was now in V's bony hands, and it should have gratified him more.

If anything, he came to realize that he was in error for believing that he could just take from demons as much as he'd wanted, without repercussions. The essence that was Nightmare's which he'd felt through his touch was felt in the back of his mind, only now it was perpetual, and he thought that demon might read what he was thinking, might even influence him if he was not careful.

Because he did, he did feel different. Physically and psychologically. He felt the weight on and the weakness in his body. He felt an intangible strength, and with it an unusual sway to his psyche. While his thoughts remained his own, and he felt himself his own man, he too sensed that there was suddenly more to him. In heart and mind where his inner demon dwelt, he felt it with more clarity than ever. All that was demonic in him, purely of him and from which he was born, seemed more alive now, so suddenly, after Nightmare joined with him to serve him as intended. But it was not Nightmare's doing: V knew, with every familiar claimed, that the demonic blood in him which was so diluted had gained some amplification; and after every demon bound to his skin, more and more of the devil liked to play. It was no wonder that he'd gotten so much more impertinent and stubborn and dark-humored, and that he more and more enjoyed slaying the infernal interlopers who had no place upon the Earth so long as they posed as threats to it. It was no wonder that V was more and more a devil in his own right. Puberty had brought that on, but surrounding himself with demons helped it along. And even that was no such concern for him, because he still believed he could stand a change in character. He hated his meekness.

Maybe there was something more to it all. A change in character would suit the change in his fashion—he'd forgotten he'd been wearing something new, and only when he slung his filled rucksack over his shoulder had he remembered that he'd not worn sleeves. He felt good in what he wore, and comfortable, and he liked that the loneliness of the field afforded him a peace of mind with which to walk freely. No one around to judge him, watch him, or try to break the ice with him. And even if there had been, he liked to believe that the devil inside shouldn't have to care anymore. When he used to be a boy who'd been too frightened to make decisions and take first steps, tonight he'd proven that he was dauntless and relentless, and impossible to sway when he'd had his mind set; and though he showed recklessness, he often paired that with a quick resourcefulness and the ability to rebound. In his teenage years he was too shy to function, but the coming of age brought about a kind of daring that was, more than anything, born from his own distaste toward himself and a desire to mature, evolve, improve. And he had. Every year that passed, he grew up a little more, learned better of the adult world, and adapted more nimbly to things that were outside of his control. And though he had still a ways to go, he was getting there. He was only twenty-one, still too naive and fresh-faced, inept and awkward with people, and continually healed where his trauma was concerned. Emotional scars ran deeply, and they hadn't quite closed. They didn't. That's why the young man, though still a boy for all intents and purposes, bled from his hidden wounds to the present day.

Perhaps there was something more to be gained from Nightmare than simply its alliance. V had finally realized that he'd met his goal—probably his hardest one to reach yet. He'd resurrected a demon from death! He formed a vessel for the spirit to inhabit, to use as its own body and reshape it as it pleased. He tamed the demon with the art of the spoken word, nothing more, and successfully bound it to him, himself to it. Things that he had not even practiced before had all worked on his very first attempt, and if that in itself was not a sign of growth and experience, then nothing else could be. Before his own eyes he improved upon his craft, gained a new skill while mastering older ones, and granted a second chance to a soul which, in its previous life, had been used as a tool only to be slain by its master's foe. That couldn't have been any kind of life to live and it certainly wasn't any kind of afterlife. Here, V showed he was merciful, too; and it may have been by sheer coincidence that things had turned out that way, his intent originally to bind the most powerful demon he could host on his body, but ever since he'd laid eyes on the thing—touched it with heart and soul—he felt differently. He wanted more than what he bargained for, and in several ways he'd gotten it. Nightmare was to be as much a friend to him as Griffon and Shadow, as much a part of their small family unit as anyone else in it. More than power and bravado, he wanted connection, and comfort, and someone more to trust, and someone to trust in him, to need him, to value him as he'd value them. And he found it in Nightmare. He found a lot in Nightmare. When the demon joined with his body and the cloud of maddened obsession lifted from his psyche, the warlock could finally see it all: his mistake, mistakes, his flaws and talents, his honest needs, what he was and who he thought he wanted to be, should be, and how he ought to be it. There was a truth revealed to him in bonding with Nightmare and in everything he'd done to get there in the first place. Everything from his devotion to his dress, from his guts to his tenderness.

V thought he'd found himself, through this. He'd found at least a part of Vitale—and he'd chip away at himself to find even more until he was all out in the open. Still so young, he had so much time for it.

As he walked back the path he'd taken, Shadow had melted to darken his form along with Griffon shortly after. There was no conversation to be had between man and devil; and V got away with leaving many of Griffons' questions unanswered. Fatigue, he'd explained. Partly true. Already was he tiring himself out, pushing more than he was used to just to keep on the path. If he expected to stand on his own two feet with his head held high, confidence on his brow and the steadfast backing of his infernal friends, he wouldn't do it looking and feeling so tuckered out. But he'd done wrong to reflect on it now. V had inevitably seen himself home.

Griffon and Shadow were freed to sleep where they pleased the moment V locked the door. Sleep was not often something that he looked forward to. Given the frequency of his nightmares, he would start in the middle of the night with his traumas and insecurities brought to the forefront of his mind as if he'd lived through every painful experience all over again. But he was too tired to care when he flung himself on his bed, and he likewise did not fight the fading of his consciousness when he slipped right off to sleep. He always would, and horror would reliably wake him. Only, tonight, it didn't. He didn't wake. He'd slept in unintentionally when dawn broke. It was strange to him that he'd felt mildly rested in the morning, when he would oft feel sleepy. He didn't remember any disturbance in his sleep. But the black of his hair made him wonder; and, still, the tiredness in his body hadn't left him. He would go to the same field that night in an attempt to call Nightmare from its hideaway for the first time, but the demon did not come. Try as he did, driven to worry and exasperation, thinking even that he'd betrayed his new friend in some irreversible manner, the familiar would not emerge. Griffon suggested a thousand things to try, and those that were sensible resulted in failure.

But...V did think of one thing before quitting for the night. He thought to be playful, as if coaxing a child from its hiding place, when he poured his will and his warmth into a snap of his fingers. From the sky came crashing down a meteorite, V's hair suddenly white.

Ah, so that's how it is.

#drabble ;#// I post this here because it's all a part of V's character development.#// I can't expect anyone to read it directly on my blog because. I mean really. 19 pages.#// After seven days I show signs of life on Tumblr omfg

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cracktheglasses · 6 years

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Can you outline a timeline for your kylux soft Canibalism fic? I love the whole tone of the fic (and especially the bits of changeling lore) but I have lots of problems processing non-sequential writing and this fic is very confusing from a time passing standpoint 😔

Absolutely! I’m so happy you enjoyed Changeling, but yeah, as something meant to read in this disjointed manner, with lots of unreliable narration meant to evoke an addled, slowed, sometimes drugged perception, it definitely can be hard to parse. It’s a fic that’s very important to me, as it draws heavily on a lot of personal fears and emotions, and I will gladly talk about it!

Warning for a brief mention of a suicide attempt that’s alluded to in the fic, and references to cannibalism, and consensual extreme body modification.

Note: when I reference the fic parts below, I mean the large chunks separated by en dashes.

The earliest thing that happens, the farthest flashback, is the very beginning of the fic, opening with the phrase, “Benjamin Organa-Solo,” Hux says, flipping through the intake forms. “Do you prefer Ben?” Kylo (Ben) comes to Dr. Hux’s office for the first time, as a patient, following a suicide attempt, which Hux refers to as “the accident”. Kylo creepy-flirts, shares some fatalistic worldviews, and blatantly comes on to Hux, something which Hux, in fact, is very receptive to, but he intentionally rebuffs Kylo. This first part ends with Hux mentally remarking on Kylo’s fear of all the things he claims to welcome (change, loss of bodily integrity/personhood, intimacy, death): “Were you afraid? During the accident,” Hux clarifies, already having resolved to call it nothing but. Kylo’s jaw twitches again.“No,” he says quietly, looking once more at the ground, shoulders slumping back down. It’s such an obvious lie, Hux doesn’t feel like there’s a point to calling him on it.

Chronologically, we move to the third part of the fic, the chunk beginning with Kylo talking about his mother, and her bits of changeling lore: “My mother, she’d tell me these fairy stories when I was a kid.” Hux pushes Kylo to share more, checks out his scars, moves closer, and gets them more or less on the same page, ending with Kylo talking about struggling with the idea of his own humanity, and being metaphorically consumed: “Doesn’t it make sense, Dr. Hux? The changelings, needy, little half-formed things, left there in the crib. They’d need something to sustain them, to make them whole. How else could they forget they’re not human? They would be, at least a little, after. Wouldn’t they?”

The next chronological segment is the fifth chunk, beginning with Hux coming back from meeting with a detective regarding Kylo’s disappearance after someone, presumably a family member, has reported him missing. “They really reported me missing?” “Did you think they wouldn’t? It’s been almost two months. They found your phone.” Hux and Kylo have been together for at least two months, after a (possibly) staged altercation in Hux’s office. Though Hux is a bit cagey about who is looking for Kylo, they are, nevertheless, comfortably intimate. And Hux, at least, is certain about what the outcome of their relationship is going to be: “Mine,” he says, too tender, too soft, but he doesn’t care. “My Kylo.” “Yours. All yours. All for you,” Kylo echoes, and begins to undo his belt. Fuck; Hux really is going to miss him.

An unspecified amount of time passes after this, moving us to the seventh part of the fic, where Hux is preparing to operate on Kylo: “Wait. Wait, please, Hux, wait!” Hux pauses, IV bag in his hands. Hux reassures and calms Kylo, trying to get him to balance out his eagerness for what’s going to happen and his fear of what’s going to happen. They discuss the surgery and the consequences thereof, until, finally, Kylo assents: Kylo’s eyes are thoughtful, human, considering. He opens his mouth, top lip catching over a slightly crooked tooth. “All right. OK,” he relents, and takes a deep breath. “You can hook up the IV. I’m ready.”

The part fitting chronologically after this is part two, beginning with Hux waking up in the kitchen, in restraints: The ceiling above him is white. Hux blinks, once, twice, slowly surfacing from sleep. It’s not specified how much time has passed since the surgery Hux has performed on Kylo, but Hux references having gone to bed with Kylo not only the night before, but regularly: Their bedroom ceiling is painted a deep royal blue; Kylo likes it, says it makes him feel like they’re sleeping outside. Hux struggles in the restraints, understanding that Kylo has done something to him, and Kylo confirms this. This is where we first see the outcome of Kylo’s surgery – his missing arm – and Hux reminisces about what he did with it. Kylo now reveals what he’s done to Hux, and gets him to drink something that puts him back out: Hux closes his eyes and lets himself be kissed, Kylo’s hypnotic warmth leeching slowly, languidly into him, the slick glide of Kylo’s tongue sending him somewhere even farther away, into a thick, deep darkness.

The chronological skip after this one would be to part four, where Hux wakes up in the bedroom, either later the same day or the day after: When he wakes again, he is burning. Dull heat pulses its way up his leg, twinges of pain like the flickers of embers. Hux opens his eyes. He can hear Kylo in the kitchen, preparing food, and decides that This is something Kylo needs to do himself; he’s made that quite clear.

After this, Hux dozes again and wakes up in part six, when Kylo joins him in bed: He drowses for a while, then takes the rest of the pills, finishes the water and nods off again. He thinks he dreams, but he isn’t certain, the images smudging on the insides of his eyelids, dissolving into red and black. Sometime later, he feels the mattress dip, and a warm, solid presence settles against his side, a pushy ankle tangling with his, the good leg, he realizes, and jolts suddenly into consciousness. They have sex, and Kylo explains why he’s done what he’s just done to Hux. He is attempting to conquer his fear the only way he understands how, which is something that Hux appears to accept and respect: Hux brings the meat to Kylo’s mouth. Deposits it on Kylo’s expectant pink tongue.

The eighth chunk picks up where this one has left off: The meat lasts three days. Hux has looked at his leg already, that first night, while Kylo slept, wrapped in the quilt on the bed under the royal blue ceiling. The stitching is a bit clumsy, there’s no way around that, but he is surprisingly satisfied with the results of Kylo’s work. It must have taken him hours. Kylo pampers and takes care of Hux, and Hux allows and encourages this. After Kylo performs oral sex on him, Hux reminds him of the nature of their relationship, and insists on moving further. Kylo, ostensibly having dealt with his fear, agrees.

The final piece is the final part of the fic, beginning with Hux setting the table for dinner: The prosthesis clicks against the kitchen tile as he picks up the bottle of the rioja, the corkscrew. Retrieves the fragile, thin glasses from the hanging rack on the wall. He is very careful and tender with Kylo, having dressed him and brought him down to the dining room, and hand-feeds him, as Kylo is no longer able to do this himself. Afterwards, he takes Kylo back to the bedroom, and they talk about the idea of the changeling once again. As in the beginning, it may be possible that Kylo is lying about his level of comfort and fear. Hux turns out the light, and gently holds him.

Hope this helps! Let me know if there is anything else you want to know about it; I am very, very familiar with these versions of Kylo and Hux, and like I said, this fic is very much me dealing with some difficult emotional stuff, so I might have been a lot more liberal with the veiled metaphor, et cetera, than usual.

#asks #anonymous #my fic #changeling #kylux #shit what i wrote #cor's stuff #Anonymous

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soaimagines · 7 years

Text

Near Light

Request: Happy Imagine based on ‘Near Light’ by Ólafur Arnalds.

I highly recommend you listen to this song for this one. You can listen to it on Soundcloud here.

I apologise in advance.

Text in italics is flashbacks.

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*FLASHBACK* “You been baking, Ma?” Happy’s mother looked up from her spot in her armchair by the large bay window and saw her son walking out of the kitchen, a mouthful of muffin and one more in the grasp of his large hands. “No, the girl next door made them. And what did I teach you about eating with your mouth full?” “Sorry Ma.” He swallowed and smiled at his mother apologetically. “Do me a favour, Happy? Take the basket back to her. Its on the bench.” “Of course.” He shoved the last muffin in his mouth and wiped his hands on his jeans before lifting his kutte off the back of the sofa, where he had left it when he entered the house. He pulled it over his shoulders and crossed the room, leaning down to his mother and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I should head back to TM anyway, but I’ll be back later tonight with some dinner.” She nodded. “Be safe, Happy.” “Always, Ma.” He headed out of the door with the basket in his hand and closed the front door behind him. He placed the empty basket on the chair next to the door as he pulled his boots on. The day was warm and the sun shone down on him as he walked down the path leading to his mothers house and he turned to the left once he reached the gate. The house next door to his mothers had been vacant for a while but someone had recently moved in. It used to be a mess, overgrown yard filled with weeds and flaking paint on the outer walls of the house but over the last few weeks it had been improving. The white picket fence with missing pickets and flaking paint that bordered the property had been given new life with a fresh lick of white paint and rose bushes now ran alongside it, still to young to bloom. The lawns were freshly mowed and the porch was filled with two chairs littered with brightly coloured cushions and woollen throws. The front door had been painted red while the surrounding weatherboards of the house had been painted an egg-shell white. Happy had never paid much attention to the neighbouring property but as he walked up the paved pathway to the front door, basket in his hand he found himself glancing at the pot plants filled with different flowers and the new ‘Welcome’ mat that sat in front of the door. His stepped onto the porch and rapped on the wooden door. He waited ten seconds and there was no answer. Was that more baking he could smell? He knocked again and adjusted his grip on the basket. After another fifteen seconds he heard footsteps running to the door and a woman yanked it open. His jaw clenched as he took in the sight of her. She was beautiful. “Hi!Sorry! I was in the back yard doing some gardening and I didn't hear the door knock.” She wiped a loose strand of hair out of her face with the back of her hand, still clad in her gardening gloves and left a smear of dirt across her forehead. “Well actually I did but I didn't think it could be someone at my door because I’m so new here and I don't really know anyone yet but when I heard it the second time I knew it was for me so I came as fast as I could. Sorry, I’m rambling aren't I? I just never get visitors and I certainly wasn't expecting anyone today. Oh, there I go again. Is that my basket?” A ghost of a smirk played on Happys lips and he nodded. “I hope Mrs Lowman enjoyed them. She's been so kind to me, giving me tips on how to keep my dahlias from drying out in this heat. I don't really know anyone else on the block yet and it was only by chance that I met her cause the postman delivered her mail to my door and- sorry Im rambling again aren't I?” This time Happy did smirk as a blush rose on her cheeks. “Whats your name?” He asked, his gravelly voice taking her by surprise. “(Y/n) (y/l/n). Are you a friend of Mrs Lowmans?” “Im her son, Happy.” She gasped. “Oh Ive heard so much about you! Mrs Lowman talks about you all the time! I wasn't expecting you to look like this though!” Her eyes widened and the blush on her cheeks darkened. “I mean not that theres anything wrong with the way you look, you look great. Like really great, its just I wasn't expecting a bad boy cause you kinda give off that vibe and Mrs Lowman is always saying how good you are and-“ “Here’s your basket.” Happy interrupted, lifting the basket with an amused look on his face. “Thank you.” She gulped and took the basket from his grip. “I need to go, but it was nice to meet you, (y/n).” She nodded and smiled warmly at him. He turned and walked down the porch steps. He was halfway out the gate when he heard her yell after him. “It was nice to meet you too, Happy.” From her window, Mrs Lowman watched with a smile on her face. It had been a long time since she had seen her son smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Babe?” Huh. Usually he was always greeted by her the moment he walked through the doors, her arms throwing around his neck and her strawberry scented lips crashing against his. Perhaps she was out in the garden and hadn't heard him pull up. He twirled a toothpick across his lips and walked to the back door. It was open and the warm breeze drifted through the house, making lights shimmer around in patterns from the ornaments she had hanging off the back porch. The yard was empty though and a frown came to his lips. “Babe?” He called again. No answer. He pulled the gun from his waistband and gripped in his hand as he walked through the house, moving with urgency now. The living room was empty and the hallway. He headed for the kitchen. Broken glass was scattered across the floor and the top drawer was pulled open and a knife was lying on the kitchen tiles. Was that..? Blood covered the knife on the floor. Dread filled his body as he stepped further into the room, lifting the gun in his hands. Glass crunched beneath his heavy boots as his eyes darted around the scene in front of him. He clenched his jaw. Blood was splattered across the white tiles and a smear of blood led to the carpet,suggesting a struggle. A wave of nausea flooded through him. He ran for the front door and bolted down the pathway, his heavy footsteps echoing against the wood of his mothers porch. The front door slammed open. “Ma! Ma!?” He tore through the house, his eyes searching frantically. “Happy? Whats wrong?” His mother stepped out of the kitchen, a cup of tea in her fragile hands. Happy rubbed his hand over his face. Both relief and fear filling his veins. “Stay inside, Ma.” “Whats going on, Happy? Why is your gun out? Wheres (y/n)?” “Stay inside Ma! I’m gonna send someone to wait with you.” He stepped towards her and kissed her cheek. He could see the worry in her eyes and he swallowed deeply, trying to stop his own emotions from showing on his face. “Be safe, Happy.” He nodded and turned away. She watched the reaper on his back as he ran down the steps of the porch as worry filled her, both for the safety of you and her son. Her tea went cold as she prayed that you both come home safely.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Almost there.” She smiled as she held Mrs Lowmans arm as she helped the elderly woman move forward along the grass. Happy smiled as he watched the two woman in his life. Finally they reached the bench and (y/n) helped his mother sit down carefully. “Taa-daaa!” (y/n) stepped away, revealing the yard her and Happy had been working on for weeks. The luscious green grass was freshly cut and rows of flowers edged the garden while the old oak tree provided shade for half the yard. The bird house Happy had built stood in the middle of the yard and already several birds were flying around it. “It looks beautiful,” Mrs Lowman smiled, her eyes gleaming as she took in the sight. (Y/n) smiled widely, flashing the pearly whites of her teeth and she met Happys eye. The afternoon sun was beginning to set and Happy studied the way the golden light illuminated the features of her face. She was so beautiful. “You two make a good team,” his mother commented and (y/n) blushed while Happy smiled. “And look, plenty of room for the kids to run around in, eh?” (Y/n) laughed and Happy rolled his eyes. “Ma!” She chuckled and gestured for him to come forward. “I’m proud of you, my son.” Happy smiled at his mother and she reached for (y/n)’s hand. She squeezed it tight. “Im proud of both of you. You really do make a good team.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jax was sat around the bar at the clubhouse, Opie to his left and Chibs to his right. Tig and Juice sat at the table and the prospects worked behind the bar. Their laughter was loud as they talked, teasing the newest prospect for his earlier mistakes when the door to the clubhouse slammed open. Happy ran inside, his eyes wide and angry. “I need your help.” Jax exchanged a glance with Chibs and both men stood. “Whats going on, brother?” “Shes gone. Someone took her-“ “Who, Hap? Your mom?” “No, my.. “ He realised he had never told his brothers about her. She was so pure and he had been afraid of exposing her to what he did. “My old lady.” “Who are you talking about?” Juice asked. All his brothers looked at him with confusion. Happy was always calm. His expression never changed whether he was cleaning his gun or shooting it. But as he stood in the clubhouse his face was filled with a mixture of emotion. Panic. Fear. Worry. Anger. “Please,I need your help. I need to find her.” “Of course, brother. We’ll get her.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She hummed to herself as she walked along the road,a brown paper bag full of groceries in her arms. A smile played on her face as she walked. Tonight was family night. She had never had much of a family and when she had moved here she never expected to find just that. Mrs Lowman had welcomed her with open arms and she was madly in love with her son. Happy Lowman was just as crazy about her too, yet the three words that constantly played on her mind had never left her mouth. Maybe tonight. She was cooking tonight and she had just finished doing her groceries and was making her way home to start on her recipe. She turned the corner in to the street she lived on and froze when she saw it. The ambulance sitting outside Mrs Lowmans house. The brown paper bag fell to the concrete, the groceries spilling out but she didn't care. She ran as fast as she could, dread filling her heart. Paramedics pushed the trolley onto the porch with a worried Happy following close behind. Mrs Lowman sat in the trolley with an oxygen mask pressed to her face. Her hands clung desperately to Happys as the paramedics rolled her down the path. He looked up as he heard her footsteps on the pavement. Her eyes were wide and she could only stare as the paramedics loaded her neighbour into the back of the ambulance. Mrs Lowman pulled the mask away from her face and just before the paramedics shut the door she spoke, her voice fragile and croaky. “Look after each other. Don’t worry about me.” The doors closed. “What happened? Is she okay?” Happy didn't say anything but his eyes spoke a million words and she was overwhelmed by the pain she saw in his dark eyes. She stepped closer to him and grabbed his hand. His hand was rough and calloused but it was warm and her hand fit his perfectly. Together they watched as the ambulance drove away. Neither of them spoke, there was no need. They only needed the comfort of each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where is she?!” Happy yelled, at no one in particular. Juice gulped and continued working on his laptop, searching desperately for anything he could find that could lead to her location. Happy paced the clubhouse, his panic only growing louder in his mind. Bobby and the prospects had gone to his mothers house and the rest of the club was scattered around the club house. Clay was on the phone to Alvarez while Jax spoke to the chinese. Everyone was doing all they could to find her, but it still wasn't enough. A cell phone rang out and Chibs answered the call. It was a brief conversation and he quickly snapped his phone shut and called across the room to Juice and Happy. “Somebody seen Darby carrying a struggling woman.” Happy was seething, his muscles tensing and his jaw clenched tight. “Im on it.” Juice tapped into his laptop, tracking Darbys phone. Happy was staring at the screen over his shoulder and as soon as the map popped up with the location Happy was out the door. Juice called to the club and they gathered around, looking at the screen before loading up on guns and heading out after Happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They walked hand in hand up the pathway to her house, bellies full from the meal she had cooked at Mrs Lowmans. She had been spending more time there and so had he, as they cared for his mother who had fallen ill once again. The night was warm and they reached the front door. They turned to face each other, his hand still holding hers. “Do you want to come in?” Happy nodded and took a step forward, closing the gap between their bodies. She looked up at him, his dark eyes gleaming down at her with a look she had began to see in his eyes when he looked at her. She swallowed as butterflies fluttered in her stomach. His breath was on her lips as his head inched closer. He dropped her hand and lifted his own, cupping her face softly. His ran his thumb across her cheek and lifted her head towards his. Her hands wrapped around his wrists, holding his hands to her face and he rested his forehead against hers. They both closed their eyes. She could smell him, the leather, the ciggarettes, the faint smell of weed. His scent filled her lungs and she licked her lips in anticipation. His lips pressed against hers. it was slow and soft and comforting in a way that words could never be. His hand sat below her ear and his thumb caressed her cheek as his lips moved against hers. Her hands fell to his chest and she clutched at the leather of his kutte. She wanted to pull away before she lost herself completely in his arms but she couldn't bring herself to do so. “(Y/n).” He whispered. She smiled against his lips. Never before had the sound of her name been spoken with such admiration and warmth spread throughout her body. Her hand released the grip on his kutte and she fumbled her way to the handle, her his still intertwined with his. They clumsily stumbled their way inside, unable to break their kiss and when the door shut behind them he lifted her and pressed her against it. She wrapped her legs around his waist and wrapped her hand around his neck, pulling him closer to her. For the first time in forever Happy forgot about the things he had done, the things he was. He savoured her lips and lost himself in the kiss. A kiss like that was a beginning, a promise of more to come. His lips left hers only for a moment and pulled away, studying her face. She blushed under his gaze and his eyes softened as he studied the curves of her lips and the burning in her eyes. “I love you.” She whispered, no longer able to hold in the words. “I know,” He whispered and pulled her in for another long deep kiss. “I love you too.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Happy ran every red light and broke every speed limit as he made his way to the old barn. The map on Juice’s laptop had shown the location and Happy recognised the road. It was quiet and the sound of his motorcycle broke through the peacefulness as he rode along the dirt road, a cloud of dust billowing out behind him. Finally he saw it, the old barn with faded red walls. There were no cars around it and Happy pulled up in front of it and jumped off his bike, letting it to fall to the ground in his haste. “(Y/n)!” He ran to the barn door and yanked it open, and the sunlight pooled into the darkened area. His eyes searched desperately as he moved through the barn, his gun gripped tightly in his hand. “(Y/n)?!” He called again. A faint moan could be heard and Happy ran towards the back of the barn. A faint trail of blood led him to her location and for a moment he froze when he saw her. She was laid against a bale of hay, her white blouse stained red and her hands clutching at the stab wound beneath her ribs. Her delicate fingers were coated in her scarlet blood and her face was pale. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes were clenched shut, slow to adjust to the sudden light in the barn. “Happy?” Her voice croaked out. He sunk to her knees beside her, his eyes wide as he took in the nightmare in front of him. Within a second he snapped out of his shock and he pulled her to him. “Im here, baby Im here.” She smiled through her dry and cracked lips. Her face was pale and clammy and her hair clung to her forehead. “Im so sorry, baby. Oh god,” He studied her wound and a wave of nausea washed over him. “Im gonna get you help, okay? Your going to be okay.” She shook her head. It took all the energy she had left to raise her hand and she cupped his face, the blood on her fingers smudging onto his cheek. “Its okay, Happy.” The pain that had burned through her like a raging fire had faded and now she only felt an icy cold numbness. Darkness clouded the edges of her vision and all she could see was the face of the man she loved. “Stay with me baby.” He begged. “Dont leave me.” Tears pooled in his eyes and he rocked her gently, holding her head against his chest. “I love you, Happy.” Her voice broke with every word she spoke and her breathing was becoming more ragged by the second as she fought through her pain. “I love you my baby girl.” Happy sobbed.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Ma? You need a hand?” Happy watched his mother as she rummaged through the drawers of her dressing table. She waved her hand at him, shooing him away. “No, go sit down my Happy.” Happy obeyed and went to the living room and sat on the sofa. Through the window he could see (Y/n), sitting in a yellow sundress, curled up on the rocking chair on her porch and her head buried in a book. He smiled as he watched the woman he loved. too engulfed in her novel to notice him watching from the window. He had never known a love like hers. To be in her company was blessing and to be loved by her.. Happy knew he was the luckiest man alive. His mother shuffled into the room and Happy stood to help her into her chair. Once she was seated she looked to her son. “I have something for you.” She opened her hand, showing a small box. “It was my mothers. I want you to have it.” Happy gulped and lifted the small box. He opened it and inspected the ring inside. “She is good for you, Happy. I see the way you look at her and she looks at you the same way.” Happy smiled, a rare blush creeping up his neck. “I wont be around forever and-“ “Ma.” “Listen to me. I won’t be around forever. I need to know that you are happy, my Happy.” She smiled at her son as he listened to her every word. “You make her yours.” Happy closed the box and slid it into the pocket of his kutte. He stood and kissed his mothers forehead. She squeezed his hand warmly. “I will, ma.”

~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the club pulled up outside the barn. Happy's bike was lying in the dirt and they hastily got off their bikes, their guns cocked and ready. One by one the brothers entered the barn. Jax was the first to notice the trail of blood and then they heard it. “No! Baby!” They followed the sound of Happy yelling but nothing could have prepared them for what they saw. Happy, knelt in the dirt, covered in blood and clutching her lifeless body to his chest as he sobbed. “Wake up!” Happy sobbed. “Please, baby.” Tears streamed down his face and his body shook. He whispered ‘No’ over and over and his whispers turned into yells as he hugged her body close to his. After a moment Jax stepped forward and he wrapped his arms around his broken brother. Happy lifted his head to the sky as a heart wrenching sob ripped from his chest. There wasn't a dry eye left as the Sons watched their Killer become something so broken, so raw. Silence fell as Happys tears began to dry out and he gently lowered her body to the fllor. He reached in his pocket and pulled the ring out. Carefully, he lifted her limp hand, her warmth already draining from her body. He slid the ring on her finger and brought her hand to his lips. He had to kiss her, one last time. While their was still warmth in her body, still warmth in her lips.. He bowed his head over her body and brought his lips to hers once more. She was so beautiful. And she was his. She would always be his.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’M SORRY.

@i-want-to-be-watered-by-roger @daniehelene27 @ichimaruai @hellsmurf96 @xsvanjasx @blustar02 @homicidalteenagedream @jaaxtellerasf @trinasoftballgirl @the-reagan-whittemore @thejulietfarciertlove

If you want to be added to the tag list for any, or all Sons please let me know.x

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