#dex.writes

[dracwife]

reverence.

ship: a taste of the divine -> dracula/ambroży

word count: 735

summary: the count shows his guest to the library for the first time.

"Have you read them all?"

He looks down at Ambroży who looks on in childlike wonder, and the other almost smiles as he continues his lead, engulfed in the mass of his cape which sways slightly as they stop walking before settling against his form. 

"But of course," he goads, lips curling into a smirk, "Many times."

Ambroży's expression glows in admiration -- he peers around the rest of the library in awe; There must be thousands of books here, more than he, no, more than any human could read in a lifetime.

Ah, Ambroży chides himself, but therein lies the difference.

He is reminded as the man next to him extends a deathly pale hand from deep within his bundled cloak, and gestures welcomingly towards the sprawling walls of texts that surely he must do something with his time alone in that castle.

"Consider it yours as much as it is mine," the words roll off of the Count's tongue with a reverent hospitality. Ever cordial, he motions Ambroży forward in front of himself and the scholar wastes no time in scouring the shelves, eye-level first, then above, soaking in every volume's title, the scent of ancient parchment and fading ink, with leather bindings and he takes particular care with every book he pulls from its place, frightened perhaps for the first time since stepping foot here in this castle not of any creature or consequence but that maybe, if he is not so gentle he may shatter the illusion and awake from a dream, a dream he is so sure he must be in, lest he truly find himself in an unending sea of tales and poetry, of science and astronomy and every other possible thing he could ever wish to learn of, and beyond that too. 

The other figure, the taller of the two reaches just above where Ambroży struggles to pull a tome from its place and easily slips it down, blowing gently the dust off opposite of where they face and gladly then into the hands of the eagerly awaiting poet, who thanks him with a rosy-cheeked sheepish grin.

The Count breathes an airy chuckle, nearly silent and gone unnoticed at all by his guest. He cannot remember the last time any person has been so truly and genuinely joyous to be in his presence, and with this one in particular there seemed to be not even the slightest sign of fear nor contempt in the way the hunters and naïve villagers held such deeply hateful emotions close to their hearts, the fear of the children dared by their friends to visit that darkly looming castle upon the horizon -- just pure curiosity. It nearly enthralls him. It has been so long since he has kept such good company, he forgets how charming humans can be in their own right if given the chance. Many other thoughts snake their way into his mind, and as it fills with contemplations, he bows his head just slightly, "I shall leave you to it, then."

Ambroży is snapped from his awe at the silvery smoothness of his host's voice. 

"I shall be just down the hall, if you need anything. I will return to escort you to your room, when you are ready."

He turns and begins his trek, but stops short at Ambroży's voice one last time, who has finally allowed his body to catch up to his mind as he quickly questions the Count.

"How will you know when I'm ready?"

"Just call for me. I assure you I will hear it."

Ambroży nods, already losing himself to thought again, but snaps back one last time:

"Count Dracula?"

"If you will be staying here, I must insist you call me by my given name: Just Vlad will do."

"Thank you, again, Vlad."

He hums; Never has his name sounded so sweet. Grins with a gentle admiring, much in the same way his guest had looked nearly minutes before.

"I don't understand why they say the things they do about you."

The vampire's brows furrow, but not in misunderstanding. He knows all too well what the villagers say about him. Rather, he is left feeling…strange by the remark. A feeling he knows, but seems so distant. Melancholic, perhaps.

Centuries in isolation will do that, he supposes.

"I will be in my study," he rushes towards the door, cloak once again flowing freely behind him in an almost hypnotic wave. Ambroży watches as he leaves, and wonders if the fabric is as soft as it looks. If perhaps it is warm, too. Then he smiles.

He could very much get used to being here.

[dracwife]

repentance.

ship: a taste of the divine -> dracula/ambroży

word count: 1084

summary: And I looked, and behold a pale horse: And his name that sat upon him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Upon the horizon is graced a soft spatter of mud, quiet at first but approaching quickly. In the rain, it almost feels like a rumbling storm that gathers. 

Distant thunder cracks, and as lightning catches a glimpse of the night, the horse retreats to the main road, its hooves echoing a cacophony of shrill batterings in the narrow street of the village; Rhythmically its beats descend upon the main square, where the horse stops, rears, and the figure atop it holds high the torch it carries. 

In the dusk glow, it is almost hard to see, but pale faces peer from windows, curtains drawn back by curious children, who are quickly swept away by fearful mothers, only the bravest of fathers dare to indulge their curiosity and even then take heed to what legends will say of the white hooded figure that rides a white horse.

The red that lines the inner of the figure's cape draws the eyes of those that dare stare, and one by one the men of households file towards the square where the figure sits, waiting.

"Foul beast," one dares to shout, "You are not welcome here."

The hood of the figure turns towards the man.

There is no response at first, and as he squints through the storm, his eyes fall on nothing but the darkness that lies within the hood. He notices then the torch the thing carries -- its flame refused to be extinguished by even the harsh torrent of weather. He gasps softly.

The figure then speaks, or rather growls with a low reverberating voice that echoes within the man's very skull.

"Fool."

He falls to his knees, agonous shrieks louder now than the rain. The thing's horse whinnies softly.

Its voice thunders through the town square, through every home, every mind. 

"The monsignor. Bring him to me."

A few of the men and a few of the women stumble about the town, hushed whispers and muted screams as quickly word spreads of the creature descended upon their humble village. The church bell tolls, and from the building creeps an elderly man, harrowing the rain as he is escorted by many panicked townsfolk to the square in which the Beast awaits him. It straightens its posture as it is approached. A flick of its hand parts the crowd in wonder, leaving in full view the monsignor and his escorting group. There is a brief moment of silence before it beckons them closer.

The creature tosses the torch down, and as soon as the handle falls from its fingers, the flame extinguishes. It clatters to the ground, and the priest furrows his brows. He watches as the creature raises its other hand, and finally draws its hood back.

Ever slowly, tauntingly -- and as it lifts the fabric and allows it to fall beyond its shoulders, revealed beneath the ghostly white face, framed with silvery hair, sunken eyes with deep purple circles outlining the eyes -- and the crowd gasps as its eyes finally scan the gathering -- a deep crimson shines within them, piercing the heart of every soul it touches.

In an instant, its hand is around the throat of the monsignor; Lifting him as though he has weighed but nothing at all, and as he gasps for air it laughs  digs its fingers into his neck. 

"You remember me, człowiek?"

The man's head turns, trying desperately to look away, but a clawed hand jerks his neck back.

"Look at me," it hisses, "You have done this."

And then it drops him. He hits the ground with a thud, a sickening snap breaking the silence that has otherwise fallen over the town square. He gasps for air. Between breaths, he mutters prayers, eyes closed and hands gripping his vestments.

The creature's head cocks. 

"Speak, if you so wish, mortal."

The monsignor's eyes open, and he drags his gaze to meet the thing on the horse's. He mutters another prayer.

"Louder."

He does. It laughs.

"Once more, helpless thing."

He heaves a shaking breath, and musters the last of his strength to raise his voice once more.

"And I looked," he starts, now on one knee, and struggling to stand, "And behold a pale horse: and his name that sat upon him was Death…"

The thing peers out to the horizon behind it. It's expression twitches unamused, perhaps repulsed, by the reading of the Holy Word. 

"...And Hell followed with him."

It turns back to the priest. In the blink of an eye, the priest stands halfway, and falls again, throat torn open and writhing in pain. Sitting above him is the creature, head tilted towards the darkened sky: From its mouth drips red, fangs as long as nails bared, and it smiles. Laughs again, a monstrous, discordant sort of sharp noise this time. When it is finished, it looks back down, over the crowd. Its tongue darts out, licks the blood that drips from its lips. 

"What more do you want?" a panicked voice stands out.

"You poor, delicate creatures," its voice raises again, casting an air of unease through the crowd again, "All of you so fragile. So ignorant."

It hums, a strident rumble from within its chest. 

"Ten years ago, you cast me out. Left to the elements, no food, no shelter. Left for Death, which I have found such sweet embraces in. And now I return, seeking reparations."

"Please --" another voice, "We will give you anything."

"Oh, yes," it chides, "You will. You will pay in blood, as I have. You will pay in fear, and in death. You will pay in such sweet suffering."

The pleads come quickly, and with hurry. Begging, offerings of material goods, services, mothers bargaining for children’s lives, husbands for their own at the peril of their wives. But it hears none, focused now on another noise:

The distant cadence of hooves yet again, and from where the pale horse came from comes a dark one. The beast extends a hand.

"Nemuritor."

"Dragă mea," the second vampire takes the first's hand. His eyes fall to the body that lay now splattered on the ground, his voice echoes within the other creature's mind. 

This is truly what you want?

"Yes," it whispers, strained and hurting.

"Then you have done well. Come. Tomorrow we leave. Tonight --" the Count takes one last glance over the gathering, now shrinking as some slink away, others stumbling, few running home as their last few moments draw near. Others stand their ground. How fun this will be.

"Tonight, îngeraș, we feast."

Translations, for those who want them:

"You remember me, człowiek?" [ mortal ]

"Nemuritor." [ Undying/Immortal. The name of Dracula's horse. ]

"Dragă mea," [ My pet ]

"Tonight, îngeraș, we feast." [ little angel ]

In addition, Ambroży here is depicted as morowa dziewica, or a plague maiden! I thought it might be rather fitting for the theme here.

[dracwife]

doctor, doctor.

ship: rue/könig

word count: 1265

summary: after pushing himself a little too hard, könig is ordered to see the base doctor.

"Doctor."

His voice was hushed, gentle, almost questioning in its tone as he stood, hulking in the doorframe.

They turn at the call, a simple response beckoning him closer, into the room. They were lucky -- the room held a soft, orangish glow to it, walls not quite white, the sterile type you would otherwise see across the barracks. It was something of a funny coincidence, the med bay being so welcoming in opposition with the feel of the other halls.

"König, an unexpected surprise."

"Ah," his voice wavers, "I was asked to see you by the Commander."

"And why ever would that be?"

The gentle giant shrugs, head bowing slightly as he seats himself on the edge of a cot, nearly ashamed in the way perhaps a scolded child would be.

"He believes I have been pushing my training too hard lately."

"Well…Have you?"

His head snaps up, eyes wide. Blue-gray swells in contrast with the dark mask he wears, the deep charcoal dusting that lines his eyes to obscure any form of his face from showing stretching to impossible size. His hood billows as he exhales in surprise.

"No! Herr Doktor, I truly do not mean to waste your time. I am fine, really, but it is just that I cannot refuse orders."

"Well still," they start, devilish smile growing, "If the Commander ordered you be examined, then examine I shall."

They approach him slowly at first, reveling in the way König sinks further into himself; Call it payback for the many times he has, in all fairness in a kindly joking manner, teased them for being so small compared to himself.

The taste of revenge is sweet on their lips as their mouth twisted into some kind evil grin. But -- as they reached him, saw the way he tapped his fingers nervously against his thigh, scraped the bottom of his boot against the concrete and avoided subtly their touch at first, their expression softened greatly.

Poor thing, he truly was frightened.

"I did not mean to upset you. I was only joking."

König nods quickly, "I know. I am not upset with you. I am just --" he pauses, fumbles with his words, "I am nervous about the Commander. Has he been watching my work so closely lately? What if he makes me take leave? Or sends me home? I cannot risk that -- I want to be here, so terribly bad."

It was in the midst of this talk that König finds himself embraced by the medic. Their arms wrap his shoulders as best the can, which is to say not very much of him, but with a gentle warmness he is enveloped by their smaller form. It seems as though formalities, for the moment, were dropped. He wraps his arms back around them, too.

"Schatz, I do not want to leave you."

"You are overthinking things again, my love. Nobody is sending you away. It's not even on the table. It's your mind telling you that, making you think the worst."

He sighs. He knows they are right.

"Though, I will still clear you to return to duty officially if it will help."

"It would ease my thoughts, yes."

They nod, smiling softly at him as they reposition themselves in his lap, moving to allow a greater access to his form.

Their palm still rests against his chest for a moment, before their fingers splay out across the broad of his chest, applying just a small amount of pressure, searching until they find finally the familiar fleeting rhythm that sends butterflies to their stomach, leaving them almost unsteady and sensitive as his hands find their way to the curve of their back to hold them closer in a flurry of tactile sensation.

"Heartrate seems normal," they murmur reassuringly.

He hums, understanding now the closeness of their actions. They observe his heartbeat for another second as it quiets from thunderous nerve to calm, collected, as he always is around them.

Their hands slide up, running gentle touches along his shoulders until they round his neck again, fingers pawing gently at the fabric of his hood. They tug slightly, pulling it back just enough to reveal his mouth, where they press a drawn-out kiss that he chases desperately, and they take in the chapped, scarred feeling of his lips before pulling away.

They grab a fistful of the fabric and in an instant pull hard, but König's hand just as quickly raises and holds his mask against his obscured face. It's a wonder that it's not torn from the force of them both, but as soon as they feel the resistance of his grip, they let go. He slides it back over his face, confused.

"Reflexes check out, too."

"Are you always so cruel to your patients?"

"Only to you, my dove."

He chuckles at the nickname, it's one he's heard often, and figures it's only his for the irony of it.

They stand then, slipping from the thighs that cage them, nearly able to compete with his height sitting so low to the ground. It is short-lived, as they motion for him to stand in a bittersweet second of triumph.

He waits, watches as they go about, ogling he's sure is a better word, though he couldn't vocalize it on account of forgetting the translation in the moment. He secedes instead to watching the far wall as they circle him, pressing hands and feathery kisses to his aching muscles, which in subconscious he finds himself flexing anyways in desperate need for approval, cheeks burning as he feels their own tensing in near-shock at just how strong he truly was for being so carefully gentle in his touches. As though they were some fragile thing, and himself an untamed beast. He finds his anxiety melt away with every press of their skin to his.

He looks back down at them.

"May I ask you something?"

"Always," they pause, one hand still on his bicep.

"You used to be called Lykho. Why?"

"A silly name. It is a wraith of which all misfortune is attributed to."

König chuckles, "They call you Rusałka now. You go from one demon to the next, then."

"It would seem so. You are familiar with the folktale?"

"Ja, though it is Nixie in my tongue. In my country, they are evil spirits, not so different from sirens. As much as I know, Rusałki are not always so ruthless. They can be helpful, too."

"In some regions, yes," they hesitate, voice growing quiet, "I would like to think I am one of them."

"I believe you to be," König replies sheepishly.

Their cheeks darken red at the compliment, but pretend not to hear it.

"I suppose it just depends on what side of their temperament the person falls on."

"And what side would I be on?" he asks, now a little louder.

"The good one, I'd think," they take a step back finally. They turn, walking towards a mess of a desk, rummaging through until pulling a piece of paper from its depths. They scribble a few notes down, folding it and upon return slipping it into the hulking hands of König before sneaking a final kiss.

"Danke, Schatz," he mumbles against their lips, before being nudged gently towards the door.

"That paper says you can return to training, but -- König, please do me one favor."

He turns his head, one hand still on the doorknob.

"You're doing great, I have heard the Commander say so himself. Please, go easy on yourself."

"Of course. Doctor's orders, after all."

"Yes," they giggle, "Doctor's orders."

[dracwife]

🎲 for summerisle. in honor of summerisle saturday.

ship: a love immeasurable -> summerisle/heidi word count: 1170 summary: howie takes issue with the nature of heidi and lord summerisle's relationship. i didn't mean for this to become a full fic.

41. a kiss out of spite.

“Surely, a man of your status and self-respect wouldn’t…” Howie lets out a nervous laugh.

“Wouldn’t…?” Summerisle prods him. Though it was little more than a question, between the two they both knew well it was a challenge, a dare even. Go on, he’s saying to Neil Howie, say it.

“Oh, come on now. You are subject to a Christian nation, as you well know. And -- and you may be teaching this heathen religion of yours to these poor, unfulfilled youth and…Well, I can allow that, because they may still see the err of their ways when they mature and get a little common sense, but you cannot run around, no matter private property or not, and spew this absolute perversion! Everywhere I look, it gets worse, but I draw the line here, I do!”

Summerisle tilts his head curiously, an amused grin tugging at his cheeks with rather disinterested eyes. The gathers his thoughts for a moment, exhaling audibly, that forced, friendly smile not for a second faltering as he stands tall, much taller than Sergeant Howie, and looks down at him as he begins.

“I fail to see what you refer to, Sergeant. I believe in the fluidity of life, its many facets altogether, in my opinion, are ever open for change. Do the flowers not bloom in spring, and wither in the autumn? Does the tide not ride high one day, and run low but hours later? The moon, even, runs in cycles, never stagnant, and that’s not even to reference the rest of our earth. The caterpillar metamorphoses into a butterfly, the egg hatches into a chick. The leaves change color through the seasons, and birds will migrate in the winter. Nature adapts to what best suits its needs, and I do believe we humans try to do the same. Who is to say what the ‘correct’ way is for us to find content in our own cycle of life? Perhaps you, Sergeant, find comfort in the routine of your own normalcy. Personally, I would much rather experience as much of what this great earth offers to me as possible. What you may call deviance, I would call the culmination of what has been offered to me. You are engaged, are you not? From what you’ve said, you worship regularly, too? As do I, dear Howie, though under different conditions I can only presume. The desire for companionship is felt all the same in either case, yours or mine, I’d imagine.”

“An outstanding misinterpretation of devotion!”

"I suspect we differ in definition, then," Summerisle rounds the den to seat himself comfortably in one of the many chairs.

Howie follows as obedient as any dog, "It is completely unnatural." 

"But it is so very human to fall in love, isn't it?"

"Not in this way. Were the investigation of Rowan Morrison not taking precedence in my visit, I would have half a mind to arrest you both now -- I will certainly be reporting this to the proper department once I reach the mainland I assure you."

"Kindly, Sergeant, I believe you might have quite the case to make -- In almost all respects besides social representation, Heidi is female, and comfortable in admitting so."

This only flabbergasted Howie further, a sputtering mess of fury and disgust, "Sexual deviance at its finest! And with all the other indecent practices I have witnessed on the island!"

"There is nothing sexual about it, quite the opposite in fact," Summerisle tuts, which pauses Howie's rant for but a moment.

"And maybe, if you kept it in the privacy of your own home, I could look past it, but --"

"Need I remind you, Sergeant, that you are in my house. And I would expect that a man of your manner would, if nothing else, respect the dignity of his hosts. I understand that perhaps you are not so accustomed to the things that you may see here, but," Summerisle, standing now, and voice raised just ever so slightly, causing an already very small-feeling Howie to shrink even more; He realized then the impossibly imposing nature of Lord Summerisle, "You would have the decency to not speak ill of my family, lest not in my own home."

Though his inflection tipped upwards, phrasing it as though it were some sort of question, it was indubitably a command, one that Howie simply conceded to as he smoothed his lapel. A terrible blow to his ego aside, he sheepishly meets the eyes of His Lordship again, whose undoubtedly alarming anger had already melted away, back into that friendly, approachable smile Howie had been invited into his manor in the first place with, "But of course, I would never think it to come to that brutish sort of insult. Heathens as you may think of us, we are still civil."

It almost frightened Howie -- seeing Summerisle swap between the two temperaments so quickly, his brows furrowed more the longer he stood thinking, if he had so easily hidden his anger, what ever else could the island be concealing?

In that moment, a third joins them in the den, carrying a small platter. They offer it first to Howie, who simply shakes his head, turns and gazes out of the window again. He feels too ill even to meet their eyes. 

Heidi, however, shrugs it off and simply wanders coolly over to Summerisle, who with a small thanks takes one of the mugs of tea.

Heidi mumbles something about being nearly out of milk, and as Howie steals a glance towards the couple he looks over just in time to see him, half bent over, Summerisle's hand resting gently against the other's cheek as he presses their lips together in a relaxed, but delicate kiss. He watches as they part slowly, in both their eyes that same look, a word he could only -- and it pained him so to even admit such a thing -- describe as reverence, with the kind of sincerity and passion that he could only otherwise ascribe to the way a servant may worship it's master. He dare not call it love, not after he argued so violently against it, but the thought prodded at him still that it may well have been the same way he looked at his own Mary, and for a second he considered that he had been too harsh. 

Heidi clears his throat though, and pulls Howie from his reflection, and murmurs about needing to visit the market -- Howie thinks he even hears an affectionate name alongside the "Murdoch" he refers to the man as, Howie makes a note of his lordship's first name finally, befitting to the rest of him -- surely referencing the mainland. He bids a quick, soft goodbye through a warm smile, bowing his head again to Howie as he exits the room, tea tray still in hand, leaving Summerisle and the policeman alone once more. The pagan watches Howie carefully, eyes sparkling with the sweet sense of spiteful victory alongside taunting curiosity, at what Howie's next move may be. 

He merely sighs, "I hope you will forgive me of my rash transgressions. It was rude of me."

"I never held it against you for a moment, my devout friend. I simply hope you may learn a thing or two during your stay."

[dracwife]

rites.

ship: curumo (saruman)/ídhril

word count: 1035

summary: idrhil and curumo get a moment alone during an elven festival. see the end for some explanations/clarifications, this has quite a bit of weird lore stuff to it that takes place far before any of the films!

They watch the feast celebration, from the far comforts of one of the high balconies of the Royal Family's Court -- Ídrhil's dwelling, granted to him for the purpose of training. In other words: His room, as appointed by the King, his father. 

He stands stiffly, next to the tall, dark-haired Maia -- a god, or as close as you could get, and yet there he too waits, next to the Woodland elf whose small commune was far from his native land -- whose bandages wrapped tightly around his torso, and who still aches in places, even after months of healing. He could, at least, walk now with ease. Together they watch the crowd that has gathered on this cool night, amongst the repurposed Elven village. A line of children, young men and women, and a few adults even stand in line, with fathers and mothers once at a time guiding their children through their ritual -- that of choosing a new name, an important step in their lives, a sign of maturity and independence. Their King stands just beyond them, the highest honor for the families that participate. 

Curumo hopes he is remembering it all correctly, for Ídrhil had explained it all rather quickly the night previous. He can barely make out the voices from afar. 

"What are they saying?"

Ídrhil mumbles a long string of something similar enough to Sindarin, not so much repeating as he is reciting. He finishes in tandem with the distant child and after pauses, raising his glass slightly.

"Drink to me, for I am born again. And alone do I walk this path in life, sure and strong will I forge ahead my own way."

Curumo hums, intrigued. 

"It is a rite of passage, then? This festival, this Mereth Nuin Giliath."

"Not so much as it is a celebration. The words, they are the rite. As is choosing a new name, befitting of your nature. It is an important part of my people's culture."

"What does yours mean?"

The elf turns his head, meeting the other's eyes.

"Ídrhil, one who longs, or desires."

"You chose this name?"

He nods, to which Curumo questions him again: "What do you long for?"

"To travel. To learn. Wandering is in my nature, it is what my clan does, but we never go far enough to meet anyone else; We do not fare well with strangers, you saw that for yourself when you awoke here. It frightens them, I think. The idea that we are not the last of our kind."

"And you?"

"I believe there are others. That there must be. I wish to find them, and even if there are not, I wish to try. There is so much out there, beyond Valinórë, and even beyond Middle-Earth. I want to go there. I want to see it for myself."

"An admirable quest. If you ever go, I would wish to go with you."

Ídrhil smiles.

"Curumo, it is Quenya, is it not? 'Skilled one,' if my memory serves."

"Where ever did you learn Quenya?"

"I would sneak out when I was young, when we would settle near the abandoned Vanyar camps. Sometimes there were scripts there -- I deciphered what I could from them. I fear my father has a far better grasp on the language than I, not that I would ever admit to him I knew any of it at all."

"In that case, I am pleased to say you remember quite well."

"Thank you," Ídrhil bows his head. When he raises it, their gazes meet again.

A moment passes.

"Curunír, in my tongue." 

"...I quite like the sound of that." He raises his glass with a smile, "Will you not drink to me, then? Is that not the custom?"

Ídrhil nods with a chuckle, sips from his cup finally. Curumo -- Curunír -- does the same. He sucks in a breath at the bitter taste.

"I've not ever tasted such strong wine."

"It is not our usual drink, I thought it might suit a Maia better than the tastes of the Tawarwaith traditional wine."

"Is that so? May I decide for myself?"

Ídrhil offers a glass that is all but empty, "I'm afraid I've had the majority of my own, I did not get much for I do not drink often --"

"That's alright," Curumo hushes him. They face each other, the light of the moon scarcely illuminating the balcony they stand on, and it is then the taller of the two takes a small step forward, with what little space between them collapsing and leans down, hesitating only slightly in anticipation before pressing his lips to the elf's.

The kiss is bitter, not in the way Ídrhil expects but in the familiar taste of the strong ale he's brought his companion -- alongside it mint, and the milk and honey of the sweet batter they'd shared earlier that evening as a traditional dessert -- and he melts deeper into the kiss as the cup falls from his hand and shatters against the marbled floor; He sighs, his hand coming to rest against the Maia's cheek and then shortly after tangles into dark hair as he indulges finally in the touch he's craved for so long. When Curumo finally pulls away, he's grinning, cunning as his name suggests and he licks the last of the wine from his own lips.

"Wine has never tasted so sweet, I think."

Ídrhil feels his face flush, and from trembling lips falls more broken Sindarin, but Curumo is smart enough to decipher it this time around --

"Kiss me again, please."

And he does, wrapping his arms around Ídrhil and pulling him close this time. He brushes a stray hair out of the druid's face just after. Neither say anything, and months of time, though but a fleeting moment in both their lives for as long as they have lived come rushing back to Ídrhil, and for once so does a future, a forever, worth living for.

"Le melin," the elf breathes, his head still resting against the immortal's.

Curumo tilts away inquisitively, awaiting again a translation, but Ídrhil does not offer one, shaking his head with a solemn smile, "Perhaps we best get back to the feast."

"If you so wish."

Silmarillion Jr., or:

A couple of translations/explanations because I know this has some weird deep universe lore to it.

Maia(r): A race of ancient immortal beings that helped create all living things.

Curumo: A Maia, who would later be sent to Middle-Earth as the much more recognizable Saruman.

Sindarin: The language of certain Elven races, generally what most people refer to as Elvish.

Mereth Nuin Giliath: Sindarin, "Feast Under the Stars."

Valinórë: The Kingdom West of Middle-Earth, where immortal beings such as elves and Maia reside.

Quenya: Another Elven language, spoken commonly in the Elves of Valinórë.

Vanyar: A race of Elves.

Tawarwaith: The Sindarin name for Wood-Elves.

Le melin: "I love you."

[dracwife]

nightmares.

ship: absolute penance -> william/heidi

word count: 783

summary: heidi wakes up from a night terror.

He hears that voice, even now. 

"Hello, Heidi."

It echoes in his mind. He closes his eyes. Opens them.

He's back in that room. He feels the pain, every last bit of it, the scars healed months ago. They open again. He's bleeding. It hurts.

He cries out. Nobody hears.

But he won. He fucking won. Why was he back here? 

The ticking. He hears it. Feels himself pulled closer to death. The razor wire digs into his skin. 

He closes his eyes. Waits for death.

Snap. Not of the wire that he desperately pulls at, cutting deeper with every movement. But a crunch, a sickening one. His arm, his shoulder, snaps. He screams in agony. 

He closes his eyes again. Opens them.

He's back in that cage, with the woman, and the boy. They're speaking to him. He doesn't hear.

"Do you have a family?" she asks through tears.

"Not really. But…I have someone. He's everything to me."

He's not speaking, but it's his voice anyways. He closes his eyes. Hears the woman cry, the boy yell.

"You killed my father, you motherfucker!"

He opens his eyes. William's there, falling to his knees. Begging for his life. 

The boy holds back tears. Heidi pleads. His voice is weak. Barely there. The boy looks at him.

"But I won't be a murderer like you."

He sobs. Both of them do. He falls into William's arms, but there's nothing there. 

Nothing but the snap again, of bone and flesh. The ticking. The cuts, deep enough to see muscle and fat, the blood covered pallor of his skin. It pulls under his legs, at his hands on the ground. He's dying. It hurts. So fucking bad. He looks towards his lover -- he's kneeling there, on the ground. Pleading. The boy looks at him. scoffs.

He pulls the lever. He's chosen death.

Heidi wakes, gasping for air. The sheets tangle around his limbs, and for a moment he thinks it's the razor wires again, pulling him backwards. His shoulder hurts as it bends at an awkward angle, he cries out. 

The bed next to him shifts with a start and the figure turns, eyes barely open but still very much aware.

"Hey, you're okay. You're alright."

Heidi looks at William through tears, even though the reassurances would usually help, they don't now. Not between the searing of his arm and the nightmare still fresh in his mind. He falls into the other's grasp, clinging desperately to his shirt, shuddering breaths shaking them both.

"It was just a dream. You're okay. We're okay."

Heidi shakes his head. Buries his face into William's chest.

"It seemed so real --"

"I know. They always do."

"You died," Heidi's voice is barely a whisper as he breathes in the soft scent of his partner's body wash, still fresh. He must not have been asleep very long. 

William falls silent. A bittersweet grin tugs at his mouth, he lets out a nervous, breathy chuckle.

"Well, I didn't. I'm here now."

His arms wrap around Heidi, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he does. He presses a kiss to the side of Heidi's neck, sighing; His breath fans the other's skin, a comfort, a reminder no matter how vague that they were alive, both of them, and safe. He mumbles something along the same line. 

Heidi scoffs, nudging away Will's head as it comes dangerously close to resting against his shoulder, which still aches with resounding pain even now. Permanent nerve damage, that's what the doctors told him. The scarring, the pain, he didn't so much mind it anymore, not even as his doctors constantly encouraged him to break, to rest, to take medical leave -- but he couldn't. Not when he so desperately needed the distraction, the company. He could handle the pain, sure. But not the fear. Not the nightmares. The anxiety, the stress of being alone, of sleeping, fuck, he couldn't even stand to hear the tick of a clock anymore without his mind screaming there was something wrong, taking him back months to relive every waking moment of that fucking torture John called salvation.

Will's arms pull him closer, cognisant now of his injury. 

"We're gonna get through this, Heids," his voice drops low as he kisses him gently, "I promise you. I love you."

"...Love you too."

They ready in silence, Heidi listening intently to the beat of William's heart as they lay intertwined on the bed.

Heidi finds himself drifting off again, but this time, in the gentle touch of his love, he finds that he does not dream of the past. He doesn't wake in fear of being alone. Instead, he dreams of their future, together.

[ tag list below ]

@iantistic @fadda @eternally-smitten @mystrunmah @shipssailing @whitefoxes @little-miss-selfships @glitched-ships @ozomatli @scout-selfships @hallo-queen-31 @aliendater @ascend-to-the-clouds @wooboomoomoo @resident-cake-anon @planeps @sosawl @ourmangarak @gideongrovel @dissonantyote @keyblade-ships @funshineharlequinz

[dracwife]

cherry waves.

ship: sing this corrosion -> heidi/jasper

word count: 1067

summary: during a frenzied moment of weakness, jasper breaks his only rule.

warnings: rated uhm. probably way too suggestive for a fic about a nos in frenzy so. be aware. also there's blood

the waves suck you in then you drown, if like, you'd just stay down with me i'll swim down with you, is that what you want?

"Shit."

The word comes falling from his lips before his fangs even break into the soft flesh they graze. 

Weak creature. The Hunger speaks to him. Do it. 

The fingers that wrap his shoulders hold him close, soft bated gasps with hot breath that clings to his cold skin below. 

His tongue is warm, licking along that same spot, that pulse; He feels his own dead heart surge with some semblance of a beat as the vitae courses his veins once more.

Yet, for all the sweet scent that attracts his teeth closer to his lover's neck something causes him hesitation. He does not do this. He has never done this. It is wrong. He told himself, for that whole long transition after the Embrace that he would never feed from a mortal. He would rather run. Would rather starve.

The Blood, the Hunger, it speaks to him.

They culminate, viscous churning into that Beast that finally comes forth. 

Oh, but you are not in control anymore, dear Damned. 

He swore he would never once harm an innocent.

But is it harm if they beg so sweetly, indulged in such intoxicating ecstasy?

His fangs sink into their flesh.

And from that first savory sip, that hazy and wonderful taste that only a lover can provide Jasper wonders if the irony of something so sinful feeling so heavenly is lost on the universe.

Their head falls back, against the dark pillow and a dazed whine climbs their vocal chords. He can feel it escape through their throat out into the open of the loft, coming tangled in ripped satin sheets and frayed blankets.

His claws tear another hole into them, but he doesn't think Heidi will much mind.

Were he not so desperate, he would feel disgusted. But every last drop of willpower he held was spent already, something about the gentle caress of his dear -- dare he say deliciously -- saporous Kine drew forth both that still very human side of him and at the same time that disgusting thing he desperately buried within the recesses of his every being. And all he can think of now was the taste of their life against his throat where the burn dampens into satiation.

Their whimpers draw him from his hazy thoughts, wanton gasps with every drink he takes as he sighs his own pleasure against their cheek.

For a moment, Jasper wonders why exactly he has never fed from a human before. 

The blood is warm in his mouth, and as it dissipates within him his heart pounds against his ribcage -- a sensation he barely remembers anymore -- and it's as he pulls away for a moment and swallows the Beast once more down to the depths of his very being that it responds in an echoing cacophony of frenzied greed and desire:

Because no other human could taste this good. 

Their hands wander his chest and if it were any other time he would shrink away, were it any other being he would push back, hiss terrible things and slink back into the night to ponder his monstrous nature these nights. 

But this was Heidi, who sang sweetly his name in a murmur as they lay in the euphoric aftermath of the Kiss below him, so vulnerable and so willing to offer themselves to him when he had no other choice.

Their head lulls to the right, exposing their neck more and they pull him closer again, dazed.

His teeth find their wound again, and again he drinks deep; Now though he has much more control over himself. The blood churns in his stomach, and the shame presses his weight heavy against the body below him. His nails drag upwards against their side, up their cheek, almost covering their eyes as he pulls their face away from him and buries his own into them further, feeling sick and powerful and wicked and so, so good at once. 

It's not long, but a few seconds, before he pulls his fangs away again and replaces them with tongue, predator to prey in a blissful animalistic aftermath, a single swipe closing the wound as quickly and easily as it was opened. But he does not move from the crook of their neck. 

Part of him feels embarrassed. He wants to flee like he did when he first felt the Hunger, but as the mortal below comes to again, their wrists grip where his hold them down. 

"Feeling better?" their voice is still low, speech slurred as their brain struggles to coordinate their thoughts coherently. 

"Much." His voice is but a growl, but still he treats them so delicate as he untangles himself from their grasp, pulling away and leaning back onto the bed next to them. He pulls them close, cradling their head and back gently as they come down from the foggy high. 

He worries for a moment he drank too much and he already feels compelled to flee having broken his only rule, but the tug against his tattered dark shirt shakes the suggestion. There they lay, tranquil lovers in a moonlit serenity that filters through the near window. 

They relax deeper into his touch, not so used to how warm he feels after he feeds and he almost resents it.

They mumble praises, affections, absolute devotion and had he not heard them so often before he would attribute it to the Kiss' inherent intemperance on victims. 

"Tell me that again tomorrow night," he wants to say. Because he doubts himself, or because he realizes then how much he misses this -- this warmth, this intimacy -- he does not know. He forces himself to focus on the more pleasant feeling that tingles on his lips still, lips that he licks clean the last of the blood from, and presses against theirs as they look upwards with love-drunk wonder, and he allows himself for the first time since his Embrace to truly be seen, and he sees them fully back. He regrets having to ask so much of them. He kisses them again. Rests his head against theirs. He could wait until tomorrow to debate his convictions. 

For now, he whispers apologies, and holds them close for they have given him something no other mortal has, something he has never given anyone the chance to, and he remembers what it is to be human: 

It is to love, and to be loved.

[dracwife]

pedantic.

ship: about this dream & you → mickey/tim

word count: 960

summary: Tony settles an argument between Mimi and Tim. Based on a little idea I had for those pre-case interactions we see<3

The elevator dings, and Tony checks his watch. 8:45, that should mean that…

"Tony, I'm not pedantic, am I?"

"Good morning, Timmy," he smiles. Right on cue. 

"Right?"

Tony pauses, squints. He looks Tim over curiously, the way his backpack is slung over his shoulder half-hearted, his jacket draped over his arm. His annoyed, pleading face staring down at him, mouth slightly agape. Tim shakes his head and furrows his brows, waiting for an answer.

"Not at all, my dear friend. Why ever would you think such a thing?" Tony finally leans back in his chair, offering the other agent a moment to let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Thank you!" he huffs, and continues towards his desk, dropping his bag and retrieving his things from his desk drawers. He shakes his head in disbelief, disgruntlement.

"He asks because that's what I told him he is," the third voice joins them finally, "It was very mean of you not to hold the elevator for me."

"Oh," Tony sighs, watching the dark haired man round the corner into the bullpen.

"Mickey called you pedantic?"

"Because he is."

"Tony said I'm not," Tim gestures towards him, almost like a child, desperate to win the argument.

Tony grimaces, "Actually, he's right. You are pedantic. Like, so, totally, very extremely pedantic. All the time."

"What?" Tim's voice almost cracks. His head turns toward his friend, confused and possibly betrayed, "I am not!"

"Like a middle-aged school teacher with a classroom full of over-hyped kiddies holding a stack of worksheets and an eternal grudge over stolen youth, my friend." 

"You just said I wasn't!"

"I lied," Tony offers gently.

"Why would you lie to my face?"

"You see, McMeticulous, it's a bit like picking on those same little middle school kiddies. You bully the same one for so long, it gets a little boring," Tony tilts his head, offers an apologetic gaze, "You almost get to feeling bad for the kid after a couple of years, cause he never fights back. You throw him a bone once in a while."

"This is unbelievable! What else have you lied to me about?"

"Oh, so much, Tim. But it made you feel nice every time, didn't it?" Tony's words cover his laugh for a moment, but that toothy grin that grows as he speaks still shines through. 

"You see, Tony, this morning," Mickey exaggerates every word, "I couldn't find my hairbrush. So instead of wasting our time, lest we be late --" his head snaps towards Tim, who's now sat carefully at his desk, glaring back, "I just borrowed my dear boyfriend of nearly six years', you know, assuming that because we've been together so long," the pitch of his voice slowly rises, "Maybe he wouldn't mind so much. But apparently in doing-so I committed some heinous sin against humanity!"

"I just don't like when people borrow my brush, okay?"

"Tim, for god's sake we share a bed! We share clothes! We share pillows and hats and we drink from the same coffee cup every morning! Oh my god, we even shared a toothbrush when you left yours at home on that case in Florida last month! And I can name a million other things we share besides that, but to be quite honest with you I don't think Tony wants to hear about those."

"Maybe I do," his voice chimes in.

"I don't," the final voice interrupts them.

"Gibbs, would you please tell Tim he's being ridiculous?"

The man in question rounds the corner, and makes his way to his own desk, quietly. He looks over towards Mickey with a smile, and tilts his head for a second, that sort of half-head shake he's so used to being given.

"I just don't like people moving my things, okay? And…It's a very expensive brush. And Mickey has very…Tough knots when he gets out of the shower sometimes. It's made for gentle hair."

"Expensive gentle-hair-only brush? That's…So very McGee of you, McGee," Tony mumbles, his brows furrowed in confusion. 

"And so pedantic. It's not even an insult. It's just fact."

"And you --" Tim turns to Mickey, "I didn't hold the elevator because you stopped to get coffee." His voice lowers, "I'm sorry."

"Well, it was still mean," the other pouts, and passes cups to the other two agents, and places another on Ziva's empty desk in the assumption she'd be in at any moment before finally approaching the corner where he and Tim's desks sit, touching in some sort of broken L, in perhaps the most ironic and sickeningly-cute ways they could have possibly been arranged; And in six years, neither of them had ever questioned it. Mickey holds out the last cup to his boyfriend.

"You still got me coffee?" Tim looks up at him. Those stupid puppy eyes, Mickey could never resist them, and he almost hates himself for it.

"Well…Yeah. I've never not gotten you coffee, no matter how mad I am at you. Besides, you're gonna give it to me in three sips anyways. You always do."

Tim almost smiles, and takes the cup.

"Thank you."

Mickey shrugs, and tries to hide his grin back. Tim glances over at their boss, who seems preoccupied with whatever was on his monitor at that moment. He glances to the side, where Tony sits relaxed, inspecting his coffee. He glances towards the elevator, where he sees Ziva finally joining them. Then he looks towards Mickey, who has finally sat down, and propped his feet onto his desk, keyboard in his lap, and checking his email. Tim pulls up his own, enters the recipient, and types out just three words before hitting send.

Mickey blinks, puzzled for a moment. Clicks something. 

And then he smiles.

[dracwife]

caramel coffee.

ship: about this dream & you → mickey/tim

word count: 923

summary: Tony suspects that McGee's got a girlfriend.

tw for suggestiveness ?? definitely for Tony's terrible use of euphemisms

There's only one thing Tony hates more than Monday mornings, and that's early Monday mornings.

So, when certain probationary field agents chipperly waltz their way into the office with a "Good morning, Agent DiNozzo!" at a brisk seven in the morning, he takes personal offense. 

"Well you seem awfully happy today."

"Well, it's a good morning, Tony."

He frowns. It most certainly is not. And for someone to be so insistent usually means only one thing.

"No…Something is different. I know that pep-in-the-step attitude. The oozing confidence. The smug look. Why, Agent McGee, did you meet a girl?"

Tim looks at him curiously, "Uh, no, Tony, I did not."

Tony laughs, "Oh, yes you did! What's her name?"

He almost responds, but it's then that Mickey walks in. 

"Good morning everyone."

"Oh, not you too."

"Huh?"

"Probie's got a girlfriend."

"He does?"

"I don't," Tim stresses.

"Okay," Mickey chuckles, and Tony carefully watches as he presents each of them with their usual morning coffee. Then, he rescinds to his desk and takes a sip from his own cup.

"A-ha!"

"...They're a decent band."

"No, don't you try your little forensic mind games on me."

Mickey sighs, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't drink coffee!"

"I do sometimes."

"No, you don't."

"It's early Tony."

"Need the energy? Up late last night? Not much sleep? Special Agent Joysz, have you finally found the one?"

The other agent scoffs, and shakes his head. Oh, how little he knew. 

"Maybe he was just being nice, Tony. You could learn a thing or two," Kate finally acknowledges them.

"I had a craving for caramel," Mickey's voice is low, almost vitriolic.

"Sure. Hey, that's fine," Tony taunts him, "I bet it's great alongside sweet, sweet victory."

Mickey raises an eyebrow.

"You both scored last night, and I want details."

"Over my dead body."

Neither Kate nor Tim interrupted as the two senior agents bickered. 

"So you did!"

"No. But even if I had, you'd be the last person to know."

"Kate, you're awfully quiet."

"I have no interest in harassing our co-workers, Tony," she doesn't look up from her desk, though the sly smile she hides urges Tony to further indulge his torture.

"That's a lie. You know something I don't."

"I really don't," she chuckles.

Tony springs from his desk, suspiciously eyeing the others, "Something fishy is going on with this team. And I will figure it out!"

"Here's lookin' at you, kid," Mickey puts on his best Bogart.

"Okay wiseguy, in that case I'll start with the weakest link," Tony pauses, "Probie! What's her name?"

"Tony, I don't --"

"Do not lie to me!"

"It's personal…?" he offers hesitantly.

"Wrong answer. So what was it? Dinner? Date? Hookup? Booty call?"

Tim stutters, shakes his head.

"So it was a hookup? Adult naptime? Churning butter? Knocking boots? Gland-to-gland combat? Two person pushups? Bumping uglies? No pants dance? Assault with a friendly weapon?"

Mickey rolls his eyes and interrupts finally, "For the love of god, Tony, he was with me last night."

Tony stops, utterly confounded, "...With you?"

"Yes, Tony," he repeats slowly, "Tim very kindly offered to run me through a high level dungeon last night. It took a while. We were up late. Hence the coffee that I never drink."

"Nerd stuff?" his face falls, "You got my hopes up over nerd stuff? Why wouldn't you just tell me that off the bat? That's way more boring than what I was thinking…Actually why would you tell me at all? You ruined my possibly exciting morning, Mickey."

"I apologize for cutting your disgusting imagination short, Special Agent," he mocks his partner, "You know, if it was just me, I would've let you go on all day. But I think if Agent McGee here had to hear one more euphemism," his voice lowers to a near-whisper as if to spare the man next to him the embarrassment, "He might've exploded."

They both glanced towards Tim, who sat quietly, red-faced and wishing very much that he was back at his dark, dingy, and most importantly solitary Norfolk office. 

Mickey's phone beeps, and after a second of reading, he gets up. 

"Abby needs help moving stuff down to the evidence locker. I'm gonna go do that."

Tony finally retreats to his desk, disappointed in his discoveries.

"McGee, why don't you come with? I can show you where it is, how we log everything."

"Uh, sure."

Mickey smiles, and motions towards the elevator, where they walk towards. They walk in silence, until they round the corner, just out of earshot of the others.

"You…Are very bad at lying, Tim."

"I panicked."

"I know. And you can't do that. Don't let Tony get to you. Just play it cool. He'll let up eventually. Or get some better excuses."

"Abby doesn't actually need our help, does she?"

"No, no, she does. But I'm also hoping she brought her makeup with her."

"Her makeup?"

"Oh, yeah," Mickey reaches over him to press the floor of Abby's lab, "Cause that hickey on your neck? It isn't going away by itself. And if Gibbs sees that, you're on your own."

Tim freezes, the color draining from his face.

The elevator closes, and Mickey laughs. 

Tony looks curiously towards Kate, tapping his pencil against his desk.

"You don't think they actually…?"

She finally laughs. The profiler in her wants so badly to speak out, but she bites her tongue. Just as Mickey asked her to, when she confronted him a week ago.

"No, Tony. I don't."

[dracwife]

a match into water

ship: about this dream & you → mickey/tim word count: 765 summary: tim asks mickey about his scars. tw for implications of (past) selfharm, set early on in the relationship.

Timothy McGee did not fancy himself a particularly nosy person. Perhaps a tad oblivious, at times, but never so much as to overstep boundaries. He certainly was no Tony DiNozzo, overly intrusive and terribly persistent, nor was he any Leroy Gibbs, with the cold hard stare that would coax any secret out tumbling terrified into the open. It was with no malicious intent did he on occasion peruse Tony's desk drawers in search of uncovering what he so curiously and frequently tucked away in there, nor with any ill will did he capture a glance at Abby's texts after she so enthusiastically expressed in anticipation of her evening plans; Rather, it was his curiosity that so often led him down these paths. And never once did he intend to step on toes, or interrupt conversations, or allow it to steal his focus. No, his curiosity is what made him such a good investigator. And what good of an investigator would he be if he did not ask questions?

He was not afraid to ask them, nor was he naive, simply curious. And maybe that curiosity led him astray down paths he should not have so eagerly crossed, but for the better or the worse, he did traverse them.

And one such path, for once he almost regretted, when with anxious interest did he approach Mickey, who stood back turned to him in the kitchen of his own apartment. 

He watched him for a moment, from just into the den, from the doorway to the bedroom where he had barely a view of the other man. He was wearing Tim's shirt, something that did not go unnoticed, which left most of him regrettably bare; He caught a glimpse again of Mickey as he bustled about, gathering snacks and bowls. 

Tim'd be lying if he said he didn't feel a particular sort of fondness for the way the other found himself so at home here. He walked slowly towards the kitchen, and rounding the corner he finally saw the other man in full -- he let himself take in every patch of exposed skin, hair still damp from the shower, the way his head fell to the side as he hit 'Start' on the microwave. 

Tim wondered if it was out of line to ask. But that curiosity irked him more than the anxiety pressed.

The other turns, "Did you set up the movie?"

Tim nods, smiles. Pauses. 

"Can I ask you something?"

Mickey shrugs. "Anything."

He's unsure how to ask. Not outright. His head tilts to the side, he opens his mouth. Closes it. His brows furrow.

"Have you ever…Been hurt on the job? Like, seriously hurt?"

Mickey looks at him, confused. 

"Rolled my ankle once, while training. Hurt like hell. Uhm…" He thinks back. "Broke my wrist tackling a suspect. That sucked."

"That's all?"

Mickey chuckles under his breath, a nervous laugh, afraid to answer incorrectly maybe. 

"Uh, yeah. That's all. Why do you ask?"

Tim's eyes fall to the counter. "Just…Curious."

"You always are."

"I --" he stops himself. Whatever brevity and bravery he'd been so used to having was suddenly gone. He never really felt the need to keep them around when it was just them, alone. But maybe now would've been a good time to.

He finally resigns whatever mask he so desperately tried to fit to his asking. "I noticed the scars. I'm sorry for asking."

"Oh."

"They're not -- I really shouldn't have asked, I didn't mean to bring up anything, any -- Memories, or…I don't mean that they're…They're not distracting, or, or --"

"Ugly?"

"No! God, no. No, that's not what I meant. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. I don't mind."

Tim waited, but so did Mickey. They stood in silence briefly. Solemnly.

"They're old. They used to be much worse."

"...The uh…The wounds must have been pretty deep."

"Yeah. Yeah, they were."

Tim's fingers find their way underneath Mickey's chin, and push gently up, tearing his gaze from his arms. 

"I didn't mean to be intrusive. You don't have to talk about it."

"I know," Mickey's answer is quick. Too quick, maybe. He softens his voice, "I know."

Tim uses his leverage to press a gentle kiss to Mickey's lips. His other hand finds its way to Mimi's own, tense and anxiously fidgeting fingers intertwine with stable. Tim's thumb runs softly over the rough skin of the other's wrist in reassurance.

"Maybe one day?" he asks. It's understanding, not urging in the way Mickey's used to people asking. Something sweeter. Quieter. More delicate. 

"Maybe one day." 

He answers in kind. A promise. 

[dracwife]

stay for tonight, if you want to.

ship: about this dream & you → mickey/tim word count: 1628 summary: what's a ship without that first meeting fic am i right. i promise the sequels will be more interesting.

"That is a complete abuse of power," Kate's exasperated voice chides him.

Mickey shoves his hands further into his pockets, "She's right Tony, you can't just lie to the guy."

"Sure I can. I'm Senior Field Agent."

"We were hired at the same time."

"And you very kindly relinquished the title to me alone! Besides, he's new. He expects to be abused."

Mickey stops walking, head tilting to the side in annoyed contemplation. Tony's confident stride falters, and he catches a second glance back towards his partner. 

"What -- Mickey, what are you doing?"

"Rule of twos, Tony. I'm staying."

"Mickey, if this is some ploy to get me to say nevermind…"

"No," his voice is high, he holds his hand out and shakes his head, "Not at all. I wouldn't want Gibbs to be upset that our scene wasn't handled properly. After all, he's new, like you said. No, I think I'll stay here with him. But you better hope you can get someone else here quick, you know how awfully cranky I can be on no sleep." His smile is nothing less than that shit-eating grin Tony knows all too well. He sighs, grabs Kate's elbow gently, and nudges her forward again as they continue their trek to the van.

"You know he's doing it just to piss you off, right?" she's almost laughing, knowing smirk taunting Tony as he walks, brows furrowed ahead.

"No. He's doing it to piss me off, and because he has a crush on Agent McGee."

Mickey watches them walk away with a satisfied smile. His hands finally drop to his sides again, and as the weight of his decision finally sets in worm their way into his jacket once more. He turns, slowly at first, head down and kicking the ground as he walks to the curb, and falls exasperated onto it. His elbows rest on his knees, head on his palms as he watches his team walk away -- without him. There's almost something sad about it, but as he thinks more of it he figures it's just the bitterness of the consequences of his own rash decision that's really getting to him. If anything, there's comfort in knowing he did the right thing, unlike Tony. And perhaps Kate in her compliance…If only he was as willing to cooperate.

"Oh, uhm, Special Agent Joysz, right?" he hears the politely inquisitive voice behind him. 

"That's me," he sighs. 

"Are -- Are you waiting here with me?"

"I guess I am, Agent. I guess I am."

"Is this…Is this SOP for you guys?"

Mickey's head turns, he glances up towards the man that's standing above him. The way he's so happily wearing that stupid hat so proudly, the genuine curiosity in his eyes, there's almost a naivety to him that makes Mickey chuckle.

"Not at all, Agent McGee."

"But Agent DiNozzo said --"

"I know what he said. Call it his cruel sense of humor."

"...Oh."

"Sit. Talk with me. We'll be here a while."

"Oh, I don't think I should…" 

Mickey rolls his eyes. Oh, to be new again, still strapped to the manuals and rules, the handbooks and procedures, clinging to them like they were life itself.

"Stand, then. Whatever works."

There's a lull in the conversation, but it doesn't seem uncomfortable. An almost invisible kinship, two sides of the same coin. Not naivety, he decides. But perhaps a hopefulness. A trustfulness, willingness to learn. A want to. He remembers his time as rookie, before he made his own path to the man he was now, sitting on that curb. He glances back again, quicker this time. Sees that same spark he knows he had years ago. A want to do right, in all senses of what that may be, or maybe what anyone might tell him is.

"You're not much of a field agent, are you?"

"I…Do a lot of…Office work. Files, computers, mostly."

"You can just say no," Mickey smiles, "I'm not going to judge you for it."

"Sorry, Sir. You're right."

"Don't call me sir. Just Mickey will do."

"Sorry."

He wants to say And stop apologizing, but with the way the agent looks at him as their gazes meet, he feels it might not be worth the effort; He can tell it's going to take longer than a single reminder to break such habits.

"First job?"

"No, I've worked a couple of cases before."

"I meant NCIS."

"I graduated not long ago, yes."

"From?"

"MIT -- Bachelor's, Digital Forensics."

"A little old for a Bachelor's, no?"

"Uhm, Master's in Biomedical Engineering."

"MIT again?"

"Johns Hopkins."

Of course it was.

McGee pauses. Tugs at the sleeve of his jacket.

"Impressive," Mickey finally mumbles. He cards a hand through his hair, which has fallen in front of his face. 

"What about you?"

"...Been here a while."

"Did you ever…"

"Go to college? Yeah. Forensics too, actually. Bio and psych. Criminal Justice minor. But it was no MIT, that's for sure. Was with the FBI first, actually. Interned there. Worked CSI with them a bit. Transferred to their Special Tactics unit for a bit. Got tired of it, requested a transfer back to field work. Ended up here."

"Wow. That's…A lot. Even for someone your age."

"I'm only 26, McGee."

"...So am I, though."

Envy emanates off of them both, but their distant stares, needing to see anything but the other, the now awkward silence and gap between them keep it from ever crossing the air enough to notice. 

Mickey lays back. The concrete is cold and hard on his head, but the night sky is terribly pretty when you have an open view of it. Too bad there's a surprised and nervous agent staring at him, blocking his view.

"Are you okay?"

"I'd be better if you moved about a foot to your left."

He does, after a moment of hesitation.

"So…What else do you do then?" he begins counting the stars.

"Paperwork, mostly. Like I said."

"In your free time?"

"Oh. Not much."

"You have to do something."

"Well, what do you do?"

"That's no fair. I asked first," Mickey grins, but understandably answers -- he can only imagine how strange it must be, to be asking such personal questions to a man you scarcely know. But his curiosity got the best of him -- and perhaps his heart too, the man was terribly cute, especially the way he so thoroughly answered every question thus far, tried his best to be helpful even when it was something as silly as engaging in friendly conversation. But Mickey speaks anyways:

"I do a little of this and that -- Music, mostly. I write sometimes, but I'm better at the lyrics than I am the music part. And I've been trying to understand the whole Speedrunning thing lately. Like in video games, y'know? But I'm not very good at it," he reminisces for a moment, and then grumbles to himself, "I guess I should probably just stick to playing normally."

Now he had McGee's attention.

"What game?"

"Sonic Adventure."

"...You have a Dreamcast?"

"Yeah. Controller's a bit old, though. B button sticks. It makes things a hell of a lot harder."

"I think I might have a spare."

Mickey raises an eyebrow, cautiously, "You play?"

"I used to. Not so much into consoles anymore. Not primarily, at least. I think PC is where the future's headed."

"Digital forensics, you would say that, wouldn't you?" Mickey teases, "What do you play, then?"

His answer is quick, enthused, so unlike that cautious rookie he's been talking to before, "I've been getting into more RTS games lately. Still kind of surface level, but I think I have a decent grip on the concept."

Mickey hums, and counts a few more stars, tries to remember the constellations, "I always have wanted to get into those. But I never feel like I'm smart enough for it."

Finally, the other man joins him in sitting on the curb. Mickey sits up, offers half a smile. 

"Well, I think you seem pretty smart. And…It's Tim, by the way." 

His smile grows, and it's genuine. 

They talk, for what seems like forever, and Mickey even finds himself laughing from time to time. He's forgotten entirely about his annoyance with Tony, and even just for a second, doesn't so much regret offering to stay, as much as he is sort of grateful he did. Their conversation is flowing, and easy, and though deep down Mickey knows it's against his own best interests, he lets himself enjoy it. He allows himself to keep prodding, asking questions, smile and laugh, and to see the smile of the other, indulge in the feeling of a silly schoolboy crush on the man he'd only just met, that kid in him that never seemed to grow up, that never got a chance to. And maybe it'd break his poor heart one day soon, but if the spark of happiness it gave him in that moment was perpetual until that very minute, he was more than willing to risk the pain, for he figures that was a bridge he'd just have to burn when he got to it.

Neither notice the van that arrives, nor the two agents that step out and approach them, to relieve them of their duties. 

"Before you go, Tim --"

"Hm?"

"...That spare controller, was that…An offer?"

"Sure. If you want it to be. I can drop it off to you when I submit my report after this is over."

Mickey's about to say something, something horribly stupid probably, in his ignorant bliss, but stops himself.

"What about lunch, instead? Y'know, to make the trip all the way to our office worth it."

Tim smiles for a moment, and nods.

"Yeah, okay. To make the trip worth it."

[dracwife]

🎲 for whoever you're feeling most right now? -@softtransbf

the generator gave me...

16. a kiss in the rain.

The cat sits in the doorway to the balcony, eyes wide and looking upwards. Its gentle chirping is no match of course for the rumbling skies above. It begins pacing, slender legs buried in tufts of dark fur that stands on end with a flicking tail that drags along behind it; It's a rather large animal, taking up the majority of the doorway with each step and as it reaches one end it turns on its heels, carving figure-eights into the ground with outstretched claws.

Its ears perk at the footsteps that approach, but rather than turning it simply stops pacing, one paw still suspended, and through sharpened teeth it produces a low growl at the imminent weather.

"Yes, it does look like rain," the arms that lift him are sudden, "You were quite on edge earlier, I was wondering why."

In that moment, the clouds thunder again, and the noise of drizzle on the tower's walls echoes between them.

The feline mewls, batting at the air before wriggling its way around in the wizard's grasp and stretching, a low hiss escaping from it before he sighs and drops it down, where it lands with a gentle thud, followed by the patter of nails against the floor as it darts back to the doorway. He turns slowly, until he sees the tall, slender limbs of elven descent reached with one arm outstretched to the outside.

"I hate the rain," Ídrhil states simply. He was not acclimated to the climates outside of Valinórë, and at this point he suspected he might never be. Rarely was the weather in his homeland anything less than sunny, perhaps a day of overcast but not ever much of anything beyond that in the harvest season.

"It's not so terrible."

The druid huffs. Maybe he could stand the rain, but what truly bothered him was the heat, the sticky sort of air that clung his clothes to his skin, that forced him each night to peel his shirt from his back or his armor from his body with heaving breaths, that stuck his hair to his forehead and caused his nose to run.

He feels the same hand that lifted him earlier now on his back, easing him forward slightly. He takes a weary step forward out onto the balcony and for a moment remains dry, but soon is nearly soaked. With a yelp, he backpedals, but finds himself colliding with the other man -- one who laughs, and steadies his beloved.

"It is terrible! Now move, Saruman, or else I will move you."

An empty threat, that much both of them knew. When the wizard simply looks down at him, half a smile on his face, Ídrhil sighs in defeat, and resigns to looking out over Isengard from the tower, leaned back against the other.

"Do you remember the day we met again?"

"Of course," Ídrhil feels the low rumble of a response against his back.

"It was a day much like this one, if memory serves."

"It was," Saruman pauses, "And you had just as much of a fit over the rain then as you are now."

"I don't remember it that way."

"In part, I hope, because my solution was to distract you."

"Oh?" Ídrhil cocks his head, glancing back.

But wiry fingers catch his chin, bodies winding around until they face each other once more, the rain dampening their clothes and each their hair. Ídrhil's breath catches in his throat for but a moment before chapped lips press against his own. His eyes flutter closed, hands grasping at the pale fabric of his lover's robes, but he still leans into the kiss, a rare affection anymore.

The elf grins before he even pulls away, chuckling softly, "Ah. I do remember that."

Saruman shifts his weight, giving the other more than enough space to return to the tower interior, but Ídrhil does not take it. Instead, he scowls at the arrogant smirk the Istari wears as he gazes downwards at him.

"Perhaps your hatred of the rain is misplaced."

"No," Ídrhil still holds a fistful of fabric, though he moves away just enough to speak, "I still dislike it. I just find being in it if I have your company to be...a tolerable alternative."

[dracwife]

ship: sing this corrosion -> jasper/calypso

word count: 401

summary: jasper risks breaching the masquerade, just to see calypso. for safeshiptember day 2: masquerade

"What the hell are you doing?"

"You weren't answering your phone."

Calypso pushes the man into a nearby booth, very quickly taking their spot next to him, propping up a menu to cover their faces in a very unsubtle rush.

"Jas, you can't just walk into my work -- Someone's gonna see you!" they hiss.

"Me? You sent me a text just saying 'Emergency,' and you expect me to not show up?"

"Well, if you would've texted me back you would've known it's cause I left my hair tie at home."

Jasper stops, dumbfounded.

"Emergency? Over a hair tie?"

"I needed it for my outfit."

"I thought you were in danger, Heids."

"You need to stop taking things so seriously, Jas."

The Nosferatu sighs, pulling his hood closer around himself, then leans back. He crosses his arms, head falling to the side to look at his partner.

"I was worried about you."

Heidi's stubborn frustration melts away, their heart sinking.

"I know, Jas. I'm sorry, I just -- I want to be normal again. As normal as they can be, at least. I want things to be like how they were. When --"

"You were human?"

Calypso nods. 

"Yeah, I used to wish that too."

Calypso looks over towards him, towards the cracked skin and dark eyes that set in sunken sockets, deep darkened circles surrounding them. He pulls at a frayed string on his sweater, with bony claws and frowns, sharpened fangs poking just over his bottom lip. Calypso leans against him, heart aching knowing that even now, they had more than he could ever have -- the freedom to walk amongst the living. Their thoughts wander to him, as they most always do and they feel bad for even being angry; To a man that had so little, of course they would have been important, of course even something so small as a text would have caused alarm. And he couldn't take that chance.

"I really am sorry, Jas. And I appreciate you coming up to check on me."

He grunts an acknowledgement, but Calypso notices how he leans into their touch.

"Say, why don't you stay a while? It’s our Halloween party tonight -- I don’t think people will pay much attention if you hung around for a while.”

“You’re just saying that cause you feel bad.”

Calypso smiles, leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Also because I love you.”

[dracwife]

if i'm james dean, you're audrey hepburn, so baby let's make a movie.

ship: about this dream & you → mickey/tim

word count: 748

summary: the kiss fic, if you will. i will not stop stealing from this song for titles, either. btw.

He hadn't meant to. He really hadn't. 

He didn't even notice himself staring at his lips until they were pressed against his own. He was confused, at first. But then, he's savored the feeling. He tasted like cherry, the sweet kind you get in the middle of summer. Red wine, too, but he figures that's the Merlot they shared over dinner. 

He sighs, brow furrowed and his hands, before he can stop them are on the other's hips -- how has he gotten here? It wasn't meant to be like this, not now. But the way he'd been standing there so willfully charming, charismatic, that smile. A soft goodnight, brush of the hand, almost longing glance, and he'd found himself so desperately desiring to stay. There's an irony in it, something about full-circle, the need, the want to stay.

But how does he? 

He's leaned down, just slightly. Cautious, hesitant. His breath brushes the others mouth, his gaze is stuck there, eyes half closed; He's hoping, but afraid. Giving the other more than enough to pull away, but he doesn't. His heart's thudded in his chest, and he's still but then he feels the hand on the back of his neck, fingers that brush his hair, the nose that brushes his just before the gap between them is closed, and bodies pressed together they kiss there, in the night's air and on the doorstep, and it's wonderful. 

Tim feels something in his chest, a strange sort of warm feeling, and it's reassuring as he pulls Mickey's waist closer. He isn't sure how he's fallen, but he knows he has, and hard. Sudden, too, but so little does he know that the other feels just the same, perhaps even faster; He can't recall how long it's been since he's wanted this, for his heart's run away with his head and it's surely not coming back any time tonight. 

When Mickey finally pulls away, for a second, Tim finds himself nearly falling forward, chasing the other's movements for a second in the desperate attempt to maintain that soft, warm feeling spreading through his veins. 

He feels that haze of want and maybe even loneliness, he can't recall the last time someone's kissed him quite like this, and maybe he's selfish for wanting more. 

Tim's mouth falls open slightly. He's trying to find the words to say, something that isn't "Can I stay?" or anything he might regret when he's in a sober headspace. Not that he's drunk, not off of the wine, at least, but the tingling of his mouth and the pounding of his heartbeat that he hears as much as feels and the way he almost seems dizzy and dazed makes him wonder, no, makes him sure that he's not as rational as he might be at any other time. 

He's not sure what's come over himself. Well, he is, but it's not something he's quite willing to admit yet; All he knows is that the way Mickey's looking at him, tightening his grip on the back of the collar of his shirt, standing so quiet, but saying so much -- 

Tim finds himself pulled forward again, in a kiss just as desperate as the first and when Mickey tugs gently at his hair, he finds any inhibition he may have held long tossed away.  Whatever grip this other man held over him, it was intoxicating in the most enjoyable way, and by the way he still held so close, he figures that the other felt largely the same way. He almost smiles at the thought. 

"I should go," he murmurs against Mickey's lips, prying himself gently from the fingers of the other.

The other pauses. Debates. Tim's hoping that he'll argue. And he does.

"Don't. Stay."

He wonders if it's a wise choice to agree. He ponders, reminds himself that he doesn't do these kinds of things, the flings, the one night stands. And he remembers that he's not exactly a lucky guy, not in love. He doubts for a second if any of this is even real -- but then he remembers who he's with. The way Mickey presents himself, who he is. Tim can't imagine he's one for the sort of non-committal things, either. Something in him tells him it's not going to be one of those times, that it's not what he's stepping into. Suddenly, those feelings he's pushing away seem a lot more real. And they answer for him.

He nods. Kisses Mickey again. 

"For tonight, if you want."

[dracwife]

just a story.

ship: about this dream & you → mickey/tim word count: 601 summary: Everyone is asleep quick post the Tim writes Mickey into his next novel ficlet

...And then, of course there was McKenzie Jasinski. His partner, in both solving crime and in navigating their combined hectic stream of life. A novel sight surely, whose penchant to catch eyes made most others' looks pale in comparison.

McGregor could never quite narrow what exactly it was about his partner that drew the attention of the others. 

Perhaps it was the strange air of mystery McKenzie carried, whose long dark hair covered the angular jaw underneath -- not quite as sharp though as the tongue that so often spat sarcastic but also helpful remarks or spurred on McGregor's oft bizarre imagination on cases, or the scar that ran across the rightmost of high set cheekbones and struck many as both alluring and daunting, drawing so much attention to those hazel eyes that held such kindness, yet so much pain behind them. Between that, and the perfectly toned muscles, from the collarbones that peek just from beyond that ragged t-shirt McKenzie wears every night, to the deft fingers that so precisely take apart and clean the Glock that rests on their kitchen table, standard issue for their team of course. 

They had been friends for years, and yet there was still so little he knew about his partner. 

They lived together, in a small one-bedroom apartment shoved in the corner of some cheap New York neighborhood, tucked neatly away from the bustle of the city that never slept, but just near enough to offer astute observation of the town for either of them. They stayed up late most nights, simply talking. They split the rent, and in turn built a relationship of trust and something of a kinship. Two sides of the same coin, they worked together as well as they lived, complimenting the best parts of each other. 

McGregor supposed that McKenzie was a little more of the best of them, with a quick mind and lax attitude; Friends came easy, surely as enemies had too. He did not ask about the past, but just as plain as the scar drew attention and those darkly delightful eyes held memories just on the brink of unmistakable certainty, he figured that surely there was unfinished business for his partner somewhere out in the city, and that's what kept them both so desperately tied to each other for company each evening. 

But despite his roommate's enigmatic and charming nature, he could not complain. For he always knew that as long as Detective McKenzie Jasinski walked this earth, he would have a friend.

Mickey reads the words, and chuckles. He recognizes himself in them of course, but he finds it rather amusing, the way they're so carefully thought out. It's endearing that his boyfriend thinks of him that way, and took the time to write him into his story. But he's curious:

"Is this really what you think of me?"

Tim's head turns in surprise, he hadn't heard the other man enter the room. He quickly takes the paper from his typewriter, face already pink with embarrassment, his chest and neck burning the same and he knows Mickey is giggling at the way he's blushing and desperately gathers the other papers strewn about his desk.

"It's just a story, Mickey."

He's almost disappointed, hearing Tim's comment.

"Huh. Well, I think McKenzie and McGregor make a good pair. In a soulmate kind of way."

"Me too. I mean," he hesitates, "I can't write that, but…I imagine they would be. They, uhm, they're good for each other. I don't think they'd be the same, if they weren't together. Be as happy, I mean."

"Yeah…I think you're right."

[dracwife]

🎲 with ... Dracula, maybe?

~ heart-of-aspiration 📖

ok i didn't rig this here is the proof

43. a bloody kiss

The sobbing is what drew him to them.

His head perked from the warm flesh of the collapsed creature that he had been perched over. A hand wipes the warm crimson from his mouth. He raises, and brushes the front of his shirt, smearing effectively the entire front with the warm liquid, and turns his head upwards.

He finds them there, above, on the upper floor. The wood, strained with age, creaks underneath his feet as he otherwise silently approaches them. They face away from them, hands to their face, the soft sound of crying emanating from the place they stand.

As he steps behind them, his gaze falls downwards, just over their shoulder, to where the pleading form lays at their feet.

"Oh, my dear, there is no use in drawing out their suffering."

Ambroży runs a tongue along their finger once more, the blood running from their hand over their lips. They hum as their eyes flutter closed, cheeks stretching to a smile studded with razor teeth stained red.

"But don't you see? The adrenaline makes it taste all the sweeter, not to mention so much easier --"

The Count cuts them off with but a raise of his hand.

"Do not lose what little humanity you still hold, my beloved. You will need it, with where we are going."

Ambroży sighs, nodding, "I understand."

"You have much yet to learn, my pet," his voice is low, almost overtaken by the sound of the waves that crash against the chipping paint of the Demeter, "You must listen carefully. We will be secluded no longer in this new estate. Appearances must be kept up."

"Of course," they bow, a quick swipe of their nails silencing quickly the whimpering form. When they straighten, Dracula's hands capture their shoulders, then their cheeks as he turns them towards himself.

"You listen so well," he smiles, tilting their head upwards, "You always have."

He leans towards them, hesitating only a moment before kissing them, blood fresh and old on each their lips combining as the newborn demon pulls away to lap at the mixture.

"Now come," he takes their hand gently, "It is almost sunrise, and we must rest. The Captain will wake soon, and we must be hidden before then."