#if not toast an offering to my humans borne in my mouth

[elen-aranel]

i saw a mouse in the garden this afternoon. i told it if I were a cat it would be toast

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone- Chapter 73

Title: Best Laid Plans

Warnings: some profanity, talk of domestic abuse, child death

Tagging:  @tragiclyhip, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @ocfairygodmother, @lokitrasho, @miss-smutty,  @raith-way​, @ocappreciation​

Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28860450/chapters/85024549

He’s up at quarter to six; throwing on a muscle shirt and a pair of work out pants and slipping into the well worn sneakers he keeps by the back door. A run on the beach as the sun peeks over the horizon is exactly what he needs; his bad knees cushioned by sand beneath him, a steady, cool breeze blowing in off the ocean, and the sky painted in vivid orange and gold and stunning pink streaks. The two dogs run on either side of him; their tags clinking against their collars, each carrying a tennis ball in their mouths in hopes of play after the hard work is done. The excursion to his body is calming to both brain and soul; pushing all thoughts of Mark and his devious intentions onto the back burner and concentrating on nothing but his breathing and his heart rate and the sights and sounds around him. And once at the finish line, he bends at the waist and places his hands on his thighs; eyes closed as the sweat trickles off his forehead and runs down his nose and his temples and gathers at the nape of his neck. Chest heaving and burning; a familiar discomfort that serves to remind him of just how far he’s come. Fighting against the odds to complete the long and painful recovery after the incident with Nathan and coming out almost as good as he was before; strong, agile, his health better than it's ever been. He’d somehow survived and he’d long ago swore he'd never take another minute for granted; always grateful to wake up and find himself on top of the ground instead of below it.

After a half an hour of entertaining the dogs, he returns home; splashing cold water on his face and neck and running wet hands through his sweaty hair and then heading for the kitchen. Busying himself with the morning routine; brewing his coffee and the three shots of espresso he always adds to it. The smoothies are next; a wide selection of fresh fruit and various supplements and vitamins recommended by both his doctor and Esme’s fetal and maternal medicine specialist. And the moment he hears her footsteps above -small and light, but just heavy enough to NOT be a child- he begins preparing her breakfast; kettle boiling for her tea while he throws a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and gathers up a container of plain yogurt and a handful of different fruits to chop. He glances over his shoulder and smiles in greeting when she joins him; messy hair held away from her face and out of her eyes with a sparkly purple headband stolen from one of their daughters and her tiny frame clad in a pair of baggy Hello Kitty night shorts and one of his t-shirts. And before he can open his mouth to offer up a ‘good morning’, she’s wrapping her around his waist from behind; yawning loudly and rubbing her cheek against the fabric of his shirt before laying her head against his back.

“Babe…” he warns. “ I probably stink. Gonna make you pass out. Give the baby in utero PTSD.”

“Bullshit. You smell good. You smell like a man. MY man. “

“All the kids still asleep?”

Esme nods. “You already went for a run?”

“Just a small one. Took the dogs with me. Tired them out.”

“I thought you said Sunday was your ‘set in stone rest day’?

“I did. But that’s just for lifting heavy.” Turning around to face her, he takes her face in his hands, turning her head up towards him as he leans down to kiss her. “I’m still going to run every day.”

“You know how I feel about this; when it comes to you pushing yourself too hard.”

“I know you worry. I know you don’t blow out my knee or fuck my femur up somehow. I’m taking it easy; I’m not going full tilt and I’m not ignoring my body when it starts screaming at me. I’m doing a lot better; when it comes to recognizing the signs and paying attention to them.”

“I just want you to be careful. I don’t want you hurting yourself. And you've been spending a lot of time in the gym. You went from one three hour a work out a day to TWO. That’s a lot, babe. Even for a bad ass like you. I know you feel this need to be bigger and stronger and…”

“I’m past that. Maybe just looking to put on another ten. That’s it. That’s probably as big as I’ll ever get again. Sorry. No return to the thicc, lumberjack stage that you enjoyed so much.”

“I DID enjoy it. You had the big muscles and the extra weight in your tummy and your hair was short and your beard was really thick. It was a good look on you. A VERY good look.”

“But…”

“But I love you EVERY way. And how your body is right now? That’s how you looked when we met. When I fell in love with you. So it tends to be my favourite. It’s very sentimental to me. And you know what would make it even MORE sentimental?”

“If you want me to get the haircut, I’ll get the haircut.”

“You would do that for little old me? You’d do that to keep your pregnant and extremely hormonal wife happy?”

“I would do anything for you. Pregnant or not.”

“Best husband ever,” she declares, and stands on her tip toes as he kisses her once more; hands tightly grasping the sides of his t-shirt.

She’d long ago gotten used to that ‘after work out’ stench; the potent tang of sweat , the lingering remains of laundry detergent, and the cool, brisk, freshness of antiperspirant. It’s HIS smell. One that reminds her of safety and protection and love. Of HOME. When he’s away, it’s those combined, familiar scents that offer comfort; bringing solace to her aching heart and effectively relieving at least some of the fear and worry nagging at her. Sleeping with his pillow every night and often wearing one of his t-shirts or bundling herself up in one of his hoodies; soothed by the smell of him clinging to the sheets and clothes and subduing her rattled nerves just enough for her to fall asleep.

It never gets easier; kissing him goodbye at the front door or the airport and then wondering -as he walks away- if she’ll ever see him again. The job isn’t a life you ever really get used to; lying to yourself when you tell others that you’re completely fine with your husband being thousands of miles away, putting his life on the line in the hopes of saving another. But she copes; knowing he can more than handle himself when it comes to the physical aspect and that he’ll do whatever it takes to get back to her and the kids. But the ache is real when he’s not under the same roof; both her and their brood feeling his absence and both saddened and angered about it. And the worry and fear never disappear; feeling as if she’s holding her breath the entire time, never releasing it until the moment he walks back through the front door. Safe and sound.

Pressing his lips to her forehead, he turns towards the counter once more; snagging a knife from the butcher’s block and preparing the only breakfast her stomach has been able to handle. Dry toast accompanied by chunks of fresh fruit, a smoothie containing all the vitamins and supplements recommended by her doctor, and a tea that helps with calming both her tummy and her nerves. While the nausea lingers throughout the entire day, the mornings have been especially horrendous; unable to keep even the smallest sips of water down and struggling with both weakness and dizziness. All of the pregnancies have been the same in that respect; losing weight before actually managing to put it on, suffering from headaches and queasiness and even a handful of scares that sent them running to the hospital in fear there was something terribly wrong. But the sixth pregnancy is turning out to be an even bigger struggle; half a dozen different medications fighting to keep her blood pressure down, help her sleep, and keep her eating and drinking properly.

“I’m surprised you’re up,” Tyler remarks, as she moves to the stove to tend to the boiling kettle. Offering a mug with the tea bag already in it; his hand briefly resting on the small of her back as he places a kiss on her temple. “You were sleeping pretty good when I went on my run.”

Sighing, she sets the mug down on the stovetop and fills it with water. “I probably still would be if your spawn didn’t wake me up out of nowhere and send me on a mad dash to the bathroom. I’ve come to expect SOME sickness, but this?”

“This one’s giving you an extra hard time, huh? What did the doctor say? Something about making too much human growth hormone? I don’t know. She completely lost me when she broke out the science speak.”

“A variant of it. And it’s too much of ALL the hormones. Kind of weird; that the last pregnancy would be the worst. You’d think it would be the easiest; your body totally used to everything, able to push that sucker out with only two tries. I swear to Christ, Tyler. If this is another Millie labour…”

“You’ll cut my dick off?”

“That’s a little extreme. You need your dick. It’s still very useful. I’ll just chop your balls off. So you can’t make any more swimmers.”

“How about we not do that and just let the surgeon handle things?”

“I want a goddamn guarantee from him that this isn’t going to happen again; your penis remarkably healing itself and letting those swimmers of yours have free reign.”

“I’m going to jump in here for a second. You realize your body fucked up too, yeah? That it took BOTH of us to make this baby? Your tubes were tied. Right after you had Kota and Brookie. You’re not supposed to be able to get pregnant in the first place.”

She stares at him over the rim of her mug. “Even if I hadn’t gotten them tied, you weren’t supposed to be able to produce any sperm. Ever again. For the rest of your natural born life. But low and behold…”

“You…” He points the knife at her. “...need to accept some responsibility in all of this.”

She huffs, taking a sip of tea and then setting it on the stove; hands on her hips in a show of defiance. “I will do no such thing.”

“Come on, this can’t all be pinned entirely on me. Both our bodies had to screw up for this to happen. So be a big girl…” snagging her by the front of her t-shirt, he gently pulls her into him. “...and take some of the blame.”

She stares up at him; a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth and those enormous, dark eyes sparkling mischievously. “No. You can’t make me.”

“Listen pocket wife, I’m a foot and three inches taller than you and almost a hundred pounds heavier. I can make you.”

“I’d like to see you try. You don’t intimidate me. Your muscles and your resting asshole face and all those tattoos and scars. They don’t scare me a bit.”

“You realize I have ways of convincing you, don’t you? Ways that don’t involve intimidation. “

“Yeah?” Both hands clutch the front of her shirt as her body leans into his. “What kind of ways are we talking about then?”

He swipes the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip. “Sexual ones.”

“You realize that sounds more like pleasure than punishment, right?”

“You remember that thing we did back in New York City. In the bathtub. The thing you claim to hate but always seem to love? The one thing that I always can count on to make you squirt? Do you know what thing I’m talking about?”

“I know EXACTLY what you’re talking about.”

“Well next time around, when you least expect it? I’m going to do that twice as much. Only this time there won’t be a happy ending. For you, anyway.”

Her eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”

“Yes. Yes I would.”

“You’re evil.”

“Most evil husband out there.”

“You may be the most evil, but you’re also the sexiest out there. So at least you have THAT going for you,” she chides, giving a tiny yelp when he brings a palm down on the cheek of her ass in a ringing slap. Giggling when his hand reverts to lightly pinching and squeezing before drawing her into him; body pressed against his and her hands tightening their grip on his shirt as he leans down to kiss her. Long and slow and deep; the brief contact between their tongues finding her curling her toes and sighing into his mouth.

When he pulls away he’s smiling down at her; blue eyes sparkling with a mixture of unbridled lust and pure adoration. Hand moving from her ass to the side of her cheek; knuckles grazing over the soft skin before gentle fingertips clear wayward strands of hair away from her face and tuck them behind her ear. “You’re beautiful.”

“You need glasses.”

“I already knew that. But needing them doesn’t mean you’re not beautiful.”

The smile she gives is shaky; tears welling in her eyes as a lump of emotion wedges firmly in her throat. It’s overwhelming at times; seeing his love, adoration, and affection laid so bare. This big, strong man with his myriad of tattoos and scars and a lifetime of trauma, guilt, and regret. So brave and fearless yet so vulnerable at the same time; possessing a heart that he’s even bigger than his body and a beauty to his soul that not even his father, Asif, Mahajan, or Nathan had been able to rob him of. Working as a team, she’d spent years helping chip away at the seemingly impenetrable walls that he’d built around his heart; patiently urging him outside of his comfort zone and encouraging that humanity lingering inside of him to make itself fully known. In the end, the reward was far beyond anything she could ever imagined; a man that loves her so wholly and completely. And profoundly. So much so it often takes her breath away; and all consuming and often leaving her feeling unworthy of such devotion.

He frowns when he notices the tears in her eyes and the tell tale wobble of her lower lip and chin. “What’s the matter? Why are you gonna cry? What…?”

Her voice comes out as a childlike whimper; reminding him of Addie when she’s been scolded or has had a particularly rough run in with Millie and the teasing was just too much to take. “I really need a hug right now.”

Setting the knife on the counter, he gathers her in his arms. One arm circling her waist as a hand settles on the back of her skull; palm lightly pressing her head into his chest. And when she stands on the top of his feet and perches on her tiptoes in order to return the embrace, he crouches down until she’s able to successfully wrap both arms around his neck. His beautiful, tiny wife; his best friend, truest confident, and his rock during his darkest and most dire of times. Always sticking by his side no matter how difficult he sometimes makes things; forever patient and attentive during the long and painful recovery after Nathan, always forgiving him for his sins and mistakes even when he can’t forgive himself. Suddenly seeming so weak and vulnerable herself; her entire body trembling and her tears seeping through the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he promises, and presses a kiss to her ear. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s ALL gonna be okay.”

*****

He hates seeing her like this; face lined with worry and exhaustion, shoulders drooped as if carrying the weight of the world upon them, eyes dark and downcast instead of sparkling and playful. He’d long ago gotten used to her morning persona; overly cheerful and extremely talkative compared to his grumpiness and need for complete and utter silence until he’s at least finished his coffee. So it’s unsettling when she deviates from the norm; missing the familiarity and the routine of her chattiness and her teasing and witty banter. Instead completely silent as she sits across from him at the table on the back deck; her feet resting in his lap as she merely nibbles at the dry toast and moves the pieces of various fruits around on her plate.

He gestures at her plate with his fork. “You need to eat. Start putting weight on instead of it dropping off.”

“It’s not like I’m NOT trying.” She spears a chunk of watermelon and brings it to her lips, taking a tiny bite before setting it back down again. “I WANT to eat. My body is BEGGING me to eat. But it’s kind of hard when you just feel...I don’t know...off.”

“Something we need to worry about? Something to do with the baby?”

“No. I feel fine that way. Other than being crazy nauseous and already having insane heartburn. How much hair is this kid going to have? Because the only other time I suffered this bad…”

“We ended up with Addie. Hairiest damn kid I have EVER seen. Hands down.”

She manages a smile, then nibbles at a slice of dry toast. “Remember how it was practically head to toe? Because she was a preemie?”

“She looked like a little monkey. A cute one, mind you. But a monkey.”

“Don’t ever say that to her. It’ll be her new obsession; monkey this, monkey that. None of our other babies had much hair. If any at all. Well, Declan…”

“I will never forget seeing that head of hair. Bright red.”

“You looked so confused,” Esme muses, as she once more pulls her plate towards her and attempts to eat. “When he was crowning. It was like he had two heads or something.”

Tyler winks at her from across the table. “I was trying to figure out when you had time to get busy with me AND the cable guy.”

“Baby, he is all yours. Without a doubt. The cable man didn’t stand a chance getting close to me. So unless you can get pregnant just by breathing the same air as someone…”

“I hope you’d have better standards than that guy. If you’re going to do something like that, can you at least have the respect to go a notch higher than I am in quality?”

“That’s not even remotely possible. You’re already on the very top rung of quality. In fact, you’re in another league all your own. All by yourself. If you have the best, why settle for less?”

A grin plays on his mouth. “You are so good for my ego.”

“Besides, we both know I’m the last person that would EVER do something like that. I am way too hopelessly and madly and wildly in love with you. Always have been. Always will be. So unless you’re planning on going somewhere, you’re stuck with me. For the long haul.”

“I’m perfectly happy where I am. And with who I’m with. You know that, yeah? That I’d never do something like that. No matter who’s trying to get with me? I would never...EVER..cheat on you.”

“This is stemming from my insecurities, isn't it? Those women yesterday.”

“I just wanted to get it out there. I don’t care about any of them. There might as well not even be any other women on earth. The only one that matters? The only one I want? Is you. And that’s not going to change.”

“And you say I’m good for YOUR ego?”

“I mean, maybe it doesn’t need to be said. Maybe you already realize all that. Or maybe you’re going to tell me that you don’t need the words; you can see everything in my eyes anyway. I just think sometimes I should say it. Who knows, maybe I need to tell you more than you need to hear it.”

Well…” She reaches for his hand that rests on the tabletop, running her fingertips along his forearm and over his palm before lacing their fingers together. “...a girl DOES like to hear how much she’s adored and worshipped.”

“I thought you like it better when I SHOW you how much.”

“That too. But sometimes it’s a nice little bonus; hearing the words.”

Pushing his chair away, he stands and leans across the table; free hand reaching out to cradle her cheek in its palm. “I worship you. I adore you. I love you. And I can’t live without you.”

While tears sparkle in her eyes, her smile is genuine; filling out her cheeks and crinkling the bridge of her nose. “And you say you’re not romantic.”

He bends down to kiss her; the soft press and languid movements of closed mouth upon closed mouth. “I do have my moments,” he says with a grin, running the tip of a finger down the bridge of her nose, playfully tapping the end of it before returning to his seat.

They sit in companionable silence. Enjoying the crisp, refreshing breeze that rolls in off the ocean and the familiar yet calming sounds of the outdoors. The waves rolling up onto the shore, the rustling of the trees as they sway in the wind and the different melodies that come from Esme’s collection of wind chimes attached to the awnings of the pool house. It’s home. The familiar yet never boring sights and sounds of the where they’re the most comfortable; where they grow and nurture their family and take advantage of the many spoils given to them by such a beautiful and expansive piece of land.

Returning to Australia had been the best move they’d ever made. The start of strengthening not only their marriage, but every aspect of the life and relationship they share; making sure to nurture and grow each separate component that makes them, THEM. Often having to pull back from the chaos and stress of everyday existence to remind themselves that they’re not just spouses and people raising kids together; they’re each other’s confidants, best friends and devoted and faithful lovers. Two unique individuals that share a bond unlike many could ever fully understand; broken and in tatters when they’d first met yet somehow managing to comfort and heal one another. What had happened in Dhaka will forever remain the foundation their life together has been built open. A rather odd concoction of many things; shared grief and regret, adrenaline and fear, profound lust accompanied by the pangs of the heart that remind you that you’re still human. And a lot of blood, sweat and tears. All combined with the unforgettable stenches of raw sewage, blood and sweat, and spilled gasoline.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He breaks the silence first, pushing away his empty plate and reaching for his smoothie. Satisfied with her attempt to get food into her belly; her own meal almost completely finished save for a couple bites of toast and a small handful of grapes. Her feet once more resting in his lap; both hands curled around the plastic tumbler that contains the thickened ‘super shake’ he’d made for her earlier.

“By ‘it’ I’m assuming you mean Mark?”

Tyler nods.

“What more is there to say? He’s in town. Not like there’s anything we can really do about it. Not until he at least makes a move.”

“I’ve got guys trying to track him down. Looking into every hotel, every bed and breakfast, every short term rental within a fifty mile radius. Unless he’s gone totally off the grid and he’s holed up in a cave somewhere, my guys will find him.”

“Is that really what you were doing last night? Taking care of all of that stuff? Getting people going on all this?”

“It was some of what I was doing. Not all of it. When you came in, I was doing exactly what I told you I was. I’d already gotten it all set up; guys already starting to dig. Told ‘em not to leave any stone unturned; Mark’s crafty and he’s slippery and he’s going to do everything he can to avoid me catching up to him. He wants the element of surprise; get to you when my guard is down. I’m hoping to get to him before that happens.”

“When do you ever let your guard down?”

“Even I slip up, Esme. You know that better than anyone.”

“Tyler Rake doesn’t make mistakes when it’s family on his line. He rarely makes them when it’s complete strangers he’s looking out for. You’re not the type to fall asleep at the wheel, babe. Especially when it comes to the kids. And ESPECIALLY when it comes to me.”

“I can’t be around you twenty-four seven. There’s going to be times I can’t be with you. As much as I’d love to be glued to your hip…”

“Do you trust the guys you picked? You don’t exactly hand that out lightly, Tyler. And you’ve always been very careful about who you bring into the business. You’ve always had the strictest hiring practices I’ve ever seen. You don’t just bring anyone aboard. And if you’re willing to put them in charge of keeping an eye on him…”

“I trust them when it comes to the job. They’re some of the best I’ve ever seen, actually.”

“Other than yourself, you mean.

“They’re good, Me. They’re quick on their feet and they’re strong as fuck and they will not back down. From anyone or anything.”

“But…”

“But I don’t fully trust anyone when it comes to you. That’s not something I can give; just hand over your life like that. No matter how well I know someone or how good of a merc they are. But I don’t have a choice, do I? It’s not possible to be around every second of every day. I wish it was. I wish I was the only one taking care of you. But…”

“If your gut tells you that these guys can handle it, then that’s what you go with. I trust you, Tyler. Whether it’s protecting me on your own or making the decision to hand it off to someone else. Your instincts are so strong. Some of the strongest I have ever seen. And if they’re telling you that this is right...that these men are right…”

“They’re telling me that I don’t have any other choice. That I NEED to trust these guys. And I want to Esme; I want to be able to sit here and tell you that I trust them one hundred percent. But other than you? There’s no one I trust that way.”

“If you say this is the right decision and that these are the right people, then I’ll go with that. Because I trust YOU. I always have. I always will. So if this is the move you need to make and you’re confident in it…”

“As confident as I’m gonna be.”

“Then there’s nothing more to talk about. If you trust them, then so do I. Simple as that.”

He nods slowly as he considers her words, then offers a small smile and once more takes her hand; lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

“I know you don’t have any answers. And to be honest, I don’t expect any. But I just don’t understand. Why is he doing this? Why now? If it’s a revenge thing, why wait this long? I haven’t been married to him for fifteen years. Why wait that long?”

“I don’t know, Me. I don’t even know if that’s his angle.”

“Everything says it is. What else could he possibly want? Do you think he’s a threat? To me?”

“Yeah,” Tyler reluctantly admits. “I do. He wouldn’t come out of the woodwork after all this time and play all those little mind games in New York and then make it a point to show up here IF he wasn’t planning something. I just don't know exactly what it is. Or when he’s gonna make his move. And hopefully the guys I have trying to find him will track him down. Sooner the better.”

“What will they do with him? If they do find him?”

“Found a little out of the way place in the northern territory. Somewhere they can keep him; until I can get there. Off the beaten track, no through roads, heavy bush. Not a single soul around. Figure that’s for the best, yeah? Keep him somewhere no one can hear screaming and pleading for his life.”

“You’re going to handle that yourself?”

“Hopefully. Told my guys that they can rough him up, but I want him very much alive. So he can feel every goddamn thing I do to him. And I know you’re probably thinking this is a throwback to McMann; taking him hostage and torturing his ass. But…”

“You do what you need to do, Tyler. You do whatever you feel he deserves. I’m not going to think any less of you. And Lord knows that I’ve had quite a few fantasies about how brutal I would love you to be if you ever got your hands on him. I’m not going to ask how and I don’t expect you to tell me. You just do what you need to do. To make him suffer and make him pay for what…” Her voice cracks; tears of both rage and insurmountable pain welling in her eyes. “...just make him pay. Promise me you’ll make him pay.”

Sliding his chair away from the table, he’s at her side in only three long strides; dropping to a knee in front of her and taking her trembling hands in his.

“Promise me, Tyler. Promise me you’ll make him pay.”

“I’ll make him pay, Esme. I promise.”

“Everything he did to him. Everything he said. It’s just all coming back. All those horrible, mean, degrading things he called me. All the times he forced me to do disgusting, horrible things to him. All the nasty, gross shit that HE did to ME.”

He feels the rage that immediately begins to take hold; his jaw setting and tightening and the blue of his eyes becoming much darker. Bile settling in the back of his throat; acrid and burning. He hates hearing about it; the horrific things that she’d been subjected to at the hands of someone who was supposed to love her, protect her, and give her a good life. The person he loves more than anything else in the world and would gladly lay his life down for. Not just his wife, but his best friend and the mother of his children and the centre of his universe.

“You don’t have to talk about this,” he says, and tightly squeezes her hands. “Nothing good will come from going there. Nothing…”

“He is an evil, sick, demented person,” she continues, words struggling to make it through the sobs. “He used to make me clean the baseboards and the grout with my toothbrush and then he’d force me to use it afterwards. If he was in a mood and didn’t like what I made for dinner, he’d throw it on the floor and he’d make me get on my hands and knees and force me to eat it. Like I was a dog! And when I tried to fight back, the beatings just got worse and worse and worse and…”

“That’s enough,” he gently orders, and releases his hold on her hands in favour of drawing her into his embrace. An arm wrapped around her waist and a palm resting on the back of her head; pressing a kiss to her temple and her cheek before drawing her face down to his shoulder. “No more. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t go back to that place.”

One of her hands clutch desperately at the back of his shirt, the other clamping down on the nape of his neck. “How do I ever get over it? How do I ever fully leave all that behind? I thought I was doing okay with it. I thought I was finally putting it all past me. I thought…”

“Sometimes there’s things we don’t really get over. Not completely, anyway. And that was fucking hell; the shit that he put you through. I’m sorry, Me. I am so fucking sorry.”

“Is it weird that sometimes I think about ‘what if’? That I’ll wonder what it would have been like if we’d met some other way? Some other time. Some other place. Before all the bad shit ever happened. Imagine? If we’d met before all of that; if we’d found each other and healed one another sooner?”

“There’s nothing wrong with thinking about that stuff. But babe….listen to me….” He pulls away and cradles her face in his hands; thumbs swiping at the tears that continue to fall “...you can’t live the rest of your life thinking about that. Because if none of the bad ever happened? We wouldn’t have met. Because all the loss and the bullshit put us on the path that led us to each other. And yeah; it was fucking painful and I wanted to put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger so many times. But in the end, all that crap? All the hard stuff? It brought you into my life. You know that. I KNOW you know that.”

“What if it was all for nothing? You spent YEARS trying to make up for all his mistakes. You didn’t care how messy I was or how messy my life had been before you. You just picked up the pieces and you put me back together. And you never complained ONCE; You just did it.”

“I did it because I love you. Because I couldn’t exactly go and find the guy and kill him with my bare fucking hands. And believe me, I’ve thought about it many times. About how I’d do it. And how I’d make it as slow and painful as possible.”

“All the time and the work you put into fixing me. What if Mark puts me over the edge and I become a big mess again? What if all of a sudden I’m in a million fucking pieces again? What then? It will all be for nothing?”

“No. It won’t. And you know why? Because even if you fall apart a thousand times, each time I’m going to pick those pieces up and I’m going to find a way to make them up. I love you, Esme. More than I ever loved anyone. More than I even thought was possible. And if it DOES happen...you do fall apart...I’m just going to be here to pick you...and all those pieces….back up.”

“I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve YOU.”

“Baby, you deserve the fucking world. And I’d give it to you if I could. Come here…” Pressing a kiss to her brow, he tangles his fingers in her hair and draws her head down onto his shoulder; other hand moving in slow, comforting circles in the middle of her back. “...everything’s alright. There’s nothing to be scared of. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“It’s not that I’m scared. Not of him getting a hold of me. I know that you’d never let him get that close. You’d do anything to protect me. I’ve never...ever...doubted that. I just hate what it’s doing to me; him being back in my life. I feel like I’m drowning in all this stuff from the past and that there’s no way you’ll be able to pull me out of it. Like it’s going to suck me under and you won’t stand a chance of getting me back.”

“That’s not going to happen. I won’t LET that happen.”

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,,” she admits. “Worrying all the time about the baby and trying so hard to take care of the other kids and now this crap with Mark and him being so close to us.”

“I know it’s really overwhelming right now, Me. I know it’s a lot of things being heaped on your plate. And believe me, I am taking as much of it off as I can. And this stress with Mark is just making everything else seem even worse. But I got you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I just need you to trust me.”

“I do. I DO trust you.”

“You got lots of help with the kids. You got me, you got Stel, Riley’s always willing to drop everything and lend a hand. And you know how much grandpa Koen loves to spend time with them. He’s always ready, willing, and able to step up.”

Managing a laugh, she pulls back and swipes at her tears with the back of her hands. “He was in fine form last night, huh?”

“He was definitely on top of his ‘shit talk Tyler’ game.”

“Everything he says, he says with love. He’s a wreck, you know. When he showed up in Dhaka. He was all laughs and jokes at first and I’m sure that was just to calm his nerves, because when he got to your room? He just lost it. Totally broke down. I’ve never seen him get that emotional since.”

“I guess he’s got a little bit of a soft spot for me. Considering I was an enormous shit head when I first met him and he threatened to beat the attitude out of me. And believe me; he tried a couple times. Tough love, yeah? He’s the guy that turned me into the solider I became. And tried to stop me from destroying myself after everything fell apart. Spent years trying to talk some sense into me. Never stuck.”

“Guess you just weren’t ready for that yet. You just had a bit more of your journey to take. I’m sorry it was as crappy as it was. That you had to go through what you did.”

“Lost my kid and my sobriety. And probably most of my sanity.”

“It’s not fair. That you had to go through so much. Starting right from you were a little boy. Not a single step of your path has been easy.”

“No. I guess it hasn’t. But every one of those steps was worth it. ‘Cause look where I am now. I’m a long way from The Kimberley.”

“Leaps and bounds,” she smiles. “Even in the last five years.”

“It was worth it. It was ALL worth it. And this? Whatever the hell THIS is? With Mark? That’s just another bump in the road we gotta get past. I just need you to trust me. That’s it.”

“I’ve always trusted you, Tyler. Always.”

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he promises, and once more gathers her into a tight, protective embrace. “I didn’t lose you in New York and I’m sure as hell not gonna lose you now. Especially not to him.”

The scrape of the screen door opening upon its track captures his attention, and he glances up in time to see his oldest son step onto the porch. Hair mussed from sleep and sticking up in several different directions; barefoot and clad in only a pair of blue, red, and white plaid pyjama bottoms. And it’s the first time that he’s noticed just how grown up that his namesake is becoming; only ten, but tall and athletically built with well chiselled ab muscles and noticeable definition in his arms and shoulders. All long limbs and torso and tanned skin; brilliant, expressive blue eyes and his once shoulder length dirty blond hair now chopped short. Despite his issues with impulse control, his diagnosis with ADHD, and his volatile temper, he always seems much older and wiser than his actual age; independent and detail and routine oriented and always willing to step up and lend a hand with his younger siblings or with chores and repairs around the house. And it’s bitter sweet; his first son after losing Austin growing up in what seems like the blink of an eye. Proud of him for the person...the man...that he’s becoming but missing the little boy he was; the one who’d be attached to his hip and who explored the world with wide eyed, breathless abandon and wanted nothing more than to exactly like his old man.

“Dad?” Worry tarnishes the ten year old’s voice; eyes darkening and narrowing as he observes the sight in front of him. “What’s going on? What…?”

“Nothing, mate. Your mum and I were just having a chat. She just got a little...worked up.”

“About what?” He finally approaches, a hand on the back of his mother’s chair as he leans in to check on her. “What were you guys talking about?”

“Just some adult stuff. Your mum’s just a little emotional today.”

“Mummy?” TJ lays a palm on her shoulder, gently squeezing and then pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Are you okay? What happened? What..?”

“I’m alright,” Esme assures him, and turns her face into his, pecking his lips. “Daddy and I were just talking and…”

“You don’t look alright. You’re crying. Why are you crying?” A mixture of panic, worry, and the beginnings of anger creep into his voice. And he fixes his father with a steely glare. “What’s wrong with mum? Why is she crying? What were you talking about that would upset her?”

“Just a couple serious things,” Tyler informs him. “ADULT things. Things you don’t need to worry about.”

TJ’s jaw clenches. “What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything. Why would you…?”

“Daddy didn’t do a thing,” Esme assures him. “Like he said we were having a chat and things turned a little serious and I got emotional. That’s it. He didn’t do anything or say anything wrong. I got upset and I started to cry and he was just trying to comfort me. That’s it.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause if something else happened…”

Turning sideways in her chair, she clasps her son’s face in her hand. “Tyler James. Listen to what I’m saying. Daddy did nothing wrong. I started crying and he got worried and he was trying to calm me down. He didn’t say or do anything. He was trying to help. He wanted to cheer me up. That’s all.”

“Mummy…”

“That’s all,” she insists. “I appreciate you worrying about me, but we’re telling the truth. I just got emotional about some things we were talking about. That’s all. Daddy would never...EVER...do anything to make me cry. Unless it’s happy tears.”

TJ sighs heavily. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure. But thank you.,” she presses a kiss to his lips and smooths a hand over his unruly hair. “I’m okay, baby man. There is nothing for you to worry about, okay? And good morning, by the way. Thought for sure you’d sleep in a lot longer; all the running around you did after the littlest yesterday.”

“Dad said we could go surfing. Before everyone else got up. I set my alarm.”

“Well the water looks perfect today. Or as you would say, the waves looking ‘bitchin’.”

Excitement replaces worry and simmering anger. “Dad checked the surf report last night. They said it was going to be perfect conditions. And that it could just be us. I like when it’s just us. It’s a lot more fun. And we sit on our boards and talk. A lot.”

“Then I’ll let you guys get to it. I’m sure you have a lot of boy stuff to talk about.”

Tyler pushes himself to his feet as his wife slips out of her chair; hand on the small of her back as she stands. “You good?”

“I’m good,” she assures him, standing on her tiptoes to return his kiss. “I’ll take the dirty stuff in and I’ll grab some towels and throw them out here for you guys. And maybe I’ll even crash on the couch; until the rest of the hoodlums wake up.”

“If you need anything, you know where to find us.”

“I’ll be fine, Tae. Everything will be fine.”

Nodding in agreement, he offers a small smile and presses his lips to her temple. Watching as she gathers the dirty dishes, mugs, and cutlery and carries them into the house. TJ gallantly holding the door open for her; a broad, beaming smile spreading across his face as she plants a kiss on his cheek.

“IS mum okay?” The ten year old turns to him once Esme is out of ear shot.

“She’s fine, mate. She’s just going through some stuff.”

“Bad stuff or…?”

“Just some stuff. Nothing you need to worry about. You’re mum’s alright. And you know I’d never hurt her, yeah? That I would never...ever...say or do anything to break her heart. Tell me you know that.”

“I do. But you used to. Do stuff like that. I know I was just little then, but…”

“I’m not that guy anymore, TJ. I haven’t been him in a long time. I would never hurt your mother. I love her in ways you can’t even begin to understand. And I would do anything to make her happy and to keep her safe.”

“Is there a reason to? Keep her safe?”

“No,” Tyler lies. “There’s not.”

*****

From the moment he first held Austin in his arms, Tyler had pictured these moments; introducing his son to surfing and forming a tremendous bond over their shared love of the water. Teaching him how to not only handle the waves, but to give himself over to the release and the escape that comes not with conquering them, but being submissive to them; gliding smoothly and confidently yet remembering that nature always has the upper hand and should never be questioned or underestimated. When he had first found out he was going to be a father, he’d often daydream about sharing his passions with his offspring; surfing, fishing, hiking, and camping trips. But military life had been all consuming, as had been his commitment to it; putting fighting the battles of others higher on his list of priorities than his wife and soon to be born child. And having the baby home hadn’t changed a damn thing; signing up for extra tours whenever he got the chance, putting his be all and end all into the army and having nothing left to give his family.

For his fifth birthday, he’d gifted Austin with two things; a custom made surfboard and the promise that he’d change his ways and become the dad that his kiddo needed and deserved. Neither of things ever came to fruition; Austin diagnosed with cancer just three weeks later and the board going unused and Tyler’s promise dying the moment the news had been dropped into their laps. And when Austin had died, so had all of the dreams and the hopes that Tyler had had as father; the loss tremendous and robbing him of both his heart and soul. The grief composed of many things. Not just the loss of his boy, but of all of those expectations, and fantasized moments, and the memories that would have been made during them.

He never dreamed that he’d ever be a father again; his marriage and his military career both disintegrating and finding him throwing himself headlong into mercenary life and a battle with booze and drug addiction. Wracked with so much guilt, regret, and profound grief that he truly believed he deserved his self imposed exile from the rest of humanity. He was a monster and not deserving of any form of a normal life; taking the most dire and dangerous of jobs in hopes one would kill him, drinking and popping pills in hopes of not just numbing the physical pain, but the mental anguish as well.

In the blink of an eye and in the midst of his deepest and darkest moments of suicidal ideation, everything changed. In the form of a tiny, tattooed and pierced brunette with the most beautiful smile and dark eyes he’d ever seen. Since then, every blessing has come with great sacrifice. Ones that he’s willing to pay over, and over, and over again for even a slice of the life that he has now. It’s a normalcy that isn’t normally rewarded to guys like him; a wife and children and a beautiful home in an even more beautiful place. So many bridges burned and toes trampled upon; exuberant coin in your pocket in exchange for scars that litter your body and enemies within all four corners of the world. It’s generally a short existence; catching a bullet in the midst of all the action or a bodyguard or a mercenary -contracted to take you out- catching you by surprise. Most never even attempt any form of domesticity; preferring the company of random women -or men- instead of committing and settling down. The job follows you. Stays with you. Remains embedded in your soul. Accompanied by long lists of evil people you’ve crossed and will forever seek revenge, debts that you can never repay and will forever be held over your head, and addiction and mental health issues. You’re never fully away from it; it will follow you wherever you go, keep you up at night, have you constantly looking over your shoulder or being wary of the smallest of bumps in the night. It’s easier to not get someone else tangled up in the madness; half the time it’s hard just to keep yourself alive, let alone a spouse and children. They’d be the first to pay the price for your misdeeds, and bringing them into that kind of world would be considered not just risky, but selfish as fuck.

Sometimes he still sees himself that way; a weakened, pathetic version of himself that opted to put targets on the backs of others instead of just dealing with his issues and his loneliness in a healthier, SOLO way. But love had found him. Somehow. In the midst of all the darkness and ruin and decay of his life, something...someone... so beautiful and bright had stumbled into his path. She’d effortlessly and easily saw past the hardened and fearless facade he’d created through an endless cycle of self loathing, sorrow, and regret; slowly chipping away at the walls he’d built around the remains of his heart and making him feel alive again. Opening his eyes to a different future and sparking a longing and a desperation and a hunger that he had felt to his very soul. Wanting her...ALL of her...in a way he’d never wanted anyone else. Trusting her in a way he hadn’t since the death of his mother; finding himself both soothed and ignited by the compassion in her voice, the kindness in her eyes, and the gentleness of her hands whenever she touched him.

His heart had been hers long before he’d ever gotten the nerve to tell her so. And he’d been both terrified and filled with hope when he’d even dare to think about a life...a future...with her. He has always felt that his time with her has been far more than he deserves; that kind of existence reserved for those who are morally stronger AND superior. But for some reason, fate had smiled upon him; giving a woman that so plainly wears her heart upon her sleeve and remains stalwartly devoted and faithful. Bearing him seven...eventually eight...children and building a home and a life beyond anything he could have ever imagined.

He’d spent the better part of an hour feeling tremendously grateful and unabashedly proud as he’d watched part of that life so confidently handling the waves below and around him. Ten years old but sometimes so wise and mature beyond his years; misunderstood by so many and not given the credit or the attention that he so rightfully deserves. A fearless, tough kid with an enormous heart; so much love caught up inside him that he’s sometimes unable to express or even cope with it. Exploring the world and the elements with near reckless abandon; always looking for adventure and forever staring challenge straight in the eye. And it’s bittersweet; the act of making the memories with THIS son that his mind had created with for the boy he’d lost years before.

“What do you think it feels like?” TJ asks, as they sit side by side. A hundred yards from shore where the water is calmer; perched upon their boards with their legs dangling over the sides. “To get bit by a shark.”

Tyler glances over; noticing small inklings of his wife inside the ten year old. The way his namesake tilts his head to the side and his eyes narrow as he contemplates a question. The smooth bridge of the nose and the shape of his jaw. But he’s definitely a ‘chip off the old block’; the brilliant blue eyes and the broad shoulders and the long, lanky body, the cheeky smirk and the smile that brightens his entire face. And there’s more. So much more. A strikingly similar personality; dry witted and quick with the sarcasm and the smart ass comments. And the temper; volatile and unpredictable, always seeming as if it’s on a permanent, slow boil.

“I don’t know, mate. But I can guarantee that it does NOT feel good.”

“Mick Fanning...the surfer that mum likes...he got attacked by one. During a competition. A great white. Hit him right in the face with its tail! Can you imagine? I would have been shitting bricks for sure! It would be kind of cool to see one, though. We’ve only ever seen a couple of dorsals in the water. When we’ve been hanging out on the beach. Kinda weird we’ve NEVER come across one.”

“I’d rather not if it’s all the same to you. I’ve spotted a few in my time. Long before you were even a twinkle in your mumma’s eyes. Wasn’t close enough to go one on one with ‘em. Thank Christ.”

“Sometimes I get this really weird feeling in my stomach. When we’re out here. It’s like something is just moving around in there; kicking at your insides and tugging at them and stuff. Like my body is telling me that there’s something underneath me. Maybe even WATCHING me. You ever get something like that? Where you just KNOW something is there?”

“Had that happen a lot. Always been too chicken shit to look down, though.”

“I like that, you know. That you’re not afraid to admit you’re scared of things. Lots of guys are. They act all big and bad and like nothing bothers them, but you know it’s all bullshit. You’ve never been like that. Even since I was little. You’ve always talked about being scared of things and how it’s okay to be afraid of stuff. And that we shouldn’t be embarrassed to get emotional. Cry and stuff. Do you still feel that way?”

“I do. I feel even stronger about it now. Nothing wrong with a guy being vulnerable. Doesn’t make them weak or pathetic or less of a man.”

TJ grins over at him. “Just makes them human.”

“You know, you sound a hell of a lot like your mum sometimes.”

“That’s a good thing, if you ask me. ‘Cause mum’s pretty awesome.”

“Yeah…” Tyler smiles wistfully, then glances towards the shore; his wife up from her nap and getting the littles settled for breakfast on the deck as the older kid’s lend a hand. “...she certainly is.”

TJ’s expression turns serious. “You meant it, right? When you said you didn’t say or do anything to make mum cry.”

“Everything we both told you was the truth; we were talking about some adult stuff and she got emotional. All I was trying to do was comfort her. That’s it. You know how your mum can be; when she’s feeling overwhelmed and hasn’t been sleeping well and she tries to take too much on.”

“She needs to learn how to rely on other people . And ask for help when she needs it.”

“It’s hard for her. Even after all the years she’s been with me. She finds it difficult to ask for help. Guess she’s so used to people letting her down, that she just can’t shake that part of her. We’ll just keep an eye on her and just chip in where we need to and hope for the best, yeah?”

TJ nods, then gives a bashful smile. “I’m sorry, dad. For kinda flipping out on you earlier. But I saw you kneeling in front of mummy and then I could tell she was crying and my brain just immediately went to think you’d done something wrong.”

“We’re a lot like, you and I. In a lot of ways. I tend to react a little too quickly, a little too soon. Old habits die hard. But I would never…EVER...hurt your mum. That is the last thing I want to do. Intentional or not. I love her, mate. In ways you can’t even understand. In ways I can’t even understand sometimes. I just hope that one day you get to feel that way about someone. Or close to it.”

“I just worry about her,” TJ sighs. “I don’t like when she’s upset. Especially when she cries. I hate seeing it; mummy sad. I wish I could find a way so she’d never be sad EVER again. Wouldn’t that be nice? If we could find a way to make sure mummy NEVER got sad again?”

“Yeah, mate. It would. But life isn’t like that. We gotta go through the good AND the bad. Unfortunately.”

“Mum’s been through a lot. I mean, I know you have too. But mum...I don’t know...she’s different. She’s...well...she’s my mum. I know you’re tough and strong and brave and all that. That you can handle things better. But mum puts on a good show for people I think. She lets on that she’s okay and she’s totally fine with taking care of everything one else. But sometimes? Sometimes I don’t think she’s okay at all. Do you ever think that? That she’s just pretending to be alright?”

“I don’t just don’t think. I know she’s doing it. And believe me, I’ve tried to get her out of it. But your mum…”

“And she has the nerve to call US stubborn? She is way worse.”

“She’s got a hard head,” Tyler agrees. “And in some ways, it’s a good thing. She never gave up on me. Even when everyone around her was telling her she should. She just ignored them. Had my back no matter what other people said.”

“It’s ‘cause she loves you. And you’re the first person to ever really love her. Other than her dad and he died when she was young, so ....” TJ rakes a hand through his wet hair. “...sometimes it must feel like it’s just you and mum against the world, huh?”

“I’ve felt that way. A few times. But then all you guys started coming along and our team got even bigger. I like to think we ALL have each other’s backs.”

“Of course we do. We’re family. We’re all in this together. And we’re Rakes. Means we’re tough and we don’t back down. From anyone or anything. We might be scared, but we’re still standing up for what’s right. That’s what you taught us. That even though we might be afraid, we gotta do the right thing. Always. A man isn’t measured by the things he has, but by the people he’s helped.”

Tyler grins. “Where’d you hear that?”

“I read it in a book at school. One of the grade eight kids left on the playground and I was bored and I found it and I just started reading it. I guess I liked that line for some reason. It stuck in my head. Even if there isn't much else up there.”

“Don’t you do that,” Tyler gently scolds. “I don’t want to EVER hear you do that. Talk shit about yourself.”

TJ frowns. “It’s kinda hard when everyone around you is doing it.”

“At school?”

He nods. “I’m the dumb, crazy kid. That’s what everyone thinks. Especially the teachers.”

“They ever say that to you?”

“Not to my face. But I walked by the staff room once and they were talking about that ‘Rake kid’. About how he’ll probably end up in juvenile detention by the time he’s thirteen. And in and out of jail when he’s older. You can’t tell me that it was about Takota or Declan. I might be stupid, but I’m not THAT stupid.”

“You’re not stupid at all. And I don’t want you ever calling yourself that again. You just need some help. Find different ways to learn. Not everyone learns the same way. I was like you in school; couldn’t focus, got ignored when I asked for help, that turned into me goofing off or getting frustrated. Lots of times I put a fist into a locker or a wall. A LOT.”

“Is that why you didn’t go to college? Like mum? Is that why you went into the military?”

“I suppose that’s part of it. Guess I liked the danger and adventure of it too. Going off and fighting bad guys and getting to shoot guns and all of that shit. Never thought about actually having to kill people and what that would feel like.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Not good, mate. Not good at all.”

“Even if it’s bad people? Like that Nathan that hurt you?”

“People like him are exceptions. But for the most part? I don’t like doing it. Not even if it’s in the course of helping someone else. But sometimes…”

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” his son finishes for him. “Sometimes it’s you or them, right?”

“Exactly. And don’t worry about school, alright? I’ll give them a call. Ask for a meeting. Get things sorted and get you the help you need. And deserve.”

“Man…” TJ grins. “...they are going to shit their pants when they hear from you.”

Tyler reaches out to ruffle his namesake’s hair. “Maybe. Hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Wanna head in? See what mum’s cooking up?”

“I don’t know." The ten year old's nose crinkles in disgust. "Do you think it’ll be edible?”

“Is it ever?”

TJ laughs. “Dad…”

“Whatever you do, do NOT tell her I said that.”

“Don’t worry…” Leaning across his board, the ten year old wraps both arms around one of Tyler’s; squeezing tightly and laying his head against his dad’s shoulder. “...your secret’s safe with me.”

[honestgrins]

I have a prompt for you if you can. Not sure if you watch Legacies, there’s an episode where Lizzie makes a wish to a Jinn that Hope is never born. In this alternate universe, Lizzie won the Merge, Klaus flipped his switch 2 years ago in grief and started a war with the humans leading to Triad publicly hunting all supernaturals. Enemy #1 is Klaus and his vampire wife Caroline Mikaelson. I’d like to see a Klaroline fic of this AU please.

Prompt part 2. I have some personal thoughts on this alternative universe but itS totally up to you if you go with them or if you come up with your own. No Hope means no Hayley, means no Elijah dying. So why was Klaus grieving? No Hope means back in TVD S4 the witches had no way of luring him to NO so he stayed in MF eventually wearing Caroline down into a relationship. Josie and Lizzie were like his daughters and when they merged he and Caroline both flipped the switch in grief of Josie.

 Tears Will Never Dry (angsty)

“I failed them.” Her voice was so small and defeated. Curled up as she was in the armchair, Caroline looked blankly out the window. Though she had a perfect view of Bonnie talking through some witchy herbs with a despondent Lizzie out in the courtyard, her eyes didn’t seem to register. It was like she wasn’t even there.

Klaus, who once proudly professed he had no heart, felt something break inside him for he knew nothing could truly comfort her. He had failed her. So he offered what little he could, what he held onto when she was so far away. “You love them so completely, you could never fail them,” he vowed, and he’d never meant something so much. It took all his strength not to pull her into his arms, to close the distance she wrapped around herself so tightly. “You will help Lizzie through this, and—” The lump in his throat made it hard to speak, not that he could bring himself to say the name she cried in her sleep. “—you loved her to the end.”

Tears trickled down her crumpled face. “It’s not supposed to happen that way,” she croaked. “Mom and Dad loved me to the end, too. Their ends. Now, I have to live with her being gone. Forever.”

It used to be a promise between them, sweet and tempting; on her tongue, the word sounded sour. Helpless and desperate, Klaus kneeled  at her feet. He pressed his mouth to her knee, hands wrapped around her legs like a lifeline. “Tell me what I can do. Please, sweetheart. Let me help.”

Blinking down at him, she let her fingers card through his hair. Her smile was sad, apologetic. “It just hurts so much.”

And he knew it was too late.

The club was a dangerous idea. They were meant to be in hiding, and it defied sense to flaunt their return to New Orleans in a favorite haunt. But the girls were having fun, and Klaus was loathe to break up the party with sense.

He was tucked into the quietest corner of the VIP lounge, high above the din. Lizzie and Caroline, meanwhile, danced in the crush of the crowd, the pounding beat far too much for even a vampire’s ears. They laughed as they bumped into each other, and a smile curled his lips. It was good to be home.

Their little family was still grieving Josie’s loss after two years, each in their own way. Caroline preferred enjoying the lighter side of life, aided by a lack of human sensibilities. Lizzie alternated between reveling in her magic and loathing it for the too dear cost, just as she hated her mother for flipping the switch and loved having her as more of a friend. Klaus...

Klaus was just trying to keep the game interesting.

“Careful, friend,” Marcel warned, offering him a fresh drink as he dropped into the next chair. “Your humanity is showing.”

“She’s not paying me any mind, we can speak freely.” He turned to his old friend, a son that was lost and found, then lost and found again. How he wished he could grant such a miracle to Caroline. “Tell me about Triad.”

Clenching his glass, Marcel looked grim. “My nightwalkers keep disappearing, and even the ones with the GIft,” he murmured with laden meaning, since vampires had learned to hoard the secret of lapis lazuli and the safety it provided, “have mentioned being followed. Davina hasn’t risen far in the ranks of the organization yet, but she thinks a big move is in the works.”

He grit his teeth. “And?”

“The ‘vampire wife’ is whispered around the place. Often.”

It was a fight to loosen the tension in his body, but a necessary one. He raised a toast to Caroline, who tried to coax him out to the dance floor. He shook his head, charming enough so as not to rouse her suspicion. “I assume a kidnapping then.”

“At the least,” Marcel agreed. “Whether they want information from her or to use her against you, torture is to be expected. The switch might be a benefit to her if it comes to that—”

"It won't." His tone was final, even as he held his smirk. The ladies were too busy laughing off those bold men trying to dance with them to read him from afar. "She's been through enough."

Noticeably quiet, Marcel just sipped his drink.

“What, Marcellus?” Klaus bit out.

With a measured glance toward him, he shrugged. “The switch... She’s not really going through anything, and she hasn’t for years now. And thinking you’ve flipped yours, too? You’ve created a comfortable little world for her to avoid the pain, maintaining it to keep her safe without her knowing. What happens when the illusion shatters?”

He gave a careless flip of his hand. “She can’t turn it off twice.”

“If you say so.”

It wasn’t a new argument to Klaus, not when Stefan, Bonnie, Elijah — even Rebekah — had implored him to rethink his grand strategy for Caroline to party away the worst of her pain. At the very least, he could be honest about his own, relatively intact humanity. Instead, he let her enjoy the lighter side of life without tempting a worse outcome should she feel the need to punish him for trying to fix her. After all, she’d done much the same when her mother died.

The subterfuge was messy but necessary, especially with credible threats against her in this war the humans insist upon waging. His ear was attuned to the array of heartbeats throughout the club, the loud music not enough to dull his hybrid senses. Vampires had a slow, dull throb when compared to the hearty pound of a werewolf, not that they’d find themselves in the Abattoir without some pressing business that was sure to involve him. Same with the witches, and only Lizzie’s let out the fast-paced thrum of both full blood and magic.

Humans, though, they seemed to be threading in from the edges of the crowd — and aiming for the blondes at the center. Feeling the world slow around him, Klaus launched himself down from the balcony, mindless to the vampires hurrying to get everyone out of his way. None of them caught the true danger, however, until the strobe light caught on the wooden stakes being pulled from jackets.

Klaus managed to snap three necks before they got close, but Caroline was too busy blocking access to Lizzie to notice the woman stretching a strong arm toward her. Feeling like he was underwater, he watched as Lizzie’s fear overwhelmed her, and the hand grasped around her mother’s wrist glowed red. Pain seemed to lance through Caroline, and she lost her focus to fend off the attack she still hadn’t seen coming.

The familiar scent of her blood filled the air, and all Klaus could see was red.

Later, he would confirm that the scratch down Caroline’s back healed perfectly, that she’d survived the bold offensive he hadn’t stopped. Even later than that, he would acknowledge his plan had been far from perfect, without even the veneer of success to defend it when her humanity was eventually restored.

But in the moment, the thought of losing her to his own carelessness was too much. Clearly, holding onto his humanity wasn’t working the way he’d envisioned; in fact, his rage at the sight of a stake piercing her skin felt like a liability. He processed this in the span of a second, and by the time the human’s bloody head hit the dance floor, his decision had been made.

The world already saw him as a ruthless monster. He might as well give it to them, and he’d make them bleed for daring to harm her. He didn’t need his humanity for that.

With his fangs bared and blood dripping from his hand, he certainly looked the part. When Caroline met his eyes, however, something must have alerted her to the change. Having torn the stake from her back and moved Lizzie to the safe space between them, her head tilted to the side as she appraised him with a new appreciation. She gave a sharp grin of joy and arousal, her tongue slipping from beneath her fangs to wet the corner of her lips. “It’s about time.”

[carnalpleasure]

Michael x Angel!Reader 👼

hi!! i’ve had this idea in my head for months and finally felt inspired to start it tonight. i’m still working on my other two fics.. but Michael’s been calling to me lately💕

Summary: The reader assigns herself to be Michael’s guardian angel. This takes place at the beginning of Sojourn, with Michael in the wilderness. But takes a slightly different turn <3

Every human being in the history of humanity had been born with a guardian angel. The precious moment a newborn baby breathes its first breath of life, an angel is assigned to be their lifelong guardian. The angel’s main mission being to protect their human ward from the dark forces that had plagued the earth for all eternity. Ever since the serpent seduced Eve into her first bite of the knowledge of Good and Evil.

But that streak was broken one day in late March of 2012, when Vivian Harmon gave birth to Satan’s only begotten son.

She was the Anti-Mary. Instead of a blessed virgin being touched by an angel, she was a victim of a demonic sexual assault. She died giving birth to the Antichrist.

Michael Langdon was Satan’s very first creation. Because he was not a child of God, he was not born with a guardian angel. His father didn’t bother to assign him a guardian demon either. The spawn of Satan was left in the hands of none other than his grandmother Constance, whom his father felt was perfect for raising the little monster.

When Michael outgrew her, his father introduced him to Anton Lavey, one of his most trusted followers, who would then introduce Michael as the heir to the Church of Satan.

Michael, however, didn’t really take to Anton. He felt much closer to another key member of the church, Miriam Mead. She took a liking to the boy too and lovingly welcomed him into her home, where she taught him all about rituals, prayers, Black Mass, satanic prophecy.. She was preparing him for the apocalypse. His destiny, as they’d all say.

Once Michael began becoming aware of his powers, his father then led him into the hands of the Warlocks. They thought they were training him to be their next Supreme, but he only needed them to show him how to use his powers. They were disposable beyond that.

Michael was a loyal son, never questioning his father’s decisions, until his beloved Ms. Mead was permanently taken from him by the witches. Cordelia was right, why did he let this happen?

In search of answers, Michael fled to the wilderness on a quest. Jesus had spent 40 days out in the desert being tempted by Satan himself before his own Father finally spoke to him. Michael decided he had to do the same.

That’s when he wandered out into the forest on the outskirts of LA and started to trace a pentagram in the dirt, tired and out of options.

“I’m not going any further,” he sulked, dragging the jagged stone across the ground. “Father, tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” he pleaded, out of breath as he finished carving his sigil into the soil.

“I’m not leaving this circle until you talk to me,” he pouted stubbornly. “They’re gone.. the warlocks.. my Ms. Mead. Burned alive at the stake by the witches. Until nothing was left but ash and smoke,” his voice was breaking but he was too exhausted to cry.

“You tell me what to do,” he sighed, “or you let me die here.” Then he fell to his knees in the center of the circle and waited for a sign.

He watched the sun set and rise four times before he finally had a vision. But even then, he couldn’t be sure if he was seeing a sign or just suffering from severe dehydration.

He saw a little boy offering a cold grape Fanta, and a little girl holding a basket of red apples, and he thought maybe God was trying to tempt him into the light now. To distract him from his mission and derail him from his destiny.

He refused, “No, I’m on a mission. I have to talk to my father,” he said weakly. “Leave me alone.” Then the visions turned dark. He was taunted by Ms. Mead and then praised by Anton Lavey.

“You’re not real. None of this is.. re-real.” He shook his head and raised his hand to shield his face from the blinding light that was radiating from the High Priest before him.

“You’ve done a great job.” The Satanist proudly smiled. “No..” Michael protested, “I failed. I-I’m lost. I don’t understand my purpose,” he was out of breath and at a loss for words. He was tired of games, all he wanted was his father’s help. Everything was spinning.

The vision of Anton continued reciting to him from the prophecy in Revelation, calling him the Alpha and the Omega. Michael couldn’t take it anymore. He made a lunge for Anton, wrapping a hand around his throat to choke him out. Only seconds later, the vision vanished altogether.

And that’s when he saw you. The last thing he remembered was an impossibly beautiful girl with big white wings and a little white dress. He fell to his knees again, in shock and exhaustion, and collapsed into her arms. He felt the warm, soft embrace of feathers, and then he fell into a much needed sleep.

When he awoke a day later, he was still pretty disoriented from the lack of food, water, and sleep. His mind was a haze. He didn’t realize where he was, he only knew that this bed was softer than anything he’d ever felt.

The blankets felt like fluffed up clouds and the pillows smelled like lavender. A cool breeze caressed his skin, and he noticed the temperature of the room was significantly cooler than anything he’d felt in a long time. That radiating heat that seemed to consume him constantly just wasn’t there.

He reached his hand out to feel along the bed. Empty. He opened his eyes, hoping to see the angel from his dreams sitting there watching over him. But the room was empty too.

He sat up in bed, clutching the sheets and looking around anxiously. The room was nice, but it wasn’t anything extreme. It was kinda charming actually, soft and cozy. It didn’t look like anyone had been living here for very long.

Michael climbed out of bed, stepping foot on the soft, plush carpet and smiling at the touch. He walked towards the bedroom door which was just barely cracked open, and stuck his head out slowly to peak outside.

You were in the kitchen, digging around in the refrigerator when you heard him come out. You twisted around, bumping the fridge door shut with your hip and then dropping everything on the counter.

“You’re up already? Are you feeling okay?” The pained look on his face made you worry. He looked exhausted still, leaning against the doorway just to hold himself up.

You rushed to his side, a little faster than humanly possible, and wrapped an arm around his waist to help him steady himself. He leaned into your embrace but winced a little at your touch. His body was sore everywhere.

He couldn’t stop staring at you. Almost glaring, looking at you like you’d just lied straight to his face. You walked him to the counter, sitting him down across from you and then running back to quickly check the stove. He didn’t take his eyes off you the whole time.

“I’m making you a breakfast feast,” you smiled at him over your shoulder. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days..”

“I’m sorry,” he interjected. “But wh-who are you? How did I get here?”

You smiled gently, passing him a plate of bacon and eggs to get him started while you finished the french toast. “I’m Y/N, I brought you here,” you said happily.

He kept looking you up and down. You looked exactly like he remembered, but you were now missing one unique, defining feature..

“Are you-“ he couldn’t bring himself to say the word out loud. It didn’t seem possible to him. “You had.. wings before,” his brow furrowed in confusion and his glare returned.

You simply nodded, glancing over at him and frying a piece of toast in the pan. “You remembered,” you said with a smile.

His confusion only grew. You poured him a glass of milk and then slid the fork closer to him. “Eat, please. We have plenty of time to talk later. I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” you brushed his blonde curls out of his face and the divine touch of your fingers briefly lingered on his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

He hesitated, picking up his fork and taking a bite. It wasn’t just the starvation talking, he genuinely enjoyed your food. He immediately started feeling his strength and energy coming back. He felt revitalized.

It wasn’t just the food. Something about your presence was so satisfying to him. You brought him a kind of merciful peace that was only reserved for the saints. He didn’t need confirmation, he knew in his heart you were something holy. And he only hoped that you didn’t know what he truly was. If you ever fell in love with him, it would be your fall from grace.

“You’re an angel,” he whispered softly. His heart was pounding. He felt like he was committing a crime just by being in your presence. He felt like God would smite him any minute just for laying eyes on you.

You cupped his face in your hands gently, wiping away a stray tear that fell from his eyes. “As of today, I’m officially a guardian angel,” you smiled proudly. Your eyes actually twinkled, it completely captivated him.

“Guardian? Who’s guardian?” his pouty lip quivered and you could see all the new emotions swirling around him like a hurricane. He couldn’t believe any of this was really happening. He thought he must’ve been dreaming. He wasn’t dead, he knew that. He was destined for hell and there’s no one like her down there.

He was so cute. “Yours, duh” you giggled, letting go of his face and playfully tousling his blonde locks. He looked up at you with a small smirk that spread into a big smile. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. “How?-“ he silently mouthed as the words he was looking for escaped him.

“You didn’t have one,” you shrugged. “So I.. guess you could say I volunteered.” You didn’t want to overwhelm him with too many details, but the adorable confused puppy look on his face was begging for answers. “Volunteered?” he repeated, cocking his head to the side curiously. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“I just thought you should have someone looking out for you too.. you know. You didn’t deserve to be abandoned. Not by God or anyone.” You said it with such sincerity, he could see it on your face how strongly you felt about those words.

His eyes started to overflow with tears but he couldn’t help but smile. It was the single kindest thing anyone had ever said to him. That’s when it hit him. You already knew what he was. You knew who he was. And you were willing to go against both God’s will and Satan’s to take over as his protector. You left heaven just for him.

He pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you and quietly sobbing into your chest. Tears of pure joy and gratitude. Little “thank yous” whispered on repeat against your skin, so close you can feel his lips brushing across your collarbones with each word.

He snaked his arms around your waist tighter and tighter, pulling you as close to him as physics would allow. It melted your heart how close he wanted to be to you.

“Aw.. you just want to be held,” you giggled, putting your arms around his shoulders and hugging his body closer to yours. “I’m here, Michael. I’ve got you now. You’re safe, you’re mine,” you cooed, your lips brushing against his temple.

His eyes were closed and his face was pressed against your chest, all he heard was a swift whoosh as your wings suddenly appeared, folding around both of your bodies like a soft shield tucking him into you. He’d never felt so safe before, all nestled in your feathers.

He peaked his eyes open to look around at them. “That’s fucking awesome,” he muttered softly, his jaw dropping as his eyes shot up to meet yours. You smiled down at him, kissing his forehead. You couldn’t help but giggle. He made you feel giddy, the way he looked at you. Like you were made of magic.

“My own guardian angel,” he said quietly to himself, still in awe of it all. He refused to let go of you for the rest of the day after that. All he wanted to do was lie in your arms. Feel your embrace. And you were happy to oblige because he needed to rest anyway. The two of you returned to your bed where he spent the rest of the night on your chest, fast asleep in your arms. The safest place he could ever be.

💕taglist: @sexwon131 @jimmason @whatcodysaid @angelicmichael @thewarriorprincessxo

[skarsgard-daydreams]

La Scapigliata

Part XIII

{ one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen }

Description: Deep in the heart of Tuscany, Eric met a lady with disheveled hair.

Note: I am fully aware that Christopher Columbus was born in Italy. But Eric doesn’t know that, nor does he care. He met the man in Spain. The man spoke Spanish, and was in the employ of the Spanish crown. To Eric, he's a Spaniard.

Warnings: 18+ in other chapters, imagined violence, blood, alcohol, religious themes, dubious historical accuracy

Eric woke with a thirst that clawed at his throat, threatening to shred his self-control into ribbons if he didn’t drink soon. Magdalena was still sound asleep with her warm cheek pressed against his chest. He thought of the blood flowing beneath the surface, how it would streak in dark rivulets over her white skin if he sank his teeth into her throat. His fingertips traced the graceful curve of her neck, brushing over the bruises that had not yet begun to fade.

The impulse to strike burned within him, primal and overwhelming, but Eric stifled it with the force of his own will. He would not harm her. His fangs dropped into his mouth as he raised a hand to his lips, pricking his index finger on the glistening white tip. The scent of blood set all of his senses on fire. Magdalena seemed so warm, so lovely, so deliciously alive. She smelled bright and sweet, like the grove where they had first met. He longed to peel her flesh like an orange and bury himself in her heat. But he swiped the blood over the bruises instead with the reverence of a priest anointing the faithful in blessing.

Magdalena’s dark eyes slid open. She watched him smear the blood onto her neck, a question hidden in her furrowed brow. After a moment, the bruises faded. Eric took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the excess blood, resisting the urge to lap it up with his tongue. Magdalena reached up and pressed her fingertips into the smooth skin that had formerly been bruised. Feeling no pain, her eyes widened in awe.

“You healed me," she said softly. "How?"

"There is power in my blood that even I do not understand." Eric forced his fangs to retract with a click, eliciting a small gasp from her lips. "Go upstairs and dine with our host. I will join you in a while."

"Where are you going?" she asked, her pulse quickening to a delicious pace.

"Hunting."

When Eric had slaked his thirst, he returned to find the two humans sitting at a cramped table in front of the hearth with cups of wine in their hands and mirth in their eyes. Magdalena's beautiful mezzo laughter filled the room as Leonardo told her a story about a dog that came into the Palazzo Vecchio and wreaked absolute havoc while he and Michelangelo were painting frescos on opposite walls.

"You should have seen the floor when he was done," Leonardo chuckled. "Blue paw prints everywhere."

"He wanted to be a painter as well," Magdalena said. She smiled at Eric and picked up a fig from the platter in the center of the table. "What did you catch, my lord?" she asked. "On your hunt."

Leonardo's grey eyebrows furrowed, but the vampire sent a pulse through his mind, warning him to be silent. He was certain that if Magdalena found out about the two watchmen he had left half-drained in the plaza, she would bolt like a spooked horse. Eric bent at the waist and kissed her cheek in greeting. “I’ll tell you about it later, dear heart,” he said, his words warm and full of promise. A question lingered in her almond eyes, but she gave it no voice, taking a delicate bite of the fruit as he sat down beside her.

“If you want to know about the New World, this is the man you should ask,” Leonardo said with a nod toward Eric. “He met Columbus, you know.”

“The pompous Spaniard who got lost on the way to Asia and claimed to have discovered the land Leif Erikson settled five centuries ago?” Eric asked, his tone playful in his dismissal. He sucked his teeth with his tongue. “I have no kind words for him.”

A grin spread across Magdalena’s face as she poured another cup of wine and passed it to Eric. “Then be brutal,” she said with relish.

Eric raised his cup as if in toast to her, but he did not drink. They sat by the hearth for hours talking of voyages and sea monsters, of diving suits and flying machines, of oil paint and alchemy. He poured his wine into her cup when she had drained it, but she was too engrossed in a sketch of one of Leonardo’s inventions to notice. Reflected in Magdalena’s dark eyes was an elemental fire that blazed with vitality. She was relentless in her curiosity, consuming everything they had to offer like a man who had been shipwrecked on a barren shore.

Bells pealed over the city, marking each hour as it passed. Gradually, dawn approached. With assurances that Magdalena would sit for a portrait the following afternoon, the artist shuffled off to bed, leaving the two of them alone in the small room illuminated by the dying embers in the grate. Magdalena’s complexion was rosy with wine and she rested her chin on her hand to keep herself upright. Eric picked her up and set her in his lap the way he would have done with his wife so many lifetimes ago. She hummed softly and pressed her lips to his jaw in a gentle kiss.

“If you could go anywhere in the world,” Eric murmured in her ear, tangling his fingers in her dark hair. “Where would it be?”

Her mouth was warm against his skin as she peppered his throat with a few more kisses. “Götaland,” she said softly. “With you.”

@scxrsgxrd​ @grandpa-sweaters​ @stevesharrlngtons​ @skrsgardspam​ @loliwrites​ @hausofobsession​ @bskarsgardlove92​ @ateliefloresdaprimavera​ @dreamtherapy​ @lihikainanea​ @loomiz​ @grimeundglow​

[theprincesslibrary]

#26: Quid pro quo

She had a plan. A good plan, flawed of course, but a good plan nonetheless. She would march into the Azure dragon’s lair, offer him a deal he could not refuse, and spend the rest of her days in relative peace. She would not be burned alive, nor have her body desecrated postmortem. It was a good plan, albeit a bit of a crazy one.

She had carefully designed said plan for months, spent countless hours with her nose buried deep in obscure literature, practically harassed the head of the royal guard into telling her every tiny detail of his encounter with the sand dragons - the man used to boast about his tale of glory, now he couldn’t bear to utter the word dragon - but for all her effort she still wasn’t ready for the Azure dragon himself. There were a few key elements about the beast which were not accounted for in those dusty grimoires: for one, he was a man rather than a scaled monster; and two… he was incredibly handsome. He had ordered her to sit opposite him, and she had since spent a stupid amount of time staring at his face, which wasn’t all that smart considering her current predicaments. Yet, one could hardly blame her; she had been expecting a blue lizard - a giant lizard, with wings, and teeth, and claws - and she was now sitting in front of the most gorgeous man she had ever met. Nothing during her months of research had prepared her for the day's events, and she was a bit lost and quite unsure of how to proceed.  

 *****

When she had walked past the entrance on the north side of the snowy mountain, she had expected a cave or an abandoned mine; a place dark and humid, where the air would be stale, almost putrid. There would be spiderwebs on the walls and maybe a few rotting corpses lying in the shadows of a dusty corner. The place would be grim, quiet - save for the few drip drops of a leaking roof - and extremely scary. But the halls she was wandering in looked nothing like old collapsing tunnels. There were sculpted columns where she expected old support beams, and vast rooms with smooth walls instead of rough rock and loose stone. It looked more like an underground palace than it did the belly of a mountain, and she couldn’t help but be a little bit in awe of the craftsmanship required to achieve such a feat. Her father’s castle could never compare to the dragon’s lair, nothing could.

As she made her way from room to room, she found no pile of gold or shiny jewels, not that she hoped to find any, she had specifically chosen the Azure dragon for its peculiar taste in treasure. She had however expected a few rotten corpses, maybe some dead knights, or discarded armors, but again she was pleasantly surprised: not a dead body in sight. Just books, shelves after shelves for as far as the eye could see. They occupied every surface of the place: wooden tables covered in parchments, rare volumes piled up on the floor. Some piles were so high, she had to crane her neck up to see the top and almost lost her balance more times than she’d admit to. Some books were torn or half-eaten by mice, soot-stained or with missing their spines, others were brand new and carefully ordered by author and date. And everywhere the dry scent of paper mixed with the faintest bit of charcoal, a good indication that she was in the right place. Which might sound confusing to some: what kind of princess would willingly seek out a dragon? But she was desperate, and desperate times called from desperate measures. Crazy measures, some might even say. 

Now that she was deep into the beast’s lair, she was faced with two issues. One, for all her planning, she hadn’t come up with a solution to prevent the dragon from killing her without hearing her plea. She had a proposition for the creature, one that required some explaining, and she could hardly do so once reduced to a fuming pile of ashes. She had thought she’d come up with something eventually, but as her twenty-first birthday grew closer things accelerated, and now she was here, with no idea how to speak with such a being. Maybe she should send words in advance? Did Dragons get mail? And If so, who would be brave enough to deliver such correspondence? There wasn't any protocol on how to converse with a dragon. She was taught how to politely greet foreign emissaries, but somehow her etiquette lesson didn’t cover “how to greet a mighty dragon without being toasted”. Clearly a gap in her royal education. Most people - knights in search of gold and glory - marched into a dragon’s lair with two goals in mind: kill the beast and steal its treasure. They either succeeded or died, adding to the long list of nameless fools no one remembered. There was hardly any tale of them having a civil conversation with the beast. 

And either way, if she knew how to politely engage the Azure dragon, she would first need to find him. One would think a creature this size would be easy to spot, but so far she only passed by empty rooms (saves for the mountains of books) and deserted halls. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think the place to be abandoned.

As she continued her discovery of the underground palace, she stepped inside a dimly lit room, more vast than the rest, that looked like a library. There had been books in every room she visited so far, but this one looked like it was meant to hold paper and manuscript. It was dark, save for the few candles and the fire roaring in the hearth.

“Excuse me.” She called out to the shadows, not expecting an answer. She had been doing so in every room, and only got an eerie silence as a reply. So when the shadows moved in a corner of the room, she nearly jumped out of her skin. The shadow was in fact a man sitting in a chair with a heavy book in his hands. Her heart was in her throat, and it took her a few minutes to regain her composure. 

“Forgive my intrusion,” she started, “I'm looking for the Azure dragon.” 

The man barely lifted his eyes from the books to give her the most unimpressed look. He was handsome, almost painfully so: silver-white hair, high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut through glass. But his most striking features were his eyes: icy blue, pupils slit in the middle. And then everything clicked: the hair, the pointed ears, the haughty look... 

“You're one of the Elezens” she whispered dumbfounded, “It was said that your race had passed into legend.” “Sorry to disappoint.” 

Panic ran through her, insulting the very being she had come to beg for help was a mistake, insulting one of the Elezens was a death sentence. She quickly dipped in a graceful bow, knees almost touching the ground, and lowered her head as much as her spine would allow. 

“Forgive me, your grace, I spoke out of turn.”

She did not dare look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her. She could sense his disdain and perhaps a hint of curiosity. She kept her head low and her knees bent, waiting for him to speak, to dismiss her, or worse, to kill her. Her muscles screamed at her, and she secretly thanked her mother for her rigorous etiquette lessons. Lya might look frail and delicate, but she could curtsy for hours, her body well-trained to the princessly art of lowering oneself (literally) to please powerful men.

“Sit.” He finally said. “And pray tell, why is a princess seeking me out. That ought to be an interesting tale.”

For a brief moment, as she sat opposite him, nervousness overwhelmed her. Her hand clenched into her skirt, her fingers tugging at the fabric. She had not planned for this, hadn’t even considered the possibility, his kind was supposed to be extinct. This changed everything. Elezen were stronger than most dragons, smarter too. Knights didn’t kill Elezens, they simply ceased to exist; or hid in the heart of a snowy mountain, it would seem. Still, she couldn’t help but stare, he looked so… human.  

“Speak.” He ordered, “all the fidgeting and staring is deeply annoying.” “I’m sorry, your grace, I expected you to be…” “Taller?” “Bluer actually, with more scales perhaps?” “I can hardly read with a full set of claws,” he pointed out with a haughtily condescending tone.   

She swallowed heavily and nodded.  She had been willing to face a beast breathing fire, surely she could converse with a man reading a book. She hadn’t escaped her father’s dungeon and portaled all the way up north to give up now. She brushed off her skirt, took a deep breath and raised her head to meet his gaze. 

“I've come to request the honor of being your captive.” Words stumbled out of her mouth so fast she wasn’t sure she had been intelligible.  “Do I look that feeble that you’d rather be my prisoner than some baron’s wife?” He said, weary and just a little bit sharp. “Do you not fear me?” “I do, very much fear you, your grace. Even more so now that I know of your true lineage. But I wish to live, and being held captive, given the proper circumstances, seems rather small compared to losing my life.” “I don't follow.” “I was born under the blood moon, your grace…” 

She didn’t finish her sentence, didn’t need to, they both knew what it meant. Silence stretched between them, only broken by the sound of a log cracking in the fireplace. When the dragon spoke again his voice wasn’t thunderous nor loud, it wasn’t “ dragon-like ”; it was soft, barely a whisper, with a hint of sadness to it, and something else. Empathy? Pity? Most people pitied her. 

“I didn’t realize humans still followed the old ways. And they call us beasts… Very well, I can see how this agreement would benefit you, but what's in it for me?” “It is my understanding that a dragon’s reputation among his peers is correlated to the size of his hoard and his ability to keep a princess captive.” She started, glad her voice didn’t betray any of her fear. “Your hoard is rumored to be quite impressive, but you never…” 

She hesitated for a while, she needed to be careful with her words, she had insulted him once, it would be a mistake to do it again, dragons weren’t known for being magnanimous. Still, there wasn’t exactly a pleasant term to describe the situation, ‘prisoner’ seemed a bit excessive considering she was offering to be locked away in a tower of her own free will. Well, maybe not locked away, and there was no tower…but ‘guest’ would be most inappropriate. Hosts had duties towards their guests, she could not insinuate that he’d owe her anything. 

“You’ve never ‘harbored’ a princess before”, she finally settled on. “I suppose you find the task bothersome, fending off knights can be quite tiring, believe me, I know.” 

He laughed, barely a huff, but she heard it, and she liked it. It spurred her on, and she smiled in return. Maybe their shared disdain for knights could bring them to a quid pro quo. 

“I'm the thirteenth princess of the sand kingdom, hardly the golden prize, and even if a knight wanted to risk it all, well, rumor has it your hoard is made of books…” she let her eyes wander around the room, her stare landing on yet a precarious tower of volumes, minutes away from collapsing on the ground. “Not exactly the type of treasure knights tend to seek out. They're not very well-read. So you see, this agreement would benefit both of us.”  

His eyes narrowed at her as he studied her. His stare was neither cold nor disdainful, but calculating. He was appraising her, measuring her worth and deciding whether she was worth the hassle; and for those interminable seconds, she held her breath in anticipation of his response. 

“I can clean too. And sing.” She hastened to add. “I'm fairly good at enchanting animals. I could sing the rats away from your books.” 

He huffed once more, amused at her outburst.  

“No need to oversell it, Princess. You have yourself a deal.”

[thepaperpanda]

Bringing the Christmas Spirit Back || Heartman x Reader

Summary: When the Christmas spirit is long gone for humanity, Heartman tries to restore it.

Warnings: none    

Words: 2711

Authors: Cass & Bear

Yawning loudly you walked out to the main room of Heartman's lab.

You didn't expect anything to be different because why would it be?

To your own surprise there was a big christmas tree in the middle of the room, it was made of plastic. "Uhm... What is that?," You asked, walking closer to inspect the colorful baubles and other decorations.

 “Well, now that you're awake, I have to tell you that we ran out of earl gray,” Heartman stepped into the room, almost jumping off four little stairs. “Hi, gorgeous,” he placed a brief kiss on your cheek and stood right next to the christma tree. “I’ve printed it with a 3D printer, what do you think?,” He asked, being obviously proud of himself. “I thought that we could have restored some of the old traditions. That we could have brought some of the Christmas spirit, to gain some kind of mood improvement.”

 "I forgot you don't sleep with me in bed. You have a lot of time to do these things," you said with a smile and rubbed your eyes, trying your best to wipe the sleep off them. "It's a good idea but I don't think it will ever be the same, and about the tea, I will check later what else we need, and then I will do a bigger order."

 “Sam won’t be happy,” Heartman let out a proper laugh. “It’s going to be our… Fourteenth order over the past two weeks,” He took his glasses off to wipe them using a kerchief he held in his back pocket.

 "The fifteenth order, sweetie. I checked the records last evening before the bed. I have no idea what you ordered behind my back but I know you did," you sighed, tapping his shoulder. "Let's hope they will send some other poor soul and not our Sam."

 “Well, actually, I wouldn’t mind them sending Sam, I have a few questions for him,” Heartman put his glasses back on. “Now, you look much better than the second before when your figure was blurry,” he sent you a grin and in the same moment his AED beeped a few times. “Ah, shit. We’ll continue our deep conversation in 3 minutes, okay? Meantime, be a good girl and make me a strong coffee, and don’t forget I like it bitter.”

 You giggled and nodded. "Okay, I will also make some breakfast while in the kitchen."

After kissing his cheek you went to the bedroom to quickly grab your glasses before heading to the kitchen. Then you started preparing the hot drinks.

 After exactly 3 minutes, Heartman’s AED brought him back to life with a strong, electric impulse. It took him a few seconds to gain his thoughts. “I hate this,” he muttered to himself and before he got up from the cot, he had written some things in his online journal, using his fingers to do so.

 At that point you were putting plates with breakfast onto the table. Toasts for both of you, coffee for him, and green tea for you.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you started looking through all the cabinets and shelves. "I think I have everything," you muttered to yourself.

 Heartman walked into the little dining room shortly after, he instantly took his seat. “Thanks,” he sent you a smile and started eating. “What are you looking for? Tell me, and I’ll tell you where you’ll be able to find it.”

 "No, no. It's okay, I already know what I need," you informed him and quickly took your seat right in front of him. "You really want to bring back a bit of the Christmas spirit to these dark days, huh?"

 "Yes, whenever possible," he replied and took a bite of his toast. He chewed and sipped on his coffee. "Yeah, that's what I needed."

 "Glad you liked it," you smiled at him, taking a sip of your tea.

After break Heartman returned to his work. Meantime, you checked and listed all the stuff you needed before placing an order with a little message for Sam.

After making sure your beloved man was busy with work, you quickly returned to the kitchen, locking the door. "Let's see if I still remember how to do this."

Maybe it was a silly idea but since Heartman wanted to bring back Christmas, it was worth a shot.

An hour and a half had passed and you finally left the kitchen. Of course he didn't notice you weren't around for the longer moment.

"Sweetie. I have something for you!"

 There was no response from Heartman.

He was dead, again.

The chiral matter in his hourglass almost filled the bottom part which meant he was about to get back within the blink of an eye.

 Sighing, you took a seat on the leather couch, waiting for him to return.

 Another electric impulse made its way through Heartman's body, and the man jerked in his place regaining consciousness. "Y/N, did you say something?"

 You nodded. "I called you but I was a bit too late to catch you. Glad to see you back, come here. I have a Christmas gift for you."

 "A Christmas gift? For me?," He blinked and didn't even try to hide his consternation as he got up. "I didn't expect anything like this but I won't lie, I can't wait to see what you got for me!"

 You laughed. "Be a good man and open your mouth, eyes closed," you hummed with a smile. It was a little revenge for some test you had to do for him in the past.

 At first he blinked hearing your command. Then, he laughed loudly. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but as much as I love you, I don't hold an ounce of confidence in your actions," he joked, referring to that one particular time when you asked him to obey your words only to prank him.

 You rolled your eyes. "Trust me this one time. You won't regret it, I swear on the bond between us," you said, placing your hand over your heart.

 "I'm Heartman and my heart is already skipping a beat out of fear of what you've planned," he smirked but closed his eyes and parted his lips slightly. "I just want to warn you that if you'll try to feed me with chiral matter cookies, you'll regret the day you were born."

 You sighed and put a regular chocolate chip cookie between his lips. "Here. I hope I didn't burn them... And that they are good. I can't remember when I baked these for the last time."

 He chewed and then issued an opinion. "I like the flavour, the cookie was not too sweet yet not too bitter, too. You've added a perfectly measured amount of cocoa, the cookie had a tempting smell, too," Heartman stated. "I only lack some tiny ounce of ginger and honey but I know that it's extremely hard to get those."

 You looked at him, listening to his every word. It wasn't exactly the opinion you expected. "But... Do you like it? Before this all happened I used to make them for Christmas."

 "Do I like it? I love it, Y/N," Heartman replied. "If not for the fact I'm on a forever diet to stay in shape, I'd eat a tone of these!"

 "Oh, in such a case the whole jar of cookies wasn't a great idea," you giggled, rubbing your hand awkwardly. "Sorry."

 He sent you a smile. "I knew you'll surprise me, honey. But before I'll die again today, let me take you somewhere. While you'd been sleeping, I prepared something small," he claimed and got up from the cot, offering you his shoulder.

 You blinked confused but nodded, taking his arm. "Shall I be worried?"

 Heartman didn't reply but took you out of his laboratory. "Put your coat on," he advised. “By my side you don’t have to be worried.”

 You nodded and put on your coat just like he advised you. Just to be safe you also slipped on your warm boots. "Okay. I am ready... I think."

 He put his long, black coat on as well and led you outside of his facility.

Heartman stopped with you on the threshold of his outpost, being still under awning. "There," he pointed on the left. "Do you see him?"

 You rubbed your eyes, trying to get used to the brightness of the snow. Frowning you looked in the direction he pointed. "Is it…? Wait! Is it a snowman?"

 "Yes, it is. I called it the Death Stranding Snowman. He looks like a regular one but, if you'll take a closer look, you can see he had the Odradek and backpack, just like porters do."

 You giggled and nodded. "I can see that and I love it. I bet that Sam will love it as soon as he sees it. I am glad we live in a place like this actually, the Death Stranding Snowman will be with us longer due to low temperature."

 "Correct. And, also," he pointed his index finger up, right above your heads.

A plastic mistletoe hung on a tiny string attached to awning. "Maybe we can just have a little sneaky kiss under this mistletoe? It’s a tradition, isn’t it though?"

 You looked up at the mistletoe and laughed shortly. "Oh, you really got prepared while I was sleeping, huh?," You asked with a cocky smile.

 "Less talking, more doing," he muffled your voice with his lips crushing on yours.

 You hummed and kissed him back, placing your hands against his chest.

After a moment you pulled away to catch your breath.

 "Mmmm, that was something, Y/N," Heartman let out a hum of appreciation as his left palm was placed to your cheek where he gently brushed his thumb over your skin. "Ah! Just look at that! Sam's faster than I expected!"

 In the distance you could spot a little cloud of snow rising into the air. Sam Porter Bridges was riding his bike right to your outpost.

 You blinked and looked at the cloud of snow, giggling. "Oh, yes, he is, I still wonder how he is riding this thing through all the snow," you tapped Heartman's chest. "I will go pack him some cookies for the road and you get inside before you run out of time."

 Heartman decided to wait for Sam to approach.

When the other man got off his motorcycle and took all the packages, Heartman waved at him, still standing at the threshold of his outpost. "Sam Bridges! It's good to see you!"

 Sam didn't reply, only nodded his head while climbing up the stairs. By his way he turned head aside and stopped, looking at the snowman. “Seriously?,” He questioned loudly enough for Heartman to hear. “Whose idea it was?”

 Soon you joined both men. "Hello Sam, it's good to see you," you said with a smile and looked at Heartman, frowning. "I think I told you to get inside, huh?"

 "Easy, Y/N, I put this little thing on mute," he patted his AED a few times. “Idea for the snowman was totally mine. I’m thinking about getting similar sculptures to other Bridges locations, not necessarily made of snow but rather printed in Chiral Printers. We should consider bringing Christmas spirit all over America.”

 Sam scoffed Heartman’s words. “It’s not feasible as not all cities are in the network.” Sam was glaring at him, then he moved his glance to you. "Another order, huh? Are you opening a canteen or something? How is it possible for two people to use all of the supplies in a week?"

 "You kidding me right? I am not going to drag you back inside," uou muttered, completely annoyed with Heartman’s weird habit of muting the AED, so you simply unmuted the device.

"And it stays like this, sweetie," you said and turned your attention back to Sam. "Trust me, Sam, I have no idea what he is doing when I am asleep but our supplies melts like snow in the sun. I am so sorry for the trouble."

 With cocked brows Sam observed you and your little outburst of anger towards Heartman. "Yeah," he summed the situation up. Next moment he simply gestured at you and Heartman to slide aside. "I need to deliver these," he pointed at packages on his back.

 "Oh! Yes, right! Go to the terminal and then bring stuff inside," you instructed him and looked at Heartman. "We will be there."

 Heartman got back inside and took his coat as soon as he crossed the threshold of his laboratory.

 Soon, Sam joined you. He cringed at the very beginning after stepping in, when he spotted stuffed BTs with Christmas hats on. "The fuck...," He grunted to himself.

 "Heartman wants to bring back the Christmas spirit. In some way at least," you said looking at Sam from the couch and pointed at the big christmas tree. "BT in christmas hats aren't the only decorations here."

 Sam stopped at the top of four little stairs. "Yeah. I thought that you're not this type of guy because just like you claimed, you’re being dead inside," he summed up and got downstairs, putting the packages aside.

 "Well, you can see how much one person can change," you summed up getting up from the couch to walk up to Sam. "Here, since it's Christmas time. I have a little gift for you, I hope you will like it," you smiled at him, giving him a little bag of cookies.

 At first he hesitated to accept the little bag with cookies but soon he took it. "Thank you, Y/N."

 Heartman was laying on his cot. "Was nice to see you again, Sam. Thank you for bringing us all of the necessary things so quickly. You're simply the best porter."

 Sam nodded and grunted something under his breath only to turn around and got up the little stairs. "If only all BTs would be that cute," he pointed at two stuffed creatures.

 You giggled and nodded. "If all BTs were like these ones, the  world wouldn't be that scary. Thank you so much for coming, Sam. Have a good trip."

Several minutes passed since the moment Sam left you. Heartman was getting ready for another cardiac arrest when his intercom bipped, so the man frowned a little. “Do we expect any guests, Y’N?”

 You looked at him with a frown and shook your head.

Of course you didn't expect any guests, it's not like the good, old times when people could just visit friends randomly. It was a bit more complicated these days. "No, I do not and even if I did, I would inform you. Did you invite anyone?"

 He shook his head for no and got up. Heartman left his lab and went to the glazed entrance where the terminal was located. “Y’N, it’s Sam, come over here!”

 You even didn't bother to pull on the coat and joined Heartman, wearing your regular clothes.

"Sam? Is everything okay?"

 "Yes!," Sam yelled from the distance. "I improved your snowman, Heartman!"

 Heartman looked at you, frowning. "What is he talking about?," He asked and opened the main door to step slightly outside. The timefall stopped so Heartman simply got out of the building. "Y/N, you need to see this!"

 You were completely confused about what was going on. You followed Heartman to look at the improved snowman.

 The snowman had now one hand made of some plastic garbage Heartman found in his laboratory when the other one was made of snow, with middle finger up in the air. Next to the snowman there was a line of text scrawled in the snow. Fuck Higgs and his terrorists!, the inscription stated. Heartman lifted his hand up and gave a thumb up to Sam. “100 likes for this piece of art, Sam!”

 You gave Sam a thumb down. "And minus 50 likes from me. I preferred the previous snowman," you said but giggled.

  “You have no idea about modern art, Y/N!,” Sam yelled back and got onto his vehicle to roll down the hill.

“What? I like this anti-Monaghan version,” Heartman shrugged and wrapped arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get back inside. There are some handmade cookies left.”

[soracities]

a vore kinkster, i see now

I don’t know if you’re new to this blog but on the off chance you are please bear in mind that my often v theatrical and ridiculous levels of excitement in the tags sometimes need to be taken…not literally.

Also while I have no interest in actually consuming another human being let’s not ignore the fact that the endless links and parallels (literary, philosophical, religious) that can be drawn between desire / devotion and consumption are not incredibly varied and fascinating.

Food and love? Intimately linked, literally; from the moment we’re born, our very first meal is an inseparable union of food and love: it is warmth, security, connection, fullness and satiety, all in one gesture. It is our ‘welcome to earth’. It’s a memory that, I think, carries over into everything. Anyone who has spent any time around babies or young children knows (with a great deal of panic) that their primary method of exploration, without fail, is to put literally everything in their mouth. It becomes a way to measure the world.

from Natalia Andrievskikh’s ‘Food Symbolism, Sexuality, and Gender Identity in Fairy Tales and Modern Women’s Bestsellers’

It is also echoed by Levinas:

“This sinking one’s teeth,” he writes “into the things which the act of eating involves above all measure the surplus of the reality”

Simone Weil:

Hunger is a yardstick. Food is unifying. We make peace by ‘breaking bread’, by sharing a toast. Countless cultures the world over but every single one of them shares that. Eating together is communion.  Cooking together an even more intimate communion, taking forkfuls from your own plate to feed someone else? It’s what newlyweds do with the first slice of cake. In Amharic you commonly urge someone to take the food you offer them  with “bemote”–  if you don’t take this I’ll die. It is, literally, a life-giving gesture. It’s one of the most generous forms of tenderness I know.

Little babies and animals are so cute and impossibly adorable we want to ‘eat them up’ (there’s science behind it: it’s called dimorphus expression, or Cute Aggression. Similar sentiments include: desire to pinch, squash, crush. It’s essential to keeping us balanced–also alive.)

“Oh, please don’t go — we’ll eat you up — we love you so!” say Maurice Sendak’s Wild Things.“Please don’t go, I’ll eat you wholeI love you so, I love you so, I love you soPlease don’t go, I’ll eat you wholeI love you so, I love you so, I love you so, I love you so” echo alt-j, over and over like an incantation in ‘breezeblocks’

and while we’re on Sendak:

Anne Carson, too

Meaning, in order to be made, must be devoured. We ‘drink in’ words, we ‘digest’ and absorb and ‘savour’ them. Artists, I think, do it almost pathologically. There is hunger - hunger for what? That could be anything, but the point is: the hunger is there -  and when the art is true it is fueled by devotion, fueled by near maddening, impossible love.

“My reading a kind of eating,” says Li-Young Lee in ‘The Cleaving’, “My eating a kind of reading.”

and again:

“What is it in me would / devour the world to utter it?  What is it in me will not let / the world be, would eat / not just this fish, / but the one who killed it, / the butcher who / cleaned it. […] would eat it all / to utter it.”

and again:

And as for thee language used to describe sexual desire: the language of hunger, unequivocally: someone’s ‘thirsty’, you ‘eat them out,’ sexual appetite is voracious, insatiable, unquenchable. Anything less feels flat, lukewarm, insincere and, most notably, inaccurate. Love, says Sylvia Plath “gnaws [us] through”.

The list is endless. I don’t want to go on and on; there are others far more talented who have put it far better than I could:

The entirety of Helene Cixous’ ‘Love of the Wolf’ for a start:

“For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The person we hate we ‘can’t swallow.’ That one makes us vomit. Even our friends are inedible. If we were asked to dig into our friend’s flesh we would be disgusted. The person we love we dream only of eating. That is, we slide down that razor’s edge of ambivalence. The story of torment itself is a very beautiful one. Because loving is wanting and being able to eat up and yet to stop at the boundary. And there, at the tiniest beat between springing and stopping, in rushes fear. The spring is already in mid-air. The heart stops. The heart takes off again. Everything in love is oriented towards this absorption. At the same time real love is a don’t-touch, yet still an almost-touching. Tact itself: a phantom touching. Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up. Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows there is no greater proof of love than the other’s appetite, who is dying to be eaten up, who says or doesn’t say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you won’t eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me. Sign my death with your teeth.”

and also

and while we’re on that, Simone Weil:

“The great trouble in human life is that looking and eating are two different operations…Children feel this trouble already, when they look at a cake for a long time almost regretting that it should have to be eaten and yet are unable to help eating it. It may be that vice, depravity and crime are nearly always, or even perhaps always in their essence attempts to eat beauty, to eat what we should only look at. Eve began it. If she caused humanity to be lost by eating the fruit, the opposite attitude looking at the fruit without eating it, should be what is required to save it.”

There is Angela Carter (The Erl-King):

and again:

Han Kang, (The Vegetarian):

“He held her at the waist and stroked the mark, wishing he could share it with her, that it could be seared into his skin like a brand. I want to swallow you, have you melt into me and flow into my veins.”

Catherynne M. Valente (from Deathless):

see also:

“ I said: I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth on your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole.” (from The Bread We Eat in Dreams)

Robin Coste Lewis, (’Plantation’):

Kenneth Rexroth (’When We With Sappho’):

Kim Addonizio’s ‘First Kiss’ in which the topography of hunger and desire is quietly drawn full circle:

Oscar Wilde (Salomé):

Maram al-Massri (Red Cherry on a White-Tiled Floor):

Maggie Nelson (Bluets, 206):

“[…] it became clear that I would lose you, or that I had already lost you, that you were “etched into my heart”– I may not have known then that “etch” derives from etzen or erzjan–to be eaten–but in the days since I have come to know the full meaning of the root.”

Li-Young Lee (’The City in Which I Love You’):

Food and desire frequently overlap in Shakespeare’s Othello: the language of sexual desire is, as always, the language of the feast – Desdemona is “honey”, “palate of my appetite”, “food [..] luscious as locusts”. According to Iago she will  “begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor.”

there’s Jeanette Winterson (Written on the Body):

and Marguerite Duras (Hiroshima Mon Amour):

and this stunning excerpt by Julio Cortázar (Hopscotch):

Andal and religious fervour (from Autobiography of a Goddess):

Simone Weil, again (Waiting for God):

and while we’re on that see also: Catholicism

see also: Hannibal ( @bluebeardsbride collection of posts and analysis on this is simply marvelous)

and keeping with horror, what’s more seductive in Western popular culture than the enduring, insidious excess of the vampire’s hunger? The sheer breadth of the fears and anxieties they contain is endless, but that hunger – transgressive, monstrous and shameless –  both fascinates and repels us. You can read so much into the act of biting and draining your victim of blood, but there is an undeniably erotic element to it:

“She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth, the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth–which it made one shudder to see–the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a devilish mockery of Lucy’s sweet purity.”  (Bram Stoker, Dracula)

and Nina Cassian (The Young Bat):

This, even with the inherent violence, reads like a sacrament. It is, for better or worse, communion. And so much of love and desire is about some sort of communion. “I don’t want you there, I want you here.” And what’s the most intimate and lasting communion than:

“to be hungered after / to be taken inside another’s warm mouth / to alter his atlas of desire” (Zakia Henderson-Brown) 

To me, that is the epitome of ‘I want you here’. At it’s peak the boundaries blur: inside and outside is one and the same. The circle closes. Literally. And once that’s done it’s yours forever.

(Sarah Clear, ‘Dinner For Two: Sexual Desire, Reciprocity, and Cannibalism’): The above is a literal take but for me it really isn’t about that; it is the motivation behind it – the kind of blindingly intense, utterly consumptive (hello) desire that makes you want something that badly. That’s what I’m completely floored by in Georges Bataille’s “A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism”.

Hunger is the most primal need. Everything circles back to that, always, whether political or erotic. To be wanted beyond want, to be desired at a level of pure necessity – that is intense asf. Who wouldn’t want that? As Erica Jong says:

[chocolatequeennk]

That Famous Happy End

Ten x Rose, set before Idiot’s Lantern

The Doctor had always held himself back from Rose, allowing them to get only so close. But when a rude princess pushes him to defend Rose in front of an entire banquet hall, he won't be able to deflect any longer.

AO3 | FF.NET

Tagging @doctorroseprompts because it’s Doctor/Rose

“It’s so amazing what you do, Doctor. I’ve never met anyone so brave.”

The Doctor shifted on his soft cushioned dining chair. He and Rose had saved the Thalian government from a vicious coup, and the king and queen had insisted on a thank you banquet. That alone wouldn’t have been too bad, except they had seated Rose across the table and two chairs down from him, making any conversation with her difficult. That left him open to the fawning attention of the princess.

A princess who was now resting her hand on his arm in a possessive gesture. The Doctor’s skin tingled unpleasantly. He didn’t want to be claimed by anyone but Rose.

He looked pleadingly at Rose as he reached for his glass, a cleverly disguised move to dislodge the princess’ hand. But his companion was engaged in conversation with the middle aged duke sitting beside her, and didn’t seem to have overheard the princess’ remark.

“Oh, I’m not the only brave one,” he protested, for once in his life rebuffing a compliment.

The princess laughed, the tinkling laughter that princesses were supposed to have. The Doctor wondered idly if that was something they taught in princess school.

“Oh, Doctor. And so modest too.”

Rose coughed suddenly, and he suspected she was hiding her own laughter. He raised an eyebrow at her, but when one corner of her mouth turned up in the slightest hint of a smirk, he couldn’t pretend to be put out. After all, she was right. He was many things, but modest wasn’t one of them.

The princess wasn’t done, however. “It’s so admirable that a man of your stature would be willing to share your travels with someone like Rose.”

Any humour the Doctor had found in the situation disappeared. He looked anxiously at Rose, hoping she’d missed that remark as well. But she was staring just over his left shoulder, and he knew she’d heard. She had a smile on her face, and he knew no one else would guess that she was hurt by the princess’ words.

The Doctor knew better though. Two painful weeks of working through his mistakes in France had given him greater insight into her mind, including her insecurities.

“I’m afraid you have that backwards, Your Highness,” he said smoothly. “I’m the one who is lucky that Rose is willing to travel with me.”

The woman hummed in amusement. “Really, now. What could someone like her have to offer?”

The muscle over the Doctor’s left eye twitched. “Kindness, for one,” he said pointedly. When the princess’ smile didn’t falter, his patience snapped.

“Rose Tyler is the reason we’re sitting here today. It was her intuition that noticed the tension around the city and insisted we investigate. It was her keen eye that spotted the explosives planted on the dam and realised the rebels planned to flood the city.”

The Doctor’s hands clenched into fists as he relived the terrifying moments when the rebels had threatened to blow the dam with Rose standing on it. If he hadn’t been able to jam their remote detonator with the sonic, he would have lost her.

When he pulled himself out the remembered fear, the room was completely still. Everyone had heard his speech, and they were all looking at him with varying levels of surprise.

The Doctor met Rose’s wide eyes with a soft smile. He lifted his glass in salute. “To Rose Tyler,” he said quietly.

At the head of the table, the king and queen raised their glasses. “To Rose Tyler!” they called out, and the toast was echoed around the banquet hall.

*~*~*~*~*

The moonlight shone through the clouds, casting dappled silver light on the paving stones as the Doctor and Rose walked back to the TARDIS. The Doctor stole a glance at Rose as they walked the silent streets. She looked deep in thought, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

Nerves swept over the Doctor—hearts racing, butterflies in the stomach, skin tingling nerves. The princess had goaded him into giving away more than he’d intended, and Rose was going to ask him about it.

And what are you going to say?

The little question, niggling in the back of his mind, surprised him. Rose had asked about his feelings before, and his deflection had been automatic and instinctive. “I have to live on, alone. That’s the curse of the Time Lords.”

Which was still true, of course. Rose was still human, with the painfully short life that entailed. But today… He pictured it all again. The way the rebel had held Rose tight around the arm and the proud, brave tilt of her head as she refused to be frightened by her own imminent death. He could feel his hearts racing as he’d frantically adjusted the settings on the sonic until he found one that would block the signal on the remote detonator.

And he remembered the way timelines had crystallised around him painfully. He had seen that alternate ending, where he had failed and Rose had died. That Other-Doctor had been just as devastated as he had always known he would be…

If he let himself be with Rose and lost her. All his work, keeping their relationship platonic, and her death had still wrecked him. He scratched at his sideburn. Bit of a paradigm shifter, he pondered. He snuck another glance at Rose, taking in the way the moonlight cast silvery shadows over her face. His hearts pounded in his chest when he considered how easily the day could have ended differently.

And yet, he still didn’t know how he would answer the question she was obviously pondering.

They were almost back to the TARDIS when Rose finally spoke. “Thanks for doing that.”

The Doctor blinked a few times. Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting her to say. What was Rose thanking him for? For saving her from the rebels? “For what?” he asked, pretty sure that wasn’t what she meant.

“For defending me to her royal bitchiness,” Rose said. They reached the TARDIS, and she put her hand on the door before looking up at the Doctor, her lips twisted into a wry smile. “I know I’m not a princess with the happily ever after and all that, but at least I can save the world.”

The slightly wistful note in her voice made the Doctor’s choice simple—very, very simple. Rose deserved all the happiness he could give, and more.

He leaned against the TARDIS door and looked down at her. “Why can’t you have a happily ever after?”

To his surprise, her chin trembled a little before she swallowed hard and looked away from him. “I just can’t,” she mumbled.

The Doctor stared at Rose’s profile, trying to figure out exactly what had just gone wrong. He was pretty sure—almost positive—that Rose loved him. So why would she turn away from his offer of a happily ever after?

He ran over his words again. Why can’t you have a happily ever after?

Ah. He hadn’t exactly offered, had he? And Rose wasn’t privy to all the thoughts he’d been thinking today. She probably thought he was being clueless at best, and cruel at worst.

Those butterflies came back in full force. If he really wanted to change their relationship, he was going to have to make a direct declaration. Not really my style, he thought, tugging on his ear. I’m much more of an oblique statement kind of man.

The Doctor pressed his tongue to his teeth. What if… He reached out with his time senses, following their own timelines. If he let them dance around the subject tonight, would another chance come?

Rose with her face stolen, and a first kiss born out of the exhilaration of another day saved. Holding each other and supporting each other beneath the impossible power of a black hole. Red rocks and a promise of forever.

He started to ease away from their timelines, satisfied that no matter what happened today, his future with Rose was inevitable. The TARDIS’ hum changed pitch, and he kept his time senses open for another moment.

White walls. Loneliness. A windswept beach and a tear-streaked face. And the Doctor, back to the same old life—the last of the Time Lords, traveling without a hand to hold.

The Doctor gasped and wrenched himself back to the present. Rose was still looking away from him, her shoulders slumped in a dejected line. Only a few seconds had passed since he had debated leaving this conversation for the future.

But that was not the future he wanted. “Rose.” She sighed and looked back at him, and he reached for her, resting his hands on her shoulders with his thumbs brushing her jawline. “What if I said you could have your happily ever after?”

A little furrow appeared in between her eyebrows as she stared up at him. The Doctor held his breath, hoping she could see his meaning in his eyes.

After a moment, Rose reached up and placed her hands on his wrists. “Are you sure, Doctor? I don’t want…” She paused and licked her lips. “We both know you’ll lose me someday, and I don’t want you to regret this.”

“Rose Tyler.” He tried to put everything he was feeling in those three syllables, and when her eyes widened, he thought maybe he’d succeeded. “No regrets,” he promised her.

Rose shifted closer to him, her right hand sliding up his arm until it rested on the back of his neck. The Doctor’s eyes fluttered closed when she started playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and Rose giggled breathlessly.

The Doctor opened his eyes and squinted down at her. “What are you laughing about?”

She shrugged, and her cheeks turned a little pink. “Just can’t believe this is happening. We always seemed… so close, and still so far.”

“Oh, this is really happening,” the Doctor assured her. He leaned down and bumped his nose against hers. “Welcome to our happily ever after, Rose.” He tilted his head and brushed his lips against hers.

With one touch, timelines shifted around them. That lonely beach disappeared, replaced by year upon year of love and adventure.

Rose sighed and turned her head to catch his bottom lip between hers. The Doctor let his awareness of their future drift into the back of his mind and pulled her closer. He didn’t need to see the timelines to know that whatever was going to happen, it was going to be…

Fantastic.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 6: You Know You Got Me In The Palm Of Your Hand]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: Mean It by Lauv.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sex and violence, slavery in American history.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Tagging: @queen-turtle-boiii​​​​​ @bramblesforbreakfast​​​​​​ @writerxinthedark​​ @maggieroseevans​​​​​​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​​​​​​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​​​​​​ @escabell​​​​​​ @im-an-adult-ish​​​​​​ @someforeigntragedy​​​​​​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​​​​​​​​​​ @deacyblues​​​​​​ ​ @tensecondvacation​​​​​​​ @brianssixpence​​​​​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​​ @some-major-ishues​​ @haileymorelikestupid​​ @loveandbeloved29​​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 💜

What The Fuck, Washington Animals Are Weird

I woke up in a bedroom drenched in a rainbow of darkness, shades of grey vacillating from charcoal to the wings of a mourning dove; indolent dawn rain pattered against the window. There were no glaring veins of sunlight spilling in through gaps in the curtains, no promise of dry invigorating heat, no whistle of vicious parched wind. Toto, we’re not in Phoenix anymore.

“Ugh,” I complained to the empty room, unraveling from a tangle of blankets patterned with cacti and pure white clouds and rust-orange suns.

I clicked off my iPhone alarm—I’d beaten it by two minutes; my circadian rhythm was finally conceding that this whole Pacific Time thing was permanent—and read my nine new texts from Joe.

3:12 a.m.: Hey it’s an emergency what’s the plural of octopus

3:13 a.m.: Rami is insisting that it is octopuses

3:14 a.m.: But it’s octopi, right? Right?? I just announced in front of everyone that it’s octopi

3:15 a.m.: Scarlett is verbally abusing me

3:18 a.m.: Oh you are probably asleep

3:21 a.m.: Update, according to the internet Rami is right and now I have to assume a new identity and move to Antarctica

3:25 a.m.: We can discuss logistics of the Antarctica relocation tomorrow

3:26 a.m.: Hope you like penguins

3:30 a.m.: Okay goodnight!! Don’t let the mythical creatures bite!!

“That man,” I murmured to myself, smiling.

I typed out: It’s definitely octopuses, you clown. Then I deleted ‘clown’ and replaced it with its Italian equivalent: pagliaccio. Text sent.

Joe responded almost instantly. I had to ask Lucy what pagliaccio meant and now she’s verbally abusing me too. Send help. See you at lunch. xx

Wait, two Xs? What did Xs mean?? Kisses???

Did Joseph Francis Mazzello, sexy undead Italian man, just send me multiple text kisses?

“You’re gonna give me an aneurism, Chicago boy,” I muttered at my phone as I slid it into the pocket of my flannel pajama pants. And then I glanced out the bedroom window into a tussle of rain and thick, caliginous fog.

Just a few feet beyond the misted glass, its leathery talons hooked around a branch of Charlie’s decades-old red alder tree, was an owl. But not just any owl. A hulking, spotlessly white owl.

“Oh, hey, you,” I whispered, leaning closer, pressing my palms against the cold window. My hands left transparent imprints in the condensation. “Hey, buddy. Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping? I sure wish I was. Did something wake you up? Did your idiot vampire boyfriend disturb you with a series of ridiculous texts?”

The owl just contemplated me with unnervingly vast, slick, engrossed eyes. And there was something else, too: those eyes were blood red.

“So you’re an albino owl, huh big guy? Good for you. You know, usually albino animals don’t last all that long in the wild. Because they’re really easy for predators and prey to spot. Or they get skin cancer. So congratulations on living to become the voluptuous, tremendously creepy creature that you are today. Job well done.”

The owl stared back at me unflinchingly, blinked, then resumed staring. Rainwater gathered in swelling beads like blood drops on its ivory-colored beak and talons.

“Well,” I noted, turning away and grabbing my shower towel off the back of the desk chair. “You don’t get that in Arizona.”

Thirty minutes later, I was bounding down the stairs two at a time to meet Charlie in the kitchen. He was browsing through his daily newspaper at the table, drinking coffee and nibbling messily on burnt triangles of toast. Crumbs littered his moustache.

“You didn’t tell me that living here came with the added benefit of freaky albino animal friends.”

Charlie crinkled his forehead at me. “Huh?”

“How was bowling with the dads last night?”

“Oh, awesome!” he exclaimed, folding up his newspaper and slapping it down on the table. “We bowled against the team from Mora and it came right down to the wire, but we caught them. Dr. Lee got a strike on his very last turn. He always seems to do that...he’ll be bowling hit or miss all night and then when it really matters he manages to pull a strike out of nowhere. He’s a beast.”

“He’s a pretty remarkable guy,” I agreed, rummaging through the cabinets for Pop-Tarts.

“He mentioned that you and his son were really hitting it off,” Charlie said, grinning. “Not the ragey blond one. The spindly annoying one. What’s his name again? Josh? Jimmy?”

“Joe.” I conjured up my best poker face of lofty indifference. It crumbled like a sandcastle beneath reckless, rushing footsteps.

“Ohhhh, I saw that!” Charlie said, pointing, delighted. “Check out that smile. My gorgeous, brilliant progeny has a crush. I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t be single for long up here. Alright, I’m ready. Bring on the grandchildren.”

“Shut up,” I pleaded good-naturedly.

“Relax, I have great news. According to Gwil, that Joe kid is pretty wild about you too.”

“Oh, is that what you old guys do between bowling turns? Betray your children’s deepest confidences? Matchmake them over nachos and chili cheese dogs?” Still, my curiosity was piqued. “What else did Dr. Lee say about Joe?”

“I think the exact word he used was...” Charlie reminisced, sipping his coffee, curls of steam pouring over the rim of the mug. “Smitten.”

Supernatural Pictionary

I turned the notebook to Joe so he could see; everyone else momentarily covered their eyes or looked away. Then Lucy started the timer on her iPhone. Thirty seconds.

“Go!” Lucy announced.

“I think it’s a boat,” Rami said, hesitantly, haltingly, squinting at Joe with great concentration.

“Do you?” Joe teased.

“Yeah. But I’m also getting something about a fish.”

“Maybe I’m trying to make you think it’s a fish because it’s actually a boat,” Joe replied flippantly.

Rami muttered: “Or you want me to think it’s a boat because it’s actually a fish.”

“Interesting.”

“Now you’re mentally singing Never Gonna Give You Up just to fuck with me.”

Joe gasped, pressing a palm to his chest. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do!”

Scarlett snickered, dunking her chicken tender in honey mustard, slurping Coke through a straw clenched between crimson-painted lips. “That sounds exactly like something you would do.”

“Fifteen seconds,” Lucy warned.

“Fish or boat, boat or fish...” Rami chanted, peering fixedly at Joe.

“Make a decision,” I taunted, hugging the notebook to my chest.

“I’m going with boat,” Rami decided.

“Final answer?” Lucy asked, then stopped the timer when Rami nodded.

“Loser!” Joe cackled victoriously, leaping out of his chair, waving his L-shaped fingers in the air. Calawah University students at nearby tables glanced over with wide, startled eyes, their beloved chicken tenders briefly forgotten. “How’s it feel to not win every round of a game, huh?! Loser!”

I flipped my notebook so Rami could see the extremely unskilled pencil sketch I’d drawn there: a smiling fish. “My condolences.”

“Damn.” Rami pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and slid it across the table to Joe. Joe snatched it up, tucked it into the waistline of his jeans like a stripper collecting money in her G-string, and slung his arm around my shoulders.

“We are the champions. Bask in our glory.”

Scarlett turned on her iPhone flashlight and waved it in slow arcs over her head. “Youuuuu are the champions, my friendssssss...”

From my usual lunch table, Jessica gazed at my esteemed place among the Lees with palpable envy, resting her chin in her hands. I had worked out a schedule that seemed fairly obvious given my extensive experience as a child of divorce: lunch with Jessica et al. one day, lunch with the Lees the next. I took a bite of the Chipotle veggie bowl that Joe had insisted on ordering for me and tossed Jessica a sympathetic wave. Get Ben’s Snapchat for me! she mouthed back. I harbored serious doubts that Benjamin August Hardy, former professional assassin, born in 1893, had a Snapchat.

Joe’s words from last week rolled around in my head; I could see him all over again, nodding to the enormous painting hung in Gwil’s upstairs office, telling me about those startling, ethereal figures who had initiated Ben into life as a vampire. They call themselves the Draghi. They collect dues from covens, offer protection, keep order, protect our secrets. But they also demand loyalty. They force people they want into service. They might try to make it seem like you have a choice, but you don’t. They destroy anyone who tries to resist them. And they feed on humans.

“This is so awesome,” Lucy sighed, elated. “We could never play Pictionary before, drawing something is way too much of a mental process, Rami always figured it out right away...”

But now they had a built-in blindfold, someone who could draw without Rami getting a peek into their thoughts, a fighting chance at hiding the truth from him...for thirty seconds, at least.

“Okay Benny Boy, you’re up.” Joe darted over to Ben’s side of the table and massaged his tense, muscular shoulders as Ben grimaced. “You got this. I believe in you. Baby Swan is gonna pitch you a home run.”

“I’ll pass,” Ben said.

“You can’t!” Lucy cried. “Ben, please? Rami got Scarlett’s, and then he didn’t get Joe’s...and I know he’s going to see though me immediately. You’re our only chance to tie things up and maybe beat him!”

“Traitor,” Rami told Lucy affectionately.

“Uhh...” Ben hesitated, glimpsing longingly at the doors that led outside to the grove of bigleaf maple trees. He was fidgeting restlessly with his vape pen.

“Come on, Benny!” Joe begged. “I’ll owe you. I’ll do anything.”

Ben perked up a little bit. “You’ll do my Calc 2 homework for a month?”

Joe groaned theatrically, but nodded. He was wearing a grey U Chicago hoodie today. “Fine. Okay. But you’re gonna have to learn that shit eventually, I can’t take the MCAT for you.”

“Deal.” Ben bumped his knuckles against Joe’s.

“Batter up,” Joe heralded in his best mock-umpire voice, grinning at me expectantly, drumming the table with his palms. “Go Baby Swan, go! What will she choose? Will she continue with the nautical theme? Will she change it up, maybe switch to beloved Chicago landmarks? Baseball or food? Will she invent a variety of pizza even more despicable than pineapple?”

“Hm.” I flipped to a fresh notebook page, scratched my temple with the eraser end of the pencil, then quickly sketched a picture for Ben. “Okay, I’m ready.” I showed the drawing to Ben while everyone else covered their eyes.

Ben shook his head, scowling. “You’ll have to try again. I have no idea what that is.”

“Really?!” I checked the picture again. Okay, it definitely didn’t belong in the Louvre or anything, but it was lifelike enough to be decipherable. “You don’t recognize it? At all?”

“No,” Ben replied flatly.

From behind his shielded eyes, Rami scanned through the images in Ben’s mind. He dropped his hands onto the table. “SpongeBob?!”

“Who...?” Ben ventured.

Everyone else looked too. “Oh yeah, that’s definitely SpongeBob,” Joe said, then chuckled. “Aww, Baby Swan, you even remembered his little necktie!”

“It’s so cute!” Lucy trilled.

Ben just stared at the picture, blinking, completely lost, increasingly morose. And now there was a new guest at the table; or maybe not a new one, maybe just a quiet one, something that perched on the ledge of every conversation and field of vision just waiting to tap its claws against the wall and make its presence known: that interminable reminder of Ben’s unconventional past life, of how incomparable his vampiric upbringing was to those of the rest of the Lee kids.

“Benny Boy, you’ve never seen SpongeBob?” Joe inquired gently. “No problem. We’ll have a marathon tonight. I have the entire series on DVD. Also several Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy action figures.”

Scarlett snorted. “This is why you’ve been single since Hoover was president.”

“I wasn’t single the whole time,” Joe corrected.

“Oh, really?” Not that I’m interested, my voice suggested. I was a total liar. I was super interested. Thank the great deity that Rami and Ben couldn’t read me like a restaurant menu. Today’s specials are Being In Love With Someone Wildly Inappropriate for $15.99, and also Lamenting My Own Lack Of Sexual Experience for $11.99. Oh, and clam chowder.

“He had a couple of...what would you call them?” Scarlett combed her elegant fingers through her voluminous blonde hair. “What’s the modern vernacular? Fuck buddies? Booty calls? Netflix and chill partners?”

My stomach lurched; I nonchalantly buried my fork in a mountain of guacamole and left it there. I kept my lips turned up into a smile like a mask. Of course he’s loved other people. Duh. He’s hot and immortal. Get over it. But that didn’t calm my pounding heartbeat at all, didn’t soothe that sudden and irrational melancholy.

“Whoa whoa whoa, okay, you’re making it sound way worse than it was,” Joe protested, glancing at me nervously.

Scarlett continued: “It wasn’t serious, whatever it was. None of them would have cared about your action figure collection or obsession with a city you haven’t lived in for fifty years. It wasn’t your personality they wanted. Thank god.”

Oh this is bad, I thought helplessly. How am I ever going to be able to compete with the memory of countless gorgeous vampire girlfriends?

“Uh, ScarJo, you’re single too.” And Joe’s nickname for her was strangely apt; Scarlett could pass for Scarlett Johansson’s younger, blonder, much hotter sister. And Scarlett Johansson, in case you’re somehow unaware, is already pretty fucking hot.

Scarlett flashed a grin. “Entirely by choice.”

“And much to Mercy’s eternal and profound concern,” Lucy told me. “She stages an intervention at least twice a month. Did I overhear one last week, Scarlett?”

“Oh jesus, yeah. I was like, ‘Mom, what the hell do I need a husband for? I have my own money. I can fix household appliances. I have a vibrator. I’m good to go.’”

Joe rocked back in his chair, howling. “You did not tell Mom that!”

“I did. She was so distraught. She just kind of pinched her eyes shut and shuddered and then went out back to feed the alpacas.”

“Scarlett, babe,” Rami managed between gales of laughter. “A vibrator isn’t going to keep you company for all of eternity. It’s not a suitable substitute for a life partner.”

“You’re right. It’s even better. It’ll never abandon or disappoint me. Assuming I keep the batteries fresh, of course.”

“Oh my god,” Lucy giggled into her hands.

“She’s not wrong,” I said, shrugging, sipping my Diet Coke.  

And Joe peered over at me, surprised, intrigued, slowly raising his thin dark eyebrows. I winked back. Yeah, okay, I’ve never slept with someone. But that doesn’t mean I’ve never had an orgasm.

“Ah, loud thoughts! Loud thoughts! Joe, please!” Rami moaned, pressing his balled fists to his forehead.

Ben smirked. “There’s a color I’ve never seen from you before, Joe.”

“This family is the worst!” Joe exploded.

“I like that girl,” Scarlett decided, signaling to me with glossy maroon fingernails. “She can stay.”

Joe sighed, flustered, then shook it off as he turned to me. “You coming over tonight?”

“I can’t spend every night at your house petting alpacas, mob guy.”

“Yeah?” he asked, smiling, draping his arm around the back of my chair. “Why not?”

“Well, my tonight-specific reason is that I’m visiting a friend.”

“Cool. Your friends are my friends. Can I visit too?”

“You’re aware that you’re a legit stalker, right?” But actually, Archer was dying to meet Joe: the loud Lee, the approachable Lee, the Lee who I definitely liked more than a Tinder swipe could ever convey. This could work. “Offer to buy dinner and you can come.”

“I’m a walking Visa, baby.”

Ben stood, hauled on his backpack, gathered up his trash to throw away. “I need a smoke break before Chem. See you guys later.”

“Don’t forget!” Joe called after him. “SpongeBob marathon starts at 8! I’ll bring the Milk Duds!”

And when Ben disappeared through the doors, a solemn hush descended over the table.

“Poor guy,” Lucy said softly. The other Lees nodded.

And again, I recalled what Joe had told me in Gwil’s office, what he had said when I asked how Ben came to join the Lee family. He was assigned to us, to be the liaison to our coven. And Gwil saw something in him. Potential, suffering, unrealized decency, I don’t know. But Gwil worked on him for years, trying to convince Ben to leave the Draghi when his contract was up and come live with us. To give a peaceful life a try. And to be honest, Ben never seemed interested. But something must have resonated with him, because we opened the front door on October 15th, 2016 and he was sitting on the steps of our porch with a single suitcase, puffing on that fucking vape pen and watching the storm clouds roll in off the Pacific Ocean.

But why would they just let him leave? I had asked, tracing my fingertips over the uncanny and magnificent faces in that painting. Why would they let him live?

Because they know how valuable he is. And because they think they can get him back.

“I think he’s a good person,” I said, breaking the silence. “You know. Underneath the whole being raised to be a killing machine thing.”

“Yeah,” Rami replied, frowning thoughtfully. “Just try not to spend too much time alone with him.”

Car Jacks And Sneak Attacks

“Joe, this is Archer James Foxchild, my first-ever best friend.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you!” Joe said, shaking Archer’s oil-stained hand. “I understand you are really good at making mud pies and poking dead animals with sticks.”

Archer chuckled. “It’s true. We found a shark tooth down at La Push one time and I convinced Baby Swan here that it was from a sea monster. She had nightmares for months. Charlie called my dad over it and I got my Game Boy taken away.”

“No!” Joe gasped in horror. “Were you a Pokémon guy?”

“For sure.”

“Ruby or Sapphire?”

“Emerald.”

Joe grinned. “This dude knows what’s up.”

“And to think, my grandpa tried to tell me that you guys were freaks,” Archer replied.

“Well,” Joe conceded. “Not all of us.”  

“Maybe you two should start dating,” I said. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just sit in my Honda and eat my Taco Bell cheese quesadillas and Cinnamon Twists and try not to interrupt all the sex.”

“Yes, you brought Taco Bell,” Archer sighed euphorically. “Give me five minutes, I just gotta finish rotating these tires real quick.” He jogged to the other end of the garage, knelt beside a Ford Mustang that was propped up on a jack, and starting twisting off lug nuts with a tire iron.

“You have a nice place here,” Joe observed, strolling around the small garage with his hands in the front pocket of his U Chicago hoodie, eyeing the fractures in the concrete floor and the spidering cracks in the windows. “You have any investors?”

“Are you kidding?!” Archer replied from the Mustang. “No, man, it’s just me. I rent for now, but at some point I’ll buy my own shop. Once I’ve saved up enough. A great big one with shiny new equipment and no mice squeaking behind the walls.”

“What’s your cash flow like?”

“I’m netting around three grand a month after taxes.”

“Not bad!” Joe noted admiringly.

“Yeah. It’s a hustle, but I love it.”

“Hey, I don’t know if you’d be interested—and absolutely no pressure if you’re not, really—but I do a lot of work with start-ups and I’d love to help you get into your own shop. By this Christmas, preferably. If we can work out a deal.”

“Really?!” Archer peeked incredulously over the hood of the Mustang.

“Absolutely.”

Archer beamed at me. “This guy is willing to drop serious cash to look good in front of you. You should probably marry him. No prenup though.”

I held my pinky out towards Joe, grinning. “No more sad prenups.”

He laughed and hooked my pinky with his. “Bankrupt me, bitch.”

I heard the metallic clang of a lug nut hitting the concrete floor and rolling under the Mustang. “Come back here, you bastard,” Archer muttered, then dropped to his stomach and crawled beneath the car.

“Hey, kid, be careful,” I fretted, crossing my arms across my chest and taking a step closer.

“Relax, Baby Swan, I am a professional, changing a tire for me is like feeding a fish for you, so just chill and keep fantasizing about those Cinnamon Twists—”

There was a squeal of metal as the car jack collapsed and the Mustang came crashing down. In a fraction of a second—faster than I could see him moving, faster than I could loose a scream—Joe had soared across the garage, yanked Archer out from beneath the falling Mustang, and dragged him to the center of the room.

“Oh fuck,” Archer wheezed, his dark eyes huge and fascinated and horrified. “Grandpa was right.”

I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)

We rolled up to the Lee house in my 1999 Honda Accord just as I polished off the last of my Cinnamon Twists and Archer chewed, tentatively and dazedly, on a Cheesy Gordita Crunch. The sun was beginning to set in a clouded sky that perpetually threatened rain.

He asked Joe for the fifth time from the back seat: “But wait, seriously, no one is going to eat me, right? Because I’m too young to die. I haven’t taken enough vacations yet. I can’t die without seeing Hawaii. I want to swim with the sea turtles.”

“No, none of us have ever eaten people. Well, almost none of us. Maybe stay away from Ben.”

“I would like a little more exposition,” Archer replied, blanching.

“Hey, if you stay until 8, you guys can join us for the SpongeBob marathon!”

Gwil and Mercy were waiting on the front porch, thanks to Joe’s ‘hey I accidentally exposed myself as a paranormal being and now we have a new friend, plz don’t be mad okay love you see you soon!1!!’ text.

“Welcome, sweetheart!” Mercy fussed, enfolding Archer into her arms as soon as he stepped out of the Honda. “Would you like some hummingbird cake? I just baked it this morning. And maybe some sweet tea too. And some peanut butter cookies. And banana pudding.”

“Sure,” he responded, bewildered. This lady does not seem like a bloodsucking demon, that voice said. And he was absolutely right.

“I’ll fix you up a tray,” Mercy promised, and hurried into the house.

“We’re so very happy to have you, Mr. Foxchild.” Gwil shook Archer’s hand firmly. “We don’t get many visitors around here. I’m sure you understand why.”

“My grandpa always insisted that there was something off about you guys. Especially you, Dr. Lee. Said you shouldn’t still be around.”

“Yes, I imagine that would have been disconcerting for him. He must have remembered us from the 1940s...that’s the last time we settled down in Forks. It’s not often that someone recognizes us after so long, but it happens. It was just Mercy and me and Rami and Joe back then. And look how far we’ve come.” Gwil beamed warmly, then turned to Joe. “But really, son, you’re going to have to stop telling humans about us.”

“Hold up, I was not responsible for her!” Joe exclaimed, waving at me. “Take it up with Ben!”

The garage door rumbled open and Scarlett sauntered out, wiping her filthy hands with a rag. She halted abruptly, stood there in her high-waisted vintage jeans and black crop top and bare feet with maroon-colored toenails, tilted her head and pondered Archer with an innocent sort of curiosity that I hadn’t seen from her before.

“Wait,” Archer said, gaping. “Is that...is that an Aston Martin Vantage in there?!”

“You bet,” Scarlett replied. “You want to learn how to work on it?”

“Uh, hell to the yeah!” He trotted over and they vanished into the garage together.

“Huh,” Joe muttered, watching them. “She was nice to him. Very weird.” He whirled back to me. “Anyway, come on. I promised you an education in classic rock music. And I shall deliver.”

Joe’s bedroom was a chaotic jumble of economics textbooks and Chicago Cubs paraphernalia and U Chicago apparel and action figures and comic books and classic rock posters. There was a massive Italian flag tacked to the wall above his bed. But what caught my attention immediately was a life-sized cardboard cutout of Ben lurking in the corner by a bookshelf full of cassette tapes.

“How is there any possible logical explanation for that?” I asked, pointing.

“Oh, that! That was a joke. When Ben first showed up, he pretty much lived in his room and never came out. Gwil was worried. Mercy was heartbroken. So I made a cardboard cutout of him and would bring it to family activities and do this really deep and seductive Ben voice when I pretended to have conversations with him. It gave the whole situation some levity...and I think Ben secretly liked that we missed him enough to make an artificial version to fill the void.”

“So this bitchy, brooding, blood-craving Ben I met is actually a drastic improvement?”

“Oh, Baby Swan,” Joe confided, almost sadly. “You have no idea what he was like four years ago.”

“I’m glad he has you. All of you. That he has a chance to get better.”

“I think you might be good for him too. Seeing a human as a real person instead of a walking, talking Hi-C juice box. And you care about him, don’t you? Despite everything.”

“Of course. It’s not his fault they taught him to be a monster.”  

Joe just looked at me for a while, and then he cradled my face with one hand and grazed a thumb across my cheek “You’re never going to stop saying things that knock me into next week, are you?”

“Joe...” I hesitated, laying my hand over his. His skin was smooth and yielding yet strong, cool yet not unnaturally so. Refreshing. Safe. Fan-fucking-tastic. Oh noooooo. “Are we a thing?”

“Why? Do you want to be a thing?”

“Oh, uh, no, I was just wondering if we were.”

He stepped away, teasing me with a crooked smirk. “...So you don’t want to be a thing?”

“What would that entail?”

“Well...we’d be an official thing, you and me.” He shot finger guns at me, and then towards himself. “Which means you can’t be a thing with anyone else. And neither can I.”

“Ahhh, I see. So this thing is an exclusive thing.”

“Will you shut up and just admit that you’d totally be thrilled to be a thing with me?”

“Fine. Whatever. We’re a thing.”

“Nice.” He high-fived me.

“This is the most romantic moment of my life.”

“But wait, there’s more.” He went to the bookshelf, browsed through his cassette tape collection, found the one he wanted and popped it into a boombox that was probably older than I was. The frantic opening piano notes of I’d Do Anything For Love poured out.

“Meat Loaf,” I said in disbelief. “Really. This is the product of your superior taste in music. This is the culmination of over a century of musical experience. Meat Loaf.”

“The man is a genius!”

“This is all an elaborate joke about my vegetarianism, isn’t it?”

“No,” Joe mused. “But now that you mention it, I have yet another reason to force you to appreciate this song.” He took my hand in his, spun me around like a ballerina in a slow and careful circle, sang along—with extreme and dramatic enthusiasm—to the music.

“And I would do anything for love

I'd run right into hell and back

I would do anything for love

I'd never lie to you and that's a fact...”

“I don’t dance,” I cautioned him, laying a palm against his chest to catch my balance. That brisk, comforting scent of pine and snow and peppermint was everywhere. It feels like I can’t stand to be away from him. Like I’ll never get close enough. “I am terribly uncoordinated. I will step all over your feet. And I’m really not sure if I can trust you. You didn’t even know the plural form of octopus until like eighteen hours ago. You’re kind of a disaster. A, you know, uh, unexpectedly charming, unconventionally super cute, kind of bizarrely enchanting disaster.”

“Yeah,” Joe whispered, smiling, tilting up my chin, leaning in to kiss me. “I like you too.”

Cato

He came out of the oak trees like a ghost, pushing aside massive chandeliers of Spanish moss that blotted out the dusk sun, his expensive shoes sloshing in the marshy water that flooded the rice field. He was wearing a full suit, but no top hat; his hair was black and chin-length and wild around his face. And at first I thought he was a hallucination, a dream conjured by heat sickness or those first dreaded signs of malaria. He was unnervingly, uncommonly beautiful; beautiful like a hurricane, beautiful like lightning or an eclipse. But he was real. I straightened up as I watched him approach, my back aching in protest, a basket full of seedlings slung over my shoulder.

“Mr. Cato.”

His voice, clear and beckoning and twisted by an accent I’d never heard before, rang in my skull like church bells. He called me mister. This white man called me mister.

“Yes sir?” And I almost added: You want to be careful there, sir. The water moccasins like to hide among the tree roots, especially when the sun starts going down. But I had an inexplicable feeling that this man wasn’t afraid of things like snakes. Maybe the snakes should be afraid of him.

“Mr. Cato,” he said again, this time to himself, very quietly, tasting it.

I kept trying to look away, to disentangle my gaze from him like a hook out of a sturgeon’s mouth, because staring piercingly and astonished at a white man like that in the rice swamps of South Carolina in 1851 could get me beaten or the lash, could get my teeth pried right out of my jaw. But it didn’t seem to bother him. He grinned, hugely, all-knowingly, under prehistoric golden eyes like an alligator’s. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. And he was proud.

“Do you want to be free?” he asked, almost hissed, still grinning from the tree line.

What kind of question was that? Did a sandpiper want to fly? Did a coyote want dirt under its paws and flesh disappearing down its throat? But that wasn’t something you ever confessed aloud, not if you wanted your feet on the ground instead of swinging ten inches above it. But this man wasn’t a master, wasn’t an overseer. He wasn’t from the South. He didn’t carry a whip or a club to remind you of the rules of the world. He stood there tall and radiant in the shadows of the fading daylight like he was the one who wrote the rules to begin with; which meant that maybe he could change them. “Yes sir.”

“I can only take you,” the man warned. “No others. No family. No friends.”

“No trouble, sir,” I told him. “They sold my family. They hanged my friends.”

The man’s grin stretched wider under glinting eyes. His canine teeth were sharp, I realized: like a coyote’s, like a snake’s fangs. He held out his hand. “We are going to get along very well, you and I.”

I let the basket fall from my shoulder. I slogged through the mud and rows of wispy verdant rice plants to meet him in the shade of the oak trees. And there, for the first time in forever, a man with skin the color of bones looked me dead in the eye and shook my scarred hand.

“Welcome, Cato,” he whispered; and I was home.

He took my face in his cool palms, gingerly, reverently, like a lover. He touched his teeth to my throat. And every nerve ending in my body flooded with wildfire as he dragged me, screaming, into the depths of the forest.

[ladyzayismultifandom]

Loki Laufeyson Oneshot: Private Party

Loki Laufeyson x Reader

Genre: Smut

Description: Loki gets the honor to take your virginity.

It’s just another day in the Avengers Tower where you and Thor’s brother, Loki now live. Everyone happily adjusted to you living with them but Loki? It’s been an interesting transition. Clint continues to keep a close eye on him for any tricks even after the countless times Thor has assured him that Loki was not there to cause any harm to humans anymore. However, Clint along with the others weren’t buying it. You, on the other hand, welcomed Loki with open arms.

It almost feels like it was yesterday when you moved in. Just a nervous wreck with unexplainable powers who only trusted Bruce. As time went by you managed to open up to everyone even learning a few things about yourself in the process. Like how you like strawberry jelly on your toast instead of the grape Bruce always put on it and how you prefer J.A.R.V.I.S over Veronica. So you weren’t the biggest fan of Vision when he was born.

It was your second year living in the Avengers Tower when Thor came back to Earth with his brother, Loki. He was a new face to you but the rest of the Avengers already met him on bad terms. You were told he was a ruthless monster who took advantage of Clint and Bruce for his own game. They told you he killed 80 people two days after his arrival on Earth. He tricked all of Sheild, betrayed his brother, and almost destroyed New York planning to do the same to the rest of the world.In the end, none of that convinced you. You decided despite it all that he deserved a second chance even if you were the only one to give it to him. 

There he stood with his head down staring at the ground hopelessy in front of his brother. Thor pushed him up to you all giving him a chance to say something. He stayed quiet as his eyes kept his gaze on the ground. Thor sighed before he came closer to his brother giving him a little nudge encouragin him to speak.

“Well, go on brother,” Thor said encouraging his brother to speak. You watched as he straightened up, his hands clasped together, mouth quivering as his eyes rise from the ground to see your unfamilar face that somehow brings him some comfort. Suddenly confident he speaks.

“I promised my brother that I would bring no harm to you or any other midguardians on this planet and I intend to keep that promise. I know we didn’t start as friends but I’d like to stay here and even offer my services to help, that is if you’d have me.” He said. 

Tony crossed his arms and scoffs. 

“So what now? We’re supposed to just let you in and sing kumbayah? How can we trust you?!” Tony said stepping up to him. Thor takes a step closer just in case.

“I never asked you to trust me,” Loki said meeting Tony’s rage-filled eyes with his own.

“Well, I don’t. No can do reindeer games.” Tony said.

“Me neither.” Clint agreed standing next to Tony now. 

“The other guy already made his impact on him. I don’t care.” Bruce went back to the lab.

Thor stood behind Loki obviously hurt by Tony and Clint’s behavior, the rest of us behind them unsure of how to react to all of this. The tension only got thicker the longer you stood there.

“The Loki you once knew is not the one I was raised with. He was corrupt by Thanos and the tesseract’s power. I know you mean well just give him a chance. I beg of you.” Thor begged.

“I’m sorry bud but I’m gonna have to agree with Stark on this one. I just can’t take that risk.” Steve said. Thor face only continued to fall like a lost puppy. You couldn’t sit there and watch anymore. It had become too much.

You sighed, walking past Tony, Clint, and Steve actually pushing them out the way so you could get a better look at Loki. Thor’s face changed from that of a lost puppy to a happy one. If he had a tail it would definitely be wagging. 

Once again Loki’s head hung low as you know stood in front of him.You cleared your throat but he didn’t move a muscle.

“Will you look at me? The floor can’t be that interesting.” You requested hoping he’d listen. To that he lifted his head, his green eyes piercing yours now. 

The two of you stared into each other's eyes for awhile without breaking contact. For as long as you could you drunk him in as your heart pounded faster and faster.Even though this was the first time you met and you knew of everything he did when he was here before you couldn’t deny him. He deserved a second chance. Placing your hands on your hips you turned around facing your team.

“Shame on you.” You said.

“You can’t possibly-” Clint started trying to convince you.

“I trust him.” You cut off Clint.

“Y/N you know what he did to me you can’t-

“It was seven years ago get over it! We’ve gone through worse..” Natasha said walking away probably going to see Bruce. Clint rolls his eyes and walks away too most likely going to his room leaving Tony and Steve. Wanda and Vision are the last to give their answers.

“I believe we should give him a second chance even if he may not deserve it. He may prove you wrong. Don’t you agree, Wanda?” Vision to which Wanda agreed. Tony sighed and walked to the bar taking out some whiskey pouring himself a glass accepting defeat. It was decided that Loki was to stay in the Avengers Tower with the rest of you. 

Now whole year later its funny to think about. Tony and Loki actually have more in common than they thought. The sarcasm between them hasn’t changed much but that’s how we show love right? Speaking of love the two of you have become quite smitten with each other. Ever since you met he found you to be the most fascinating midguardian ever. In the time Loki spent at the Avengers Tower desperately trying to get everyone to at least trust him with the mail you became the light in his all knowing darkness. The darkness inside of him that he called home once started to fall apart never to be built back up. All thanks to you. 

However, while the love you have for each other is obvious to everyone else the two of you seem to be completely oblivious...well at least you are. 

It’s Saturday night and Tony’s got the drinks ready to go. Seeing that you all finally got a much-needed break Tony demanded that a few drinks were necessary which Thor and Clint agreed to immediately. Bruce and You didn’t really drink as much as them of course for different reasons. According to Thor, Loki never really liked parties when they lived on Asgard unless there were women from other realms there to flirt with or he was simply forced to by their father well step-father for Loki. So, it’s only natural that he wouldn’t participate in Tony’s little “get-togethers.” Although, you still wished he’d come out and have some fun once in awhile. 

“Y/N go get Loki! We’re drinking together.” Tony yelled over the loud music practically shaking your whole body.

“Why do I have to get him?” You asked. Due to your little crush, it’s been hard to look or even talk to Loki without doing something you only regret later.

“Because you’re the only one who can get him out his room,” Clint said obviously.

“Can’t Thor do it?” You begged averting your puppy eyes to Thor hoping he’d take the bait. 

“I would but brother Anthony has already asked you to retrieve my brother from his chambers. Do you not trust him anymore?” Thor said. Unfortunately, your puppy eyes were not going to work for you tonight. 

“No, I- “ You started.

“Oh she trusts him alright,” Natasha said a little tipsy. She winked at you before you sighed in defeat. You took your drink trudging your way to Loki’s room, your tight ripped jeans suddenly feel tighter as do the red crown shirt you’re wearing. Every step you took was full of regret.

“Please don’t do something stupid Y/N” You told yourself as you got closer to Loki’s door.

Finally standing in front of Loki’s door on the same floor as Thor’s room just a few steps away you raise your hand to knock but no noise comes out.

“C’mon Y/N you can do this. It’s just Loki.” You tell yourself a mini pep-talk. Shaking your head you raise your hand to knock again but before you can a hand from behind took your hand away from his door. You go to hit whoever the culprit is to find the trickster himself smiling down at you. Slowly you put your defensive hand down allowing yourself to be gently caressed by Loki’s hand even if only a minute. 

“Any reason you’ve come to see me Y/N?” He said purring his perfect voice closely in your ear making your heart beat faster than earlier. You got so nervous backing up against him. It didn’t help that Loki could read minds. Sure, you could too, but your thoughts are so loud the whole world would be able to hear them.

“ Yes um- I was told to get you to come downstairs.Tony wants to party with you.” You said before downing your drink. 

“Do I have a choice?” He asked already knowing the answer but continued to purr his words into your ear just to see your shy pretty face. 

“O-of course.” You stuttered face heating up a little.

“Then I must decline the offer. Perhaps next time?” Loki said opening his door with same excuse he uses every time. You stepped away from him with that in mind but the disappointment on your face did not go unnoticed. 

“Suit yourself then” You said but just when you turned towards the hallway about to go back downstairs with everyone Loki pulled you in his room shuttng the door behind you. 

You looked at him bewildered. ”What’s gotten into you?” 

“I thought we’d have our own party.” He said, a smirk formed on his enticing lips as he backs you into his bed falling flat on your back. You shyly closed your eyes hoping all this was just a prank. While it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been in Loki’s room this is the first time he’d ever done anything like this to you.

"Wha- what are you doing?" You stuttered out. Finding your shyness amusing Loki chuckled. He decides to tease you some more as he starts to crawl on top of you on his bed hovering like lion at its prey. Eyes still closed your breath hitches when you feel his chest gently rub over against your sensitive breast. 

"Will you open your eyes? I’m not going to eat you." Loki said. You shook your head afraid of doing something stupid. Little did you know your fear only aroused him more. He sighed as he slithered his lucious lips right next to your ear. 

“Unless you’d like to be eaten. Would you like that y/n?”

Your eyes snapped open to meet his emerald green eyes staring hungrily down at you. His stare started to turn you on more than it should. Nervously licking your lips you tried to look somewhere else but all you can look at is him. 

“GOD WHY IS HE LIKE THIS!” You screamed in your head knowing Loki could hear it. Chuckling to himself Loki gently lifted your chin up to him almost leaving no room for air between you. 

"Y/N is it not I who enters your dreams at night?" He whispered seductively making your body shiver. You brought your hands up to cover your face only for them to be taken away. His hands hold yours down on his satin black sheets. 

“Answer me y/n” Loki demands. His emerald eyes look desparately into yours. His body yearns for yours if only you’d let him. The longer he lay atop of you the more he wishes to devour you whole. Take you as his alone and no one elses as you beg him so loud for the whole street to hear. Just say the word.

"Why are you doing this?" You asked squirming underneath him.

“Because I want you to admit it. Admit that you want me and yet you look away when our eyes meet. Even now as you play innocent your body is practically offering itself to me like your midguardian thanskgiving dinner. No more lies y/n.”

"Can't he just read my mind?" you thought.

"I could but that would ruin the fun don't you think?" His voice flowed into your head like a waterfall. 

You only grew more nervous and kept your mouth shut. Frustrated with you Loki snapped of his fingers to reveal handcuffs where his hands used to be. Unexpectantly, you whine out wanting only his hands to be around your wrists then these cold hard handcuffs. He chuckled at your behavior as his hand strokes over your body once more.

"Well, I'm waiting." He seductively whispers to you hopinh you’ll crack soon.

His hands start to glaze all over your already sensitive body. One hand slowly circling your nipples while the other hands creeps in your innner thigh. A wet pool forms in betweens your thighs as he gets closer and closer to the sweet spot you wish he’d touch. Even though your hands are cuffed you moved your legs a little hoping for a little graze. Loki grinned at your actions. 

“I promise if you tell me your real desires I will fulfill them all and more to your hearts content.“ He said cupping your cheek. Finally giving in you lean into his touch and let yourself go eyes fluttering close as Loki’s other hand carresses the spot right above your clit. The sexual tension couldn’t be cut with a steak knife.

“Oh Loki please ~” You moaned out awakening the lustful beast inside him.

“Please what y/n? Be speciifc” Loki said a smirk on his lips as he starts to play with your clit once and for all. You gasped out at the incredible feeling.

“P-please don’t stop. Keep going. Oh god keep going!” You begged him.

“Just say the words-

“YES! It's true I’ve wanted you for so long but I was scared. " you cried out to him. For a moment he stopped playing with your clit. He snapped his fingers and the cuffs around your wrist has disappeared. He took your wrist into his hands gazing into your eyes.

“Are you still scared?" He asked

"No" You closed the gap between you two taking him by surprise. It was a risk you had to take. He melts at your touch letting your wrist go. You tangle your fingers in his dark hair while he holds up your waist pressing your breast against him. His lips feel so good on your lips you wish breathing wasn't necessary. Pulling away Loki waste no time kissing your neck. He feels your pulse quicken in certain spots so he kisses them over and over.

"Loki ~" you moaned.

No matter what you do to conceal yourself he can hear your thoughts of him. He remembers the many nights he heard you call his name in your sleep. Those nights you touched yourself wishing it was him. He heard you then and he hears you now.

Soaking in your wetness Loki pulls his hand away from your clit. You whined a little and went to touch yourself with your free hand only to be swatted away. You looked up at Loki confused. He smirked down at you. He took your hand and rested it over his pants feeling his pulsing hard member. You blushed at the feeling understanding what he wants you to do.

Using both your hands you unbutton his pants awaiting to see what he has in store for you. Loki nervously breathes out. He hasn't had sex in years and hearing you call out to him at night only furthered his sexual frustration. He sighed in relief as you pulled it out in all its glory. You gulped staring at it.

"Will that even fit?" You ask suddenly nervous again.

"There's nothing to worry about y/n. Your body will adjust but I won't be going easy on you even if you are a virgin." He said.

You weren't surprised he knew you were a virgin. Just looking at him you thought there would be at least one flaw but there was not. Before you knew it Loki snapped your clothes away except your green lace underwear. You went to cover your breast but once again he swatted your hands away.

"Don't do that. You are beautiful" He said disappointed in you.

"But I'm cold!" You whined

"Oh but darling... it'll only be a matter of time you'll be a sweating mess beneath me." He whispered before giving you a gentle kiss on your lips. As he trailed kisses down your body his eyes never left yours wanting you to see everything he's about to do.

You started to grow impatient, hoping, praying, begging no one would interrupt. Surely by now the gang realized you never came back.

Finally, Loki is face to face with your nether regions. The only thing stopping him from taking you now is a sly piece of fabric. You go to take off your underwear but he swats you again. Pulling your hand back you watch him stare at your wetness. Sighing you decide to wait.

2 minutes... 5 minutes... 9 minutes...

Minute by minute your grew more frustrated.

"Why won't he touch me?!" You thought to yourself.

Not another minute goes by before Loki yanks off your underwear and goes in to taste your sweet nectar. Unexpectedly you loudly moan out grabbing his hair to put him where you want him. Guiding his face to the point of no return. He licked, sucked, and sometimes bit your sensitive clit. They don't call him silver tongue for nothing.

He teased you with his fingers. Putting them in as far they can trying to get you ready for what's to come. He had you at the edge of the bed chanting his name in a nearby pillow using magic to keep your legs wide open for him. Your sweet wetness tasted like heaven to him. The way your gripping his hair and trying to move closer to him turns him on. His member was hard as a rock dripping with pre-cum. He yearns to be inside you now.

He pulls away for a moment to look up at your face. Your eyes look just as hungry as his from before. You were ready.

He takes the spell off your quivering legs and takes you back to the headboard. The both of you are completely naked but far from satisfied with each other. You take his face in your hands making him look at you. His eyes grew soft just knowing what he had to do to you. He layed you down once again hovering over you. His member just centimeters away from your entrance. He gave you one last look.

"Are you sure Y/N?" You nodded.

He aligned his member with your entrance and slowly put it inside. The sound of you hissing broke his heart a little but it had to be done. He tried his best to make it hurt less with magic but it didn't change much. You saw the hurt in his eyes and kissed him. Ignoring the pain between your legs you took his breath away. Loki held you closely in his arms. You could feel him twitch inside you as the pain started to fade and pleasure overcame. When the time came you patted his back.

Slowly Loki pulled all the way out and slammed back in.

"Ah! ~" The two you of you gasped. It felt better than two of you ever imagined. You wrapped your legs around him hoping a new angle would feel better. Loki tensed at the feeling. He was in complete ecstasy.

"Fuck you feel so good y/n." Loki said whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

With all his might Loki kept his promise. He showed you no mercy as he thrusted inside you over and over again while kissing your neck, tugging your breast, and rubbing your clit in hard fast circles. He wanted you to experience the ultimate amount of pleasure he could give you.

"Ooh! Ah! Ah!! Loki! ~" You screamed in pleasure unable to hold it back anymore.

"Are you close darling?" Loki asked already knowing the answer.

"Yes! Oh god yes! ~" You screamed.

Not too long after that you came undone. It felt like your body exploded. Loki kept thrusting chasing his own high keeping you on your toes a moaning mess.

Before he could combust he pulled out of you quickly finishing on your breast. Curious of what it was like you took a little on your finger popping it in your mouth. It was a bit salty but not bad. Collapsing next to you on Loki's satin black sheets the two of you lay there exhausted yet completely satisfied.

Loki yawned turning towards you in the bed.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" He asked. You nodded a little tired.

Before your body started shutting down Loki used his shirt to clean you up. Then he slipped back in the bed pulling you close to him. You two stayed like that until you fell asleep.

You gotta admit. This party was much more fun.

[hideawayintheimaginationworld]

Ok so in the story about Matt you said Lefty found Spring Jr is it ok if we get a short story about Lefty finding them and everyone reaction's to the bab

“You're a strange little creature...”

Lefty was trying to prompt a response from the little Bunny he found, the Bunny in a sense reminded him of SpringBonnie, but with more greenish fur and silver eyes, it also was the size of an infant.

It also was covered by blood and it smelt weird.

The smell reminded Lefty of a dead body.

Having a sensitive nose, he easily sniffed the odour and saw the little guy across the road, wandering without purpose, Lefty quickly realised it didn’t just look like a kid sized SpringBonnie.

It acted like one.

Not being aware of road surroundings.

Lefty had a sneaking suspicion it smelt like Fazbear Entertainment's brand of supernatural bullshit, and being a kid too, so he followed the kid, trying to lure it out of the street and into the house, worried a human would see it and immediately call the police, or worse the little one could get run over by a car.

He had to bribe in the end, retrieving a bag of Candy, he was thankful Halloween wasn’t so long ago, so he was able to get out the leftover sweets and used them to draw the kid inside.

Once inside, Lefty locked the door, trapping the kid, but he— well Lefty assumed it was a male, if it had a gender— didn’t seem too worried and actually looked at Lefty like he expected more food, probably haven’t eaten in while, so Lefty was happy to offer food.

He wouldn’t live with the smell however, Lefty didn’t realise how bad it was until later, when he felt queasy and realised he couldn’t focus on washing the dishes.

So he geared himself up, getting rubber gloves, the custom gas mask he wore to block out smells, which covered his nose, mouth and lenses over his eyes, and he approached the child, almost like it was ticking time bomb to defuse.

He didn’t put up a fight to being lifted up and taken upstairs.

He didn’t even fight when he saw Lefty fill the bath.

In fact he looked curious.

Lefty wondered if he had never seen water before.

Regardless, he didn’t know where it came from, but he treated it like a child since it had obviously child behaviours.

Now Lefty was washing him in the bath, the water wasn’t deep, and Lefty was holding one hand to hold him while using the other to scrub around.

Lefty already emptied the water once because it turned red within two minutes.

Now Lefty was washing out the lotion he used to clean the skin of the sticky residue, wondering what it even was, he thought it looked like a bodily fluid but he wasn’t sure and didn’t dwell on it.

The bunny seem to enjoy the bath, trying to splash in the water, even trying to eat the bubbles that formed.

Lefty tried to think of where this thing came from, reasoning this thing didn’t appear to be something that was built.

But rather born.

And that should be impossible, as Lefty knew, they can’t reproduce.

But this thing could be a parasite... and if that's the case... I’m obligated to destroy it.

The bunny didn’t look bad in the slightest.

No one is born good or evil, he knew that, I'll search for whoever made you... but it's best if you live with me... living on the streets is not only dirty but dangerous.

With that decided, Lefty took him out of the bath, he brought out a towel and wrapped him up, debating where he could possibly sleep.

“So what is it?”

Breakfast was quite a spectacle for all, aside from the fact Lefty made French Toast

Lefty had set down Spring Jr, as he named him, on the sofa, he had obtained a spoon that he was using like a pacifier, much to Lefty's annoyance.

Lefty grabbed the handle, trying to pull it out of his mouth, while the kids watched him playing tug of war with a little bunny.

“I don’t know... I found it... I feel like it has Fazbear Entertainment written all over it...” Lefty answered.

“God, I’m sick of bull...” Alec huffed.

He knew they were all sick of the nonsense, considering everything that happened, like curses, killer animatronics, body swapping, possession, and sentient robots.

“I am honestly too... I’ve been debating...”

“Debating what?” Greg asked.

“Technically... I can quit... when we were made, Henry actually got us our own power of attorney in a nutshell.”

“You have a lawyer?” Millie questioned, surprised by the fact.

“All of us do, so Fazbear Entertainment can’t legally make us do anything we don’t want to... and I think it annoys them a lot... the only thing is... where would I get a job somewhere else? I mean it would be a pain but I could work somewhere else, it'd take a lot of effort, I think they pay us so we aren’t tempted to leave...”

“You can open your own restaurant,” Alec said, Lefty couldn’t tell if he was joking, “Seriously, you're a great cook and you are very patient.”

“I don’t know about it... but back to this... I'm going to sneak around the Archives... this is what I'd like you to do... watch this Bunny.”

“Well it seems calm... aside from the fixation on the spoon...” Oscar added.

“I might need to find something better for it to chew on, like a soft toy...”

“A tennis ball,” Greg immediately said, sounding serious.

Lefty laughed for a second, “How about no for now...” He finally pulled the drool covered spoon out of his mouth.

Lefty brought some stuff back and was studying it, he was reading some “confidential” documents, to which he found laughable how easy it was to take without getting caught, seriously he once got inside houses that were more secure than that building, all he needed was to break the keypad out of the wall and connect the fuse to unlock the door.

He was sitting on the sofa, Spring Jr was at his side, he had found something new to chew on— the spatula, which wasn’t bad since Lefty didn’t have to use it for anything at the moment, Lefty had made dinner and everyone went to do their own things at this time. Alec was sitting next to him, using the TV to play a game, Lefty was sort of interested, Alec said the game was called “A Hat in Time”.

Lefty shifted though the forbidden knowledge, stopping when he saw something, he read it a few times before confirming something he didn’t know.

Fazbear Entertainment had made a game in the works.

A game called Springtrap's Revenge.

It sounded like it was based off William Afton, which Lefty thought was tasteless, considering everything that happened.

He knew the history and it could take hours trying to put it into a correct timeline, the basics were that an unknown of kids had been murdered, Lefty knew the most about the original six, but they were more he kept learning about, Ennard, an incomplete prototype was possessed by a child Lefty had no idea existed, as the kid had a bad foster family and he was never confirmed to be dead until recently.

It sicken Lefty, considering now he had kids, true they were older than all of William normal victims, but Lefty considered himself a fiercely protective parent, and he had actually gone against people who threaten his kids, nothing violent, enough to teach them a lesson.

Lefty's phone lit up, as a message came in, Lefty thought it might be Fetch asking for treats but saw Mr Emily instead and immediately looked at it.

“Plan was success, we aren’t associated with Fazbear Entertainment anymore.”

Lefty smiled, he waited for this day, as did everyone.

Now they could hopefully stay to pull away from the tragedies and evil.

The foundation was corrupt.

But the future was bright.

Considering Lefty had a family now too.

He stopped working and watched Alec playing his game, he wasn’t one for video games, but having a teenager who was kind of obsessed with games (Alec did still study and did chores), Lefty got interested in the games, as a result, he had actually made good memories being a second player with Alec, laughing and smiling.

“We still have to find out where you came from...” Lefty muttered looking at Spring JR.

He then watched Alec for a few minutes before saying, “So you collect like little hourglasses in this game?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“I might get some ice cream, you want some?”

“Yes, please.”

“Daddy?”

“What?”

“Is it calling you Daddy?”

“No... it's looking outside and saying Daddy... like he lost his father or something...”

Pete and Chuck were watching Spring JR along with Lefty.

“I think it's creepy...”

“I have to wonder... who does this thing see as its Daddy?” Lefty muttered, “Regardless... I'll try my best with it... I need to find out what Springtrap's Revenge might be...”

[rosaliekali]

Soulmate AU for IkeVamp with MC and Comte?

So writing for Comte is so hard because the timeline is so skewed, but I tried my best. This is not written to be true to history so bear in mind the inaccuracies and the modern language.

Contains spoilers to Comte’s route in JP and is a little angsty-ish?

The first time he meets her, she is the daughter of a Duke in an English court. Her family has decided to throw a lavish ball to flaunt their wealth. As a member of a powerful noble family in France, he is invited and taking the place of his father for the evening.

Meanwhile, her own father, a tall and proud man something-in-line for the British throne, welcomes Comte eagerly as he arrives at the Manor and a servant takes his coat. The year is 1335 and Europe is under Edward III. The British Duke clasps Comte’s hands eagerly.

“Monsieur, how brilliant you could join us! Has your father not come?” The Duke tilts his head and takes a step back.

Comte shifts uneasily and brushes a lock of his long hair behind his ear. His father has sent him in his stead. The British Duke is wealthy enough to be of importance in Europe, but not powerful enough to intrigue the Patriarch of a Pureblooded Family. Comte, expected to take his father’s place one day and join the ranks of the nobles, has been sent in his place. His family is hoping he will gain a shred of honor on this excursion and return ready to assume the mantle of a noble.

“Unfortunately, he feels ill,” Comte soothes and pretends to be apologetic, “His wishes are with you and your family.”

The British Duke quickly loses interest once another noble walks up. He makes a sound at the back of his throat and motions for Comte to enter the Manor. He can see a dance is starting deeper in the home and the festivities are well under way.

“Enjoy tonight!” The British Duke declares. He waves his hand at Comte and his Soulmate Stamp glitters in the candlelight. With a final smile, he hurries past Comte and joins another noble couple with the flourish of a host.

Comte makes a face and wishes he had been allowed to bring his friend Vlad with him. He toys with the buttons of his coat and makes his way inside. While humanity intrigues him, the role of the nobility does not. His family may want him to become a well-bred Pureblood like the fussy men his father often dines with, but the world of customs and propriety is a boring one.

Fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket, he absentmindedly traces the words inked on his own skin from birth. Like the human Duke, he too has a Soulmate Stamp, a mark depicting the first words his True Intended will ever say to him. On his wrist are the words, Pardon, Monsieur.

Comte has yet to meet his Intended yet, has no idea if they have even been born given the long lifespan of a Pureblood, and a part of him is relieved he does not know who they are. The thought of tying himself to just one person when there is an entire world out there of women seeking company and waiting to be wooed is not one he appreciates. He has seldom turned 21 by human standards, is nothing but an infant in vampire standards, and settling down is not on the forefront of his mind. Not to mention his family, as Purebloods, has raised him to understand that any Intended that is human will never work. To be tied to a human would be a cruel fate.

No, he’d much rather enjoy life and get up to no good with Vlad and a few of the prettier women in Europe that will be temporary distractions with no strings attached.

The music is in full swing when he enters the dance hall, most of the eligible ladies have already been partnered for the evening. Comte stands by the doorway with his arms clasped respectfully behind his back. He feels out of place among the humans. While he loves humanity, he does find their never-ending need for rules a bother.

If only Vlad had joined him, he thinks, his oldest friend could turn any activity into something fun. Vlad would shine in a party like this, he would make Comte laugh as he teased the stuffy older men and winked at the young ladies seeking dance partners, and then they would probably find someone to bring home for the night. The taste of blood freshly drawn from its source was very satisfying after all.

As the waltz draws to a close and Comte glances at his pocket watch wondering if his father would be upset if he left before making rounds around the hall, the British Duke arrives again. Accompanying him is his wife and young daughter. They take their stand at the foot of the steps and the Duke calls for attention.Comte tries not to yawn into his hand as the Duke delivers a speech thanking his guests and how he hopes they will have fun. Lately, balls have been all the rage in Europe. Anyone who has money and a title to pair it with seems to want to throw one. Comte is long past over any festivity that demands he follow a noble code.

When the Duke is finished, he raises his hand in a toast. His Soulmate Stamp is visible on his arm as his wife joins his side yet their Stamps do not match. Like every other Noble, they do not marry off a mark. Humans, especially those who fancy themselves wanting to marry above their station, ignore Soulmate Stamps all together. In the world of the Nobility, marriages are a business transaction used for elevation. A Soulmate Stamp is nothing but a fancy birthmark.

The Duke and his guests toast to each other and Duke’s young daughter hangs back uneasily. A girl of about his age, she remains quiet and offers a timid smile to anyone who glances her way.

When the Duke descends the staircase, the music picks up again and another song leads the couples to the dance floor. Feeling bored, Comte decides this is his chance to escape. The hour is not so late, if he leaves now perhaps he can find Vlad and they can go to a much livelier atmosphere with attractive company and strong liquor.

Just as he raises his hand to beckon a servant for his coat, his arm slams into something light. A sudden gasp makes him turn and the daughter of the Duke is behind him. It seems he has accidentally hurt her.

“Pardon, Monsieur,” a timid voice apologizes.

Right as the words leave her lips, a sudden burning light lights up the inside of his wrist on his Stamp and a sweet scent floats towards him. Startled, Comte takes a half step back. His arm goes to his Soulmate Stamp and his fingers press to the burning skin there in utter shock.

“The fault is mine,” he echoes without thinking, and the young girl tenses in place. Her hand goes to her own wrist and Comte can see a light emitting from underneath the long sleeves of her gown.

For a moment, neither speak. The girl seems startled, color flushing on her cheeks, and Comte tries to think of what to do. Meeting his Soulmate was inevitable at some point in his long life, but he wishes he had paid more attention to what to do once it occurred. His father had tried to teach him multiple times how to deflect from this very occurrence, warning him that any Soulmate that was not a Pureblood would be a Failed Match-that is a match that was rejected-but Comte had seldom listened. Now, he regrets it.

“Are you-?”

He cuts himself off with a growing feeling of unease. The mark is still burning faintly on his wrist and the girl looks like a startled doe. It seems she similarly shares his apprehension over meeting now.

Nobles are taught to not like their Soulmate Stamp, Comte recalls from his tutoring. Human nobles see marriage as a transaction for profit, they marry for advancement and income. It is rare for a person to be wed to a Soulmate. Marriages in Europe do not consider Soulmate Stamps as something of importance, his own parents do not have matching Stamps, and they instill in their children the belief that a Stamp is an unfortunate event.

“My name is Eleanor,” the girl says. She worries her fingers over her sleeve and glances around her. The people around them seem oblivious to the exchange, not that they’d care had they been privy to it, Comte knows. Soulmates are boring to nobles; they’d probably just gossip about yet another Failed Match.

Realizing that she is still expecting a response, Comte clears his throat. Briefly, he wonders if he should give her his true name, the name he only shares with his family and Vlad, then decides against it. He feels uncomfortable enough as it is and there is no hope for anything to transpire between them.

In fact, he does not want anything to transpire between them.

She is a human, he realizes. Her blood smells sweet and it takes every ounce of restraint he has to look away. Humans and vampires are a Failed Match from the beginning, his father will never agree to any union between them. Although his family could potentially sweet talk the British Duke into allowing his daughter to marry her Soulmate, his family would never pull strings for someone who could not give them the Pureblooded grandchild they want and even less for someone that would die with a few passing decades.

The girl, Eleanor, must realize it is a Failed Match between them too because she seems uncomfortable. Her fists tighten against her sleeve and she clasps her mouth tightly together. To meet a Soulmate as a noble girl with no say in marriage or reputation to spare for an affair is a tragedy.

“Comte de Saint-Germain,” Comte answers at last. He looks away as the dance around them draws to a close. The scent of her blood is strong, makes him feel thirsty, and the entire night has been soured. He is not ready to meet his Intended yet, especially if she is a Failed Match. 

The girl inclines her head and does a half-curtsy. She blinks and Comte realizes she looks distraught. She moves her skirts and nods at him. Her every movement tense, she moves to sidestep him.

This is what should be done, he knows. Soulmates are nothing but an inconvenience for those of noble birth. He should just say goodnight to her and move away. She will be wed off to the highest bidder soon, he has an entire eternity to live, and there is no hope for any match.

Still, a part of him demands he move. Without thinking, he calls her name and extends a hand towards her. Eleanor freezes, startled, and Comte does not allow himself time to think. Turning his palm up with a flourish and bowing the way his tutor showed him as a child, he clears his throat.

“May I have this dance?” Comte inquires.

Eleanor glances around her, visibly upset, but knows better than to reject a dance from someone so important. She takes his hand hesitantly and their Stamps light up in acknowledgement all over again.

A twist of the knife for both, Comte realizes.

Despite the Stamps beckoning them together, society is a wedge keeping them apart. One dance is all they can afford with a Failed Match. Afterwards, they will have to go their separate ways and ignore the way their Stamps want them to meet again.

He leads her to the center of the ballroom where another lively dance is starting. Comte is grateful for the music serving as a distraction. He may be a lousy noble by his family’s standards, but he knows how to dance like the best among them.

Eleanor does too, he realizes, as she keeps up with his every move. Her eyes, a pale green, look in every direction but at him. Her mouth is pressed thin and she looks like she wishes she could leave.

For her, it must be painful to have met her Failed Match. Afterall, a human has only one match in their short lives. She must have daydreamed about meeting him as a child only to grow up and be told her Stamp did not matter. For a young girl growing up with a romantic fantasy of what could never be, the realization that life was unjust must be very difficult. Comte, at the very least, was never allowed to dwell on the possibility by his father at all. For him, tonight is nothing more than just a bitter memory that centuries will surely scrub away.

“You dance well,” he voices. He glances away from her at the many dancing couples. No one around them has a matching Stamp. All of them are Failed Matches united only by propriety and a desire to advance.

“As do you, Monsieur.”

Eleanor meets his eyes for half a second before looking away. Her scent is slowly starting to become stronger. He forces himself to relax the way his father taught him, allow the blood lust to fade away, and counts the beats until the song begins dragging out its last notes.

Once the dance draws to a close, he bows formally. Releasing her hand, he feels a dull ache over his Stamp. The connection between them wants them closer, he realizes, it wants them to acknowledge each other and live out a happily ever after. Unfortunately, the world has different plans.

Eager to get away, Comte makes an excuse about the hour being late and moves aside. Preparing to leave, he startles when a small hand catches on to his sleeve.

Turning in surprise, he realizes Eleanor has taken a hold of his arm. He raises an eyebrow as she drops his hand. Their Soulmate Stamp aches for the contact but she makes no move to touch him again. Her skin flushes and she evades his gaze.

“M-May I write to you?”

It is a bold ask, they both know writing will only make everything seem worse, yet Comte doesn’t outright refuse. The best thing for them both is to go their separate ways. Eleanor should marry a man-a human man-who her family selects, she should forget all about her Failed Match and live the rest of her short life in comfort wedded to a wealthy man like every other noble girl. Comte should go back home and forget all about his first human Failed Match, should allow his family to select a Pureblooded Bride for him who he will wed and continue the line, and should not let a human of all things take up his time-

Yet he feels rebellious. Perhaps it is because he wants to disobey his father, perhaps it is because he wants to break some rules in polite society, or perhaps he just wants some more time to get to know his current Intended, either way, he finds himself nodding.

“You may,” he presses a hand to his immortal heart, “I will respond.”

–

In the end, their letters are nothing but a brief hobby. The first letter arrives months after the ball, Eleanor writes a small letter full of polite platitudes, and Comte responds with his own detached words. Vlad urges him to write more, really get to know his Intended, but they are both aware that a Failed Match is a Failed Match.

After a year of correspondence, his father forces him to stop. Eleanor, he tells him, has married a Spanish Lord and any more correspondence between a married woman and a bachelor-especially that of a Failed Match-is improper. 

Comte sends his final letter, a brief farewell wishing her the best in her marriage, then sets his quill down and runs a hand through his long hair.

Vlad, beside him, purses his lips. His old friend rubs his own Soulmate Stamp absentmindedly and Comte is envious of how he has not met his Failed Match yet.

“Does it hurt?” Vlad tilts his head at Comte’s Soulmate Stamp.

Since saying goodbye to Eleanor, the mark has been a constant dull ache. Comte awaits the moment when Eleanor’s short life ends, and the mark leaves him alone.

“It will go away soon enough,” Comte feigns boredom, “Give it a few decades.”Vlad says nothing in response and the two of them look away from each other. 

They have been raised to know better than to hope for a True Match when it comes to Soulmates. In their immortal lives, there will certainly be several heartaches.

In the end, Comte is wrong.

It takes only another 3 years for his Soulmate Stamp to stop hurting. The pain finally fades when the Black Death ravages Europe. Quarantining with his family in their estate, a letter reaches him from an old acquaintance. Eleanor and her husband have died of the plague.

Vlad offers him a sympathetic look as he reads over his shoulder, and Comte tosses the letter to the side feigning disinterest. Standing up, he suggests they practice sparring as a distraction.

–

It is about another 100 years before he meets his Intended again. The year is 1440 and he and Vlad are in France. They have just left a ball thrown by another Noble and are still decked out in full formal gear. Vlad swings an arm around his shoulder and laughs in Comte’s ear. His breath smells of liquor yet his steps are even as he walks.

“Shall we find a pretty thing to dine on for the night or just go home?” Vlad asks.

Comte gives a disinterested response and glances down at his pocket watch. The hour grows late and the moon is in full view. He beckons a carriage over for the two of them.

“Tomorrow. I’m too tired for tonight,” he states. Vlad shrugs and puts his hands in his pocket. His Soulmate Stamp still emits a faint glow.

Vlad had the misfortune of meeting his first Failed Match a few years ago, Comte recalls. She was a pretty thing who Vlad met while traveling. A Gaelic girl with a melodic voice and big red curls. Vlad almost chased after her, despite the warnings of his family, before Comte talked him out of it. His Intended was human, would no doubt live barely another decade as was the nature of humans, and Vlad would be worse for it.

Climbing into the carriage, Vlad yawns into his hand. He stretches out and tilts his head back.

“We should go to that tavern you like tomorrow, I bet there is at least one good brawl before the night is over,” Vlad closes his eyes lazily, “Or at least one pretty skirt willing to be fed on.”

Comte makes a sound at the back of his throat in amusement as his friend begins to doze off, he leans his forehead against the carriage window as the roads become cobble. They are now moving through the harshest parts of Paris, the ones nobles know better than to frequent, and he peels the thin curtain back. The streets are too dark to make anything out except for a misty fog. 

Disinterested, he drops the curtain and shoves Vlad’s leg aside to make more room for himself. His friend kicks him in response and yawns again into his arm.

“What do you think Margarette of Scotland would do if I asked her to dance?” Vlad inquires, lips turned in a smirk.

Comte raises an eyebrow in amusement. “You? Dance with the Queen? Don’t flatter yourself, mon amie. She probably has a whole line of men asking for her hand. The odds of you coming anywhere near here are about as great as the odds that my father will stop asking me to marry.”

Vlad rolls his eyes and gives Comte a good natured kick again. Tempted to hit him with his cane in response, Comte raises his arm ready to strike-

When the carriage slows to a stop.

“We are stopping,” Comte remarks. Vlad sits up straight and peeks out the window. They are still in the worst parts of town, they both realize, Vlad grimaces.

The driver of the carriage calls for them to sit back while he adjusts the harnesses of the horse. Vlad and Comte don’t bother to listen. Throwing open the carriage door, they both descend and look around.

It is hardly past midnight and the air is cool. Comte tightens his coat around him as he taps his cane on the ground. Vlad’s breath comes out in a chilly fog.

“Do you hear that?” He turns to Comte with his eyes narrowed.

It takes Comte a moment to realize what he means. To the left of them, deeper into the rougher parts of the town, a woman is shouting. He and Vlad give each other a half glance before rushing towards the sound.

Deeper into the poverty district, they can hear a woman argue. When they round a street, they see a man clearly intoxicated and a young girl around their age in human years trying to move away from him. She is dressed in clothing of ill repute, Comte does not have to guess what her profession is or why she is out this late at night with a stranger, and she bats at the man’s hand away with a scowl on her face.

“Is there a problem?” Vlad’s voice echoes in the night.

At the sound of company, the man startles. Letting go of the woman’s hand, he spins around. His countenance is very much intoxicated and his voice slurs. 

“Who are you?”

Free of him, the woman shrugs his arm and wraps a thin cloak around herself. Her dark eyes are fierce with anger.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” Comte smoothly tells the man. He puts a smile on his face, the sort he uses when he wants to hide his irritation with important people, and places a hand on his heart.

The man smells thickly of liquor as Vlad takes a step forward. His gold eyes are hard and the smile on his face isn’t as reassuring as Comte’s. “Perhaps we should take a coach home, da? The hour grows late. One would not want to be caught here.”

The girl huffs and smooths out the creases in her cloak. She regards the three of them with disgust and braces herself against the frigid air.

“Pardon, Monsieur,” she states. She stalks past Comte the moment he feels his Stamp begin to burn and light up.

The sheer shock of it all makes him freeze. His hand goes to his arm where his Stamp has lit up again in a hundred years and he feels some of the color draining from his face.

Another Failed Match so soon?

“Wait, you-“

He cuts himself off, but the damage has already been done. As soon as he has spoken, her own Stamp has lit up. Even with the cloak covering her arms, the light is evident peeking out the fabric.

The girl freezes mid-step but does not turn around. Her hand cups the inside of her wrist and her entire body goes rigid.

The night suddenly becomes quiet. Vlad, now supporting the drunken man with an arm around his back, turns to look at Comte. His gold eyes are narrowed as if waiting for Comte to make a move.

Comte feels a cold pit form in his stomach.

To have found a second Failed Match in just a hundred years is the epitome of bad luck. Fate has played a mockery of him yet again. His Intended is a human once more and a human of a different class than he. While he could have potentially married her the first time as both members of the Noble class, this union would be impossible. A woman of ill repute and a high-born Noblemen together would have made for a scandal that would have rocked Europe like no other.

The girl must realize it too because she doesn’t turn to look back. It seems she has already made up her mind as to what will transpire between them. Europe has still not embraced the custom of Soulmate Stamps and its people still think of them as awful things. Like the other human girls, and with more on the line as someone who cannot afford to have a partner in her profession, she despises it.

Vlad elbows him in the ribs and the gesture brings him back. Comte realizes that he has been frozen staring at the girl in shock. His Stamp aches and the light is starting to turn into something less bright.

“Mademoiselle, shall we give you a ride back home?” He throws Comte a look, “It is not safe for a lady to walk on her own.”

The girl makes a sound at the back of her throat and turns to regard them for the first time. Her eyes are a dark brown, Comte realizes, a nice, rich color. His throat begins to feel tight as a rustling breeze drifts her scent over. Like the first time, her scent is something incredibly sweet and alluring. He has to look away.

“Non,” she draws the hood over her dark hair and looks away, “Not necessary.”

She turns to walk away and Vlad elbows Comte again. His friend is waiting on him to say something, perhaps ask the girl to reconsider, but Comte already feels uncomfortable enough. Comte is not Vlad. Vlad may have been tempted to run off with his Intended upon first meeting her, but Comte knows a Failed Match is a Failed Match.

Since his childhood, his family has allowed humans to be in contact with him. Comte was raised and educated by human tutors who he learned to care for and had human governesses who gave him all the love of a mother for as long as his family could risk. He has loved and he has lost, and he does not need the heartbreak of a Failed Match to torment him in the sleepless nights he spends. 

Perhaps Vlad could let himself lose, but Comte refuses to do so.

“Bonne nuit,” Comte finally voices out. He turns around and does not wait for a response. Sticking his hands in his coat and tapping the cane on the ground as he walks, he turns his back on his second Failed Match and hopes once more it’s his last.

Just behind him, so quiet he almost believes he imagined it, he hears his Intended whisper it back before disappearing into the shadows.

–

Back at the carriage, Vlad joins him after dumping the intoxicated man at his home. He eyes Comte wearily as Comte traces his Stamp still glowing a faint light. A dull ache throbs on his wrist and Vlad raises an eyebrow.

“We can find her?” He tilts his head waiting for a response.

Comte turns his back and stares out the window as the carriage begins to roll along. He squeezes his hand into a fist and wonders how long it will be before his Stamp stops aching. 5 years? 10? 

“No.”

The response is quiet and thankfully Vlad knows better than to prod. He clambers into the seat next to Comte and they both try to forget the encounter.

In the end, it only takes 5 years for the mark to stop aching. 

–

A field of roses blankets their vision. Vlad is laying down on the grass and his gold eyes are watching the fading sun with a hard expression. Comte sits next to him leaning back on his hands. 

They are both quiet, watching the sun go down, and Comte bites down on the inside of his cheek.

Vlad is in mourning. 

A year ago, while traveling Russia, he met his Intended a second time. She was a beautiful Slavic girl named Zofeia. Unlike Comte who has learned to turn away each Failed Match and forget them the way a Pureblood is to forget every human match, Vlad refuses to learn the lesson. He chased after her and wedded her in a private ceremony. According to Vlad, she was a loving girl who had eyes the color of the bright sky and made him strawberry pastries. He taught Vlad to garden and brightened up his immortal life for a year-

Up until a disease ripped her away. She died in Vlad’s arms and the Pureblood returned to France with a deep melancholy and a dim Stamp.Comte pities him. 

Vlad was always the more sensitive of the two when it came to humans. Vlad loved humanity every bit as much as Comte, but he had largely been shielded of the pain of losing those he cared about. While Comte’s family hired human staff and allowed humans to befriend Comte, Vlad was raised by his family with only Lesser Vampires for company. His family only interacted with other Purebloods and Vampires and Vlad had never truly learned to say goodbye to humans. While Comte has been careful in turning away his Intended each time, Vlad has always let himself get too close. Perhaps after this Failed Match he will learn to not let humans in. To have to say goodbye to someone you loved…

No, Comte was better off alone until his Intended introduced themselves as a Pureblood.

After a long pause of silence, Vlad finally speaks up. While his voice sounds even, as if nothing is the matter, the sadness in his gold eyes speaks volumes. Comte knows the wounds of loss are still too fresh. 

“I believe in a world where humans and vampires can coexist. A world where we can all live together in unity and equality…” 

He lets his voice drift off and his fingers reach out to a rose in full bloom. He strokes the petals and Comte glances at him from the corner of his eye.

“Do you still think humans and vampires can coexist?” He tries not to let the surprise register on his face. After the pain Vlad has just endured…he still wants to believe in the impossible?

“Of course. I have decided I will always love humans,” Vlad responds. His fingers trace his Stamp idly. The skin there has ceased glowing and now looks dull in the fading sunlight. A testament to his loss…now a signature of his vow.

“Humans will die. They are not eternal. Time flows differently between us, Vlad, they will leave our sides with time,” Comte responds. 

He recalls his Intended each time she has graced his presence. He has met her as an English noblewoman with doe eyes and a shy demeanor, and a French woman of ill repute with fierce eyes and independent nature. He will undoubtedly meet her again and again, each time different, through his immortal life, but he has long decided he will never allow her near.

His family may have been ruthless in their dismissal of human staff and ruthless in the way they allowed every human he ever cared for leave without so much as a goodbye, but at the very least they were honest. Humans were fragile things who lasted less than the lifespan of a rose. They would age and they would die, and the loss of an Intended he allowed himself to love was too great for him to imagine. 

The fact that Vlad, at his side, had lived it before and still believed the pain was worth it was as poetic as it was pathetic. 

Still, Comte closes his eyes and recalls every human he has loved as a child. 

The elderly tutor that had gifted him his pocket watch and treated him as a son, the young governess with a brilliant smile that had raised him as if he were her own, the butler his father had hired when he was young that would make him laugh with his stories, the maid his mother had hired that would sing Comte to sleep as a child and was the only one who could soothe him during his tantrums…

Each human, each temporary. They had all left him once and he had been devastated by their loss. Comte could not imagine what losing a Soulmate would do to him. Vlad was stronger and much braver than he.

“Humans are beautiful,” he said at last, “Their ephemeral quality makes them beautiful, like roses, but they fade faster than the flowers. They are a different species from us, and I should have listened to my family as a child. My family tried telling me every time I cried over a human caretaker being dismissed that an eternal life was a life of goodbyes.”

Vlad turns to him and his fingers tighten over the mark on his wrist. 

“I do not care. I have decided to love a human’s ephemeral moments too. They bring joy even if it is only temporary.”

Comte was willing to give him that much. “True, it is their mortality that allows them to shine even if only temporary.”

A silence reigns over them both and they dwell on everything. Vlad on the Intended he just lost and Comte on the ones he never allowed himself to meet. Finally, Vlad stands, and the stars illuminate his silhouette. 

“Would you close yourself off then? Never allow a human to come near you?”

“No, that is not possible. I cannot avoid humans forever; I will have to be near them at some point. Even if I tell myself I will only visit Purebloods and will marry someone my family wants me to, I will never be able to avoid humans all together. Fate will always have a different plan,” Comte stands.

His Soulmate Stamp seems to mock him in the moonlight. He might want to close himself from humans forever, but his Soulmate will always find him someway or another. Avoiding is futile, the best he can do is to simply ignore it.

Vlad gives his back to Comte and stares up at the moon and stars newly reigning over the horizon. His hand with his dim Stamp drops to his side and his jaw locks. Suddenly having made up his mind of something, he spins around.

“What if we could prolong human life? Bring back great humans so that their gifts will extend the test of time and can brighten the world,” He walks towards Comte and his eyes have taken on a new light, “Create life that will withstand time? A rose that never withers?”

Staring at him, Comte raises his eyes. “A rose that never withers?”

The corners of Vlad’s mouth turn up and he grabs his hand, shaking it. A sealed promise. An agreed upon vow.

“Let’s make it together. A rose that never withers.”

–

Centuries after that fateful decision, Comte sits next to a new friend. Leonardo da Vinci, an Italian polymath and Pureblood, joins him for a smoke on a balcony of a newly furnished mansion. Vlad has long since become a stain on Comte’s memory and the relationship between the two has soured. The only remnant of their friendship is a door that can travel through time. Comte intends to use it soon to bring back his first prolonged human life, a famous playwright named Shakespeare.

Leonardo leans against the railing of the balcony and the smoke seeps out of his mouth. He raises his hand to brush his hair back and his Stamp is illuminated in the moonlight. Unlike Comte who has seen his Stamp light up over and over, Leonardo has yet to meet his first Failed Match. Comte is almost envious.

“Still haven’t met your Intended?” Comte needles and he holds his cigar a loft.

He’s been doing that a lot lately, he realizes, smoking. Leonardo likes to mock him although the Italian freeloader taking advantage of Comte’s hospitality certainly could do with looking in a mirror and recognizing his own smoking habit.

Leonardo glances at Comte and shoves his hands into his coat hiding his Stamp from view. 

“Nah, I never want to. One partner for all eternity seems like too much work.”

Comte makes a sound at the back of his throat. “I pity the poor girl who has your Stamp wherever she may be or whenever she may be. I would never recommend you as a prospective match.”

Leonardo shoves him in response. He leans against the railing and clenches his jaw. Thinking hard, he finally decides to return the question in kind. 

“How many times have you met her?” He tilts his head to the side.

Comte takes his time answering. A myriad of names and faces clouds his vision and he can almost feel his Stamp ache if he dwells on them too long. Failed Match after Failed Match. Too many already. 

A British Noble girl, A French Lady of the Night, An Egyptian peasant, a British nurse during wartime, an American creole recently freed from bondage…and so many more he has never allowed himself to get close to. Failed Match after Failed Match. For some, he does not even have a name to a face. for others, he does not even remember how long ago it was. 

They all blend together, at some point, when your life is an endless stream of failed encounters and goodbyes.

“Too many,” Comte finally answers.

His voice is final, closed off, and Leonardo knows better than to pry. The Italian gives him a look of almost sympathy before obscuring his emotions from view and raising the cigar back to his lips. The topic of conversation dies away just like every Failed Match of his has in the past.

--

By now, Comte has lost count of the Failed Matches he has encountered. His Intended has come and gone in many forms and each of them he has kept at an arm’s length never wanting them near. He has long since decided to ice his heart and not allow them in the way Vlad has in the past.

Instead, he fills his time with a makeshift family he has created for himself. His home is full of Residents collected from different time periods. Writers, musicians, geniuses, and soldiers. He welcomes them all into his home and creates a family out of them. All men who have never met their Intended either, careful to bring back only those who consent, and those who are willing to taste immortality however briefly. Pretty soon, his home is full of lively discussion and the occasional argument he must break up like the father of a mansion.

He travels time and meets new people. He has ventured to all time periods, even those in the future, and has met so many new people. His Stamp has become nothing but a bother at this point.

Europe may have changed its attitude towards Soulmates, cultural revolutions have now embraced and promoted the ideal in media, but Comte refuses to be swayed. After centuries of goodbyes, he learns to keep it all at arm’s length.

The Louvre is his current destination. After a month in the future, he is ready to return home to his little quaint family and have their dinner together. He can see the door leading back to his estate at the back row of exhibits.

Still, something makes him stop. Something gold glitters at his feet and he bends down to pick it up. A pretty earring in the shape of a half moon crescent. Comte stares down at it in his palm and has only to turn his head to find its owner.

A young woman stands with her back to him. She stares at a painting and makes no notice that one of her ears is missing a piece.

Comte walks up to her and his Stamp begins to itch. The air seems to shift but he’s long ago learned to stop paying attention to it. The young woman remarks about the size of the painting before her quietly to herself. 

Comte walks up to her side. “Did you know, it’s the second largest painting in the Louvre.”

Surprised, the woman turns around. She’s pretty, Comte realizes, with Auburn hair. A tourist. She holds a smartphone in her hand, and Comte’s eyes are drawn to her wrist. 

A light has lit up on her wrist and her Stamp begins to spark. He feels his own Stamp respond in kind just as she opens her mouth and repeats the same phrase she has said repeatedly each time in different lifetimes.

“Pardon, Monsieur?” Mystified, she blinks brown eyes up at him. 

Used to meeting his Intended, Comte ignores the burning in his wrist and extends her earring to her. He hopes his face is neutral, showing nothing, and that she will not try to keep him longer. He has long since sworn to himself he would never let her get close if she were a human.

“I knew it, this earring belongs to you.”

He deposits the piece of jewelry into her palm as her fingers fly to her ear. She asks herself when she lost it yet her eyes are still startled. It is as if she believes herself in a dream, Comte realizes, cannot begin to comprehend her Intended is before her.

“If you hold still, Mademoiselle,” he suggests. Not waiting for her reply, he takes the earring and adjusts it for her tightening the backing to her ear. 

Up close, he can sense her. His Stamp flares at the contact and he tries to ignore the way she tenses. Her scent drifts up, a sweet smell, and he forces himself to step away. Centuries of saying goodbye have made him rather good at evading her. Practice makes perfect.

“That’s a lovely fragrance,” he murmurs. He knows it by memory, the smell of her blood never changes despite the lifetime she meets him in. 

“T-thank you, I bought it in Paris,” the girl blinks up at him dazed. 

Her fingers clench tightly unto her own Stamp. She struggles to find a way to broach the topic, tries to find something to say to her Intended who she has no doubt fantasized meeting her entire short, short life-

Comte turns away. 

“Oh, but I wasn’t referring to your perfume,” he looks back towards the door and ignores the way his Stamp begins to ache, “Bon voyage.”

The girl balks at him and tries to stop him. Her eyes are wide and her Stamp is still glowing stark against her skin. Comte briefly wonders how long his will glow before her life ends and it loses its color. 50 years? 60?

Either way, he is uninterested in finding out. Ignoring her calling for him to stop, he shoves his hands in his coat and tells himself she is nothing but another Failed Match. Fate has seen fit to torment him once more.

Walking towards the door, he fails to realize the girl has taken chase and will follow him into another time period.

It seems this Match intends to be True.

[ktheist]

twelve.

chapters:  11 / 12 / 13 

knight!jungkook x princess!reader

x

“Your highness!” Eunha, your new maid, calls and at some point, you think she might have tried to run after you but proved to be no match for your legs. The same legs that have carried you into battlefield, slashing through the bodies of your enemies who might have been her father, brother or cousin just less than six months ago when your kingdoms were at war.

Blood was spilled and lives were lost.

It might be Taehyung’s tonight, as you found out about the shocking revelation Eunha blissfully mentioned of the unfortunate tale of a royal guard stealing the Prince and Princess’ dinner in the royal kitchen. To feed the son of a farmer that came to deliver some goods.

The Prince had saw it and ordered for him to be locked in the top cell of the left wing in isolation. Contempt of the royal family. Shameful. Disgraceful. Or so they say but your only take away was a emphatic, compassionate officer doing what the crown should have.

The ice cold prickles of the marble floor soon turns into roughed, dirt ground as you ascend the swirly staircase. On any other occasion, you would have preferred to take your time reaching the top, being well aware that the architecture is bound to unbalance you greatly but not tonight.

Tonight, your mind is fixed on a single goal. A wishful thinking perhaps.

“You dare lay your hands on your future Queen.” The hardened gaze you give the guard that tried to apprehend you is fierce and strict but the pendant of the royal family’s emblem is probably what made him retreat and bow.

“B-but your highness, the prince -” he fumbles with his words, legs almost caving under. You suspect if you’d tip him over, he’ll go tumbling down the stairs.

“Take this.” You barely manage to swallow the bile on your throat as you yank the pendant off your neck. The spot between your cleavage where it lied feels as heavy as your heart for what you’re about to do. “It’s worth enough to sustain your whole family for the next winter.”

One heartbeat. Two heartbeat. He hands out his hand on the third, head hung low as though he couldn’t bear to witness the beginning of his disloyalty towards his King.

And he shall learn, one way or another, that the crown he so devotedly serves has close to no care for its people.

Though the King seems more humane than his wife and son, the war that doomed your country could not have happened if he had not approved it.

“Jungkook!”

The words left you before you even manage to step into the cell that’s barely a quarter the size of your chambers where a wall-sized window permeated endless source of light and gorgeous view of the garden while a squared hole in the wall is the only thing keeping this god forsaken prison without light. Somewhere in the corner, the fire of a candle waves at the presence of an additional company.

His arms are skinnier than you remember when he gathers you in a longing embrace yet the strength of his hold does not change. It’s the same hold that offers you security and support on nights you are at your most fragile.

“Princess,” the hoarseness in his voice breaks your heart, “how did you get here?”

Calling for the guard that’s stood outside, you order for him to sneak into the worker’s kitchen, “get some water and some bread. plenty of those - oh for heaven’s sake go! we’re not going to run away!”

Jungkook cups your face and wipes away the tears you didn’t know were falling down your cheeks like waterfall. The fingerpads of his hand feels more callous than the last time he caresses your face as you fall asleep but the roughness affirms more than ever that this isn’t just some dream like the many dreams you’ve had of being reunited with your knight.

“Forgive me,” you hiccup, “I-I didn’t know -”

He presses your face into the crook between his neck and shoulder where you find solace in his warmth as he rocks you back and forth, hushed whispers spoken into your ears.

You didn’t want to let go when the scrawny guard comes bursting into the minute prison with what you asked for, cowering backwards when he sees the sight of his soon-to-be Queen in the arms of a man who’s not his Crown Prince.

At the very least though, Jungkook manages to find humor in your childlike tantrum. The vibration of the laugh all too familiar yet surreal.

“You’ve just found me alive, don’t you want to keep it like that?’ He bargains, receiving a smack on his chest at any notion of death doing you apart.

“It’s not funny.”

He pulls the tray left by the guard a few feet away from his feet, relishing in freshly made bread and taking generous gulps of water from the bucket that comes with the sustenance.

All the while, his left hand is always touching you in some way, be it around your shoulders or presently, interlocked with your right hand.

“Let’s run away,” by dawn, you’ve calmed down enough to find yourselves in each others’ arms, lain on a straw mat on the dirtied ground, “you and me.”

“Princess,” Jungkook’s thumb is on your chin and you’re forced to look into those brown eyes that holds nothing but gentleness, “you were born for something so great that to succumb to your wish to run away would be a crime.”

“It’s my only wish,” you clutch a handful of his shirt on his chest, it feels odd not having the coldness of the armor shock you anymore yet this way, you can feel his beating heart if the world is quiet enough.

“It’s the one wish I cannot grant you,” he sits up, hand covering yours as though he’s begging you not to implore, “will I see you tonight?”

He presses his lips to yours when you take a bit too long to answer. It’s too easy to lose yourself in his arms when he’s holding you so close. Yet the thought of what will happen once you step out of this prison makes your chest tighten and the line of your shoulder a little straighter.

“We’re not done discussing this.”

He waves you off with a smile that says every parting is a goodbye. Every sneaking in is an surety hung loosely over the promises of a bag of shillings for the young guard whose name you learned is Beomgyu.

Your nights are spent sneaking past the guards (a specialty honed from your younger days in your own castle) and your mornings are spent with the family you wed into and the council.

Until one day, a messenger boy comes bursting into your study as you discuss the betterment of the political status between the Southern and Northern Kingdoms. 

The mountain people have accepted the treaty in exchange for fur coats, breads and horses. The King, at the news, roared with laughter as he brought the silver chalice to the air.

“A toast to my dearest daughter,” he nods at you, “for achieving peace since my great great-grandfather’s rule and even then, it was my great great grandmother who struck the treaty.” 

“To her highness,” Sir Park is the first to break the silence, joined by the rest of the councils but not without suppressed sneers and back-handed compliments.

The chair on the other end screeches as the butler hurriedly rushes over to pull it off the marble floor.

“Since my son has found the best of wife,” he says over the celebrating crowd as chatters die down, “a coronation for the new Queen and King to take the throne shall be held in three month’s time.”

A pause.

“I’m unwell,” the Queen looks at you sharply before she meets her King’s concerned gaze, “allow me to retreat to my chambers.”

Less than a minute later, Taehyung stands, dropping the crisp white napkin on the table. The only sound echoing off the walls are his footsteps tapping against the floor almost as mocking as his retreat.

The King clears his throat and smiled with a sort of practiced glee that could have fooled the highest of nobles, “eat, drink, celebrate! For we have a busy month ahead of us.”

But you’re both of royal blood and you’ve once borne a weight of a crown.

The wide, a deep red, swirls in a minute whirlwind within the chalice as before you shoot the King a smile and bring the chalice to your lips.

x

“Your highness,” you stop a few feet from your door where a familiar face is leaning against, chatting up one of the maids whose luck is the poorest to have caught him there at the wrong time, “what brings you to my chambers?”

The maid drops her gaze, a meek greeting shot your way before she practically runs to the opposite direction.

“You dare lock your chambers from your husband?” He looks past you to your Seulgi who has assumed a post as your lady-in-waiting. She remains in her spot until you signal for her to unlock it.

“When I tell you to do something, you do it,” he whispers to her between the clicking of keys before she pushes the door open, head hung low as though she hadn’t heard a thing.

You cover your hand with yours for the briefest seconds before trailing behind him into your room. The curtains are drawn apart, moon light pouring onto the intricate design of the Indian carpet.

“You’re stepping out of line, princess,” fingers curl around your delicate wrist as the doors creak to a shut, “be a good little trophy wife and cease your meddling in the politics of my kingdom.”

“I should not have to if you’d do your job properly.” You maintain the smirk spread across your glossed lips as you attempt to shove him away.

The frown lines on his face eases into a nasty smirk. The one you wish to slap off since the day you’ve encountered. It’s short-lived as the corners of his mouth turns down.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten,” even with the mask of hurt he wears on that devastatingly handsome face, it’s still not enough to conceal the ugly little head of where he derives his humor from, “that once I’m the King and you the Queen, we are expected to be with a child. A royal blood to unite the two kingdoms once and for all.” 

His grip tightens, those dark eyes harbor the same kind of menace of the man who rode on his horse and ordered for your head during the war. The mere recollection of blood, fire and the condition of your own knight makes you want to vomit.

Arching your knee upwards, you take a step backwards as he doubles over, wheezing.

“You wench,” he sneers once he’s gathered his breath and the remnants of his pride, “wait til I become King-”

“King?” A scoff escapes your lips, “battles and wars are your forte, I admit but it takes a man to rule a kingdom and unfortunately you’re half of a man than the stable boys.”

The bellows for the guards almost allows him to pass as a mad man. Truly feral and uncontrolled like the beast that set fire to your people’s houses and burned the harvest of your kingdom.

“Your highness,” Eunha rushes to your side as three guards march towards Taehyung, Seulgi standing a few feet away.

“Get my sword and one for my darling wife,” nimble hand pulls apart the ruff of his collar before he tosses his jacket onto your bed, “it’s a beautiful night for a fence.”

x

It’s a losing game.

You knew since you unsheathed the sword of your family insignia - one of the many approaches the King had taken to make you feel at home. It’s your father’s father, passed on to your father and on your wedding day, passed to you and hung on the wall in the diner hall of your new home.

The weight isn’t made for a woman - as are many things that are deemed a man’s job. You prefer the sword you had custom made on your 20th birthday. The day your father promised he’d teach you how to wield a weapon but before he managed to hold a lesson for you, he’d fallen terribly ill.

Sending a prayer to your bed-ridden father, you leap at the smirking man, already knowing it’s far too heavy for you to counter his attack. One strike is at it takes for him to send your sword airborne and landing just inches from the fountain where a statue of the previous King stands gloriously.

“Yield,” the point of the blade catches the reflection of weary yet bloodthirsty eyes. It takes a moment for you to realize they do not belong to the monster who’s well able to drive it through your heart. It belongs to another kind of monster, yourself.

“You’d have to kill me first,” you say through gritted teeth despite your neck burning from craning upwards to look at him dead in the eye.

“Enough!” A flock of golden yellow enters your periphery, the delicate shrill is enough to tell who the colorful robe belongs to, “Taehyung, I raised you better than to point your sword at a woman!”

“But mother,” the man grunts, “she was -”

“I don’t care who did what,” she speaks over him, hardened gaze shifting from his son to you.

The weight of it is enough for you to want to cower into the corner and blend with the shadows yet you remain on your spot, back straightened, hands 

“Leave,” is all she says and it’s enough.

One by one, the guards and your maid begins to trickle out of the vicinity, rushed heels clacking against the floor until only the three of you are left.

She didn’t even bat an eye when her son bowed and started walking until you dip to a courtesy, “remain there.”

“Your majesty,” nodding once, you watch as she circles you like a predator before pulling out your sword from where it’s rooted.

“A princess does not go against a man in a sword fight,” the glint of the moonrays hits one of her eyes, painting it a treacherous golden brown, “not before she is crowned Queen.”

“With all due respect, your majesty, I do not want -”

“You will,” the robe flutters behind her as she spins, gracefully yet deadly, “you will want power. Command. Once you’ve lived long enough to lose yourself in this god forsaken place and I will not allow you to have any semblance of that in my castle. In my kingdom.”

“My Queen, your wisdom is misplaced. I’ve borne the weight of the crown and know a great deal of what it entitles,” you drop to a bow, “to be relieved of it is a luxury not many can afford. My apologies that you lost yourself along the way and forgot the cause you are to bear: your people. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The air feels heavy, almost crushing with each step you take as the reverberating sound of your heels remind you how alone you are within these walls. The wall you’re leaned against as you clutch the thin peignoir on your chest, heaves of breath tumbling out erratically.

You’re not sure how long you’re slumped on the ground like that. Not long, you suppose. These walls, though barren, are not uninhabited. One of the footmen must have seen the lump of a person and came close enough to realize it’s you before he manages to shoo you away if you were a maid.

Eunha is on your side in no time. Gentle, slender arms around yours guiding you to your room. But those are not the arms you wish to be in right now.

x

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[the-rainbow-meme]

Proud of You

It was over. They won.

It took a while for the idea to settle down on them. They knew their chances were slim, very slim, so they had all made up with the fact that they wouldn’t come back from that one final battle. The famous blaze of glory they all knew would be their end.

But they won. Their job was done, mostly.

They celebrated, they had to. It was a pleasant surprise to be able to celebrate a win without the anguish of having lost someone in the battle, no bittersweet laughs, no toasts in name of the fallen, just them. All four of them, alive and well, save for a few wounds that wouldn’t leave more than a scar and a reminder of that day.

The first to go to bed was Jack, the poor kid had the heaviest weight on his shoulders since before he was even born and he was tired, very tired. He had waved to them with a soft “good night” before leaving the room.

An hour or so later Sam got up and yawned, stretching his whole body in the process. He piled up all the empty pizza boxes from the map table into his arms and patted Dean in the shoulder on his way out.

Dean and Cas stayed for longer, sitting in comfortable silence, like they were used to. Talking about unimportant things and sipping whiskey from their glasses from time to time.

After a couple of hours had passed Dean got up.

“I’ll pick this up and then go to bed” he said, starting to clean up the table.

“Let me help you” said Cas, also getting up and picking up some of the beer bottles that were left from dinner.

They walked down to the kitchen, where Cas threw out the empty bottles while Dean cleaned a couple of glasses.

It wasn’t long until they finished and Dean started to walk to the door, Cas was expecting the usual pat on the shoulder as a “goodnight” but was extremely surprised when Dean pulled him into a hug.

He leaned into him with a soft smile on his face.

“I’m proud of you.” Dean whispered tightening his grip on the angel.

The words caught Cas off guard. He took a second to process them before shutting down his eyes strongly, because they started to burn a little with tears threatening to fall down, and reciprocating the tightness of the embrace.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, which is longer than they’ve ever hugged, until Dean finally let go.

But instead of completely stepping aside from him he cupped one side of Cas’ face with his hand and stared at him with both intensity and softness, searching for the angel’s attention.

“I'm so proud of you Cas,” he repeated a little louder this time “you're the strongest person I know... you've been through hell over and over and you're still standing strong. You've always been there for us, for me, and I could never thank you enough for all that you've done, all that you gave up, just to help me. I know I haven't been always the easiest person to be around, hell,” he chuckled “I know I'm almost never an easy person to be around but I'm very glad you never gave up on me... on us.”

Cas felt like he was melting, he didn’t know how much he needed to hear all those things until they actually came out of Dean’s mouth. He grabbed dean’s wrist, the hunter’s hand still cupping his face.

“Us?” Castiel asked, unsure of who Dean was referring to.

Their little game of extending their confessions to others out of fear of being rejected had run long enough. Sometimes they even wondered if the emphasis on the singular pronouns was really there to be analysed or if they were simply wishing the other felt that way about them.

“Yes, dumbass, us. You and me.” Dean answered with a soft smile on his face.

Cas could feel that something about the hunter had changed, and he was right. He seemed freer. He assumed it must've been the relief of finally taking down Chuck and the reassurance they were given that the world they love would never be in apocalyptic danger again. He knew Dean wanted to retire, he deserved it but he would've never allowed himself to ignore the call of duty, or what he believed was his main priority: save everyone else but himself.

He even started acting more relaxed, his actions, his words, all reflections of everything he kept deep inside himself in order to keep himself cold and ready for everything and anything. But that was pass them now, he got to relax now, he was finally safe.

“I'm proud of you too, Dean” Cas said after a few seconds “and thank you for teaching me how to... be human. You showed me what was worth fighting for and you helped me break out of heaven's... stupid rules, more than once. You gave me a new purpose; one I was happy to serve and thanks to that I got to experience life and the world like I've never had before and I wouldn't change that for anything. The things we've shared truly are the best part of my life.”

The angel took a small pause, which Dean took as an opportunity to caress Cas’ cheek with his thumb.

“And I'm so sorry that you got caught in the middle of every heavenly plan. It was unfair of us, of Chuck, to put the responsibility of saving The World on your shoulders”

Dean opened his mouth to say something but Cas quickly continued.

“Let me finish, please. You never deserved that, neither did Sam but now it's over and you get to be free, Dean. You don't have to save everyone anymore, it's time for you to focus on you because we both know you never did and now you have no excuses”

Dean was taken aback by Cas’ words. He knew his unhealthy coping mechanisms and mental health were common knowledge but he never expected Cas to break the invisible deal to not talk about it and confront him. He never imagined that one of the biggest concerns Castiel had was his wellbeing.

“I love you, Cas" was all he could answer.

The words actually escaped from his mouth; his brain too tired to stop them. He surprised himself and he surprised Cas who was looking at him wide eyed.

But he felt so much lighter than he had in years, this big secret he kept holding onto felt too heavy and now that he had finally let it go, he felt like he could fully breathe again.

“I was always too scared to say it” Dean continued letting out a painful chuckle. “I was too afraid of accepting it and terrified that you’d reject me. But I want to let myself be happy for once.”

Cas moved his hand from dean’s wrist to his hand, pressing it against his face and leaning into it with a smile.

“I love you too, Dean. I always have” he confessed.

Dean smiled at the words and brought his other hand to Cas’ face, fully cupping it. Cas leaned his head towards Dean’s, making their foreheads touch. They stayed like that for a moment, absorbing the sense of safety and calm they gave each other, something that could only be accurately described as home.

Eventually, Dean leaned a little bit more in to let his lips meet Cas’, who quickly reciprocated.

Although it being something new for them, it felt familiar, like they were always supposed to end up there or like maybe even they already lived this, in another life, on another universe.

“I’ve waited too damn long to do that” said dean when they separated.

“Yeah well,” answered Cas with a smile “you better get used to this”

The sound of an alarm interrupted them. It was Sam’s marking what should be the beginning of his annoyingly active morning routine.

The reminder of the passage of time made Dean remember how tired he actually was and so, he let out a yawn.

“You should sleep” Cas said, freeing himself from Dean’s hands in order to encourage him to go.

“Yeah…” Dean answered, moving towards the door once again.

He stopped at the threshold and turned back to Cas.

“Are you coming?” he asked, offering his hand.

Cas took it.

“Of course.”

[frenchfrysplash]

fic: between heaven, the sky, the earth

The Haunting of Bly Manor

Dani/Jamie

Chapter 3/10

Read on AO3 Here! Or you can continue into the Read More.

Summary: Jamie goes between one moment, and the next. Falling around her like rain, like snow.

She’s here for a reason. Here to help.

She just needs to remember.

Chapter Three: dearly departed

But even when one is dead and gone It still takes two to make a house a home Well I'm as lonesome as the catacombs I hear you call my name but no one's there

- The Shakey Graves, "Dearly Departed"

February 2001

"I think this is what you're looking for, Mrs. Clayton."

A plain clamshell box was placed gingerly in front of Jamie, the cardboard corners worn from being pushed and pulled to and fro a shelf for years. The archivist, a young blond woman with round-framed glasses, opened it carefully, and thumbed through the files. She glanced at Jamie, smiling uncertainly.

"It's not a lot," she said. "400 year old papers are fragile, and well, it's a miracle some of these have survived this long. We don't have the same kind of money for conservation as the big places. But this is what we have of the Lloyd papers."

"Right," Jamie stared at the box, apprehension brewing in her belly. She flexed her fingers against the foldable plastic table the archivist had set up for her, wedged in a corner of the tiny museum office. "So, have I got to wear gloves or something?"

"Oh, yes!" the archivist produced a pair of white cotton gloves, and laid them on the table next to box. "Now, these papers have survived pretty well, but they are fragile."

"Should I be worried about them crumbling in my hands?" Jamie asked.

"Nothing like that," the archivist shrugged. "They could tear though. Just be careful."

"Will do." Jamie pulled the gloves on.

"If you need anything, I'll be just over here," the archivist said, indicating the desk in the opposite corner.

"Thank you."

The archivist nodded, and made her way over to sit at her desk, sparing one last curious glance at her visitor. Jamie got the impression that this little museum and archives, hidden as it was in a tiny village in Devon, didn't really get all that many researchers. Especially ones specifically asking to see the papers of one Arthur Lloyd, whose trail she had been following like a dog with a bone for three months now.

She had started with one name - Viola. A Viola who had lived - and died - at Bly Manor, at some point in its long, dark past. It had seemed an impossibly thin lead, so she had called up Henry Wingrave, hoping he knew something of the history of his country home. He hadn't, not really, and Jamie was left to wonder if this was a fool's errand.

Until Flora had called.

"Uncle Henry said you were looking into the history of Bly Manor," she had said. "Specifically someone called Viola?"

"Yeah," Jamie had replied. "But he didn't know anything."

"No, he's not one for history," Flora had chuckled. "But that name sounded familiar. So I went looking through some of my old things, and guess what!"

"Flora."

"I have an old grave rubbing with that name on it! First name, last name, birth and death dates."

"Flora," Jamie had nearly dropped the phone in her excitement. "That's amazing!"

"I can send you a picture by e-mail?"

Jamie had blanched. "Can't you just tell me what it says?"

"Luddite."

And that conversation had led her to Viola Lloyd, born 1645, died 1680, who had lived at Bly Manor for the entirety of her short life, and had died and been buried there. From there, she was able to visit the local parish records office, and find a marriage record between one Arthur Lloyd and Viola Willoughby, in 1674. There hadn't been much else on Viola, but there was another marriage record for Arthur Lloyd, seven years later, to a Perdita Willoughby.

Scandalous.

Perdita had died too, according to the death record Jamie had found in the same Parish office. Plus, there had been a christening for a Lloyd baby in 1675, though the child's first name had been rendered illegible by the intervening years.

That had been it for the Parish records, but Jamie had something else now. Arthur Lloyd. A merchant, according to his marriage records. Born somewhere around 1640, but not buried at Bly Manor, or in the Parish cemetery. He'd probably left after the death of his second wife, then. But to where?

And that was the question that had led Jamie here, to this tiny museum. It hadn't been easy, and Jamie wasn't a natural researcher. But she was smart, and determined, and when the man at the National Archives had informed her he couldn't find any primary sources on Arthur Lloyd in the collection, but had found an obscure reference to a merchant named Lloyd in a book written in 1973 about the history of a little farming community in South Devon, well. Jamie had followed the lead, and been rewarded for her efforts.

Gingerly, she pulled out the first file, and flipped it open. The papers inside were yellowed, the handwriting looping and nearly impossible to read. Jamie sighed, glanced at the archivist again, and pulled her reading glasses out of her jacket pocket.

"I love when you wear those," Dani said from the other side of the table, resting her cheek on one hand, gazing at Jamie adoringly.

"I've had 'em for two years," Jamie replied, eyes scanning the pages in the front of her. "Thought you'd be used to it by now."

"You look so cute with them on."

"They make me feel old."

This file seemed to be mostly pages from Lloyd's ledgers, listing his business dealings, his trading in tobacco and spices and fine linens. Jamie's brow knotted together in concentration as she made her way through the rest of the pages.

"All good over here?"

Jamie looked up at the archivist, who stood in the spot Dani had been sitting, moments before.

"All good," she said. "I'll, uh, probably be a while, yeah?"

"Oh, of course!" The archivist smiled. "We're open until five. You're welcome to stay until then if you need to."

"Thanks," Jamie said, and took the next files from the box, wordlessly dismissing the archivist.

"You could be nicer," Dani chided from behind her.

"I'm busy," Jamie replied.

"She's just trying to be helpful."

Jamie sighed, and leaned forward, adjusting her glasses.

This file was more of the same, for the most part. And the next one was a deed to a cottage just outside the little village, as well as a few household expenses. Jamie tried not to feel frustrated.

"I don't even know what I'm looking for," she said, placing the file back in the box, and pulling the next one out.

"You'll know when you find it," Dani replied, voice more distant than it had been before.

Jamie paused, and looked back at Dani, who stood against the wall, smiling encouragingly. There was something off about her, and it took Jamie a moment to understand.

"You're fading," she said.

Dani blinked, and tilted her head, a frown appearing on her face. Confusion flashed through her eyes, and she glanced around, then focused back on Jamie

"Jamie," she said. "Where-?"

And she was gone.

Jamie's shoulders slumped, and she turned back to her table. The file in front of her was thicker than the others, and Jamie was extra careful opening it. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the first page.

"Here we go," she whispered to herself.

Letters. Dozens of letters, spanning just as many years, from one Jonathan Lloyd, Vicar in Essex, to his brother Arthur, Merchant in Devon. As Jamie read through them, taking notes on a little notepad she'd brought, a puzzle began to take shape. So many pieces were missing, but there was a solid outline, as Jonathan asked after Arthur's ill wife, Viola; solemnly comforted him at her death; congratulated him on his second marriage; counselled him on his money problems; offered advice and support as Arthur decided to move away from Bly Manor; lamented how fast children grow as Arthur's daughter married a man called Norton.

A sound from behind her; someone shifting against the wall. A rustle of fabric, the squelch of mud against the floor, and a few drops of water hitting wood.

"Do you remember?" Jamie asked, not turning around. "Do you remember him?"

Wet footsteps moved forward, stopping right behind Jamie's right shoulder. A water droplet hit her notebook, and Jamie caught a glimpse of long black hair from the corner of her eye, as Viola leaned forward.

"His name was Arthur," Jamie continued. "He was your husband."

A low, guttural keening bubbled up from the woman at Jamie's shoulder, soft at first, but growing louder. Jamie whipped her head around, eyes widening as she saw the woman leaning over her shoulder. Her face was different than before, more human. Still no eyes, but the outline of her nose and brow was stronger, her mouth less a hole in her face as lips were now visible. A hand clutched at Jamie's shoulder as the keening reached a crescendo, and Jamie reeled from the rush of anguish that followed it. Memories of love and happiness, followed by betrayal and anger and bitterness, flitting through her as her vision turned black.

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

May 1995

The hand on Jamie's shoulder made her jump, and she nearly knocked the pan off the stove as she turned around. Dani shot her an amused smile, letting her hand slide down Jamie's arm. Her other arm wrapped around Jamie's waist, as she pressed herself against her fiancée and chuckled.

"Jumpy this morning?" She asked, leaning in to kiss Jamie on the cheek and rest her chin on her shoulder. "Mmm, bacon?"

"And eggs, and sausages, and beans, and mushrooms, and tomatoes, and toast." Jamie grinned that cocksure grin that Dani loved. "You're getting a full English this morning."

"You already had me full of English last night," Dani said, nuzzling under Jamie's ear.

Jamie groaned. "That was terrible. That doesn't even make sense."

"I'm loopy," Dani defended herself. "Because I love you. And I'm going to marry you."

"Oh?" Jamie put the spatula down, and turned in Dani's arms. She settled her arms on Dani's shoulders, and leaned in for a kiss.

"You'll burn the bacon," Dani mumbled against her lips, smiling, even as her fingers slipped beneath Jamie's shirt, skirting along her hips.

"You like burnt bacon," Jamie replied, dotting kisses along Dani's jaw.

"Do I?" Dani pulled back, eyebrow raised. "Or is it the only kind of bacon you know how to make?"

"Dani," Jamie whined, as Dani took a step back, a smirk on her face.

"I don't think I should distract you right now," Dani said, voice light. "You have to concentrate on not burning the apartment down."

"That's not fair!" But Jamie was already turning back to her pan, realizing that, indeed, the bacon was in danger of burning. Beside her, Dani poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Do you need my help?" She asked, taking a sip.

"No, no." Jamie waved her away. "You go sit down. I'm making you breakfast."

"Whatever you say," Dani said, shrugging and making her way over to the kitchen island. She sat down on the other side, hands encircling her coffee mug as she watched Jamie move around the kitchen.

"This is literally the only thing I know I can make well," Jamie said. She paused, and her voice was quiet for her next words. "My Dad used to make it for us, when he was home, rare as that was."

"I didn't know that,' Dani said, voice soft and careful.

Jamie hummed. "He used to burn the bacon too."

"Well," Dani tapped her fingers against her mug. "Maybe burnt bacon isn't so bad."

Jamie shot her a grin, and the couple lapsed into comfortable silence. Dani drank her coffee, enjoying the sight of Jamie working, the smell of sizzling food, and the warm feeling in the kitchen.

"Do you want to have a ceremony?" Dani asked suddenly.

Jamie turned around, eyebrows raised. "A ceremony?"

"Like, a wedding," Dani said. "I know it wouldn't be…legally binding, or whatever. But we could still have a ceremony. Invite the people we love, eat some cake, have a party."

Jamie turned back to the stove, falling quiet for a moment, absently stirring the mushrooms.

"Do you want that?" She asked.

Dani swallowed, smile dropping. She looked into her coffee for a moment, then shook herself.

"We don't need it," she said, the smile returning. "But we should go on a honeymoon."

"A honeymoon, eh?" Jamie had begun plating, and with a final, careful placement of some very unburnt bacon, she turned and brought breakfast over to Dani. "I like the sound of that."

"Yeah." Dani pulled her stool forward, picking up her fork. "Yeah! We could go to Paris."

"And never leave the hotel room?" Jamie waggled her eyebrows.

Dani laughed. "We have to at least see Owen."

"Oh, well," Jamie leaned forward on her elbows. "I suppose we can do that."

"And then spend the rest of the time in the hotel room." Dani said, taking a bite of the baked beans.

Jamie laughed, and Dani's eyes crinkled at the edges as she laughed with her.

"Oh." Jamie sighed, her smile fading as she gazed at Dani. "I was an idiot today, wasn't I?"

Dani frowned. "What?" She asked around a mouthful of beans.

"I wish I had said yes," Jamie said. "To a ceremony. To a party. To a wedding. With you."

"Jamie," Dani breathed, slowly lowering her fork.

"I know we called each other wife after this," Jamie said, reaching forward and grasping Dani's hand. "And I know when civil unions came about we got one. But we never celebrated, did we?"

Dani's eyes shone, and she clutched Jamie's hands between her own, tightly. "It didn't matter," she said softly. "The rings-"

"Enough for me, if they're enough for you?" Jamie turned Dani's hand over, running her thumb over the claddagh ring on her finger, the one that matched her own. She lifted it to her lips, and kissed it, shutting her eyes as tears ran down her cheeks.

"And they were, Jamie," Dani whispered fiercely. "You were enough for me, always enough for me."

"And you for me." Jamie opened her eyes. "But the truth is, the more time went on, the more I thought about it, the more I wished I had said yes to a celebration. I wished I could have stood up in front of our friends, and our family, and committed to always being there for you, to loving you."

"Flora could have been a bridesmaid," Dani said, a light smile on her lips.

"Owen could have been my best man," Jamie grinned. "Or I'd ask him to walk me down the aisle. I can't decide which one he would freak out about more."

Dani gasped. "Miles could bring his boyfriend!"

"Oh, yes, except," Jamie titled her head. "They weren't together yet, when this happened."

"Right," Dani nodded. "Miles wasn't even out yet, poor kid. But maybe if we'd done it when we got the civil union."

Jamie pointed at her. "The smart one, as usual." She glanced towards the windows, covered in plants. "I could do the flowers."

"You'd want to do your own flowers?"

"Who else could I trust to get it right?"

Dani laughed, clear and bright as a bell.

"I would have liked planning a wedding this time," she said. "If it were with you."

"I'd have helped more, for one thing," Jamie replied, tucking a strand of hair behind Dani's ear.

"That's true."

Jamie gazed at her for a moment, before her expression became more distant, eyes looking past Dani.

"They legalized gay marriage in the Netherlands, you know?" She said. "In April."

"They did?" Dani asked, eyes widening slightly.

"Yeah," Jamie nodded. "And there's talk in Canada. And other countries. It's happening, Dani. If we'd just-if you'd just-"

"If we'd had a little more time," Dani whispered, hands gripping Jamie's painfully tight. "Jamie, I'm so-"

"Don't," Jamie stopped her, a warning in her voice. "Don't apologize."

"But-"

"No."

Dani's brow was furrowed, staring at Jamie as though something about her was confusing her.

"This is strange," she muttered. "Something is…wrong."

"It's just a memory," Jamie said, dropping her gaze to their joined hands. "It's not even real. What did you say the kids called it? Dream hopping. This is all just my memory."

Dani shook her head. "But this is…there's something weird."

"It's ok, Dani." Jamie kissed her fingers again. "It's just a memory."

Dani continued to stare, blue eyes darting between Jamie's green ones. She was fading away, even as Jamie watched her, and Jamie found herself desperately holding on.

"Wait," she said, voice breaking. "Please don't - don't go. Not yet. I like this one. Can we just stay here for a bit? It's not enough time, I haven't had enough time."

"There's never enough time, is there?"

Dani was gone, but from the seat beside her vacated one, Viola Lloyd gazed sadly at Jamie.

She looked different, again. Still not completely human, hair and dress still damp. She had eyes now, though they were clouded over, and the rest of her face was unnaturally smooth, like a mannequin in a store front. She heaved a heavy sigh, eyes trailing back to where Dani had sat moments before.

"You took her from me," Jamie whispered, tears spilling over.

"I did," Viola said. Her voice was scratchy, disused. "Before her time. It was the same with me, I think."

Jamie opened her mouth to retort angrily, but caught herself. This isn't why you're here, she thought sternly. Closing her eyes for a moment, she steadied herself against the counter, and breathed in, out and in again.

"You were sick," she said finally, opening her eyes, her voice carefully even.

"Yes," Viola replied, turning her face towards Jamie. "Very sick. I should have died, really. But I didn't. I held on. Stubborn."

"You didn't want to leave your husband," Jamie said.

"No," Viola shook her head. "It wasn't fair. I had fought so hard for the life I had. And there it was, slipping through my fingers, like sand in an hourglass."

"You wanted more time with him."

"Not just him." Viola's brow furrowed. "There were others. A family, I had a family. A small family, but a family all the same."

Jamie nodded. "A sister, maybe?"

Viola's face turned towards Jamie so fast it seemed to blur, and something there twisted, mouth curling, eyes hardening.

"Yes," she said, the word coming out in a snarl. "A sister."