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#adam: sneers about him needing to read by running his finger along the words

kryptonitejelly · 1 year

Note

one of jake’s ex gfs noticing how protective he is with you and it causes an argument because he’s never that way with her😭

am i right to assume you were thinking of Flyboy Jake (because this was sent around the time of some protective flyboy Jake content and has languished in my drafts ever since; if it is not i apologise!) also, as I have said before - Flyboy Jake is definitely a bit of an ass, pining for someone while dating another girl. so don’t tell me and don’t read on if you don’t like it!

anyway, college flyboy!

“You are so protective of her,” the accusation makes Jake look up at his girlfriend who is seated beside him. He takes in the daggers in her eyes, lips pulled into a thin, grim line, and arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“I am not,” Jake mumbles, his hand reaching out for his pint of beer, taking a swig, his eyes floating across the bar towards you. He sees you laugh, throwing your head back, shoulders shaking with glee as you and a two of his team mates wait around for service at the bar counter.

“Your eyes have followed her since she left the table,” Jake’s girlfriend accuses again, and Jake places the pint back down on the table. He forces himself to tear his gaze away from you, to refocus back in his girlfriend.

“She’s been my best friend forever,” he says simply, the explanation saying it all, while managing to be slightly weak.

“Yeah, friend,”his girlfriend says again, emphasising the word, “try not to forget that?” She all but snaps, and Jake feels his brow begin to furrow. He opens his mouth to shoot out a retort when he hears raised voices from the direction of the bar counter, your direction.

He closes his mouth, head snapping towards you; only to find two of his teammates stacked up in front of you, staring down a drunk looking guy who is sneering at them both.

“What the fuck?” Jake mutters under his breath, as he pushes himself to a stand. A quick assessment of the situation tells him that it was probably a case of unwanted attention.

“Are you really going to her?” His girlfriend says, and Jake turns his head to look at her, the annoyance now written clearly over his features.

“Yes,” he says simply, tone cool and emotionless, eyes darting back to you as he sees you rub the side of your arm, while shrinking back against the bar counter, “you can either wait here, or, if you decide you are still going to have a problem with it, leave.”

Jake’s words are ruthless, but all he can think about in that moment is you. The legs of his chair scrape back against the floor, as he begins his stride over to you.

“Do we have a problem here?” His voice, hard, angry, breaks through, and his teammates shift in unison, maintaining their human barricade between you and the drunk, all while allowing Jake to step in, placing himself closest to you,m.

“He tried to get handsy with her,” one of his teammates supplies, the three men now staring down the drunk who is growing less aggressive and more hesitant as the second past.

“Apologise,” Jake demands, arms crossing over his puffed chest.

The drunk opens his mouth, as if to protest, when the other of Jake’s teammate sighs loudly, before speaking in a bored tone, “if you knew better you would listen to the man.”

“I- I’m sorry,” the words rush out of the drunk’s mouth, his Adams apple bobbing along the column of his throat as he gulps in a display of clear distress.

“Leave,” Jake orders cooly, as he takes a step forward; the drunk doesn’t need to be told twice.

“You ok?” Jake watches him scurry out of sight before he turns to look at you, gaze running down from head to toe, examining you for any signs of hurt.

“I’m okay,” you say, eyes locking onto his. You see the anger walled behind his eyes, so you offer a small smile, reaching out with a hand to gently brush your fingers against an elbow. Jake loosens the cross his arms have across his chest as he feels your touch against his skin.

His teammates grab their drinks, and yours, which have now been slid across the counter by the bartender. It allows Jake the freedom to slide his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as the three men guide you back to your table. It must, you find yourself musing to yourself, be quite the sight.

“Where is-” you begin to ask only for Jake to cut you off with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders that you feel because of your proximity to him.

“She had some friends to meet.”

“Oh,” you say, brow raising slightly in confusion, but let yourself be steered into your chair by Jake, who makes it a point to slide into the chair beside your, his knee bumping into yours, his jean covered leg pressing lightly against your own for the rest of the evening, arm slung casually across the back of your chair, a brand of casual dominance, Jake Seresin’s own brand of protection for you - something he always best achieved by letting the world know just whose girl you were.

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eridanidreams · 4 months

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WIP Wednesday

Tagging: @bearlytolerant, @silurisanguine, @aro-pancake, @fangbangerghoul, @atonalginger, @aislingdmdt, @fshenkoescape, @ninjaofnaps, @lisa-and-shadow, @a-cosmic-elf, @thatsgoodsquishy0, @hockeydemon42, @fomagranfalloon, @violenceandviolets, @therealgchu, @staticpallour and @artemis-crimson

Today, I'm putting the final touches on the next chapter of Odysseus Gambit and hammering the next chapter of stars through my fingers like grains of sand into shape, so what I have is a future draft chapter of Odysseus Gambit!

Adam swung the scope back, his finger trembling on the trigger. One more shot and he could end this farce. But Sloane was picking herself up, though her shoulder was bloody and her right arm hung limp.

«I always knew you were a coward,» she spat, the words coming through clear on the infolink. Lermontov darted in, swiping with his knife, and she slapped it away left-handed. «Not so easy when I’m not hanging like a butchered calf, is it?» The Russian stumbled back a few paces, the sneering arrogance finally replaced with fear, and Adam moved his finger back to the trigger guard.

Lermontov took a few more cautious steps backward; by now, he was only a few steps from the sarcophagus wall. Sloane matched him, step for step, a wounded lioness on the prowl. He snarled something—Adam, lip-reading, could only make out the word suka—and flung himself at her in an all-out attack. She swayed back—the knife scored a line of red along her ribs—and drove her fist into his chest in a blow that was all power, no grace. Lermontov had barely started to fold in upon himself when her left foot slammed into his gut hard enough to smash him through the crumbling concrete and metal behind him.

Adam’s brain itched in the way that suggested his cybereyes were picking up something that his visual cortex couldn’t understand. Lermontov struggled to his feet, a pale shadow backlit by a dim Cherenkov-blue radiance that somehow illuminated nothing. He took one faltering step toward daylight… Adam froze, scope riveted on the hole, as black hands coalesced out of the darkness and wrapped around Lermontov’s arms. Lermontov’s mouth opened in a soundless scream. Sloane’s heel caught on the cracked concrete and she fell, and all she did was scrabble backward, desperately away from that. There was something oddly fluid about those hands, blacker-than-black, like a black hole had taken form in flesh, swallowing everything around it. They were pulling Lermontov into the sarcophagus, inexorably, step by step… and then the white blur of his face melted into nothingness and nothing remained but the blue-edged darkness.

Below him, Sloane wavered to her feet. Her harsh breathing, punctuated by static, echoed in his infolink. She glanced down at her wrist, then shook her head and started looking around her. “You need to get out of there,” he rasped. She shook her head again.

“Can’t,” her voice crackled with static. “—patch that up.” As if on cue, the radiation alarms went off, keening like air-raid sirens.

“Shit,” he muttered. A quick scan of the area showed Lermontov’s goons running the hell away—well, he supposed he would too, if his boss had just gotten tossed into a nuclear reactor. He tossed the rifle aside and took the quick way down; he tried not to flinch at the way the Icarus rippled and flared and threw little aurorae around him.

Sloane was wrenching open one of the heavy lockers that dotted the area; she pulled out something that looked like a cross between a flare gun and a grenade launcher. “Get *crackle*ther one,” she said roughly. Adam threw himself into a dead run; ahead of him, Sloane had gotten closer than he liked to the sarcophagus. She braced the gun awkwardly on her left hip—he wondered why her Sentinel hadn’t healed the shoulder wound—and fired. It impacted at the top of the breach, releasing a viscous golden substance that oozed down and hardened quickly. Adam vaguely remembered reading something about that—as the sarcophagus decayed, and with the ongoing problems funding the New Safe Confinement structure, they’d had to find a stop-gap to quickly seal any breaches. He grabbed the second launcher on the run; oddly heavy for its size, its shells contained a boron-doped resin that cured quickly when exposed to hard radiation.

They worked quickly but meticulously, building the patch from the outside in, alert for—“Did you see—?” he muttered, covering a bit that looked just a little too dark.

“Yeah.” Her voice shook. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.” She fired a final shot, then tossed her launcher aside. “Out.”

Adam fired off his last shot. “Same. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He barely managed two steps before Sloane pressed an arm to her stomach and doubled over, vomiting helplessly. “Fuck!” He reached for her arm, but she waved him away.

“Radiation. Nothing to be done for it,” she grated. “Sentinel’s holding.” Her lips pulled back in a bloody death’s-head grin. “Not a lot of bone marrow left to poison, so that’s a plus.” She staggered, went down to a knee. “Jensen.” She waved him away a second time. “No time. Go. Exfil plan… B.” She coughed, spitting more bright blood. “I’ll… meet you at the RV point.”

Adam didn’t need his CASIE to know she was lying through her bloodied teeth.

#fanfic #starfield fanfiction #eridani writes #coemancer #wip wednesday #the coemancer crew #adam jensen #deus ex mankind divided #sloane delacourt #the odysseus gambit #odysseus gambit

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firefly-in-darkness · 3 years

Text

Past Promises

Characters → Y/N & Geralt of Rivia

Summary → Y/N heads to Novigrad to warn Geralt of his future.

Prompt → “I know right now we are enemies, but I need your help.” [In bold]

Word Count → 2.6k

Warnings → 18+, canon typical violence, scars and wounds, blood, sexy things, Geralt’s thighs and arms (yep they’re a warning).

Beta → @daydream3r-xo // all mistakes are my own.

A/N → Well, here’s my first Geralt fic. I started playing the Witcher 3 (again) during the summer lockdown and I’m halfway through The Last Wish. Repetitive dreams of Geralt and Henry Cavill made me choose him for @justagirlinafandomworld Time Travel Challenge. This has a little bit of the book, video game and Netflix rolled into this so hope you like the combination and hidden context!

Past Promises

The tavern heaved with patrons escaping the rain, the loud chatter and boisterous laughter filling the candlelit space. Y/N attempted to enjoy the meal in peace but there was no escape from the men that lurked and leered at her hooded form. A woman, drinking and eating alone was not only suspicious, but fair game for their ill intent.

For the most part, she was able to ignore the disgusting remarks and slurred abuse until one of the drunken fools sat opposite. Y/N gulped from the flagon and looked him dead in the eye, a sneer on her lips in hopes that he’d get the hint that she was not in the mood for company.

Of course, the drunk man didn’t. Instead, he leant forward, grinning at Y/N and his grubby fingers reaching forward to pull down the hood. With a flash, she slammed his hand down on the table, a dagger pierced into the table between a couple of fingers.

The man screeched, gaining the attention of the other patrons. Y/N’s eyes flicked between the now silent revellers and the man sat opposite before she looked over to the bartender who shook his head in time with the wiping of a tankard.

Y/N yanked the man forward by his greasy locks, the group of men nearest to her edged forward and her eyes immediately focused on them, the golden glow no longer amiss. A few stumbled backwards, others looked elsewhere.

“I missed, on purpose.” She growled and pushed him away with a force, causing the chair to crash to the ground. “Next time I won’t.”

The man scrambled to his feet and rushed through the patrons. Y/N’s eyes didn’t retreat from his form until he was lost amongst the crowd. Feeling the eyes of others still intently on hers, she retrieved her satchel and headed to leave the tavern.

“Your kind aren’t welcome here,” a man to the side, spat just before she stepped forward.

Y/N twirled, cape billowing open behind her, hood falling, her appearance no longer concealed; a large streak of pure white and her golden eyes glowing ferociously. Looking more menacing with the three jagged scars streaking across her right eye and down her cheek.

The man’s throat was met with the point of a sword, the smell of fear emanated from the man in bucket loads. Y/N held her gaze on the patron that dared to speak out as she had already decided to leave. A tiny drop of blood trickled down his throat, following the curve of his Adam's apple bobbing.

The bartender appeared beside him, “I think you should leave now monster.”

Y/N snarled and with a spin she darted out of the tavern, running through the cobbled streets, bypassing the vendors packing up their stalls and loading wagons. Her body hummed with rage, blood simmering against her skin. The words that had so easily come out of their mouths played over and over in her mind.

She stopped in an alley between two buildings and leant against the stone. She clutched the talisman at her chest, reminding herself that she was visiting the past, fifty years in the past. That she had endured this back then as one of the few girls to complete the trials.

The medallion no longer vibrated in her hold, or maybe it was her hands that had been shaking before. A tentative step out of the dark alleyway and a few more, she was back in the throng of merchants and townsfolk.

“Not a step further.” The deep grumble stopped Y/N in her tracks.

Easier to find than I thought, Y/N turned and found a matching set of golden eyes and a grimace that rivalled any other. It wasn’t her Geralt and she had to remind herself of that as he nodded in the direction of an alleyway.

He looked a little younger, not as worn down as the man she knows now. Didn’t have the scar across his face, at least it was an indicator that you were in time to warn him, even though you knew it was going to be difficult to gain his trust. Their past was not pleasant, and it had taken many decades for them to even see eye to eye, let alone be intimate with one another.

She kept her distance, her hand curled around the hilt of the sword. Being prepared for an attack as a Witcher was the norm but to be on guard against the one that you had loved for many years had her heart aching with each step that she followed.

Y/N instantly recognised the large tavern in front of them as the Chameleon, yet in this time it was probably already being run by Whoreson Senior as a brothel. Deep down, she hoped that this wasn’t your stop off, hand tightening around the blade at the thought of having to witness the Geralt from before. The one that frequented these taverns.

Geralt continued his path, he weaved through the empty stalls and the pyres set up in the town square. The crushing weight of jealousy lifted and was replaced with a feeling of disgust and hatred for the blind followers of the Church of Eternal Flame. Before Y/N could comment, she was guided inside The Kingfisher Inn.

A secluded spot and two flagons of ale on the table later, Y/N watched the frothy liquid spill over the cup, anything to avoid looking Geralt in the eyes. She sniffed at the liquid, tested it with the tip of her tongue before guzzling it down. Witcher senses or not, she could never be too careful.

Geralt’s head shook in dismay, his jaw ticked twice at your action, “I could have killed you back there if I wanted too.”

They both sat there for a moment, tried to read each other, to work out what the other one’s intentions were. The cheers and applause of the patrons pulled their attention away from one another to the stage. A man introduced a very young blonde girl with a lute, the room fell into silence as the beautiful melody filled the room.

Geralt drained the last of his ale and nodded towards the stairs. Y/N followed him, without question, into his temporary living quarters. Geralt removed his swords and armour yet she remained in her hood, concealed from his fiery gaze.

In a flash, Geralt had Y/N pinned against the wooden frame; his thick forearm pressing against her windpipe. His growl and the gasp for air was enough to send her into a panic. She clawed at his arm, but he instantly pinned it to the door above their heads.

“Why are you here?” His gruff voice rattled your bones, a shiver running over your skin.

The lack of oxygen and his leg locked between Y/N’s legs reminded her of her lover and for a moment she whimpered at the pleasure radiating from the friction of his large thigh at her core. As Y/N gasped for air, she remembered that he was not him.

“Geralt.” Voice hoarse and strained, she glanced down and he followed her gaze.

Y/N pressed the dagger into his abdomen, feeling the pressure against her palm as she pushed the blade harder but not enough to pierce. He immediately eased off her throat but didn’t unleash his hold.

“I know right now we are enemies, but I need your help,” she whispered while her eyes flitted across the room, focusing on anything but to look at him directly.

“We have never been enemies.” Geralt huffed and pushed away, turning from her.

Y/N whimpered at the loss of his hulking frame, yet relief washed over her. She slumped down to the floor, massaging your neck softly. Most of all, the words shocked her; the pair had never gotten along, ever since she left the Dyn Marv caravan to be trained by Master Vesemir at Kaer Morhen.

As a young Feline, Y/N was nothing like them and did not have the same mindset as the other Witcher’s from the School of the Cat. They were notorious for their lack of commitment to the position of neutrality, their bloodlust and lack of hesitancy in taking on an assassination contract over slaying a drowner.

Geralt lived by a particular code and Feline Witchers went against his code. Cats and dogs are always depicted as enemies and that’s what Y/N and Geralt became. There was room for nothing else.

The frown on her face ached as she tried to process his words, her mouth opened and closed several times before he spoke again.

“You were never a Feline; you have always been one of us.” His deep voice was soft, reminding Y/N of the man back home. Waiting for her return.

She looked up at him, amber eyes locked with hers; his burning gaze unmatching to his neutral expression. He had never told her this before, not even the man back home.

Geralt offered his hand and she accepted it, she stood up but the hood caught on the door frame, revealing her face. Warmth bloomed at her cheek and a stroke of Geralt’s thumb as his fingers traced the jagged scars, following the trail down to the ones at her neck.

Y/N held her breath while he continued to silently inspect the wounds; pulling the string of the cloak and letting it pool at her feet before he pushed aside the collar of the tunic, exposing the scarred flesh of her shoulder and collarbone.

“I only saw you a week ago. How has this healed?” Geralt murmured as his fingers delicately traced the damaged skin.

Once more, Y/N were stunned into silence, minutes ago he was ready to crush her windpipe and now his eyes were full of concern. Not only that, but he had also seen her a week ago. She tried to remember what event he was talking about, but she hadn’t seen him in years at this point, or so she thought.

Y/N tried to remember something so long ago that she wouldn’t have recalled if it wasn’t for travelling back in time. Instinct told her to push Geralt away, instead, Y/N’s hands rested on his chest, fingers fiddling with the edging of the fabric. The ashen chest hairs peeking through the v-shaped tunic made her mouth water, but he was not hers.

The chime of the clocktower snapped Y/N back to the task at hand and gently pushed him back to collect her cloak and prepared her speech. She’d rehearsed it a thousand times already, but she couldn’t give too much away; the ripple of her being here now was already too great.

“Geralt, please listen to me carefully.” Y/N’s voice was stern.

“Hmm.” He leant against the desk, arms folded in front of him and legs laced over the other.

“You will be surprised by something in Cintra. You’ll be gifted something that belongs to another, something unexpected. You’ll need to protect this source of power.” Y/N tried to keep your words even, but panic seeped into them with each toll of the bell, “Please Geralt, remember. I haven’t got any time left.”

��I don’t follow, why are you talking in riddles Y/N?”

A gust of air filled the room, a spiral of green light filled the room, forming an arc just above Y/N’s head, the inside darker than the night’s sky. It was time to leave, if she didn’t then she’d have no chance of making it back. She couldn’t stay here.

Y/N rushed past Geralt and grabbed a piece of parchment and hastily wrote across it before nearing the portal, “promise me, Geralt. Promise me that you won’t forget.”

“I promise.” He stared at the paper in his hands, Y/N was through the portal by the time he looked up from the scribbled words.

The motion of being pushed and pulled, twisted, and spun made Y/N feel nauseous and once she was out the other side, she collapsed onto the bedroom floor. Her Geralt was by her side in an instant, his calloused hands lifted Y/N to her feet and into his embrace. Y/N held onto his sides and breathed in his familiar scent.

“It would have been a lot easier if you had come with me.” She mumbled into his chest.

“You know I hate portals.” Geralt chuckled, pushing Y/N’s ashen streaks from her face, and placed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“I hope it worked,” she whispered.

Geralt pushed Y/N to arm’s length, lowering himself to eye level, “Of course it did.”

She frowned at him, uncertain as to what he could mean, a small pout formed on her lips, her mind swirled with panic at failing.

“We are the same, remember. You told me something, I listened. Well, I kept the scrap of paper.” Geralt held her hand and pulled towards the bed and opened one of the many chests full of books and scrolls.

Y/N perched on the bed, as he sifted through until he came across the book he needed. Passing it to her, a book of Dandelion’s ballads. On instinct, she turned the pages to the bookmarked location to find the parchment with her handwriting.

Cintra. Source. Protect.

Geralt knelt before Y/N, his hands massaging her thighs. She looked up at him, hand tracing the side of his face with a soft smile.

“No one would risk travelling through time to prepare me for what was to come. To warn me of the future. I thought you hated me until that night.” Geralt leant his head into her palm, the stubble ticked her skin, “if only I had known sooner.”

Geralt’s hands travelled down Y/N’s legs, leaving shivers to echo across her body. His fingers made light work of the laces of her boots while he pressed soft kisses to the inside of her wrist, and up along her forearm.

Y/N revelled in the feel of his touch and how easily she melted to his will. He removed the boots and tugged down her trousers. Soft kisses were pressed to the inside of her thighs, the sensation had her falling back into the mattress.

His lips met her stomach, wet kisses, and gentle nips at the flesh while his hands pushed up the tunic, bunching it above her bare breasts. Geralt flicked his tongue over her hardened buds, his hands massaging the soft mounds.

One of his thighs slipped between his legs as he caged her in; hot breaths mingled together, and fire burned in each other’s gaze. Love and lust-filled the atmosphere and Y/N’s core hummed with anticipation for his intimate touches.

“You weren’t exactly subtle when you rubbed against my thigh.” Geralt smirked above her.

Y/N slapped at his arm, a cheeky smile on her lips, “shut up and kiss me.”

His laughter rumbled through his chest against her exposed torso, he leant down and pressed his lips to hers without any further request.

Everything Tag List: @reann-loves-sebstan / @royaldarknessblr / @thefridgeismybestie / @kitkatd7 / @harold321

#Geralt x Reader #Geralt of Rivia x Reader #The Witcher x Reader #Geralt #Geralt of Rivia #The Witcher #Geralt Fic #Geralt of Rivia Fic #The Witcher Fic

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petri808 · 3 years

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Fanfic Bingo I4+Nalu Rivals w/pining, enemies to lovers req for @natsudragneelswh0re Yakuza-themed

Ch. 1 of ___

“Don’t touch me! Do you know who I am??!! Just open the fucking door so I can rip your boss a new asshole!” The female voice screamed out at the underling who’d dared to guide her in a certain direction. She knew exactly where she wanted to go, and no one would tell her otherwise. It was easy to hear through the walls her angry entrance. So, the moment the door swung open, and Lucy sauntered her way inside like she owned the place, everyone but the main man were standing at attention. This wasn’t the first time Lucy had fearlessly barged into the man’s office without protection.

The feisty blonde was on a mission and the target was Yakuza boss Natsu Dragneel. She narrowed her eyes at the man with one hand on a hip and the other jutting a finger directly at him. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”

The man rolled his eyes at her histrionics. “Geez, Luce. Now what’s the matter?” Natsu relaxed back in his chair, casually leaning on one elbow with a grin plastered on his face. It was clear the man relished in these interactions. So as the woman walked straight over and around his desk, he waved off the lieutenants that had stepped forward in concern. “You can’t just barge in here like a banshee.”

Lucy sat poised on the desk with her legs crossed, leaning forward and bracing herself up with one arm. Her face mere inches from Natsu’s face, with a determined and unflinching resolve flowing out. He may be a Yakuza boss, but in the underworld, she’d done what most woman never accomplished— built her own empire. “When one of your thugs interrupts my business, you better expect to see my face.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Natsu jested. “But seeing your beautiful face always makes my day.”

A few hours earlier, one of Lucy’s high-end escorts had returned from a job shaken with abrasions on her knees and a bruise on her arm, not to mention highly upset over the encounter. The young woman had been out with a client when a street thug robbed them. Her employees weren’t mere street hookers, and the clients were all high level individuals that needed eye-candy for an event, some attention and affection, or just a good time out on the town. Such individuals were often prime targets for robberies, but in their area, such criminal activities were almost non-existent. One of Natsu’s rules expressly forbade any type of activities that could bring law enforcements attention, so clearly someone out there didn’t think the rules applied to them. Oh, Lucy had seen red when she’d found out. Someone dared to rob her employee! The poor woman had required medical attention for the cuts and abrasions after being pushed down onto the asphalt, and the client had a gun stuck in his face along with any money he’d been carrying stolen before the robber disappeared into a dark alleyway. Pissed was an understatement. If Lucy got her hands on the robber, they wouldn’t see the next sunrise.

“Tch.” She was in no mood to jest right now. “We’ll let me enlighten you,” Lucy sneered back and launched into a retelling of events of her night while Natsu listened without saying a word. The man kept his laissez faire pose casual but based on his demeanor she could tell the longer she spoke, Natsu was holding back any outward physical reactions. The pulsing vein in his forehead and bobbing Adam’s apple told her volumes. He was just as furious as she was. Neither would openly admit how well they could read the other, but it wasn’t lost on their closest associates who knew of their history. They both had to maintain an air of power lest they start to lose the hold they had on their respective organizations. His based on physical strength and hers on status and connections.

The energy of the room heightened steadily with Natsu’s associates already paying close attention to what Lucy had to say. They knew their bosses will and whoever the thug had been, had brazenly broken the rules. Regardless of who the victims were or whether or not it had been one of his men, Natsu would not take kindly to the behavior. Most probably assumed correctly, once the woman left, instructions would be given out to find and detain this so-called thug for punishment. So, as Lucy gave a description of the assailant, she could see in her peripheral one lieutenant named Gray Fullbuster, Natsu’s right hand man, jotting down notes on his phone. She knew whoever the thug was would pay dearly but didn’t let up on her pressure.

“You need to have better control of your underlings Dragneel,” Lucy spat. “They best stay the hell away from my girls and my clients!”

“How are we supposed to know who’s one of yours?!”

“That’s not the point! You know damn well this kind of shit brings attention, and neither of us needs the authorities crawling up our ass!”

Natsu leaned in. “Don’t you tell me how to run things! You know damn well I don’t allow such behaviors in my territory.”

“Pfft. Just stay out of my area!”

“Your area?! This is my territory woman!”

“Don’t you call me woman Natsu Dragneel! I’m not one of your sluts!”

“Oh, really? Shall I bring up our history?…”

In a flash, Lucy’s foot planted itself between his thighs. “You do, and my stiletto will meet your groin.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the room amongst the collective of held breaths. It was only broken by a snicker coming from Gray Fullbuster. Of the six people in the room, two had no idea how far back Lucy Heartfilia and Natsu Dragneel’s history went. Gray was one of the four who did. So, the slip wasn’t surprising to Lucy who knew their bicker-banter resembled an old married couple, making such engagements all the more amusing for onlookers. But she ignored them, keeping all her attention on Natsu. It wouldn’t look good to flinch now.

“You shut it Gray!” Natsu snapped, though there was no real bite to his tone. He then turned back to the woman. “Look, Heartfilia just tell me what you want so you can leave me alone.”

“Compensation.” Lucy demanded he pay her money for the loss of revenue while the escort has to heal because she can’t do her job with injuries along with the medical costs. “And lastly, reimbursement of the cash that was stolen from my client of ¥109,000.”

“What?! How the fuck do I know that’s even true! You could be making it up!”

“You calling me a liar?!”

“No, but how dare you come into my office and make demands of me like this! We don’t know if it’s even one of my guys!”

“Dare?” Lucy stands up tall with her arms crossed, within reach of him. “Oh, I dare, Dragneel.” Sarcasm dripping from full ruby red lips. “These are your streets remember? Mister, nobody does anything without your approval in this area. Well, right now your credibility is waning, so yeah, I dare! You wanna be involved in low-level bullshit, then you,” she jabbed a finger into his chest, “need to handle it and deal with the consequences or next time I’ll just blackmail you by planting drugs and anonymously make a call to my buddy at police headquarters.”

“Bullshit,” Natsu scoffed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” she grinned running her hand along his cheek with a sultry tone. “Don’t tempt me. I’d love to fuck with you Dragneel.”

Natsu smirked, unwilling to give in so easily to her wiles. “Are you sure you don’t mean, you’d love to fuck me Heartfilia? I’d be happy to help you work out some frustrations.”

“Still dreaming of me I see.” Lucy rolled her eyes but with a grin, feigning compassion. “Still haunted by raptured nights in long ago dreams. You poor soul.”

“Tch. Just give in. You know damn well we could rule this territory together.”

“I see… what? As King and Queen of Tokyo? Tch. After all this time, you really think I’d give up my own sovereignty to you? I don’t think so. Just pay me my money and handle your business.”

Natsu finally sighed, tired of the back and forth that was going nowhere. “You’re such a witch sometimes Luce. Fine, I’ll give you you’re damn money.” He then turned to a second lieutenant Gajeel Redfox with directions. “Pay her the cash and escort Ms. Heartfilia out.”

“You’re a doll,” Lucy patted Natsu’s cheek. “Nice doing business with ya,” she winked and proceeded to follow Gajeel out, swaying her hips as if to turn the screws a little tighter and prolong the tease.

Lucy knew Natsu’s eyes would follow every movement she made because only a blind man couldn’t see he still desired her. Maybe the feelings were mutual… But for now, this tit-for-tat game had to go on. They’d both built extraordinary regimes in the heart of Tokyo, and it would be poor business to rock the boat now. He in the lower underworld of seedier devices and she in the classier underworld of corporate Japan. In their ancient history, Natsu believed in the old code that a woman had no place at the head of a Yakuza family, so it was a bit ironic for him to try and suggest a power share role after all these years. Perhaps he was starting to regret his younger self’s decision to push her away when they’d could’ve ruled together all along.

#nalu #nalu au #nalu fan fic #nalu fan fiction #yakuza themed #modern setting #Natsu dragneel #Lucy heartfilia #Natsu x lucy #modern yakuza #fairytail #ch 1 #we'll take back heaven #petr808

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rouiyan · 4 years

Text

𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘛 𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘞𝘏𝘖 𝘋𝘐𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ the second volume of rouiyan’s debut series, till death do us part ⧐

synopsis: “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

✧ prince!lee jeno x crown princess!reader ✧ royalty au

✧ genres : fluff, angst ✧ word count : 5.0k ✧ disclaimers : brief descriptions of nudity (nothing sexual), allusions to sex (nothing explicit), malintent

read volume one here: of the heart.

when the moon, in all her glory, begins to set, Mother Nature begins each new day by inhaling the misfortunes of the day before and blowing out frigid breaths in their stead. this morning is no exception for nothing is so clear as the wisps of fog that lie just beyond the horizon, a velarium of sorts, over the forest canopy. the sun is a little early today, but it is for naught, since its rays are caught between the tendrils of fog right as they begin to show. perhaps Mother Nature woke up in a bit of a fit today, seeing as the skies are already oozing the grays before the blues have yet to surface. Her fingers gently stir the clouds to ensure that they collide right where the earth most needs it and She's joyful in the sense that Her work can be admired from far down below. after all, the paintings She conjures in the skies are nothing short of masterpieces.

like a ceiling folding in with the pressure of water leakage, the clouds from down below give off an air of distress. the air itself is heavily encumbered with a clarity found only after the rainiest of days. and if not for the sake of the story, the author could spend hours droning on about Mother Nature's tour de force, she really would, but instead she will insert a few lines from a symphony:

The autumn mist drifts blue over the lake,

The blades of grass stand covered with frost,

The flowers' sweet scent is gone,

An icy wind bends down their stems,

My heart is weary.

Der Einsame im Herbst (The lonely one in autumn), from Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde

in the exact opposite sense that Mother Nature loves her leaves, with tender fondness and a forgiving hand, prince jeno's father has never loved his second son more, with an impassioned sneer and a bagful of riches in mind. at least, that is exactly what prince jeno himself thinks as he skims through yet another letter, this time from his father.

son,

never did i think i would enjoy the prospect of a winter ceremony as much as i would this, perhaps you would also like to see an early coronation. i've made the necessary arrangements, i assure that you will not be suspected in the least but keep caution and wariness by your side, our family name is already a great deal tainted. thought not for long, i'll be sending a carriage to retrieve you for your rounds back home, we've ought to get going on them. the damsel is a sight for sore eyes, i presume, i'd hate for her to foil our ambitions; she is much in your hands to attend to now. i'll see you by the throne soon, my lad.

king of the southern mines, your father.

the prince's vision narrows upon the words 'coronation, arrangements, suspected, foil, throne,' and he is already a sight of frustration, fingers gripping the paper with such force that his short nails are digging into his palms through it. seething, he tears his eyes from the script before him but instead, they land on the previous letter sat atop the open escritoire. the one from his mother. the stamped edge of the paper lifts with the wind that filters through the window just above it and he has the sudden urge to let it be carried away wholly. jeno crosses the room in four steps.

with both the pages collected in his hands, jeno crouches by the mantle, the roar of a fire licking up before him. his face is drawn in concentration, jaw stiff and clenched. the lines of his brows are met with a furrow in between, set above the meek lines of his eyelids. his pupils dilate, albeit out of habitual need, in the reflection of the inferno before him. he's ever-so-aware of the distinct scent of burning coals that siphon and sharpen his reminiscence of home. it's sentient, the feelings of familiarity that overcome his senses, halting his movements, his fingers clutching the papers in a way that almost tells of longing. longing of a seemingly different world entirely, one that he has only ever known until a few weeks prior. being washed anew in distant lands and over the course of a single lunation, jeno finds that he's never felt more mismatched from himself, disconnected from the people who raised him in contrast to the people who have brought out the better in him. but the embers are not the only thing he smells, not the only he sees, or heeds to.

the pearly carrara marble of the mantle tells stories in the grayed lines that trail across its posh surface. his eyes rove over the white, the faith and purity of your heraldry binded with the emblem of your family. the white of angels, of untainted relations, sterility in empowerment, the inviolable you. the white tells stories that the black never could.

so jeno finds a warm pleasure in the way the flames overwhelm the papers with eager enthusiasm, the damned words of his parents receding into mere ash. prince jeno thinks he could forever part with the world if it asked him to feast his eyes on this very sight until the end of time.

despite arousing before the sun, you are disappointed when it starts to chase your wakefulness. there is something edging the growing unease in your mind, as if time is trickling down the drain of the past, too fast and too unforgiving. as if time is berating at your senses, telling you there is much more than what meets the eye but for the life of you, you cannot pinpoint what. for now though, you tend to the pressing matters at hand, jeno has been called home for his rounds, rather abruptly.

"perhaps i should go with you, rounds don't always have to be made by one per-”

jeno cuts you off effectively, "they are very much a one person duty," he assures pointedly. your nose scrunches, the light inconveniences starting to rub off on your exasperation. in a tired voice you mumble, "we could always change it up a bit, i'm sure." jeno chuckles heartily at that, his hand coming up from his side to rub out the lines of stress in your forehead.

"little miss princess, you're saying that as if you do not have rounds to complete of your own. i'm almost certain you host are a far greater amount of people that wish to be invited to the ceremony than i have-"

it's your turn to cut him off now, "why don't you stay with me then?" in attempts to enhance the force of your resolve, you uncover a hand of your own from under the sheets to comb through his locks. the way his eyes instantly close to relish in your touch paired with the little purr he gives is almost telltale of your victory. almost.

jeno pauses, his eyes flicker back open, and a soft knowing smile runs along the features of his face as he shakes his head, in knowledge of your artful tactics to wear him down. "and neglect my kingdom and their desires?"

you've left the feelings of frustration behind, instead deciding to fool around with the boy, to see what you can get out of him for good fun, "but we've yet to decide what flowers to use as centerpieces. and whether we're throwing a private or public ball. wedding preparations are surely more important than handing out personal invites…we can cut corners one some niceties." jeno knows better than to let his guard down. the jeno around y/n isn't to be trusted as easily. he settles for words of comfort instead, "i'll write."

"well, that's of course. silly of you to voice something as unequivocal as that."

a pause and his resolve is slipping, "maybe a few short visits back wouldn't hurt." you lick your lips in good-natured fun, another pause, "i'm sure my father wouldn't half mind if we cut it a week short." your eyes look hazy to him, though in reality they are simply amused, and drawing words from him he isn't even sure he's saying. "or- or maybe i could convince him, or try to at least…," he trails on and on.

your satisfied a certain amount and, suppressing a smile from giving away your plotted schemes, you mutter quietly, mostly for your own pondering, "i'm thinking alliums would make a statement, blue alliums." jeno gives a noise of confusion, unsure of how you've suddenly come to talk of flowers. "the centerpieces, i mean." jeno's silence only urges you on, "alliums, or blue alliums at that, are symbols of unity and good fortune. i think that'd make a nice combination with a base of milkweed, dignity and freedom, if my memory serves me right."

the prince has found his voice, "what of the rounds?" but he's met with a small chortle, "nothing, a month is a month, i'm sure we'll work around it."

"but, i- i'm not sure i understand. you were adamant enough a millisecond ago, and now-"

"and now i'm telling you i was toying with you, dear sir. such fun it is when you let on more than you'd like."

jeno's cheeks flush, the warm color dusting the bridge of his nose, apples of his cheeks, tips of his ears. your warm smile and benign banter bring him the simplest of joys. he's not sure he's ever felt this way before. familiarity. and, not the familiarity that comes from his assigned butler since birth, or the old lady at the apothecary he's been to all his life that's paid to tend to his wounds. not the familiarity that comes with blood and playing house, the type of sickened familiarity he feels with his brother, doyoung, that every second spent with him is forced. the familiarity he feels with you is by choice, by genuine and sincere desire. you want to wake up in the mornings with him by your side. you want to spend breakfast pushing each other's toes away underneath the table. you want to hold his hand when he walks you to your carriage. you want to make love with him in the most ungodly hours of the day. which is exactly what happens that morning.

a day is barely enough to do all the things you've penned in your journal. things to be done before you were to be married, with the one you were to be married to. the list had been written, curated, and refined by nine-year-old you, who you must say, had some very good ideas, though verily a romanticist.

jeno is departing tomorrow morning, as early as the sun will permit, and suddenly you wish that it would never rise again. whatever the case, you set out first thing this morning, hand tugging along a very tired prince, for the bathing pool. nine-year-old you must have misinterpreted the meaning of 'skinny dipping' for swimming but you thank nine-year-old you because things seem to have worked out in your favor either way. jeno is jolted awake by the gelid water, the seasons now mark three-quarters into fall.

"go in first," you state simply, hands on your hips and eyes drawn down into the water. the single toe you had dipped in to test the waters is frigid and frozen. jeno, who has yet to finish undressing himself, nodded at your words. if he were looking in your direction he would've noticed the smirk on your face. he stands straight, boxers on the ground behind him as he takes place by your side, "cold?"

"not at all, surprisingly," he's looking at you now and your countenance can't help but decompose in front of him, a small, unsuspecting smile adorning your lips. "oh really, can you attest for that?"

the smile is now blossoming unto your cheeks, "are you telling me to go in first?" the prince nods at that, fully aware of your schematics, "yes, i would like to see you enter the warm water."

"you agreed to go in first just a few seconds ago, don't tell me you've backed out on your word," a feeble matter against the boy but he defends himself by saying, "devious little princess, as if this wasn't your idea."

you're equally defensive when you point out, "not me, directly, but rather me as a child-" he pushes you in. lee jeno, second prince of the esteemed southern kingdom pushes you into the subzero degree bathing pool.

assuredly though, he dives in a few seconds after he's had time to relish in your shocked expression and piercing screams. he's coming up for air, his hands have found your bare hips to make sure that you resurface together. or drown together, you think, because it seems his foot is caught in the crevices between two rocks and since he's writhing like a madman, you're writhing with him too. it's a strange sight, two very beautiful individuals, absolutely in love but absolutely inane, for if jeno had thought to let go of his grip on you, you might've been able to unlodge his foot altogether if he had not been set on wrangling both your bodies about.

it's four minutes later that the two of you are on the leveled bronze rock, now, absolutely loosing it over jeno's lack of common sense. both of you are having trouble breathing, spurts of water still occasionally gushing past his lips. he thinks you're most beautiful in your bare skin, with nothing to define you but yourself. he's running his fingers up and down your torso, lips connecting with the surface of your neck. he appreciates that you kiss him with such avidity, you always do. jeno loves that you make it known to him, that what you say, you mean. and that even if you were never to utter a word again, he would still understand the sheer vehemence with which you love him.

you cross off paragliding, building a snowman, and studying together for a test. not because they've been completed but because there simply is no plausible way to get them done with the deadline closing in fast. the next activity you present to jeno has his eyebrows raised in intrigue. he's quick to reply when you ask him.

"a moon, a quartered moon." the knowing smile that grows on your face tells him he's chosen correctly.

jeno gives a squeeze to your hand as the needle comes in contact with your clean skin. the first few minutes are highlighted by the sensation of a million bee stings, racking through your brain, but the rest is relatively smooth sailing. yours comes out just as good as jeno's, a small moon, a quartered moon, tattooed into the skin just behind the left ear. there specifically, so that it's known by each other and each other only.

there will be months passed before the moon becomes a sort of unspoken but affirmative communication instrument. when jeno loves you a little too much, he rubs the inked skin softly. his sleepless nights are cured with the pad of your finger upon the spot. between the many general meetings you're required to oversee in a day, jeno waits outside the conference room for you to exit, his fingers stroking the moon for the duration of the few seconds allotted to him before you're whisked away again. the symbol of night is translated into accounts of bonding, the smallest of things giving way to happiness.

you would say the uses of the 'lovemark' are amplified as the sun retreats and the mascot of your relationship shines brighter than ever. it's evident in the look on jeno's face, especially, a few feet below you, peering up your skirt with a dumbstruck look on his face.

"jeno, dear, now is really not the time." the boy clears his throat and looks away, baffled at how you'd caught him anyways. your position is so frightfully awkward, one foot on the top end of your chamber's windowsill, another bent and hoisted onto the flat ledge of your roof. "come on up now, and get those dirty thoughts out of your mind. for heaven's sake, we're here to watch the sunset and stargaze, not to pound into each other."

the prince laughs at your offhanded remarks, arriving himself on the platform. the view is expansive in the way that you can see the forest from here, the ocean if you squint, the hills set in the far distance, and the sky has never felt closer to the earth while the things you've always known to be near appear smaller and more distant than ever. even the gregarious tree stalks of the forest rise to what could be measured as an only inch from this outlook.

"nine-year-old y/n seems to have known nothing but fun days." jeno muses, leaning his weight back upon his hands. your eyes are glazed in an omniscient mist, "i'd expect so, she was born and raised with everything." the prince picks up on the tone of distaste with which you'd spoken your words. he turns to you and studies the hairs that fall in your eyes, "hardly fair."

you reply not a beat after, "not at all fair. if i were to accomplish one thing during my run as queen, i'd give the children opportunities of a lifetime." the thoughts tumble out of your mind, as if you'd known of this conviction of yours since you were but a child. your drive as a ruler, firm and headstrong to implement your values and beliefs on your subjects has been the sole idea that's grounded you in the castle for your entire time being.

"and what if you cannot?"

your first reply is dealt with in humble humor, "at the very least, i'd like it to be engraved on my tombstone that i tried." the second, is laden with a sorrowful undertone, "housing, schooling, meals and warmth in the winter. we have it the worst here up north. if they are without school, they are left with nothing." jeno's head turns to yours, he sees the slip of a tear and he wipes it away, only to be met with another. your voice cracks in despair, "there are no mining jobs to take up, no farms to harvest, aqueducts to run. i dread that one day i must rule a kingdom of arts."

jeno tries, he really does, to gather you in his arms but your sobs rack your body with such force that he is left to comfort your desolations with words and a hand on your back, "what is there to dread? are the arts so difficult to maintain?"

bitterness forms at the tip of your tongue, "no, jeno. i regress in the face that art is invaluable. but the world seeks to attach a price to every viable thing, to label the passion of others. and now, now the arts are for the rich, only for the rich. have you ever heard of a hungry man paint instead of seeking shelter from the rain? a woman who writes prose instead of feeding her dying children? there is no one who can live solely on art but the heavens have sent me to rule a horde of those very people."

the prince knows you need to voice the thoughts weighing down your mind, so he gives them a platform, a nudge, "a kingdom of arts would be blessed to house a queen with intentions such as yourself, surely there are others who hold the same principles as you."

"no doubt," your eyes cast on the forming stars, "but as much as i would love to trail a path of meliorism and say that with a tide of willingness, there will be change, i must not forget the real nature of the world we live in."

"and what is this nature that you speak of?"

"the drive of greed and sadism, in exchange for the feeblest of pleasures."

the world comes to a still in this very moment. the moon begins her ascent. the stars unsheath their full luminance. the whites of their gleam reflecting on the rooftop on which the two of you are sat. time and space shrivel in the potency of untainted humanity.

"we will bring change, you and i."

you feel your heart calm as your rambling ceases. jeno looks over at you and smiles.

prince jeno is scheduled to return in twenty seven days time. there is something that feels wrong about him leaving. a feeling that if he leaves, all hell with turn loose and you will be unleashed unto the dogs for ravaging. there is a coated and unspoken thought that splutters in your mind whenever you even dare so much as to begin to think of it. the possibility that with jeno's leave, you'll be left with the realization that it was all a phase of infatuation. that when you see him again, all the feelings that you'd built up over the course of a month and a few days was just a glamourized dream. that he was never real; the real that you needed.

"i'll be forever thinking of those lips on mine, maybe even missing them," you let, comically. jeno eyes you conspicuously, "and i'll be forever thinking of you, as a whole, not just the lips unlike you. a little fixated you sounded there, mind you." his little sniggers are given in response to your hands pushing his chest in frisky response. the prince pulls you closer into a final embrace, the coachman of his black carriage is awaiting his departure.

he parts from you and you can't help but trail behind him down the paved path. he's over his shoulder now as you let loose a sliver of your deepest worries, meekly, "i hope we never change, jeno."

the prince halts at the bottom steps that curl into the palace. he sees you, feels you, knows you, for he quotes, “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

jeno can hear the light pellets of raindrops hit the roof of his carriage. the gray skies are darkening by the second, it's telling him something that he's sure he doesn't want to hear. his fingers fiddle with the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, something you'd requested be made for him when his stay was first prolonged. the prince is entirely clad in white and he knows enough to imagine the face his mother will make when she first sees him home. lee jeno doesn't remember a time when he's donned a color other than black, but somehow, the white doesn't feel too far from home.

with the white, his mind flashes with the events of the past month or so spent in your noble abode. you, on the other hand, rarely ever wore a color other than white, the most differing shade being a cream or beige. but even with all the lights, you never seemed to mind when they were dirtied. almost always, a day in the fields or by the bathing pool would drench a good six inches of your skirts in mud and the unfurled hems of your frocks or crinkled fronts of those sweaters you so often adorned were always beyond your notice. you were free in that way, never stopping to fuss over the little things you deemed unimportant. jeno thinks if he could live that way too and though he isn't sure if he can, he knows he wants to.

jeno can hear the spindles of the carriage gyrating with added resistance against the now watered-down mud of the trodden roads. his eyes are caught in the sky that looks as if it's to detonate at any given second. he predicts the thunder before it rings loud in his ears and he hears the coachman slash a whip to a trepid horse, an echo of the natural phenomenon. he wonders what it would feel like to be the coachman, out in the clamorring downpour, or perhaps the horse, blindlessly running to the crack of a whip, or the trees even, awoken by the threat of a fire. he wonders if he has any desire to be the lightning itself, to jab at the delicate foliage as he'd like, to set fire to that of which he doesn't like, to wield destructive power. he wonders, but he knows he doesn't want to.

lee jeno is in his carriage when he realizes what it means to be free, but not in the hindrance of others. he realizes what it means, not to rule but rather to guide without the oppression of others. lee jeno is also in his carriage when the skies turn black and a deluge of rain is unleashed upon the castle of white.

a man a few inches brief to the prince, but of higher rank in swordsmanship, is propped on the limestone trellis that holds the awning in place, his two feet hooked between the vertical balusters of stone and fingers clung onto the ridge of the balustrade. he finds it ludicrous that every individual of importance he has ever met, is so caught up in their own belief that they are untouchable, where in reality they are the most vulnerable of all. he thinks this, specifically, as he upturns himself over the railing and onto the landing, only to see that the king's door are left wide open, the only shield of protection being the pristine white curtains glinting a sheen of blue in the moonlight.

renjun is humored when, upon drawing the curtains back, the king himself is simply laying there on the ground, unconscious as he was informed he'd be. the knight presses two fingers to the inner wrist of the withered man and finds that he still has a job to finish. brandishing a blade from the underside of his calf, he deems the inscription on the handle fit for the deed. he drives it into the gut but makes quick work of it, the sputters of blood that erupt from the now-awakened royal something he wishes the guards just outside not to hear. renjun makes further assurance that the blade is firmly put in place, the stout palladium shaft protruding from the king's abdomen like the ring of a windup toy.

a black body bag is used to sheath the quickly-paling bag of bones. it is left under the light of the moon, through a skylight rounded in the dead center of the palace. around the malefaction, stairs wind in all directions from the ground up and if there were even one maid to have crossed the landing once in the night, she would have been met with what looked to be an unassuming trash bag. but fate had it so the sun would rise before your dead father was stumbled upon, an inscribed shank planted between his internal organs reading, this star-like solitude (Giuseppe Ungaretti, from Last Choruses for the Promised Land: XVI (tr. by Patrick Creagh)).

the blood that seeps from the measly opening in the bag is not silver, nor is it gold. it is blood red. the red of a brazen senex that perhaps preceded and proceeded his times, entangled in the intricacies of the new age, the new game of politics he simply had no means to play at. akin to the webs of an arachnid, the string of fate hung around his neck, thin and unnoticeable, cinching with each passing second until Mother Nature deemed his time up. the blood that seeps writhes in the rays of the sun, twines like the veins in the marble beneath it. it seeps until the figure in the sack is drained and the clumping skin of human remains is the same shade as the white tiling. red against white, white against black, the black of a crying sky.

read volume three: dearly departed.

✧ end note — i had such a hard time trying to pull this outta my ass in a way that captures everything i wanted to say. so thank you for reading this piece. it’s one of my most favorite things i have ever written, undoubtedly.

#nct fics #nct scenarios #nct ff #nct jeno #nct lee jeno #jeno x reader #jenoxreader #jeno imagines #jeno fluff #jeno angst #jeno blurbs #rouiyan fics #rouiyan writes

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pagingevilspawn · 3 years

Note

Would you please write a fic about alex and jo help their daughter with her homework, they would be kinds cute help them study

cross my heart, hope to die, please stick this pencil in my eye

there’s a reason this took me forever. reason number one, two, and three; proofs. i was unable to write this because of proofs. i got this ask and LIKE A CHILD decided that i wanted to make my fictional characters suffer as much as i did. so once i was done with proofs, i had to write something about proofs, which made me exhausted because i hate even talking about proofs

that made no sense, but here’s this thing that i made. lots of it was my real life monologue, screaming at my computer bc of fucking proofs. enjoy. (also, let’s appreciate the fact that i updated three whole days in a row)

(also, another installment of the “payton loves evan peters too much” series, where i name jolex babies after his AHS characters)

Alex Karev sat in the drivers side of his SUV, making a right onto the upcoming street as he listened to the song playing on the radio. He drummed his fingers along the steering wheel absentmindedly, pulling up to the curbside of James Madison Middle School, waiting patiently in his seat until he heard the five minute warning bell ring.

When the loud bell goes off, he exits the car and makes his way to the other side, learning against the door so his kids would know it was him. Too many parent’s owned black range rovers, and the last thing Alex needed was for either one of his kids to climb into the back seat of some stranger's car.

He didn’t need to wait long for children to start piling out of the school in large crowds. Middle school was so different from elementary, for his kids at least. He remembers when they would come sprinting out of the building as if their lives depended on it, but now they just casually strolled, no matter how much they liked or disliked school.

A few minutes later he catches sight of his daughter, who’s eyes light up when she sees him. He wasn’t supposed to pick them up today, the nanny was. But he had gotten off of work early and had insisted with Jo that he be the one to pick up the kids. It was a task he wished he got to do more often.

“Hey.” his daughter greets him with a smile on her face. He steps aside and lets her enter the side door, where she flops her black backpack on the floor and settles into the seat, pulling out her phone and begins to start scrolling through it.

“Dad!” he hears another voice exclaim, quickly tracing it to his son, who was currently running to the car, backpack bouncing up and down behind him. The sixth grader moved across the property quickly, greeting his dad with a fist bump before sliding into the back seat.

He closes both of his kids doors before making his way into the driver's side, revving up the car’s engine before he drives down the long block, whatever music his daughter decided on playing through the radio.

Alex winces when the music begins to blare through the car, “Brynn, turn that crap down would you?”

Brynn’s face looks scandalized. “It’s not crap. It’s art.” she emphasizes, turning it up even louder and screaming the words. (Poor Brynn couldn’t sing, and she knew it)

“I came in like a wreeckingggg ballll I never hit so harddd in loveeee all i wanted was to break your walls all you ever did wre-e-e-ck meee.” she yells, using her phone as a microphone, hair flying around wildly as she moved up and down, side to side in her seat.

Alex rolls his eyes, unable to hide the smile on his lips. His wife and daughter were too much alike sometimes. He turns the knob himself, sending his daughter a look, silently telling her not to do it again.

“I think it’s crap. Just like how I think you sound like a dying cat whenever you sing.” his son pipes in from the back, a signature Karev smirk plastered on his lips as he keeps his gaze locked on his phone.

“Shut up Rory,” she sneers, “Nobody likes you.”

Rory fakes a laugh, looking back to his phone, and then to the scenery outside his window. They passed house after house until they finally reached their destination, John Quincy Adams Elementary School.

“Wait here,” Alex instructs the two kids, who murmurs their we know’s, more focused on the devices in their hand to the words coming out of his mouth.

He makes his way to the ‘log cabin’ that sat at the front of the school, giving a friendly smile to the woman sitting at the sign out table, a crappy fold out plastic table that had definitely seen better days. “Faye and Bridgette Karev.”

The woman slides the forms across the table, handing him a pen. “Sign here and here. I’ll go get them right now.” She stands up from her seat and heads inside to tell the two girls that their father had arrived.

Alex sprawls his messy signature onto the page, huffing before leaning up against the gate. His girls could take anywhere from thirty seconds to five minutes to pack up their things. Luckily today didn’t seem to be the latter, because before he knew it, the two youngest Karev’s came bouncing towards him.

“Daddy!” “Daddy!”

The seven year olds gave him a large hug, showing him matching toothless smiles. When Jo and him found out that she was pregnant for a third time, they were overjoyed. They had always wanted more than two kids, but hadn’t really been actively trying. They were excited to expand their family of four into a family of five. When they discovered that she was not carrying not one, but two babies, they were shocked. Jo wasn’t expecting to get pregnant at thirty-nine, much less with twins. Brynn was seven at the time, and Rory was five, so they were worried about how their kids would react when they found out two new babies would be joining the Karev household.

Rory --surprisingly-- took the news really well. He was excited with the fact that he could have baby brothers. (Oh well. Alex Karev only seemed to make girls, Rory being the one exception.)

Brynn was a bit more reluctant. She had heard from her friends at school how much babies cried and stole all the attention. She loved both her parent’s equally, but she was a Daddy’s girl through and through. The thought of losing both of her parent’s focus was terrifying. What if her Daddy called her new siblings names like Bug or Princess? Those were her names, and her names only. She couldn’t let the new babies steal her names.

It took a while, but after multiple long talks and countless acts of reassurance, but Brynn eventually came around to the idea. Before they knew it, Brynn was just as excited for the upcoming babies as they were. Jo was worried throughout her whole pregnancy. Since she was almost forty, she was now considered to have a geriatric pregnancy. Just the word ‘geriatric’ did nothing to soothe any woman’s nerves, but add that to the fact that Jo was a surgeon and knew all the risks of pregnancy, and she was practically a mess the first few months. As it turned out, the twins ended up being her easiest pregnancy, since Brynn decided to make her entrance into the world four weeks early and while she was carrying Rory she had the occasional spotting that terrified her to her core every time, worried that she was miscarrying.

The twins ended up being born at thirty-five weeks, perfectly healthy. The only thing that gave Jo any trouble at all was the severe morning sickness, which turned out to be all day sickness.

But in the end it was way more than worth it. Faye was pretty much Jo reincarnated, just like Brynn. Every aspect about her was exactly like her mom. Her hair, her eyes, her face shape, chin. The only thing that she inherited was the Karev crooked grin, which all of their children had. (She didn’t even have a big Karev head when she was born!)

Bridgette on the other hand, was all Alex, except for the eye color. Between her potty mouth, sassy attitude, and overall appearance, she was the female mini evil-spawn.

The Evil Spawn Jr, title belonged to Rory, who was basically the male version of Bridgette. Same spunk, same mischievous smirk. Jo was always telling him that she didn’t know what she did to deserve three devil’s in her house. Alex always found that one really funny.

“You guys got everything?” he questions the two, who nod their heads up and down enthusiastically, skipping to the car and greeting their siblings.

He drives the twenty-five minutes back to his house, the twins chattering about in the back seat.

“And then Julie showed her her math problems, and I tried to tell her they were wrong, but she just wouldn’t listen!”

“Tommy was sooo annoying. I kept telling him to stop making noises with his pencil, but he just rolled it back and forth so many times!”

Alex laughs under his breath, listening partially to the twins’s conversation. They sounded exactly like how Cristina and Mer used to rant about completely different things to each other, so it never failed to make him think back to the ‘olden days’ as he and Meredith liked to call them.

If someone were to tell cocky, intern Alex that he would be happily married to the love of his life for (legally) fifteen years, father of four kids, and lived in a house that literally had a white picket fence on the outside of it, he would’ve sent them to a long term psychiatric care facility, because there was no way he would ever have that life. (A life he always secretly wanted, tucked into the very tiniest corner of his brain so it could never venture farther than a fleeting thought here or there).

“--We’re here,” he calls out, shutting off the engine as he parks in the driveway, the kids unbuckling their seatbelts and scrambling out of the car, eager to escape the confines of the vehicle and enjoy the peace of their rooms.

Once all five were inside, he watched as the four children parted ways. “Faye, Bridge, you have thirty minutes of reading down here. Ror, you have that history test you need to study for, and Brynn, you know what you need to do.” he says, his two oldest tromping up the stairs as the twins take their place in the living room on separate seats, already engrossed in the books they needed to read as part of their daily homework assignments.

Alex lets out a tired sigh as he flops onto the couch, more than tempted to grab the remote from the side table and flick on ESPN, but knew that he couldn’t. As much as the girls loved reading, they got distracted from books really easily. Loud horns, cheers, and buzzers wouldn’t be the way to go if he wanted any work to get done. Instead, he plucks the iPad from the coffee table, picking up where he left off that morning with an online medical article.

Before he knew it, Faye and Bridgette’s timer had rung out and they started on their math homework on the kitchen island, something that they finished with ease. Another trait Alex was grateful the children inherited from Jo, her smarts. (Specifically in math)

“Ugh!” he hears a loud exclaim from upstairs, causing him to look up from the device in his hands and glance towards the steps, half expecting an angry looking Brynn to come storming out at any moment. He huffs, focusing his attention back to the iPad in hand when no mini Jo comes down.

“No! There are no other ways!”

Another loud groan of frustration.

“Son of a butthead! There are NO more ways! None! I don't know how the frick to prove that the freakin angle is congruent!”

Alex debates ignoring it and letting his daughter figure it out on his own, that is until he hears something hit a wall. He quickly makes his way up the stairs and to Brynn’s bedroom, standing in the doorway for a few seconds, trying to observe the scene.

Brynn’s normally pristine room had books scattered on the ground, blankets thrown to the side, and an open notebooks posed at an awkward angle on the floor.

Well, at least he knew what hit the wall.

Brynn sat on her bed, literally glaring at her computer screen, partially debating whether or not to throw the expensive device across the room. She didn’t break eye contact, as if she was in a staring contest. Alex wanted to laugh, but he knew a deathly glare would be sent his way if he did.

He knocks on the wood door, sending a questioning glance Brynn’s way as she finally breaks her stare with the inanimate object. “Everything okay?”

The brunette huffs loudly, bouncing back onto the bed as she lets out a groan.

“I hate proofs.” she turns her head to look at her dad, Jo’s signature puppy dog face plastered on her features. He couldn’t help but chuckle. It was crazy how much Brynn looked like Jo. Add that onto the fact that she too shared a love for flannels and jeans, she was pretty much what he imagined a fourteen year old Jo to look like. When he first found out that Brynn was going to be a girl, he said to Jo, ‘I’m gonna need a gun.’

Luckily, that never happened, partially because of the fact that Alex hated guns and Brynn had yet to have a boyfriend. He was more than thankful for that. Especially since he’d seen couples at Brynn’s school canoodling in what they thought was private, even though they were in full view of everyone. He’d be fine with his not-so-little little girl dating when she was twenty-five, no earlier. Any man before that would not be very fortunate.

“I’ll help,” Alex says, taking a spot next to her and Brynn begins to show he dad the problems on her screen, going on about how she was struggling to figure it out.

Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

____

Jo Karev was thrilled when Bailey offered to take over her service for the rest of the day. Her husband had gotten off early, and Bailey knew how much of a struggle it was to spend quality time with family as a surgeon.

She thanked Bailey so many times she lost count, all while boasting a large smile. She couldn’t remember the last time both she and Alex had been home before five o’clock. All she wanted was to go home, snuggle with her babies, and spend time with her husband. Well, her babies weren’t technically babies anymore, Brynn was fourteen, Rory was nearly twelve, and the twins were seven, but nevertheless, they would always be her babies. (Who cared if Rory was five foot three and already almost as tall as her? He was still such a mommy’s boy.)

She drove home with a smile on her face, humming along to the songs on the radio. She was so happy. She wanted to take her kids in her arms, and watch action movies on the couch while they pigged out on pizza together.

When she pulls up in the drive she practically bounces up the steps to the house, swinging open the door and dropping her coat carelessly onto the rack. She hadn’t texted Alex to let him know she was coming home early, in hopes to make it a joyful surprise.

Her heart stopped momentarily at the sound of yelling coming from upstairs. Arguments between Brynn and Alex were few and far between, but when they did happen, they were nasty. Alex always felt like crap for days afterward and Brynn stayed quiet, both at home and at school.

“Do the reflexive property again!”

“Dad we already did that!”

“Well do it again!”

“Why?!”

“Do you see any other way to do it?”

“How is that going to help!”

“It just is!”

“Dad, we've done the reflexive property five times now!”

“You think I don’t know that!”

“Say that segment DA is congruent to AD.”

“But-”

“There are literally no other fucking ways to do it! It’s fucking shit! Thats what it is!”

“You act as if I didn’t already freakin know that!”

A loud groan.

“What the fuck even is this one! We’ve managed to do three of them already. Try proving the triangles congruent now. Push random ones, like Side-Angle-Side.”

“This is crap! ‘You don’t have enough proof to show that the blah blah blah.’ Stupid freaking thing! Freaking worthless!”

Jo is unable to suppress her giggle, clasping a hand over her mouth, trying not to make too much noise. It was a relief to know that the current screaming match going on wasn’t an argument.

“They’ve been at that for an hour and a half now.” she hears her son pipe in, drawing her attention to where he sat on the couch.

Jo sets her bag down on the table, greeting her son with a large hug, “Hi bubs.” she mumbles into his hair, feeling his arms wrap back around her. In private, Rory was the biggest cuddler, touchy-feely person you’d ever met, but in front of his friends he tried way too hard to show he was ‘too cool’ for hugging his mom, so Jo took in these moments and held them close to her heart.

“An hour and a half huh?” she chuckles, running a hand through her son’s gelled hair.

Rory snickers, hazel eyes shining with mischief, “Yeah, dad won’t stop cursing and Tissy just keeps screaming alongside him,” he sits back onto the couch. “I’m surprised neither one of them had lost their voice yet.” he smirks his crooked Karev smirk, focusing his attention on the TV where he had opened up netflix, where he was currently binging Bates Motel. The name ‘Tissy’ came from when he was younger and couldn’t for the life of him say either Brynn nor Sissy. It seemed to have stuck all these years, and he was the only one who ever called his older sister that, even ten years later.

She sees him cringe, “I never called you mother right?” he asks, eyes not leaving the screen, where a certain Norman Bates is practically spooning his own mother in the bed, claiming that he couldn’t sleep.

Jo snorts, ruffling his hair fondly, “Definitely not. And if you ever do, you’re dead Ror, hear me?”

Rory rolls his eyes playfully, giving his mom a grin. “I won’t. Promise.”

Jo heads up the stairs, the loud yells continuing to echo through the halls, which she chooses to ignore.

“Dad for the fiftieth freaking time-”

“--What’s going on here?” Jo questions, causing both her husband and daughter to break away their concentration from the computer screen.

Brynn’s face lights up at the sight of her mom standing in the doorway, more than thankful to have someone who actually knew stuff help her with her math. “Mom!” she exclaims, getting up from her place on the bed to give her mother a hug.

“Hey baby. Care to explain to me why the second I walk through the door I'm greeted with screaming?” She questions, eyebrows raised as she sees Alex sheepishly avoid eye contact, suddenly finding the pictures that hung on the wall very interesting.

Brynn smirks, “Well, Dad sucks at math so-”

“--Hey!” Alex interrupts, crossing his arms over his chest. “I haven’t done this crap in like thirty years!” He defends himself.

Jo rolls her eyes and smiles of her own gracing her lips as she reaches the bed and takes a look at the problems on the computer. “Proofs?” she asks from confirmation, earning a nod from her husband and daughter.

She hums, “Given: segment CA bisects angle BAD and segment CA bisects BCD. Prove: triangle ABC is congruent to triangle ADC.” she murmurs to herself.

The brunette laughs when she sees the fact that the pair had put down some form of the ‘reflexive property’ not one, not two, but seven times.

She grins triumphantly as she remembers how to do the problem, the skills seemingly coming back to her after years of them being dormant. “Next statement is angle BCA is congruent to DCA because…” she scrolls through the possible options the box provided, smirking when she found the right one. “An angle bisector divides an angle into two congruent angles.”

She watches as an angle pops up on the screen, only encouraging her to continue, “Then… angle DAC is congruent to angle BAC because an angle bisector divides an angle into two congruent angles.”

Another angle comes up.

“Finally,” she smirks, glancing to the side of for a brief second to take in the draw dropped stares of the two behind her. Brynn was a whiz at math like her mom, but proofs was something she’d been struggling with since they’d started learning them yesterday. Geometry was no joke. Her and her dad had already gotten almost all of the problems done, but it had taken so long to do a few measly problems that they’d lost track of just how long they'd been sitting in the room, arguing back and forth over different possibilities to try.

“Triangle ABC is congruent to triangle ADC, reason being Angle-Side-Angle.”

She grins, wiping her hands together as she hits the submit button, a large green check with a correct! floating on the screen, going over the ways to solve the problem.

Alex glares at her. He’d been working on these fucking proofs for so long now, and Jo just comes in and completes it in less than a minute?

“I hate you.” he gruffs, still glaring at both his wife and the computer.

Jo giggles, leaning over and pecking her husband’s lips. “Love you too.”

She begins to walk out of the room, stopping and calling out over her shoulder as she reaches the doorway, “Now you just need to make sure the twins did their homework!”

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babycracker · 3 years

Text

Fire Meet Gasoline: Chapter 4

chapter rating: mature story rating: explicit pairing: morgan/m!oc (tanner drake) & farah/f!oc (sadie kennedy) word count: ~3k chapter warnings: none story warnings: eventual smut, canon-typical violence, au - canon divergent

read it on ao3 here

She'd expected him to dress down a little, seeing that they are likely venturing into a sewer this morning. But all that's missing is his jacket; he's still wearing his usual long sleeve dress shirt and vest though his sleeves have been partially folded back, revealing the smallest glimpse of a tattoo on the outside of his right forearm.

"You know you're probably going to get covered in crap, right?"

"Wrong. But if you want to keep doubting me, go right ahead," he grins an obnoxiously cocky grin at her before turning and heading around the warehouse towards the sewers.

It’s the darkest part of morning, the soft glow of sunlight only just beginning to peek over the horizon and she’s grateful that she doesn’t need light to see where she’s going, because if she did she’d be about screwed. Surprisingly, Tanner doesn’t seem to need it either. Whether it’s because he has above average eyesight himself or if he’s just used to reading the environment around him she’s not sure, but she guesses it's the latter. He has to be at least somewhat perceptive to be good enough at finding people to have caught the Agency’s attention. And as far as she knows, nephilims don’t possess any especially advanced abilities beyond their strength and speed.

She reluctantly falls into step beside him, the tattoo on his arm catching her attention again as they walk.

"What's that?" she asks eventually, curiosity getting the better of her.

"A tattoo," he deadpans.

"I'd worked that much out."

"You asked," he gives a shrug and she waits for him to say more, but apparently he's done talking.

"So one of your parents was an angel, right?"

He frowns over at her, "I didn't realise we were taking part in a team bonding exercise."

"Forget it, I'm not that interested," she doesn't even know why she has questions in the first place, let alone why she's bothering to ask them. Probably she just wants to know who she's venturing into the sewers with.

He lets out a sigh and she sees him cast a sideways glance at her. "My Dad."

"So do you have wings or something?"

"I do," he answers distractedly, his focus clearly on their surroundings rather than her.

"Really?"

"Do you have fangs?" he snaps at her, and she rolls her eyes. Fine. He doesn't want to talk, then they won't talk.

It doesn't take them long to reach the sewers, making it less plausible in her eyes that they're going to find anyone here. If there was a demon hanging around so close to them, they would've caught its scent by now.

His hand shoots out to get a tight grip on her arm as she starts to step out of the trees and he yanks her backwards roughly, making her stumble back against him. His arms wrap around her waist from behind both to steady her and hold her still, and when he leans down to shush her right against her ear a shiver runs up and down her spine.

She does as he says though, staying perfect still and quiet and definitely not thinking about how his arms feel around her or how the steady beat of his heart against her back makes her realise that he's having a far bigger effect on her than she is on him.

She's just about to ask him what they're waiting for when he lifts one arm and points in the direction of the main part of town where, sure enough, a tall, scrawny and scruffy looking man is skulking towards the sewer entrance.

"Told you so," his whisper is laced with a very subtle hint of sing song mocking, his chin just about resting on her shoulder for a moment before he lets go of her and steps away.

"Alright so what's…" she trails off as he steps out of the trees and walks straight towards the guy, throwing her arms out to the sides in exasperation as she finishes her sentence to herself, "the plan?"

She watches as Tanner strolls towards the alleged demon, who looks at him in confusion for a moment before recognition dawns on his face and he tries to make a run for it. Morgan readies herself to give chase, but Tanner's too fast anyway and wraps an arm tightly around his shoulders to keep him by his side as he walks him over to her.

His hand shifts to the back of the demon's neck, holding on so tight that Morgan can see his fingers digging into the skin. He pushes him towards her as though holding a stuffed animal out for her to inspect and raises an eyebrow. "Well? Ask your questions, we don't have all day."

"Don't we?"

"Well I don’t know about you, but I don’t have all day."

She scowls at him before returning her attention back to the demon.

“You’re working with a group of people, who and where are they?”

He just sneers at her before spitting at her feet, and Tanner lifts his free hand to smack him across the back of the head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m not working with anyone.”

“You’re lying,” she glances at Tanner, who whacks him again before letting go of the back of his neck and taking hold of his wrists, holding them tightly behind the demon’s back.

“I’d tell her the truth if I were you,” he says in a low voice, and the demon scoffs and looks over his shoulder at him.

“I’ve heard about you. Heard that you don't play nice with others," he glances pointedly at Morgan, but Tanner just chuckles.

"Neither does she, so imagine how pissed off we both are already."

“Just cut the crap and tell me why you’re here,” Morgan butts in, and the demon glares back over at her.

“Why don’t you make me, little girl?”

Morgan huffs and steps closer, wrapping a hand around the demon’s neck while Tanner keeps his hands restrained behind him. She stares at him for a moment, a frown of concentration on her face before speaking again. “What do you want in Wayhaven?”

The demon sputters for a moment before answering, “word’s gotten ‘round about a human here, their blood can boost supernatural’s abilities.”

“How many of you are there?"

“Look, I’m just a scout, alright? I’ve only met with one other guy but I assume there’s a whole bunch of them.” Morgan glances up at Tanner with a frown, who just looks back at her with complete disinterest and shrugs.

“Who’s the one other guy you’ve met and where can we find him?”

“I only know him by Axle, he’s usually hanging out in a bar in the city.” Her hopes to be done with this mission and Tanner as quickly as possible instantly fade away, and judging by the look on his face, Tanner feels exactly the same way as they realise simultaneously that this means they’re going to have to travel to the city together.

“What bar?”

“Shakers.” Tanner sighs and releases the demon’s hands, and the guy slaps Morgan’s hand away from his neck and glares between them, rubbing at his sore wrists. “We done here?”

Morgan doesn’t answer, just waves a hand dismissively, her gaze focused on Tanner as the demon turns and jogs away from them, disappearing into the sewers.

“You know what this means, right?” she asks, and he rolls his eyes before turning and stalking back in the direction of the warehouse.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters in response.

Well. This is beyond irritating and quite frankly Tanner isn't finding it entertaining in the slightest anymore. He moodily trudges along beside Morgan, flexing his hands and then clenching them into fists over and over and glaring at nothing in particular and going over in his mind how he's going to track down Helk now so that he can get the hell out of here and the hell away from Unit Bravo.

“Well?” Adam asks before they’ve even made it all the way into the common room where the rest of the vampires are waiting for them when they return.

“We got a vague name and a vague location somewhere in the city,” Morgan answers, taking up her usual spot in the shadowed corner and leaning against the small table there.

“So when do you leave?”

“Uh, excuse me, what?” Tanner cuts in before Morgan can answer, and Adam turns to frown at him. “I’m not going into the city with her.”

“Yes. You are,” Adam turns away from him to address the rest of the group but Tanner steps forward, irritation taking over him. He sees Farah’s eyes widen when he places a hand on Adam’s shoulder and turns him towards him again. Adam’s eyes narrow and he pointedly looks down at Tanner’s hand on his shoulder before turning his harsh gaze up to his face.

“You’re not my commanding agent.”

“You were assigned to work with us, so at the moment I am.”

“I did what I was assigned to do.”

Adam finally shrugs his hand off of him when it becomes obvious that Tanner’s not going to move it himself. “You were assigned to assist Morgan in finding this group. You have found one person and a possible location of another.”

Tanner glares at him, his fingers fidgeting at his sides as he considers the repercussions of telling Adam to shove it up his ass and leaving anyway, but decides that the risk of being caught and disciplined by the Agency are too great.

“I guess we’re leaving now, then,” he huffs in obvious annoyance, starting out of the room before turning to raise an eyebrow at Morgan. “You coming?”

She glances at Adam who gives a single nod and she sighs loudly before pushing herself off of the table and following Tanner out the door.

“I gotta make a quick stop before we leave town,” he tells her moodily as he stalks through the halls and out of the warehouse, and Morgan jogs to catch up with him and catches his arm to stop him. It doesn’t work, but he does slow down a little and glance over at her.

“Adam’s not gonna be happy if he finds out you’re running personal errands on a mission.”

“Adam’s never happy,” he answers bluntly, shaking her hand off of his arm.

It’s not ideal, but he can make this work for him. If he’s going to be forced to work with a vampire then he might as well get some use out of her. She can help him find Helk before they leave for the city, because there’s not a hope in hell that he’s leaving this sad little town without the things he came here for in the first place.

“You still after this goblin or whatever?”

“Yes.”

“Why so eager to find him?”

“Because he has my rings and I need them back.”

She’s quiet for a moment before replying, “what’s so special about them?”

He turns to face her with what’s almost a low growl, narrowing his eyes at her. “They’re mine.”

“Yeah, but do they do anything?”

“Two of them do,” he’s growing increasingly annoyed with the relentless questioning.

“And the rest?”

“The rest are none of your fucking business.”

“I think if you’re planning on roping me into helping you get them back then it kind of is my business.”

He rolls his eyes and starts walking again, not bothering to check if she’s following before calling back over his shoulder, “no one’s making you hang about, sunshine.”

It takes a minute but he hears her jogging again to catch back up with him, and he glances over at her when she falls back into step beside him. “Do you have any ideas where he is?”

“I think so.”

“Then let’s get it over with so we can get back to work.”

He doesn’t reply, a little surprised that she’s agreed to help him so easily but mostly because he doesn’t want to appear too grateful for her agreement. She already knows that he wants them back, she doesn’t need to know how desperately.

Even she can barely keep up with how efficiently he can get information out of people and how quickly he can put the pieces together and work out exactly where someone is. It’s actually quite impressive, not that she’d ever tell him that.

She spends the rest of the morning tailing him, watching him work his charms on several of the shopkeepers and workers of Wayhaven, getting snippets of information from each of them about a strange man that none of them recognise wandering about town, until they make it to their last stop; a jewellery store at the end of the main street.

Apparently a “funny looking little man” who had introduced himself as Bill had been here only an hour before them, claiming that he had some rings for sale and had gone home to retrieve them and bring them back to be valued.

“Maybe he has something closer to what we’re looking for, darling,” it takes her a moment to realise that he’s talking to her, and she blinks up at him while he watches her expectantly. After a few seconds he gives up and subtly rolls his eyes at her. “Come on, we’ll have a look around while we wait.”

She tenses when he slings an arm over her shoulders and leads her away from the cashier and to the other side of the store, glancing over his shoulder before moving behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist to lean down closer to her ear.

“Thought you’d be better at role play than this,” he murmurs, and she slaps at his hands until he lets go of her.

“I’m better at it when I know it’s coming. What, you’re just gonna wait here for him?”

“Yep.”

Before she can launch into a speech about how stupid his plan is, the bell at the door rings and she looks over to see a small and dreadfully ugly man walk into the store holding a small black velvet bag.

“Is that him?” Tanner asks her, giving her an irritating ‘told you so’ smirk and she shrugs.

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” She turns to face Tanner, her eyes on the man as he suddenly turns and looks at them, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “He’s watching us.”

Tanner lets out a barely audible but obviously frustrated groan before pushing her away from him and spinning around.

“Bill, is it?” There’s no small amount of sarcasm in his voice, and the goblin’s eyes widen as he almost drops the small bag that he’s holding.

“Tanner!” he exclaims, slowly starting to back up towards the door.

“I believe you have some things of mine in there,” Tanner gestures to the bag but barely makes it one step closer to him before who is now obviously Helk turns tail and takes off out the door and down the street.

“Oh for fuck sake,” Tanner mutters before starting out after him, but before he even makes it onto the street Morgan is chasing after him on her own, and by the time Tanner gets outside she’s got a hold of the goblin’s arm and is leaning against the wall waiting for him.

Tanner grins at her and gives a nod of appreciation as he calmly walks over to them and holds his hand out. “My rings?”

“I- um. I was gonna give the important ones back, I swear.”

“They’re all important.”

“I thought there was only those two that-”

“You thought wrong, now give them back.” Tanner cuts in, and Morgan wonders what the two in question are actually for and why this goblin seems to know about it while Tanner refuses to tell her.

“You don’t get it, I need the money.”

“No, you don’t get it, so let me make it clear to you. I will break a finger for every minute that goes by without you giving them back to me. Starting now.”

“Tanner, wait,” she protests. Adam will not be pleased if he finds out they’ve injured someone for personal reasons. His gaze snaps up towards her and he nods down the street.

“You don’t like it, go and wait around the corner,” he snatches the goblins arm away from her and gives him a smile which - under a different circumstance - could be considered friendly before taking his hand in both of his and bending his pointer finger backwards.

“You should listen to your girlfriend, half-breed,” the goblin taunts, giving him a smirk and a wave of anger crashes over Morgan. She narrows her eyes and comes to stand beside Tanner, taking Helk’s other hand in hers.

“You want us to break two at a time?” she ignores the way Tanner glances over at her, something other than arrogance or annoyance on his face for once - maybe he even looks a little impressed with her - and keeps her gaze on the goblin.

“Alright, alright,” Helk snatches his hand away from her and digs into his pocket for the bag, pushing it into Tanner’s chest and shaking his hands when he gets them free. “Jeez, didn’t take you for such a sentimental little thing.”

“You want me to break your fucking hand anyway? Piss off.” Tanner spits at him, and the goblin glances between them hesitantly for a moment before turning and taking off down the street.

“So can we get going now?” Morgan asks and he gives a distracted nod, though it doesn’t really seem like he’s even heard her as he opens the bag and empties its contents into his palm. A small sigh of relief escapes him as he slides the rings back onto his fingers, pausing at a small and delicate looking silver band and closing his eyes for a moment before slipping it onto his pinky finger.

She decides against asking what the deal is with that ring in particular, she doesn’t care enough to be willing to deal with his attitude about it again.

“Yeah, lets go,” he finally answers, holding his hands out and looking at them with a satisfied nod before turning his attention to her. “We driving or are you just gonna run there?”

“I’m not getting in a car with you,” she retorts, and he shrugs and hands her a small scrap of paper with an address written on it before turning and walking back towards the tree line.

“Why the fuck would I drive if I don’t need to? Meet me there.” he calls over his shoulder, glancing around him carefully before a massive pair of light grey wings extend from the centre of his back and he’s gone.

tags (please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed): @admdmrtn @masonsfangs @oxjenayxo @mmerengue @agentsunshine @bravomckenzie @freckles-spangledvampire @mistyeyedbi @agentnolastname @kelseaaa @detectivewiseman @utterlyinevitable @masonscig

#twc writing #the wayhaven chronicles #unit bravo #a du mortain #n sewell #f hauville #twc morgan #tanner drake #sadie kennedy #fire meet gasoline #chapter update #n*fw #kat writes

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gembloomwrites · 4 years

Text

Half-Baked

Fandom(s): Professional Wrestling, All Elite Wrestling Pairing: Adam Page/Reader Rating: T Prompt: “As co-workers who decide to be a fake couple to piss an annoying co-worker off, but they tricked the rest of the staff as well!? How will they get out of this mess?” Summary: You decide to finally do something about the plague that is MJF. However, it may not be all smooth sailing. Word Count: 3,045 Viewable on AO3 Author’s Note: Hello there. I began to write this work last year more than likely before the formation of Omega/Hangman team so I apologise if it seems outdated. I do hope you enjoying reading and would appreciate any feedback.I am open to requests sent to me both here and on AO3 @ GemBloomWrites. Thank you.-Gem

Honestly as half-baked plans went it all went smoothly at the start.

Ever since you joined AEW you’d been pestered with propositions and cheesy pick-up lines from one MJF. It absolutely annoyed you to no end. His sickening smirk and misplaced confidence never ceased to put a damper on any day. Not to mention his lapdog Wardlow would follow his every move.

As for Adam, he’d been on a spiral as of late. Everything seemed to go wrong for him. Among numerous bumps along the road one of the most prominent was the loss of the AEW Diamond Ring to the aforementioned MJF. That slimeball had gone around swanning the damn thing in Adam’s face at every opportunity. Even going so far as to once forcibly shove it into Adam’s lips in an attempt to get him to kiss it.

All in all, the two couldn’t stand him, and both would love to see that smug smile wiped from his face.

It all came to a head one day while you were sitting in catering. From a distance you could hear the tell-tale sneer of MJF bragging about something or another to Wardlow. You sighed and promptly sat up to begin to leave. Glancing around the room as you left, you spotted Adam Page in a corner by himself. An idea sprang to mind, running away certainly hadn’t solved the problem, but this just might. Quickly walking over to Adam, he hadn’t noticed you even as you sat down beside him, seemingly too engrossed in whatever drink was in his hand. You tapped his shoulder to get his attention, jumping slightly when he was jared from his thoughts. He looked at you with wide blue eyes, before he could question the intrusion you leaned in and tried to explain your plan in a hushed whisper, “Listen, I know this is weird but I need you to pretend that you’re into me, MJF is on his way and I really need to get him off my back.” Adam stared at you with confusion in his eyes, processing what you had just said. Before he formed a response, he was cut off by a loud shout.

“(Y/N)! I knew I’d see you around here somewhere!”

Maxwell Jacob Freidman has finally arrived and of course he couldn’t let his presence go unannounced. You visibly cringed and looked in his direction with a venomous stare, “Well obviously, we work for the same company.” He didn’t seem to be phased by your snarky comment as he strode over to you, Wardlow in tow. “No need to be so cold, I know you’re just dying to get a piece of me,” he stated, “Why don’t you just drop the act and come back to my hotel?” You scoffed in disgust as the thought of his offer came to mind, “No thanks, I’m hanging out with Adam.” MJF took a moment to look between you and Adam before a smirk broke out onto his face, “This hic? C’mon (Y/N), you can do way better than this fuckin’ loser.”

It was these words that snapped Adam out of his confusion and into the situation at hand. He stood up quickly, knocking the chair he was just sitting on. He squared up to MJF with a tense jaw, you stood up with him, trying to diffuse the situation you unintentionally created. Adam shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he spoke, “Fuckin’ loser huh? I’m not the one running around with a little buddy here because you’re too damn scared someone’s gonna sock ya right in that horse face of yours. I’m not the one acting like the shit to cover up the fact that you’re not even worth lacing up my boots. And I am certainly not the one who tries to flirt with a woman who thinks you’re disgusting!”

Your eyes widened at his outburst, and for a moment the air in the room was quiet and stale. Wardlow shifted towards Adam and reminded everyone else of the situation. You hastily got in between the two men, “Step off Friedman, don’t start lashing out at everyone else just because your dick feels small.” Maxwell turned to you and opened his mouth but before he could reply you cut in, “And for one Adam is not a loser, he’s ten times the man you’ll ever be, he’s way more good looking and doesn’t make me want to vomit. If anything, you’re the loser!” You link your hand in Adam’s, “Look, I’ve met a real man, so why don’t you just leave me alone?” Adam looked to your hand dumbfounded and back to the man standing before him. MJF looked between the two of you with anger in his eye. For the first time since the match for the Diamond Ring he felt like he’d finally gotten under his skin, Adam smirked at this. “Clearly,” the cowboy said, drawing it out for effect, “The lady’s made her feelin’s clear, why don’t you and your lapdog just run off.”

It was your turn to be shocked, only for the fact that Adam went along with your crazy scheme. Maxwell stood tense for a few minutes; the air thick in the room. You were getting more anxious as the seconds rolled by. To remove yourself from the situation you tugged on Adam’s arm, “Come on babe, he’s not worth it.” He followed your lead, albeit reluctantly. Of course, Maxwell had to get the last word as you walked out the door, “Yeah that’s it you better run off ya loser, she’s not even that hot anyway!” You stopped in the hallway, blood starting to boil, until you realised you were still linked with Adam, “Keep going,” he said quietly, “Like you said, he ain’t worth it. Not right now anyway.” Starting to get a bit self-conscious you took your hand from his and scratched the back of your neck. “Yeah,” you sighed, “You’re right. He’s just gets under my skin.”

“You and me both.”

You smiled at his sincerity and his now calm, sweet tone. Both standing awkwardly for a few moments, you started again with a cough, “Look, I’m sorry for dragging you into this, he just really doesn’t give up.” Adam looked at you for a moment and then too his shoes, shifting around again, “It’s fine, really. Honestly it felt good to rile him up.” You began to pass him and head off, “Well thanks, I appreciate it.” Your trek was cut short when he grabbed your wrist, he looked at you with an unreadable expression, “Hey this might just seem crazy but hear me out.” He let your wrist go and you gave him a questioning look as he continued on, “We both hate that smug son of a bitch. And seeing us together clearly struck a nerve. If you want when he’s around, we could keep up this little...uh…act.” The look on your face must have been one of pure shock and confusion, because Adam quickly recoiled, “I-I mean it’s just an idea, thought it’d make life easier for the both of us.” The next few moments were just silence, it made Adam want to run away in pure embarrassment. You thought it over, if you were to be rational you would have turned him down and went on. So many things could go wrong. But you weren’t thinking rationally if you were honest, all you were thinking about was pissing off MJF and getting closer to the hunk standing in front of you.

“Yeah, I’ll do it.”

As the months rolled on the charade continued. Whenever MJF showed up you and Adam would be there. Some days Adam would purposefully make you laugh with an absolutely terrible pun in front of him. On other days you would stick close to him, running your fingers up his muscular chest and whisper into his ear. Sometimes you would sit on his lap with his hands around your waist, making sure to be in full view of Maxwell. It drove the man crazy, which only seemed to satisfy you two more. Not only did you achieve your goal, but you and Adam grew so much closer. He was a great friend. You two were both going through a rough patch in your respective careers. Adam on a losing streak, and you couldn’t even seem to break into the Women’s Rankings. You both started to spend time outside of work, not even thinking about the reason you two were together in the first place. Adam was a comfort in an otherwise breakneck world.

You felt yourself falling for him. Even moments spent with him being your fake partner made you wish he was your real one. When he’d wrap his arm around your waist you’d feel electric under his fingertips. You found yourself seeking his company when you had the time or watching his matches when you weren’t preparing for your own. Just watching the sweat roll down his body or everytime pulled on the waistband sent a hot feeling down your body. The whole plan was spiralling out of control and you felt helpless to stop it.

One day you two were playing your little game, once again hearing the boisterous MJF roaming the halls. You were backed into a corner looking up to Adam, he looked down at you with those gorgeous blue eyes and shook his head, “He seems to be everywhere I turn at this point.” You were too busy being engulfed by his presence to be concerned by what he was talking about. Heart thumping in your chest you made a non-committal sound of agreement. You felt a gentle hand move your head to look into Adam’s face, “Hey,” he said softly, “You okay?” Oh god, why did he have to be so handsome? “Uh…” You stammered, “I’m fine just not feeling good today, y’know?” He looked at you with a frown before he said anything else you cut in, “I’m fine, really, just tired of this MJF crap.”

“You and me both, I’d love to just-.”

All of a sudden your two bodies were hauled away into what can only be described as a death grip. Turning, you saw Matt Jackson holding the two of you with the biggest grin on his face. Struggling out of his tight grip was a task and a half but you managed it eventually, “Matt? What the hell!?” He let Adam go and opted to put one hand on each of your shoulders. His face bounced back between the two of you excitedly, “I knew something was up with you Hangman! Why didn’t you tell us?!” Adam looked confused as he turned to Matt, “What, what do ya mean ‘what’s up’?” The older Buck started to wag his finger towards the cowboy, “Don’t play coy with me, you think I don’t see it?” You started to mirror Adam’s confused expression, “See what Matt?” Matt’s grin somehow managed to grow even wider, “C’mon dude the jig is up, practically everyone is talking about the two of you.” You looked back between Adam and Matt, “The two of us what? What’s everyone talking about?” “Well,” Matt moved into a thinking position, “I heard one of the women say today, and I’m paraphrasing here, ‘They’re one of those couples who are just meant for each other’.”

Both you and Adam’s eyes widened in shock. In all your plans, you had forgotten about everyone else, the only focus trying to fool Max. A few moments of silence passed before Adam piped up, “Uh, we’re not-.” You began speaking at the same time, “We were never-.”

“Yeah it was just a-.”

“We’re just-.”

You looked back at each other seemingly exasperated with trying to come up with an explanation for the Buck. You gave Adam a nod to go ahead, thinking he’d be better explaining it to his friend. He began to open his mouth when Matt cut across him, “Awh look at you two, still in the Honeymoon phase,” he elbowed Adam quite vigorously before starting to walk away, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do kids!” Adam placed his arm over his ribs were Matt has elbowed him, you looked into him, “Well, crap, what are we going to do now?”

The two of you cooled down the act considerably since the incident with Matt. You both felt too awkward to talk about the implications of what you two had been doing the last few months. You became aware of the locker room talk and couldn’t help but wistfully want it to be true. However, you had hardly spoken with Adam, your plan to fool MJF all but forgotten. You began to throw yourself into your wrestling as a distraction, and it seemed Adam did too. Unfortunately no amount of wrestling could keep the Cowboy off your mind completely and you found yourself back at square one; in catering, trying to avoid MJF.

“Ah (Y/N)! Where’s the hic? Finally realise he’s a loser? You know I can show you a hell of better time.”

You sighed and turned to Maxwell, “Do you like to stalk me or something? Can’t you get the hint? I. Am. Not. Into. You.” MJF immediately brushed this off and smirked, “Come one, this ‘hard-to-get- shtick is getting old just admit you want me.” You placed your face in your hands, nothing seemed to deter Max and it annoyed you to no end. You looked back up to tell him where to put his proposition when you felt a hand on your shoulder. Looking over your shoulder you saw Adam with a scowl on his face. He gave your shoulder a squeeze and stared straight ahead to MJF, “This asshole botherin’ you?” No words came up your throat, surprised that not only Adam was here, but he was continuing with your plan.

Max scoffed, “I’m not bothering her, I’m just telling her about how she could do so much better.” Adam took his hand off you and squared up to MJF, “You better get runnin’, she’s not interested. She’s my girl and I have no problem layin’ you out to stop you harassin’ her.” Again you were actually dumbstruck, the ‘my girl’ comment throwing you off everything. Maxwell frowned but regained his smirk within a few seconds, “You know what, you two losers were meant for each other. She’s obviously too stupid to-.”

Maxwell was abruptly cut off when Adam’s well-aimed fist connected with his face. This shook you out of your daze almost immediately and you stood behind Adam, grabbing his shoulders, “Whoa! Calm down, like I said before, he isn’t worth it.” Adam was huffing at this point and turned to you. His brief angry stare sent a shiver through you before his body relaxed and his expression softened. Seeing the pleading look in your eyes he nodded and looked down to Max who was flat on his ass holding his face, “You’re lucky we ain’t in the ring.”

Before Max could respond Adam grabbed your hand and led you out of the room. When the two of you came across an empty hallway he let go and turned to you. He took a minute to compose himself, while you pinched the bridge of your nose, “Oh God how are we going to explain this to Mr. Khan.”

“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have got so heated.”

You sighed and looked into Adam’s regretful face, “No, no it’s mine I should have stopped this whole thing months ago. MJF found a new way to get to you and the whole locker room thinks we’re a thing.”

Adam chuckled, “I think we both had a hand in that darlin’.” You took in Adam’s appearance, he looked more calm now and you couldn’t help but get lost in him all over again. After a minute you stopped yourself before it got awkward and turned to pace, “We probably should explain everything to Tony and everyone else, it’ll be embarrassing but at least this whole thing will be over.” You turned to Adam to see his expression visibility drop before looking down, “Uh yeah, probably for the best.” You felt a wave of sadness wash over. You know all this was coming to an end. The rational part of your brain always knew this, but your heart wanted to revel in the closeness for longer. You stepped closer towards Adam and wrapped your arms around him. You buried your head into his broad chest, “Thank you…. For everything.” As you unwillingly started to pull away Adam placed his hands on your hips, keeping you in place. You quickly looked up into his face getting caught once more in his beautiful eyes.

For what felt like forever the two of you stayed like this. You were content like this really, just taking in being close with Adam. He eventually cut through the silence, “I don’t want it to end here,” he whispered, “I want it to be real.” Your heart sped up at his admission and for a moment he’d knocked all words out of your mouth. This is what you wanted for months, for him to return your feelings. Now that it was happening you couldn’t find it in you to say what you needed to say. Adam picked up on your hesitation and began to pull away. However you quickly put your hands on his face, if you couldn’t say anything you were going to show him.

You pulled him in for a kiss, trying to put everything you need to say in it. For a little time Adam stayed still in shock but then started to respond with passion. He put his hands back on your waist and pulling you in further. You both moved your heads slightly and deepened the kiss. This was months of tension finally being released between the two of you and nothing in the world felt better right now. As you pulled away for a breath of air you couldn’t help bury yourself in his neck. Finally you felt the right words come forwards, “I want this to be real, I don’t want this to ever end either.”

#adam page imagine #adam page x reader #hangman page imagine #hangman page x reader #aew imagine #aew fanfiction #aew fanfic #adam page fanfic #adam page fanfiction #Fandom:Professional Wrestling #Fandom: All Elite Wrestling #Adam Page #Hangman Page #Gem's Fanfics

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lumen-adstrum · 4 years

Note

Hi! I read your works and I really really like them! So I would like to make a request! How about a felix × fem!reader pre-timeskip? Felix is so in love with her but he tries to deny it and he avoids her a little for this purpose. However, he gets really jealous when a suitor is pestering the reader non-stop so he pretends to be the reader's boyfriend to scare away the suitor? Thank you! And take care please!

A/N: Aww thank you so so much!! I’m so happy you like them! I’m sorry it took me a while to write, but I wanted to make this one a bit longer than my other works! I hope this is to your liking! Please stay safe and in good health! -Evelyn

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ABSENTION

Two months had gone by, the Verdant Rain Moon had settled in full with plenty of showers and rainbows making an appearance. [Y/N], like many other students, attended the monastery with intentions of growing not only in power but as a person too. Along the way, she met many new faces, some familiar ones too. Felix was among the many she had made acquaintances with.

He was prickly, blunt, and beyond harsh in the eyes of many, those same people constantly ridiculed how she could stand trying to talk to him. All he ever did was scoff and brush them off. Perhaps he did those same things to her as well, but she could tell he was listening even as he pretended not to. After all, Felix had a little quirk: nodding his head subtly to himself as he pondered her words. His stubborn facade of aloofness had always struck her as cute rather than hurtful.

However, she had noticed as time passed… he seemed more and more avoidant, and their conversations were more one-sided than ever, hardly even a nod to himself now. [Y/N] wouldn’t lie, it had begun to sting the longer the dynamic continued, having grown attached to him. She had extended the concern to his friends, Ingrid and Sylvain, but as far as they knew, he was the same Felix they had always known.

Even during lectures, he no longer sat in the same row as her, instead settling for a seat on the opposite side of the room in the very front. Any time the professor paired them together for an activity or job, Felix didn’t even bother to spare her a glance. It was disheartening in ways and in others it was utterly infuriating.

Today was no different. She watched with a silent glare as they both tended to the horses, her hand dragging the brush gently down the stallion’s mane. Felix made silent work of cleaning the saddles and reins, not once did he say anything! Not even a scoff! “Felix?” Her voice was borderline accusatory just saying his name and he paused in polishing the leather briefly, but still, he didn’t look at her or reply. She at least knew he had heard her.

“I thought you had gone deaf, glad to see that’s wrong. However, this outcome is irking me a lot more.” Open with her thoughts, Felix finally looked at her with a rather pointed expression on his face.

“Whatever are you talking about? Can we get this done?” His reply is curt, turning back to the saddle to continue with his work. The girl grits her teeth, knowing he wouldn’t budge. It was unheard of for Felix to avoid confrontation… but for the time being, she was exhausted constantly trying to corner him and pull an answer out. At this rate, perhaps it was time to just let Felix do his own thing, after all, plenty had warned her about how he treated people as if they were the plague themselves. Some truth certainly rang in it now.

With the stables looking sufficient, the horses cared for and the riding gear repaired and polished, [Y/N] was the first to turn and leave, unlike in the past where she would try to get some sort of response from Felix at least. The man remained behind for a moment, watching silently as she walked away before releasing a quiet sigh of his own.

He hated upsetting her, truly he did. However, the last thing he needed was a distraction or something he viewed as an unnecessary quality of life. Felix had always and continued to put logic first and his feelings behind him. This was no different. He would lie to himself, saying things like; “I can do without. She and I weren’t that close anyway. It will be easy to forget.”

Except, he couldn’t do without. They had been close and she had been on his mind at every waking moment of every single day that passed. He felt as if it would drive him mad, but Felix seemed adamant that time would erase his fickle feelings. Days went by where the girl no longer spared him a glance, and if their eyes would meet by chance, her face would turn stern before quickly looking away as if he now repulsed her.

Sylvain was quick to notice, blowing a long whistle as his cheek laid in his hand during a lecture. “Didn’t think she could make those kinds of faces at you…” His voice seemed surprised, but in reality, both he and Ingrid knew Felix had a talent for stepping on toes. “I guess you finally chased another one off.”

“Sylvain, shut up. I am trying to read.” The exasperation was clear in Felix’s voice, flipping his pages wildly before stopping at random. However, even with his face turned down at the book and his brows knitted in concentration, Sylvain picked up the key clue the man wasn’t reading just because his eyes didn’t move from their spot. Ever the observant student deep down, the man sighed and rolled his eyes.

“You call me stupid at every possible chance yet can’t even admit to yourself how you’re feeling. It’s kinda sad really.” Before Felix could even jump at the opportunity to start a fight over the exchange, Sylvain perked up a considerable amount with clear curiosity. Turning his head to try and spot what the other was looking at, Felix spotted the sight of interest. [Y/N] was accompanied by a student sitting in on their lecture, one from the house of the Black Eagles to be exact. The two were getting along well despite the house rivalries, and the man seemed to certainly be enjoying himself.

“I forgot about him, Callun Forge, I heard their fathers are good friends. Apparently [Y/N’s] pops is trying to marry her off. Guess it makes sense he’d be first in line, looks like he’s been waiting for an opportunity like this.” Sylvain’s words pulled again at Felix’s temper, slamming the book closed and standing to pardon himself from the room. The redhead faked shock, looking after the swordsman before snickering to himself with a shake of his head.

“You really shouldn’t rile Felix up like that Sylvain, you know how angry he gets.” Ingrid’s lecturing from behind fell upon deaf ears. The slam of the door caused [Y/N] to jump briefly, glaring at the spot Felix had been just before the noise. However, her ‘lovely’ company continued merrily chatting her head off.

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It went on for days, the man’s incessant talking. It never ceased! At the rate things were going, she could feel annoyance boiling just at the sight of him. She knew her father meant well, and that she couldn’t upset the suitor considering the bonds their fathers shared… but he was making it harder and harder every day. Even now, Callun was following her around the monastery as she went to have lunch. “-You should have seen it, [Y/N], I was a true hero that day. The Goddess herself would have been enamored.” She rolled her eyes in secret.

Felix sat with Sylvain and Ingrid, a typical arrangement, but hearing the babbling fool coming from a mile away, his eyes stared at the entrance of the dining hall with an intense glare. Soon enough, [Y/N] walked through with the same man attached to her hip. He’d had enough of seeing him. Callun showed up to every lecture, every job and even accompanied them on their latest mission. He’d heard rumors that he would be asking to join the Blue Lions soon. Over his dead body.

Every tale he spun had Felix scoffing, and today was no different, but the second his hand bravely took her’s, he was practically fuming. “Felix?” Ingrid’s voice was cautious, leaning into view. “Why do you look so upset?”

“I’m not.” His reply was venomous, enough to prevent her from asking further questions, but the second he watched the man lean in to whisper something into [Y/N’s] ear, a Cheshire like grin on his face, Felix snapped. The way he shot out of his seat, hands slamming on the table before he paced their direction caught the attention of a few students. The closer he got, the more he could tell that her companion’s advances weren’t appreciated. Possessively, one of his arms found it’s way around her waist as his other hand smacked the offender away with a pointed glare.

“Hey, what the hell is your problem man?” He had guts, that was sure. Perhaps he hadn’t understood the fact Felix was more than just bark. Even [Y/N] looked bewildered, but he didn’t miss that small glimpse of relief.

“Do you make a pastime out of courting ladies that are already committed?” Felix sneered out the words, and the man’s face contorted into confusion at first before a slight trace of fear hit his eyes. His glare hardened further as he pulled the girl closer to his chest as if to prove his story. “What are you standing around for? Scram.” On command, Callun turned tail and ran. It wasn’t long after he could feel [Y/N’s] head tilt up against his chest. When Felix looked down, he was met with a pointed stare, unreadable at first but it soon turned into a devilish smirk.

“I get it now!~” Her voice was sing-song, tauntingly sweet as her finger jab against his chest accusingly. “You don’t seem like the type to get jealous, Felix. Or the type who runs from his problems. I guess you’re full of surprises, huh?” She had every right to embarrass him right now, after all the unnecessary pain he put her through, she felt he deserved a little punishment. “You know, you could’ve just said you liked me.”

“I like you.” Her teasing quickly backfired. Felix admitted it, unwavering with an honest intensity in his eyes. “Let’s… talk about this somewhere more private… please?” His eyes strayed to peering eyes uncomfortably, and the girl was quick to take his hand and pull him outside and into the unoccupied greenhouse.

“Spill it Felix, you spend weeks not talking to me and acting like I’m a nuisance. Then all of a sudden Callun shows up and you’re quick to jump up and make a scene. I’m not here to be wanted just when there’s competition, you know?” Her voice is accusatory at first, but by the end, it softens almost sadly. It pulls at his heart and he finds himself regretting his choices in the past.

“I don’t want you just because another man does, I did like you before that. It’s the whole reason I avoided you. I don’t need that commitment. It’s a distraction.” His voice is laced with frustration before it also softens but in a defeated mannerism. “Or at least I tried to convince myself it was. [Y/N], you confuse me. I’ve never felt this way before. I don’t like not knowing what will happen or how I’m feeling.” He shows vulnerability, something he tries to never do.

It’s silent for a moment before she gives an exhausted sigh and then pouts. “You’re no fair. It’s hard to be mad at you, you know?” Her body leans against his, and hesitantly he wraps his arms around her before dropping his head gently atop of her’s.

“I mean it… I like you.” His repeated confession is met with a hint of a giggle before the girl nuzzles into the crook of his neck to sneak it a simple kiss.

“I like you too, but you’re the one who has to explain this to my father. After all, he’s going to be very confused about why I never mentioned you.”

“Don’t talk about that right now.” Felix’s lecture sounds stern, but there’s a hidden smile placed on his lips and an expression of fondness washed over his face. He was lucky to have someone who understood his irrational ways and would accept his flaws. He wanted to do better in the future, he’d promised to himself he wouldn’t neglect her. [Y/N] meant so much to him. He wanted to make sure he expressed that through his future actions.

#felix x reader #fe3h felix #felix fire emblem #fe3h #fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #x reader #x reader requests #fire emblem x reader #felix fraldarius #felix fraldarius x reader #fe3h x reader #fe x reader #requests #request #requests open

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serafaina · 4 years

Photo

Eating Crow - Coming Soon, July 6th!

written by @serafaina, read by @semperfiona

For the Good Omens Mini Bang, organized by @do-it-with-style-events

13k words to read, or 1.5 hours to listen, Rated: E

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale drunkenly argue about whose fault losing the Antichrist was, and they have an upsetting misunderstanding that makes Crowley, a demon, finding himself having to defend and back up God's ineffable plan to Aziraphale, an angel; and leaves Aziraphale trying to come to terms with exactly what kind of filthy, dirty, foul demon he’d fallen for.

Excerpt:

“I’m glad you lost the Antichrist Crowley, it’s all worked out very well because of that,” said Aziraphale, apropos of nothing.

Crowley leaned forward, staring at Aziraphale over the rim of his sunglasses. They were in the bookshop, enjoying their third bottle of celebratory vintages and the newfound freedom to openly fraternize, or whatever you wanted to call it. Aziraphale had even deigned to uncork his really good stuff, and they had been having a lovely time of it. Keywords: had been.

“What are you on about?” said Crowley, frowning.

“The Antichrist. Adam. It’s a good thing you didn’t deliver him properly, because it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? A very good thing indeed.”

Crowley scoffed, “I delivered him properly! Took my instructions, followed them to the letter. It’s not my fault he got misplaced.”

“I’m saying it’s a good thing.”

“Well it wasn’t my thing. The nuns are the ones that cocked it up.” He waggled a finger at nonexistent nuns.

Aziraphale pressed his lips and paused.

“What?” Crowley snapped.

“Blaming the humans for your mistake?”

“Oh really?” He stood up, only listing slightly, and stomped about a bit before swinging around, “I’m to blame they can’t follow simple instructions? Here’s the Antichrist, swap him out. Oh no, Crowley, you lost a baby you handed over properly? Noooo! Is it so hard to believe that a bunch of satanic nuns couldn’t keep their babies straight?”

Aziraphale leaned back, his chin up and nose in the air as he swirled his wine in his glass, giving it a bit of a sniff and sip. “I believe you’re less perfect than you play at. Hell thinks it was your fault. And we talked to the human nun, she said she swapped the babies correctly. I’m apt to believe her, at least.”

“You’d take the word of Hell and its minions over mine? Like they ever know what’s going on earth-side,” Crowley stalked back and swiped his own wineglass from the table. He pointed at the angel with his now occupied hand, seeming to forget he had two, nearly sloshing his wine. “Admit... Ad- Admit that it’s not my fault.” Crowley drained his glass, still pointing an accusatory finger.

“I shall do no such thing. ‘Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, that it may minister grace unto the hearers.’ Ephesians 4:29.”

Crowley slammed his glass down almost hard enough to break it. “Scripture!? You’re quoting scripture to me now? That’s rich. Ohhhh, that’s rich, coming from you. You already said it! The bus stop, you were all ‘It’s ineffable, Crowley’ again! Said... Said it coulda been Her plan all along. She’s the one that lost him then, not me.”

Aziraphale snorted. “She’s the Almighty. She can plan for you to make a mistake.”

Crowley snarled. “Tha’sss it! That isss it! I’m going to prove that it wasn’t my fault and then, then… Then you are going to be eating crow, then. You’ll see who's cocked… Who’s… It’s not my fault, you’ll see that then, you smug angel bastard!”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped, his grip slipping on his wine glass. “Crowley!” Once he sorted himself he patted at his chest, a blush deepening on his face. “What a horrible thing to threaten a… to threaten a friend with.”

“Oh, friends are we now? You worried I’m going to do it, hmm? Well, I am! I’ll show you She’s to blame, her and her ineffable games, then... oh yes, you’ll be eating crow then. And I hope you choke on it!”

Aziraphale was so shocked and taken aback this time that he did drop his wine. Crowley grinned, very pleased with himself for flustering the angel, who had turned so red in the face he looked like a tomato, his mouth gaping and working futilely. Aziraphale launched himself out of his chair, and his wine un-spilled, its glass returning to the table with a wave.

“That is quite enough!” Aziraphale yelled. “You would… And you’re so pleased about it, that you would do… unspeakable…” Aziraphale shook himself and started wringing his hands. He took a deep breath, turned to face Crowley fully and said firmly, “It’s time for you to leave.”

“Is it, now?” Crowley mocked.

“Yes. You need to go.”

“Fine!”

“Good!”

And with one last sneer, Crowley left, slamming the door behind him. He sobered up, flung himself into the Bentley, threw it into gear, and drove home, burning off a little steam by roaring through the streets of London, running all the red lights.

“What’s he even getting all bent out of shape about anyway? He’s the one always going on about God this, plan that, ineffable! It’s ineffable! Blah blah… But now it’s all my fault? I’m the screw up here? I don’t think so. I’m not taking the fall for God’s games.” He made a u-turn out of nowhere, causing oncoming traffic to swerve about to avoid hitting him. Tadfield. It was time to go back to Tadfield and accost an ex-nun. He would get proof of God’s interference and then rub it in Aziraphale’s face.

○ ● 😇 ● ○ ○ ● 😈● ○

Aziraphale paced around his shop, pulling his fingers and tugging at his clothes, which suddenly seemed too warm and to be sitting askew. He was flushed with anger and arousal and more anger about being aroused, so he pretended there wasn’t another heat building inside him and focused on just being angry. Crowley was being so vulgar and so horrible! They both knew they cared for one another, had for a long time, and Aziraphale had entertained certain... thoughts... over the years, and had hoped the demon shared those thoughts, but this was… was...

They’d never even kissed before! Well, perhaps a greeting peck a few times but not like… not a kiss kiss. Aziraphale touched his lips unconsciously, running a fingertip across them and remembering all the times he’d fantasized of what it would feel like to be free to kiss his demon whenever he’d like to, how soft and warm he’d feel. And now Crowley was throwing around threats about who’ll be cocking who, and eating him, and choking on it!?!

#good omens #good omens mini bang #My fic

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fanficparker · 4 years

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Faking, Falling > Part 11

Harrison Osterfield x Reader (Fake dating! Unrequited love switcheroo!)

Word count: ~2.55 k words

Warning: Swearing... And Fluff?!

Summary: No date, but?

<< PART 10 [ MASTERLIST ] PART 12 >>

10:25 pm...

Lying on the sofa, holding your kindle, you were scrolling through a list of books that you desired to read later than actually reading anything.

10:50 pm...

You failed to concentrate on the words of the book you finally chose to read, your mind dozing off with each word.

11:26 pm...

"Ooga chaka ooga ooga..."

The kindle was kept aside while you sang along with the lyrics of the playlist blasting through your phone as your toes tapped along the edge of the sofa.

11:45 pm...

You were lost in thoughts, the music serving only background ambience.

Did he eat something? Or was he waiting for having dinner together? He must have eaten something. He must be hungry. What if he brings a take away home for us to eat? What if he was expecting you to make something for us to eat? He would have told that on the phone if he was looking forward to such a thing.

Maybe you should tell him to eat in case he didn't eat. Picking up the phone and pausing the music, you discovered that you already had some unread messages from him.

Harrison [10:22 pm]: >> Hey don't wait for me for dinner. >> I don't think I can be there before midnight. >> I will pick something for myself to eat.

Harrison [10:28 pm]: >> Also I will try bringing that rainbow cake. >> Although not sure. >> But still :)

You would have replied him to not take efforts to bring that stupid cake but all you were doing was gently biting your finger that had made the way between your lips in an attempt to stop smiling.

11:56 pm...

You finally texted him to not to worry about the cake but didn't receive any reply. So, you instead started looking about the storm on the internet.

'The routes were set back to original by eleven o'clock.' It said.

12:15 pm...

After living alone for years in London all by yourself, unexpectedly this empty house was beginning to haunt you. You wrapped a soft thin blanket around your figure sitting on the sofa, feet tucked under yourself while your eyes roamed all over the place. Sitting there waiting for Harrison, you tried your best to prevent your mind from wandering around bizarre thoughts.

Ghost don't exist. You reminded yourself. The horror movie you saw and laughed about all through your flight duration was finally coming back to you. You closed your eyes for a millisecond and the terrifying face of the lady ghost was clearly visible. You jerked on your seat and opened your eyes, breathing a sigh of relief seeing no-one or that lady ghost in general. But then you heard footsteps. You clenched the blanket tighter around yourself and again closed your eyes shut, keeping your right hand near your heart. The footsteps were coming closer making you sink further into the sofa. Your heart rate was already shooting up.

Ding Dong.

You literally screamed. Your scream facilitated the actions of the person on the other side of the door. The harsh knocking on your door made you re-open your eyes.

"Y/n are you okay? Y/n answer? Y/n?!"

That was Harrison's voice. And instantly the feeling of calmness rushed through your veins. You threw your head back, sighing at your own stupidity. The door knocked again accompanied with Harrison's panicked voice. You threw the blanket to the floor, slapped your head and ran to open the door. There stood Harrison, his hair a mess from the wind that was still blowing outside. You could smell that it was going to rain very soon.

"What happened? You screamed?" Harrison asked, his head peeping inside.

"Everything's fine." You puffed out air accompanied by a chuckle.

"Is it?"

"Absolutely." You said greeting him home and shutting the door. Instead of walking towards the living space, he walked to the kitchen. He kept the brown cake box inside the fridge.

"You don't have to bring it." You said softly.

"No worries." He replied smiling and took out a water bottle. You turned on your feet making your way to the sofa. You folded up the blanket while he sat on the opposite end. Even without looking at him you could imagine his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"Water?" He said pushing the now half-filled bottle towards you. You blinked accepting it, attempting to push back the thoughts to your grave. You sat across him, taking a sip. He kept his handbag he had kept clothes to wear on the date on the floor and sighed loudly. You closed your eyes tightly. You hated how his breath sounded-- sad and a little bit of guilt rose in your heart. You could have done something. You could have set up the table, made a little snack, literally anything but you didn't. You heard him tapping his shoes on the floor, still taking deep breathes.

"You're asleep?" You asked looking at him. His eyes were closed and his head was supported by the back cushions.

"Wasn't sleeping, just... ah... resting my eyes," he muttered, eyes still closed, "Long day..." He yawned, sinking more into the sofa.

"You want me to make anything? Tea? Coffee?" You offered. He slowly opened his eyes and straightened his posture.

"Coffee. Please." He almost pleaded. You rushed to the kitchen while you heard him move inside the bathroom. While the decoction was getting ready, you heard the sound of the shower running. Maybe it wasn't too late... You glanced at the wall clock — 01:24 am

You rushed into the bedroom, plugged in your laptop and tossed a cosy blanket on the bed, propping the laptop over it. Securing the bedpost with pillows and setting up the air conditioning to a pleasurable temperature you rushed back to the kitchen. The shower was no more audible. You finished making the mochaccino(you decided to add a little chocolatey twist). You plated the rainbow cake pieces on two plates and placed your little sweet dine in a tray. Decorating the mocha mugs with some whipped cream, you made your way to the bedroom. Upon entering the first thing you saw was Harrison rubbing some moisturiser cream on his washed face. His blonde wet hairs almost looking brown in the dim lights of the room were pointy at the ends. He was in his pyjamas. A little smile spread across your lips at the sight. You placed the tray over the nightstand. The soft thud made Harrison turn and look at you, running a hand through his wet hairs.

"You were watching a movie?" He asked wiping his hand on the towel, looking over at the bed.

"No. We will watch a movie." You smiled broader.

"Which movie?" He asked throwing the towel over the chair. Bad habit. For god-sake put it on the air dryer or in the laundry. You wanted to scold him. But he made his way into the covers inhaling the scent of the freshly washed covers and sighing in comfort. You decided against the scolding thing.

"You decide what we watch. My prime account is unlocked." You said lifting the towel yourself while he excitedly scrolled through your laptop. You returned back to the room after putting the towel in the dryer. He was slurping the coffee.

"This tastes heavenly, Y/n!" He said picking up the mug in the air. You suspected it to be him asking for you to cling your mug into his. You lifted the cup and clung it softly.

"Cheers!" He cheered like a little child. You giggled at his ministrations, getting inside the covers, bumping your shoulders and knees across his. You placed the cake pieces on your thigh.

"What are we gonna watch?" You asked taking in a bit, devouring the taste. You moaned at the taste.

"It's good?" He asked but instead of your answer, he took a bite of the piece himself. "It is. Mmh..."

"Mmh..."

You both burst into laughter. Little cake pieces ashamedly flew out of your mouth into the air.

"That sounded---"

"Sexual?" He said interrupting you. You playfully slapped his arm.

"Kiddish." You said sounding unimpressed. He took another sip from the cup.

"I guess... Inception? Should we watch it?"

You coughed at the suggestion, "I am seriously not putting that much pressure on my brain at midnight."

He again started scrolling through the laptop. "WALL-E?"

"I have watched it too many times. Haven't you?"

"Well... I have too." He clicked his tongue keeping his finished mug and plate on the side table and rolling over his belly. "Why don't you choose?" Finishing off your eatables you laid by his side trying to find a suitable movie along with him but ended up closing off the account unable to decide. His eyes suddenly lit up seeing your desktop.

"Gosh. You got Need For Speed. We should play this!" He said looking at the game folder.

"It's almost three?!"

"Please Please. Been a long time. And it's better to play with a competitor." He looked at you with pleading eyes but his body radiated childish excitement.

"Not in the mood." You yawned.

"I will let you win."

"Oh ho ho. You will lose anyway." You said getting offended.

"Prove it then... coward." He said turning his head to the other side but the smirk on his lips was clearly visible.

"What did you call me?" You asked in a low tone, raising a single eyebrow. He slowly turned his head back to look at you. He shrugged his shoulders.

"You know yourself." He bit his lower lip trying to suppress the giggles that were emerging from the pit of his stomach.

"We'll play it on my play station. And we'll be celebrating my big victory." You stood up and shuffled the items in the cupboard producing the gaming console.

***

"So how is it going so far, Ms. Y/n Y/ln?" Harrison sneered looking at your side profile from the game screen for a second. A soft giggle escaped his lips as he saw you focusing on the game as if your life depended on it.

"Don't disturb me, Osterfield. Your ass is soon gonna be kicked," You replied pushing the joystick to the left while your body tilted to the right.

"And... Boom!" He yelled throwing the gaming controller on the cushion as his car crossed the finishing line. You rolled your eyes at his actions keeping your own controller aside.

"What's the score? What's the score?... Harrison five. Y/n? Huh?" He nudged your elbow making your eyes roll.

"Two," You maintained an unimpressed expression, instantly accompanied by a yawn.

"Nah. Sleepiness won't be an excuse for your poor performance." He said looking at you, remembering how you used the same excuse an hour before.

"It's almost six in the morning div. I genuinely want to sleep. The rain started and even stopped!" You actually sounded sleepy and you rubbed your tired eyes.

"Right," He mumbled pressing his lips into a thin line. He was having so much fun. For the first time in years he wasn't feeling out of place or lonely, he definitely never wanted these moments to end. But on the other side, he should be glad that these wonderful moments do end. They should end because that's the only way he hoped he won't get too attached to your presence.

But wasn't he already? The two sides of his brain were at war. Just three days with you and he was falling down the sky. He thought he had already fallen but somehow landed on a thin wire which he was gripping with his life but now that wire was broken and he was falling again. Falling down from that height must be hurtful. But he wanted to touch the ground, feel the grass underneath his feet, but there were more chances of him falling into the quicksand. And surprisingly falling into the quicksand doesn't hurt, unlike the green floor. But later quicksand would engulf him, choke him and take away his life. Yes, his brain was at war and he knew— wars bring destruction.

He followed you into the bedroom where you got into the covers and he took the responsibility to clear the debris of the snacks and then carefully placed the laptop on the table. He removed his t-shit and you snorted at the sight.

"You like to show off your abs, isn't it?" Your comment was definitely snarky. He wetted his lips and looked at you, your eyes were already closed.

"They are already gone." He said getting inside the covers with you.

"What's gone?" You mumbled shifting lightly in the bed.

"My abs. Ate for two months. No gym either. My next TV show shoot starts in May, I'll have to work extremely hard in the gym to get them back." He said closing his eyes too.

"Your family must be proud of you." Your voice was almost a whisper but he heard it and also heard the fact that it sounded sad.

"What do' you mean?" His eyes fluttered open and eyebrows concentrated in the middle. His eyes met yours and he noticed the tears welling. You instantly turned and faced the other side.

"It's just... I am a loser." Your voice sounded cracked within turn made his heart crack.

"Hey, hey. What are you talking about?" He asked even when he knew and shifted closer to you.

"I sometimes think I should... stop with the designing thing. It's not working."

"No. I have already told you that your designs are amazing and---"

"I just edited the designs of the previous designer. It was just a dummy work." You sighed.

"I have seen your notebook, I have seen your creativity." He said pausing for a moment, "First look at me."

"No." Your voice was extremely scratchy. He shook you by your arm lightly but you didn't budge.

"Please Y/n. Look at me," He pleaded. And you did turn to look at his blue eyes with your teary ones, feeling vulnerable under his gaze.

"Hey. Don't cry," His voice was so soft, just like his fingers that wiped off the tears from your face. He then cupped your face in his hands. "It took me at least one thousand auditions to get my first role, and that role wasn't even a speaking one. It takes talent and patience. Be patient, love." He said softly.

"You're so good with this." You said, your tears finally paused.

"Good with what?"

"Talk." You produced a little smile. He giggled at the compliment.

"By the way, I am really sorry." You said. He furrowed his brows at your words. "I was just sleepy and then was crying. I must have annoyed you."

"No. Not at all." He said removing his hands from your face but then he felt your fingers running across his exposed arm, a shiver ran down his spine. You shifted closer to his chest and pressed your face to his body. His hands involuntarily held your back and kept you closer as you cuddled into him. The scent of soap radiating from his body made you feel even calmer. He slowly closed his eyes.

"Thank you for the date, Harrison. I had a great time... with you." You mumbled into his chest while he combed your hairs with his fingers.

Me too... He replied in his mind, knowing he won't get nightmares this time.

@asmilinghopelessromantic // @just-a-littlebit-of-everything // @xximaweirdoxx // @jjasalem // @cordiebirdy // @wizliar // @justasmisunderstoodasloki // @veronicas-littleworld // @acceptance07 // @ghostspf // @screeching-student-unknown // @fanficscuziranout // @miraclesoflove // @trustfundparker // @emcsii04 // @yourmum792 // @skymoonandstardust // @nxdxh* // @httplayer @lizzyosterfield // @tomhaz // @gioandreolli // @girl1sstuff

#harrison osterfield #haz osterfield #harrison osterfield imagine #harrison osterfield fanfic #harrison osterfield fanfiction #haz osterfield imagine #haz osterfield fanfic #haz osterfield fanfiction #harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield x you #harrison osterfield x y/n #haz osterfield x reader #haz osterfield x y/n #faking falling

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itsthe-neo-zone · 4 years

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Wands and Potions - NCTdream & WayV

Please read the Masterlist before continuing ahead with the chapter.

Warnings: read the warnings in the masterlist linked above, song recommendations can be found there too.

A/N: Thank you to those who appreciate and support this piece of work! You know who you are, and thank you to my wonderful followers and taglist! you make this possible.

Chapter 16:

“I wanted to ask you about something.” Selene whispered; she didn’t have to be loud; she was sitting on the edge of a log in the clearing near the edge of a small island on the black lake.

“Fire away,” Yangyang was behind her, plaiting her soft locks, the feeling of the gold-like shimmer beneath his hands calmed him slightly. He was about to reveal his thoughts and deepest desires to her.

“Is it true, the whole dark arts thing.” She breathed out Yangyang could feel how she visibly tensed beneath his gaze. He looked down at her shoulders, the way they curved in slightly. She felt vulnerable around him. “You’re taught the dark arts?”

The exasperated sigh she heard from him was worrying her and his silence increased the level of anxiety in her tenfold. She felt his slender fingers let go of the strands of hair she let cascade down.

She had ever gone this far away from castle alone. “Yes,” he murmured; he took his steps to come stand before her. “I’ve done things… that are regrettable, but I’d never try to harm anyone.” Crouching to be at eye level he looked into her eyes with full sincerity.

“It’s alright.” she crooked her head to the side breathing out, the stray strands of her hair fell down past her eyes “You’re not scared?” he asked puzzled, his eyes wavered slightly looking anywhere but her.

“No,” pulling up all her courage she smiled at him, assuring the slender figure before her. “I’m not.”

“Even if I tell you I know of the unforgiveable curses.” He was a little sceptical in mentioning them.

“Even if you tell me about those.” Selene didn’t hesitate she answered immediately letting him know she trusted him, it scared her a little, but she believed he was good inside. He never judged her for being a half-blood and although it was difficult for him, he maintained their friendship.

“So, why did you bring me here?” Selene looks around. She knew of her whereabouts, but she was confused, why specifically here?

The two continued walking along the path into the woodland sitting on the island, the neighbouring patch of land had the grave of the preceding headmaster of Hogwarts. They began talking, Yangyang explaining what he believed and where his affiliations lied.

“Gellert Grindelwald was right. He had a plan to keep us away from hiding. All wizard kind. Durmstrang students look up to him, we recognised him as our leader.” Yangyang glanced around, they wandered off into the main coppice, letting themselves get caught in the magnificence of the nature.

“Do you think like him, do you believe that wizard kind deserve to rule, that it’s your birthright?” Selene was wondering, she wanted to understand what he believed to be his right. She wanted to get her thoughts around his ideals and beliefs.

“I do.” He walked up to a certain tree gathering from its leaking sap. “Tree sap must be quite rare where you come from.” she comically pondered, Yangyang grinned turning to face her “Just a hobby.”

“So, you think there are powerful wizarding families that would be willing to continue Grindelwald’s noble work?”

“Definitely, I’m surprised your family isn’t in on it too.” Selene chuckle; she thought of her obsessive blood supremacist mother and her family.

“Don’t be, I’m sure they’re a part of it, my family is intense when it comes to this kind of ordeals.”

[01:36PM]

Selene had been spending the rest of the free afternoon she had in the empty potions room. Professor Giverlein left the empty room letting her know there were no more potions classes that day leaving her with everything she could ever need.

“There’s no way I’m going to get this?” Selene whined thrusting her digits past the sides of her head rubbing her sore scalp. She was beyond stressed.

Sleepless nights, Chenle and his problems on one side. Rose and Albus with their family stress on the other; her own family ordeals tugging at her, the prophecy the portrait spoke about, the lestrange manor invitation, Yangyang and his affiliations to the return of the Ancient Sacred 28 and then Scorpius and his solemn depression. Selene was trying to solve too many problems at once.

She felt as if it was all coming back, as if the matters were taking her physical body and heath as tribute she was going to regurgitate. Holding it in, she lifted the elixir the potion she had been working on secretly aside her schoolwork.

The bitter after taste was awful but she withstood it for the benefits the potion would give her. This was old magic; you’d give something up for the taking of another. In this case it was her blood.

Selene hid the bubbling liquid in the cauldron, she lifted the rusty metal towards her shelf setting a lid on top and pushing it inwards quickly to sheath the brewing of the elixir. She took her seat back at the edge of the table.

Selene was reminded of the tournament happening from the exaggerated shouts and yells from the harbouring window. The voices came from students a year or two older, closer to Yangyang’s age. Selene sat there dazed for a moment. It was getting closer to the winter break, meaning the deadline for the potion project was creeping nearer.

Playing with the leaves of the daisy root; Selene remembered what she had gone through to get the foliage. She recalled what Chenle did for her. He saved her from the hell she was going through, twice. That should prove that he cares.

But why do I still hate him for his harsh words and cold demeanour?

[06:17PM]

[Selene Pov]

“I got your message. What is it?” I rushed to the library. Moving past tables I saw a crouched lyra she was shaking, and I mean shaking. Almost vibrating.

“What on earth happened. And why did you send that idiot Irene to tell-” I stopped my whining because I realised this was real, she was in tears and it looked like anymore and she’d lose it all. I lifted her up swinging the robes she had on the floor over her shoulder blades.

Olivia comes rushing into the library, I could hear the frantic panic in her voice as she desperately wanders about the immense hall of the library.

“Oh thank heavens you’re here!” I speak agitatedly my voice breaking, “Olivia what’s happening to her.”

“He found out!” Olivia crouched she grabbed the girls palm, “Hopefully this works.” She pulled an elixir out of the robes pocket taking a couple drops and setting them on the girls wrist.

“Who found out?” I was panicking, I should be keeping my calm but the view before my own two eyes was scaring me.

“Se-Selene, he saw, it- I didn’t. he saw E-everything.” I hushed her, “It’s alright, I understand. We’ll solve this.”

It looked like Olivia understood what lyra was blabbering about, the rush in her hands and movements forced me to lift the dropped unknown potion and take care of the small container and its excess drops.

“I’ll explain later but you have to get Scorpius right now. Do whatever you need to do he must come here right now.” I nod already running off I pushed past the main library doors not caring or even asking questions on my Scorpius had to be there.

I was running even faster than I had when I heard Scorpius’ voice in my head, using every force I had in the rest of my body I managed to clear the thoughts for a couple more seconds sending a energy fuelled message to the blond slytherin boy.

“Where are you going?” Jade yelled after my speeding self, she watched me turn towards the dungeons of the castle, following she tried to catch up but as a speeding bolt, the only thing she caught was my maroon hair trailing off behind me.

I reached the entrance of the Slytherin common room. It was guarded by two gargoyle statures and a password. Never being down here before; I panicked. Lyra didn’t look like she had much time before she was out.

Catching sight of the one person I didn’t want to be around, I groaned. Why him, why Chenle of all freaking people? It just had to work that way, turning around to face him I forcibly pushed down any form of resentment and dignity I had.

“Where is Scorpius?”

“Look what the snake swallowed? It’s Selene Adams, have you come to apologise?” Jisung who was next to the blond spat smirking, the smug grin on his face annoying me more than it should.

“I’m not here to apologise to anyone.” I glared back at him; his words made me feel like shit. “Where’s Scorpius, Chenle?” I repeated my question my body language visibly showing I was under a time limit.

“Tell me?”

“Selene they’re not going to help.” The familiar echo from behind me voiced down the damp and dreary corridor. “Jade please help me, lyra has fallen and Olivia sent me to get Scorpius, its urgent.”

She nodded pushing past the two; specifically Jisung. “Ill get him now, wait out here.”

“Be fast. Please!”

I paced up and down the width of the small corridor, Jisung’s face immediately changed realisation dawned over his sharp features and he quickly followed the dark raven female; leaving the blond boy standing a meter away from me.

It felt awkward. I didn’t want to talk to him or even be around him. Though I could feel his penetrating gaze it pervaded my head trying to understand my thoughts, defiling me.

“Stop that.”

“What? Stop what?” he sneered his voice was back to the usual the voice he always had; the softness that was once there when we were at the mansion was nowhere to be found. I guess snakes venom spreads fast, especially of that snake is Rosier.

“Your staring.” I snapped back.

“So now I can’t use my eyes, and who said I take orders from you? Filthy half breed.” His words took me back to the times I’d let myself be lectured and broken down by him.

I wasn’t going to answer but the look of pure aggravation on my face said enough. Watching the now appeared Scorpius drag me off was enough to let it slide, lyra was more important anyways.

“You can tell me what happened later and why I’m desperately needed when Lyra’s the one in trouble but now we need to get to her as fast as possible.”

After pulling Scorpius on a wild goose chase to the library then noticing Olivia took Lyra to the lunch table on the outside of the castle gates and into the gardens past the wooden bridge. I had finally made it completely emphysematous.

“What is it, what is going on?” the blond boy was extremely confused and shocked. His movements were extremely erratic.

“You’re going to have to sit through this one, Scorpius.” Olivia spoke she was hesitant. Weary to all his reactions.

“Do I go? Or what do I…” after catching enough breath I ask the unanswered question. It seemed like this was a private ordeal, I was unsure of whether it seemed ok for me to be here.

“You’re related to him; he may need some ‘moral support’ through this.” Olivia hissed she was put in an uncomfortable position; I could see it myself. She lifted the lifeless right arm that belonged to lyra.

The cold wind brushing past our stiff bodies allowed me to lean into Scorpius for warmth and comfort. Though I think he was the one who needed comfort now, he looked extremely anxious.

“Do you know what’s happening?” I look into his eyes leaning over his shoulder. Scorpius gleams smiling lightly at my pouted facial expression.

“You look cute.” He mumbles, pulling me down to sit next to him. He sighed, it seemed like he had a rough day today. “To be completely honest, I don’t know what this is about, but I have a bad feeling about this if my predictions are correct.”

The unease was evident in the way he stations himself waiting for Lyra to wake from her deep slumber.

“Why did you ask me to bring him here?” My question was directed to Olivia, but I couldn’t take my eyes of Lyra her tired and overworked emotional toll showing through her face. I was stupid not to notice, the glimmer once in her soft eyes no longer there.

“I should have been there for her like she did for me.” I muttered voice breaking, it sounded weaker than it should have. Watching the ravenclaw witch wake her up from the antidote of the elixir she looked shaken and dissipated.

“Selene, Scorpius?” her voice was barely above a whisper, lyra woke up but she was still in a haze. “I’ll let Lyra explain, just give her time to awaken.” Olivia added letting lyra sit up, I moved to help the brunette witch. My friend, a sister to me.

After giving her a few moments to calm I spoke up nudging her to speak gently. She had energized just enough to talk. But as soon as she looked up and into Scorpius’ eyes the tears started. He was shocked, his lips trembling wanting to say something but unable to speak.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” I was truly disordered, completely flummoxed. The two were reacting lie they had shared some sort information. Everyone was reacting strangely. Even Jade was understanding her eyes flashed when she heard of Lyra being hurt.

“I think I know, but I’m unsure…” Scorpius was as still as a stone sculpture at this moment. “And it’s scaring me.” He breathed looking at her weak shivering fingers before him, they laid on the table as she sobbed, “Is it a possibility that I’m- I mean, that you’re…

Her voice was incredibly shaky, she yearned to hug him but it was difficult... Everything was telling her not to push his limits.

“I wanted to, -really- I wanted to tell you for so long. But fath-father didn’t let me. He kept me away too. I’m so sorry.”

@ajuniceuajuniceu @kkuljungwoo @sensiblebutch @kangkinoa @nctzen2020 @mystic-jungkook @merryandhappylele @bcbymingi @mochischeeks @rilakunma @jaehyunspaghetti @commentgirl @99jjh @johnnys-wifeu @misaraem @apricottulips @h2ogamergirl @angelsnowflake

#nctdream series #wayv senarios #kpop fanfic #nct hogwarts au #nct chenle #wayv yangyang #NCT 127 #nct fanfic #nct wayv #wayv x reader

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monstersandmaw · 5 years

Text

Orctober #3 - male half-orc x male character (nsfw) ‘Bait’

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Orctober stories One and Two are up on Patreon (linked below), and this has been previewed on there too, and has had some truly wonderful comments that just made my day, so there might be a part two in the offing now. We’ll see.

Anyway, it’s a bit different in terms of format - it's not a reader insert, but I hope that doesn't matter.

It's a whopping 6914 words long, and I had an absolute blast writing it, so I really hope you enjoy reading it!! I know that 'Josslyn' is a female sounding name, but it's what this prince wanted to be called, so that's his name. :) I think it suits him anyway.

1. 'Ring' - male orc (Liam) x plus size female reader (very light nsfw) 2. 'Mindless’ - female orc (Khara) x male reader (nsfw)

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A silver-trimmed banner caught and snagged in the night breeze as the crown prince strode along the battlements of his father’s castle. The old king’s words still rang in his ears and he ground his teeth, breathing hard and fighting the urge to shout, to yell, to cry. Where was the man who had raised him? The man who had played with him, taught him to ride his first pony, and helped him with his tutor’s tasks when he’d struggled? The man who had taught him the meaning of the ideals of justice and loyalty, of servitude to the people? How could old age ravage a man so much in the mind while taking so little from his body?

The king was in his seventies, having had Josslyn later in life than many had expected, after his first queen had died in childbirth, leaving no heir. The king had the body of a man ten years younger, but the mind of a man a decade older. Joss had tried to keep his father’s unpredictable nature hidden from the council and from the people, and so far all that they had suspected was that the long-running war with the orcish peoples in the neighbouring kingdom was taking its toll on him, forcing him to become harder, stricter in a time of strife.

A guard nodded his resepcts at him as he passed and muttered, “Highness,” to which the prince responded with a small smile and a bow of his head as he swept past, his long, night blue cloak swirling behind him, the wind lifting his long black hair off his face.

A shout and commotion from the courtyard below brought two guards hurrying to his side as he peered down from the wall, but he waved them away with a gentle gesture and watched as a tall, rather bedraggled figure was hauled out from the guards’ supply room in the outer bailey and dumped in the freezing mud beside the castle well. Spear-tips were poised at his throat immediately, and as the flickering light of a wrought-iron brazier illuminated his features, Josslyn saw that he looked orcish, though somewhat more delicate than the brutes who currently inhabited the castle dungeons and gladiatorial rings across the country.

Scuttling silently down one of the nearby stone staircases, the prince emerged in time to hear the guards demanding who the creature was and what the hell he was doing sneaking around the royal castle at midnight. Josslyn wanted to know how the hell he’d got into the castle to begin with.

“Please,” the captive choked, his eyes screwed almost shut as a spear point hovered above his Adam’s apple, “Please, I only came looking… for… for work… I thought…”

“You thought we’d hire something like you? The king doesn’t employ beasts, not even to clean the latrines!” one of the guards sneered.

The prince approached at a steady walk, partly cloaked by the shadows of the courtyard and partly by the thick fabric of his heavy robes. “Why did you come here of all places?” he demanded of the orc and the guards startled at his sudden appearance.

“Your Highness, please,” one of them warned, holding out a protective arm between the captive and the crown prince. “We caught this half-breed orc sniffing around our supplies.”

“He managed to find a way past the gates - outwitting all the guards - and he speaks intelligently,” the prince said, staring at him with hard, black eyes, “And yet you still treat him like a cornered granary rat.”

“They’re all vermin,” the guard said, cheeks flushed with humiliation, jabbing the half-orc in the sternum with the butt of his spear and driving the wind from his chest.

“Stop,” Josslyn said in a voice of quiet command that stilled them all instantly. “Take him to the upper cells, and see that he’s fed and given water and a blanket, and some clean, dry clothes. I want to know exactly what he was doing here, but he’s in no condition to be questioned at the moment. Look at him.”

The guards returned their attention to their miserable captive and saw the way he shivered, his clothes sodden - presumably from swimming the moat - with the fabric clinging to his relatively slim body. With orcish blood, he should have been built like a mythical hero from a maiden’s tale, but Josslyn suspected that he saw high elf in the half-breed’s slender ears and delicate bone-structure. No high elf could bulk up, no matter how much meat he ate or how many press-ups he did, and unfortunately for the orc, it seemed he had inherited that trait from his elven parent.

“Highness?” the guard with his spear at the half-orc’s throat whispered. “You… You cannot be serious…?”

Josslyn simply turned his polished jet eyes on the guard and the man nodded once.

“Of course. Forgive me. It will be done as you say.”

The crown prince watched them haul the mysterious half-breed to his feet and lead him away. He stumbled and staggered, shaking violently from the cold as the chill of the mid-autumn night sank into his sodden clothes and skin, but he risked a glance over his shoulder and smiled gratefully at Josslyn. In answer, the prince nodded once and let his eyes fall to the spot in the mud where he’d been lying, his mind working.

An hour later, fighting the prickling tiredness in his eyes as midnight became one in the morning, Joss headed down to the cells and as he peered through the barred opening in the heavy wooden door of the cell, he found that the prisoner had been housed exactly as he’d commanded. He’d wrapped himself in a moth-eaten blanket but beneath it Joss could see the royal blue of a guard’s uniform, and beside the low, rickety bed was an empty wooden plate and set neatly atop it was a wooden beaker.

The prince had the guards unlock it and then he knocked before stepping inside. A guard tried to follow him in, only obeying protocol, but Josslyn asked her to wait outside. Reluctantly, the woman obeyed, and left the crown prince, the sole heir of the entire kingdom alone in a cell with a strange half-orc.

“Are you warmer now?” the prince asked as the orc rose shakily, woken by the rattling key in the lock.

“Yes, thank you, Highness,” he said, bowing low.

“Rise,” he snapped. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“My name is Tamas,” he said in a croaky baritone. Everything about him spoke of submission; the slope of his hunched shoulders, the angle of his head, his down-turned gaze - it was as if he were perpetually awaiting a blow to the back of the head. His hair was a muddy brown, shaved above his pointed ear on the left side of his head and falling loose and long to his shoulder on the right. He had a small, pale scar on his left cheekbone, and his skin was a muddy green, not dissimilar to the colour of the moat in high summer.

“And what are you doing here?” the prince pressed patiently.

Tamas took a deep breath and said, “I… I ran away from… I’ve been travelling for months… I thought…”

“Sit down,” the prince commanded, and the orc dropped heavily onto the bed behind him, knees simply giving way. His exhaustion appeared to be more mental than physical. “You are not full orc, are you?” the prince asked and Tamas shook his head.

“No, Highness. My mother was a woodland elf. Her people left me to die in the way of all unwanted elven children; she set me adrift in a basket on the river and I was picked up by an orcish mother miles downstream. She had lost her own child and thought to raise me. But… orcs are not kind to those of ‘watered down blood’. I…” he turned his gaze up and the prince was surprised to note that his eyes were a dark sapphire blue. In a strange way, he was quite beautiful, he supposed; a thought which surprised him all over again. All this he kept carefully hidden behind his usual mask of calm control.

“So you finally ran away,” the prince supplied. “And you decided to come here? To the enemy of your father’s people? Hardly the safest choice for you, I’d wager…”

Tamas nodded. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“Alight,” the prince said, folding his arms across his chest. “What services could you offer the crown?”

The half-orc lowered his head again and stared at his hands. The index finger of his left hand was crooked, as though it had been badly broken in the past and poorly set. He sighed, rubbing the knuckle, and said, “I am good with horses and animals,” he said, “But I can read and write and do arithmetic. I could help wherever is needed.”

“I doubt my father will make you his personal valet,” the prince snorted, amused. “But I will think on where to place you. For now, rest. The guards have been instructed not to bother you, but you understand why I must keep you in here a little longer?”

Again, he nodded. “I do, Highness. And… thank you…”

“I haven’t made you any promises,” he warned him.

“Perhaps not, but you have given me a chance. You’re the first person to treat me… well… not like an animal, since the border.”

“I presume folks thought you were a runaway slave?”

“Yes,” he said and shuddered.

With a final nod, the prince left him and gratefully began to make his way up to his chambers. Undressing alone in the simple finery of his room, he thought about the half-orc and realised he had had no idea how orcs treated their own. For all that they had been at war for nearly six years now, he knew next to nothing about their culture. As he lay down beneath the soft sheets and let the deep pillows cushion his royal head, he mused that it might be wise to use this half-orc to learn about their enemy’s culture. Surely if he’d been treated so abominably that he’d run straight to their enemy’s stronghold for shelter, Tamas would be willing to help him?

Thus a hesitant relationship was forged between prince and captive. Tamas was housed in a room in the servants’ quarters - much to their distaste - and to begin with, for an hour every day, he was released and attended the prince in his own chambers to instruct him in the nature and traditions of the orcish nation.

Josslyn was surprised to learn that Tamas had a wicked sense of humour, and that he was also rather fond of reading. After that, the prince asked him to accompany him to the library, and in a relatively short couple of months, the two had become tentative friends. Josslyn encouraged Tamas to speak out truthfully with his opinions to the prince, though only in private, and the two frequently engaged in lengthy and in-depth discussions late into the night. Josslyn still carried a dagger with him at all times, but he soon forgot about it. In time, the half-orc became something of a legend in the castle - the ‘sentient beast’ and the ‘prince’s pet’ were two of the kinder titles he acquired, but he promised Josslyn that he didn’t mind.

“I’m happy to have a roof over my head and a purpose before me,” he said meekly one afternoon when the prince brought it up again as the two of them sat in comfortable chairs in a side room of the library. It was a rare day off for the prince, and having spent the last week in the infirmary visiting the soldiers who returned from the front with horrific injuries, dealt largely by orcish weapons, he was grateful for the quiet and peace of the ancient hall of learning.

Tamas had offered to accompany him, but the prince had suggested that his might not be a face to show to the recently-returned warriors, and the half-orc had accepted without question, apologising for his insensitivity.

The prince felt those sapphire blue eyes on him again and he glanced up from his book to find his new friend staring at him. “What?” he asked gently.

The half-orc smiled, the gesture stretching around the short, almost slender tusks which protruded from his lower jaw. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed in weeks, that’s all,” he said, a warmth to his tone that struck Joss deeply. “It’s nice.”

He snorted and then drew in a deep breath. “I’m tired, Tam. I’m tired of this war and I’m tired of the toll it’s taking on my people. I want an end to it, but I don’t know how. I don’t know - after all I’ve learned from you and from visiting the front myself - how we can make a bridge with them, make peace with a culture so different.”

Tamas’ face showed obvious surprise and a small amount of shock. He closed the book in his hands and leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze met the prince’s directly. “You’ve visited the front?”

“Of course,” Joss said, a frown playing on his dark brows. “I wouldn’t be much of a leader if I sat at home in my comfortable castle while my people threw themselves at the orcish lines like the sea against the cliffs, would I?”

“Forgive me,” Tam murmured. “I… I didn’t mean to question your integrity. I’m just surprised. I’m sorry.”

Josslyn laughed and set his book down on the table beside his chair. “Come, let’s get a glass of wine. The sun’s going down and we’ve been sat here for hours. I need to stretch my legs.”

Tam stood, still looking a little stunned, as though his every belief had been called into question.

He was slow to follow his friend and the prince paused. “You alight?” Josslyn asked, laying a hand on Tam’s elbow.

The orc swallowed visibly and turned his searing blue gaze to the point where the two of them touched. His eyes then darted up to meet the prince’s and he smiled, though his dark skin still looked a little pallid. “Yes,” he croaked. “I’m sorry. Yes.”

“Come then,” he said again and walked away, leaving Tamas to stare after him for a moment before hurrying to catch up.

One evening, after the Beltane feast that marked the start of summer, Josslyn left the feast early. His father was being truly obnoxious, though mercifully this time he was only trying to get the crown prince to flirt with some visiting duchess or other, but Josslyn was having none of it. Tamas had not been invited to the celebrations, for obvious reasons, and Josslyn found himself aching for the easy rapport the two of them had built over the seven months or so that they had now known each other.

Instead of going to the servants’ quarters and bothering them all like a fox in a chicken coop, the prince headed to the privacy of the royal courtyard garden at the rear of the castle. Only those who tended the plants and members of the royal family were allowed here, and yet, as he sat on a stone bench with his head in his hands, he heard footsteps approaching.

Glancing up, his hand twitching towards the dagger at his hip, he nearly shot to his feet before he realised who it was. “Tamas?” he breathed. “What are you doing in here? You know this place is off limits…”

“Invite me to stay and I won’t be trespassing,” he smiled playfully. “But seriously, I’ll go if you want to be alone.”

“No,” Joss sighed, his spine slackening as he slumped back down on his bench. “Don’t go. How did you know to come here?”

“I was on my way back from the library when I saw you leaving the great hall. You looked thoroughly miserable… May I sit?”

“Of course,” he said, gesturing at the bench beside him. “Did you find anything interesting to read?”

“Mmm,” he hummed quietly, the deep sound somehow going straight through Josslyn. The quiet warmth of Tam’s presence beside him comforted him beyond expressing, and he leaned sideways and rested his body against Tamas’ side, his head falling to lie on Tam’s shoulder.

The half-orc’s hand suddenly slid over his own where it lay in his lap and he squeezed the prince’s fingers gently in his large grip.

“Tam,” Josslyn rasped, tears filling his eyes. “I’m so tired…”

“I know,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes every day. You give so much of yourself to your people. You take no time for yourself.”

There was soft wonder in his tone and Josslyn barked a quiet laugh. “It’s my duty as crown prince, Tam. My father, before he began to change, made me learn my duties young.” He sighed again and added, “I learned the oath I’ll take when I ascend the throne when I was only five. I had no idea what it meant then, but I do now.”

Tam’s arm came round his shoulders then and he held him close. “My people were entirely wrong about you,” he said very quietly.

“How so?”

He didn’t speak immediately, but the silence told Josslyn he was considering his words carefully. Another stereotype shattered, he thought as he realised just how deeply this half-orc cared about the words he spoke and the meaning behind them. “The orcs say you are little more than a spoiled, selfish brat of a princeling who spends his days watching orcs fight in the pits or being tended to by a harem of naked elven women… They did get one thing right about you though,” he added with a wry smile.

“Oh?” Joss asked, too tired to respond to the first comments, ridiculous as they were.

Tam chuckled and said, “They say you’re as beautiful as one of the fae. Apparently because your previous queen died and the kingdom had no heir, your father made a pact with the fae for you.”

Josslyn’s laugh rang around the courtyard, echoing off the statuary. He sat up and regarded Tamas with glittering dark eyes. “And here I thought ‘beauty’ to an orc was brute strength and an unquenchable bloodlust…”

Tamas shrugged. “Good thing I’m not a full orc then.”

The chill evening air had gradually become charged during their conversation, and Josslyn felt his lips parting slightly as he stared up at Tamas. The half-orc wasn’t much taller than the crown prince, but he had a few inches on him; enough to make Josslyn tilt his head back so that his hair fell down to tickle the hand that Tamas still had pressed to his back, though now it rested at the base of his spine.

Slowly, hesitantly, as though he would be shot full of arrows from the rooftops if he dared go through with it, Tamas leaned down and the two brushed their lips together in the briefest of kisses. The fleeting touch sent the blood straight to Joss’ groin and his breath hitched in his chest. “Tam,” he breathed.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, wide-eyed, wrenching himself back and standing, staggering as he half turning to go. “I’m… I shouldn’t…”

“Wait,” Josslyn commanded, standing and drawing himself to his full height. “Wait,” he said again, more gently, stepping over to him. He took his hand and tightened his grip.

The kiss that followed was all fierce, pent-up emotion and passion, and Josslyn found himself backed against the huge marble plinth of a statue of a faun, with Tamas chasing kiss after kiss. The half-orc hooked one of Joss’ legs around his hips and then picked him up, pinning him against the masonry hard enough to knock the breath from him. The prince gasped as Tamas ground his solid length against his own hardening cock through their trousers, and his head rolled back. Tamas shot out a hand to cup the back of the prince’s head before he clonked it on the stonework behind him, and Joss smiled bashfully at him.

They paused then, frozen in place, both breathing hard. “You… You want…?” Tamas asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” the prince whispered.

Kissing him one last time, Tamas backed off, setting the prince back on his feet, and the two of them readjusted themselves sheepishly as best they could before making their way through back stairwells and corridors to his private chambers.

No sooner had the door closed and the latch locked than the two of them were entangled again. They shed their clothes between the door and the bed, and Josslyn ran his palms over Tamas’ slim, lean chest, marvelling at the wiry strength of the half-orc who shuddered and gasped beneath the explorative touches of the prince. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and as his chest heaved, Joss could see the muscles move beneath his green skin, his dark nipples hard and his cock dampening a spot in his underwear.

They fell backwards onto his huge bed in a tangle of limbs, and Joss tugged off the last of Tam’s clothes to free his impressive erection. Hard, the vein along its length full and prominent, his cock wept pre-come freely now, twitching as Josslyn stared openly at him.

“How… How do you want to do this?” the prince asked breathily.

In answer, Tamas parted his legs a little and the prince smiled, reaching across the orc’s prone body to his bedside drawers for a small vial of oil. Somehow he hadn’t expected Tamas to be the one wanting to take it, but he was too worked up to comment or mind.

When he slicked one finger with oil and slid it inside the orc, Tamas grunted and drove his head back into the bed, his legs falling wider apart, his cock bobbing eagerly as his hips bucked upwards into the intrusion. With his free hand, Joss dribbled more oil down the length of Tamas’ cock and then worked him with both hands until Tam was panting and grunting and cursing in orcish.

Josslyn knew only enough of the language to recognise it as orcish, and he leaned forwards, sliding his fingers out of Tam for a moment and earning a keening whine from him at the loss. In his sensitive ear he whispered, “You’re going to have to translate that for me, Tamas.”

“I said…” he gasped, struggling to speak as the prince returned his finger to him and caressed the bundle of sensitive nerves inside him, “I… I need to you fuck me… Highness.” His voice was beautifully unsteady and his eyes were screwed shut. His cock wept pre-come onto his hard abs, and he was squirming, desperate for more.

“You’re not quite ready yet,” Josslyn said, and this time he slid three fingers into the orc, stretching him, working him open until he was growling openly at him to fuck him.

Running his slick palm over his own cock and gasping at the sudden stimulation, Josslyn lined himself up and nudged into the ready heat. Already Tamas’ head lolled to one side. “Please?” he hissed, bucking weakly upwards, eyes opening a little as he half sat up in an attempt to guide Josslyn further inside him.

In one motion, Josslyn seated himself to the hilt inside Tam and the orc yelled with pleasure and immediately began to shake.

“Please, please, please,” he chanted until Joss began to move.

Slowly at first, he savoured the immense tightness of the orc around him, the heat, the shaking muscles desperate for release, but then he changed his angle slightly and Tamas let out another bellow of pleasure. Hitting him repeatedly in that sweet spot, the prince picked up his pace and lowered his head with the effort. His long hair fell forwards and started to stick to the sheen of sweat that had begun to form on Tam’s chest as he got more and more worked up.

The orc’s cock bounced between them, untouched and drooling as he clutched at the sheets beneath him and growled incoherently. “I’m…” he snarled. “Please!” Despite the pleasure of Joss’ cock repeatedly pounding into his prostate, it wasn’t quite enough.

“Are you going to come for me if I touch you?” Joss hissed, breathless and sweaty with exertion and pleasure.

“Yes!” he gasped.

“I’m close,” the prince admitted, the rhythm of his hips faltering.

“Don’t stop,” Tam demanded, but when Joss’ hand wrapped around Tamas’ cock and worked his shaft once, twice, he suddenly went rigid beneath him and spilled over his stomach with a barely stifled scream. His tusks bit deep into the back of his wrist as he fought to keep quiet as he clenched and twitched, and the combination of sound, sight, and sensation tipped the prince over the edge too. He came almost silently, a blinding heat ripping through him as he emptied himself into the half-orc.

Trembling in the aftermath of his orgasm, Josslyn fell forwards onto Tamas’ heaving chest and he whined as he landed on the mess of release smeared over his abs, but he was too tired and too blissed out to care just yet. Tamas’ heartbeat thundered in his ear as he laid his head on his chest and the orc lay there, lax and spent beneath him, breathing hard, eyes closed, one arm on Josslyn’s back, the other palm up and limp on the sheets beside him.

Eventually they grew chilly, and Joss disappeared to clean up in the adjacent bathroom. When he emerged, swathed in a rich black and gold, silk dressing gown, he found that Tamas had fallen asleep exactly where he’d left him, and the prince chuckled fondly. The half-orc was as large as most human warriors, with clearly defined muscles, but the green tone of his skin, the tusks - however small -, the heavy jaw and under-bite, and the tapering of his ears marked him as orcish as clearly as Josslyn’s crown announced his royal blood. The wiry slenderness to Tamas’ body, however, spoke of his elven lineage too. Always an outcast, never belonging, Tamas had nowhere to call home.

Leaning over him, Joss wiped the warm washcloth over the ridges of his abs and over his sharply-defined hips. With a jolt, Tamas woke and sat up and blinked at him for just a heartbeat before he laughed. “You shouldn’t be doing that for me,” he chided groggily, holding out his hand for the cloth.

The prince shook his head, his long hair in disarray.

“Gods, you look so beautiful like that,” Tamas hissed as he stared him up and down.

Josslyn blushed hard and threw the wash cloth at his chest, where it landed with a wet ‘flap’.

Things changed for them after that.

They kept the nature of their relationship a secret, and continued with life in the castle as best they could whilst maintaining their charade. They still held their discussions about orcish culture, though there wasn’t much more for Tamas to teach him by now, though the two had begun studying the language now too. Josslyn had been surprised to learn that it wasn’t the series of simplistic, guttural sounds that he’d always taken it for, and while his grasp of the vocabulary and grammar was solid, Tamas insisted that his accent was appalling.

“I promise not to speak it,” Josslyn murmured one evening as they sat in each other’s arms on the sofa in his private apartment in the castle.

Tamas ran his fingertip over the prince’s lips and whispered, “I wouldn’t want you to sully your beautiful mouth with the language of such brutes,” which earned him a smack on the chest and a playful kiss for his efforts at romance.

As high summer tipped towards autumn again and Tamas remarked that he’d been at the castle for nearly a year, the prince suggested that they go out hunting together. It was customary for there to be a royal hunt as the festival of Mabon approached, and the Royal Guard had just about come to terms with the fact that Tamas wasn’t going to assassinate their beloved prince if left unattended, so the pair of them mounted up amid the baying of hounds and the clatter of hooves on the flagstones of the upper bailey.

The king’s health was not strong enough for him to ride out, but he insisted on being hauled out in his wheeled throne to bless the hunters and wish them success because it was tradition.

The large party of nobles and courtiers and guards all rode out into the woods about a mile from the castle, and the whole thing soon became the usual chaos of bugles and barking, of horses stamping and men shouting.

Tamas guided his large mare expertly up to Josslyn’s side and murmured, “Is this what passes for a hunt amongst humans?”

The prince laughed, knowing it was the large silken tents and the army of servants standing in the field behind waiting to welcome then back to which he was referring. He shrugged. “A royal one, yes.”

“You want to get out of here?”

With a glint in his eye, the prince galloped away with his lover, following old game trails he knew well from adventures as a boy. The two of them soon left the chaos of the hunt well behind, and slowed their mounts to a trot and then an easy walk.

They headed north in companionable silence, enjoying the late summer light beneath the trees, but soon Joss began to notice that Tamas was tense. His horse skittered beneath him, shying at nothing, reacting to the tension and fear in her rider’s posture, snorting and sidestepping.

“Tam?” he asked, his heart rate picking up. “What is it?”

With his heavy jaw set and his eyes fixed on the path ahead, Tamas didn’t reply and Josslyn realised then just how far they had strayed.

“Tamas, we should go back,” he said with more confidence than he felt, reining his horse around. Everything felt wrong. His skin crawled and prickled, and Arrow danced nervously beneath him, the stallion snorting too.

The half-orc held his own mare in place and didn’t follow. He seemed to be warring with himself, his eyes darting back and forth. His chest heaved and his skin had gone deathly pale.

“Tam?” the prince insisted. “What -?”

“Go,” he finally hissed. “Ride. Gallop for home and don’t look back.”

“What?”

“GO!” he roared as the undergrowth erupted behind him and an orcish war horn sounded.

Terror flooded through the prince and he spurred his horse to a flat out gallop as arrows and bolts whistled around them. He heard a scream and a heavy crash from behind him and glanced back to see Tam’s mare go down, throwing him from the saddle.

“No!” he yelled, immediately wheeling Arrow round. The well-trained warhorse obeyed instantly, and as the prince leaned down out of his saddle like a child at a gymkhana, extending his hand to Tam who was sitting up, winded and with an arrow through his shoulder, Joss caught sight of the orcs barrelling towards them through the trees. “Take my hand!” he shouted.

“Go!” Tam gasped.

“I’m not leaving you.”

And with tremendous effort, the half-orc rose and swung himself onto Arrow’s back.

Slowed by the extra weight, the big stallion charged as best he could through the woods. It was a long, painful ride for Tamas, but by the time they erupted out into the meadow, the sounds of pursuit had faded and the orcs appeared to have given up for now. Evening lengthened the shadows as Tamas slumped against Josslyn’s back, breathing hard and holding tight with only one arm.

Once he was sure that they were alone, the prince slowed his sweat-foamed horse to a walk, letting him breathe and stretch out, and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Slowly, in a voice laced with fear and trepidation, he asked, “Tamas, what was that?”

“An orcish outpost,” he said dully.

A horrible thought plunged through the prince’s mind and he forced himself to ask, “Did… Did you know it was there?”

Silence stretched between them before he felt Tamas nod. “Yes.”

“Why?” he gasped, fighting off tears as the world spun around him. “Was that the plan all along? You were going to betray me all along?”

Tam’s arm tightened briefly around the prince’s slim waist before it slackened a little and he pressed his cheek against the soft leather of his riding jerkin. His breath wheezed and rattled wetly as he answered, “I was the bait. I…” but before he could continue, a retinue of guards cantered over the nearest grassy rise towards them.

“My prince?” the captain called. “What… What happened?”

“Orc ambush,” the prince said, his tone hard as steel, miraculously revealing nothing of his emotions.

The captain snarled and signalled to his men. “Seize him,” he said, pointing at Tam. “Get him away from the prince.”

“No,” Josslyn said in that eerily calm voice. “No. He saved my life. Escort us to the palace. He needs medical treatment.”

Tamas had gone very still behind him, but the prince suspected that it wasn’t because he’d lost consciousness.

The events of the next few hours passed in a daze for the prince. The news of the attack on the crown prince weakened the king’s condition so severely that the physicians feared he was not long for this world, and Josslyn spent the next two hours at his father’s side, though he didn’t stir once. Still too numb and empty from the shock of Tamas’ actions to feel anything much for his father, he wandered the castle until he found himself in the infirmary.

Tamas was sleeping in a bed at the far end, his shoulder bandaged, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. No one was about, but there had been guards posted at the doors he noted.

Grabbing a chair and silently setting it down beside the bed, the prince stared at the person he’d thought was his friend. His lover. After all they’d shared, Tamas had just been… bait? He couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.

After perhaps five minutes, Tamas’ blue eyes fluttered open and he stared at Josslyn.

“Why?” The whispered question fell from the prince’s lips before he could stop himself. “Why didn’t you just stab me in my sleep while we lay together all those nights?” His fury mounted inside him and it was a miracle he kept it in check. “If you wanted me dead, why -” he faltered, choking up.

“I don’t,” Tam hissed back. “I mean… I did… That was why I was sent here, but I-”

“They sent you? So everything you told me about yourself was a lie? You manipulated me… Gods,” he said, lurching to his feet and turning away, fists clenched. “I was so stupid.”

The sheets rustled and Tamas sat up awkwardly, resting his back against the wooden headboard behind him as a wave of dizziness swept through him. He breathed hoarsely for a moment, the pain in his shoulder evident. “I was sent here,” he confirmed. “I was supposed to gather information on the castle and household, and then return. But when you took an interest in me… I couldn’t let that opportunity pass. I…” he paused, trying to catch his breath before going on. Josslyn stood there and glared at him. “I sent word of what had changed, and they told me to earn your trust and bring you to that outpost whenever I could.”

The prince’s vision swam and he bit the inside of his cheeks hard enough to taste the ferrous tang of blood. “Why didn't you go through with it then?” he finally whispered.

“Because… I…” Tamas’ blue eyes dropped to the sheets and he stared blankly at them. “Because I never imagined I’d fall in love with you.”

“No,” he snarled. “You don’t get to say something like that after what you did.”

“I know,” he said evenly. “But you asked me why I didn’t let them do it. I never should have led you away from the hunt, but once I had, I felt like there was no going back. My people were counting on me, but then I saw how afraid you were when… how… how what I had done would hurt you more than being taken by them, and…”

“‘Taken’…”

“They weren’t going to kill you,” Tamas said quietly. “They were going to hold you to ransom.”

“Then why the arrows?” he retorted bitterly as he recalled flashes of that dreadful flight through the trees. His eyes landed on the bandages. “They nearly killed you.”

“You didn’t hear what they were shouting after me. They’d kill me now, for sure. If you let me go, they’ll…”

“It’s no more than you deserve,” he growled, but somehow the words didn’t feel right, even as he spoke them aloud.

Tamas looked up at the prince with his eyes glistening. “May I ask you something?”

The prince made a non-committal shrug.

“Why did you your guards that I saved your life? Why am I not hanging from a gallows right now?”

“Because I loved you,” he said. “And because you did save my life. Admittedly, that was immediately after trying to get me killed…”

“‘Loved’?” Of course he’d fixated upon that word. That tense.

Josslyn’s shoulders dropped and he closed his eyes, head bowing. “Love,” he amended. “You hurt me, but… I think… as insane as it sounds, I think I understand why you did it.”

“What?”

“You remember when I told you that I’m a prince but I serve my people?”

Tamas nodded, looking stunned.

“You came here to do for your people what I would do for mine. It’s not my fault that we’re on opposite sides of a war, Tamas.”

Tamas let out the breath he’d been holding and said in a shaky voice, “Months ago, you said that you wanted to bring an end to this war, and you said that you wished you could talk with my people. You wished you could find a way to end it peacefully…”

“I still do,” he said, his hand gripping the back of the chair to keep himself upright. It was all too much to take in in one go.

Tam’s mind was clearly working well enough though. “Perhaps we can do it together?”

“How? The orcs will kill you on sight for betraying them like that.”

“I’ll find a way to explain it,” he said hopelessly.

“Alright, so I herald you as my saviour, the ‘orc with a conscience’… and then what? You think my father will merrily trot over there and ask to begin a peace conference? Don’t be absurd…”

Tamas laughed softly but cut off with a wince. “We would have to wait until you became king,” he said very quietly. “It would take time, but…” he looked up at him. “I hated humans before I met you. You made me fall in love with you despite everything I tried to tell myself. If anyone can win them round, it’s you.”

“You love me despite your better judgement? Is that it?” Josslyn laughed, feeling his chest lighten somehow. He sank down onto the bed beside Tamas and took up his hand, frowning at the way it trembled.

“I love you despite my former judgement,” he corrected. His eyelids fluttered with exhaustion. He was clearly fighting to stay awake. “There’s a difference. I know I’ve got a lot of work to do to rebuild your trust in me. I don’t know if you’ll ever trust me again, but… still I think we can make this work between our people…”

Josslyn smiled. “I saw the look on your face back there in the trees too,” he said. “You didn’t want to do it. I know regret when I see it, and the expression of fear I saw in you when they came for me was genuine. I understand.”

Tears tracked silently down Tamas’ face from his dark blue eyes.

“Rest,” Josslyn murmured, helping him to lie back down again and sweeping his hair back out of his eyes once he was supine again. “We’ll talk more when you’ve healed.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

The prince smiled softly and leaned down, pressing a kiss into his slackening lips. “I know. Now, get some sleep.”

“Yes, Highness,” he slurred with a smile and slipped into unconsciousness a moment later.

As Josslyn walked away from the infirmary he felt wrung out and weak-kneed, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel now. There was the potential to end the conflict that had ravaged his land for the best part of six years, and he was going to take it.

As if to confirm his new resolve, a low, mournful bell began to toll throughout the castle and his footsteps faltered, knowing it could only mean one thing.

In the morning, there would be a new king.

—

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yeoldontknow · 5 years

Text

Empty Vessels (M)

Author’s Note: the next installment in the Tam Infra Quam Supra series. ive spent seven months working on this, and the backstory, details, and world got a little out of control. i promise, though, all of this is important. considering its length, if you have trouble reading this - i recommend you load on a desktop app | Historical note: the names, information, and references used regarding the actual Salem Witch trials have been been lifted for a work of fiction. I make no claim stating that anything described below is true, historically, accurate, or authentic. The Abott family are entirely original characters. Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader (oc; female) Genre: witch!au; soulmate!au; horror; suspense; thriller; romance Summary: Water is everywhere. Junmyeon knows this better than he knows most things. Water is everywhere and it is the source of life - it exists within and inside humanity. But water, he knows, erodes. It weathers a person, and it has dried him out and turned him into something cold. So what does he do, then, when he meets you, his moon? Rating: NC-17 Warnings: graphic depictions of blood; graphic references to violence; mentions of death and dismemberment; graphic depictions of demonic possession; explicit language; dark themes; explicit sex; fingering; unprotected sex; impregnation kink; creampie; dirty talk Word count: 30K

APRIL 1692 2:17AM

He wakes to the sound of thunder, a distant and violent rumble echoing through the house, with a force that makes the walls vibrate.

In the haze between wakefulness and sleep, he shudders with a petulant grimace, joining the manor in a tremble of discontent. Eyelids weighed down by exhaustion and limbs drenched in the comfort of lambskin and wool, he hums to himself, waiting patiently for the soothing fall of rain.

Always, the rain, the water, delivers him a sense of peace that burrows down into his bones, kissing the marrow with a gentle tongue. He cherishes each drop as though they were his own children, relishes their kindness and pays it back in kind - for they are born from the earth and destined to be controlled by his hand alone, a homecoming to their father’s delicate touch.

They caress and preen against his skin, his home, his heart - they caress him, and he welcomes the torrent of their deluge. There is a comfort to be found in the flood, the gift of a surrender that is both terrifying and magnificent, and he welcomes it with expectant, needy fingers. Often, even without wind or breeze, the rain will press against his window, attempting to burrow in and be close, and he waits, readying to soothe and be soothed by the rhythm of their fall.

Tonight, however, the rain does not come. Tonight, the sky is too quiet and his nerves twitch in displeasure at the lack.

The thunder breaks again, and, at the sound of its intensity, Junmyeon furrows his brow, a deep pout setting itself against his lips. April. Too soon for the rainless storms that come from the heat and humidity of the summer sun; too late for oncoming terror of a hurricane, the usual warning bringing nothing behind it at all. There should be a chasm in the sky, something awful thrusting itself against the grass and the glass. There should be a flash of light and the wonder of panic too big to be contained in the armor of one's chest.

There should be something and this thunder, it seems, brings nothing at all.

Except that it does.

Behind the thunder is a yell that lingers, a voice urgent and penetrative, demanding his attention and calling his name with an urgency soaked in bitterness. It is not thunder that woke him, but knocking. Understanding washes over him, eyes growing wide and blood rushing in his ears, waking him fully. Slinging his legs over the bed, he pulls on his breeches beneath his muslin shirt and stalks to the door, tying them as he moves.

His motions are quick, mindless, attention focused on the door and the figures that rest behind it. In the dim light of the moon, their shadows cast along his walls, grotesque and inhuman, macabre in the foreboding they bring.

Names run through his mind, an endless list of friends and acquaintances that circle around and back again. By the time he reaches his door, he assumes it is a coven member - perhaps, a member of another coven, and he dreads their knowing, patronizing stares and hollowed gazes. The witching hour approaches, and, lately, Minseok has had dreams; visions of bloodshed and wounds born of war, of fear - he thought he had time, that they had time, and now he feels the tick of the clock has become a pendulum swinging against their favor.

Behind the door, the town magistrate stands and regards him with tired, accusatory eyes. The veneer of his polite smile is tarnished, fading and pulling at his lips to reveal a sneer of distorted anger, turning him into something poisonous. He holds the torch over his head at such a height, the lines of cheeks create deep crevices along his bones, the contour of his face appearing violent. The magistrate burns beneath the harsh light, much the way acid burns at the back of Junmyeon's throat, his weight shifting from foot to foot in anxiousness.

This, he knows, is not the first time a member of polite society or a member of authority has arrived at his home, seething and unannounced, demanding answers. Briefly, Junmyeon reminds himself this has happened before - it has happened before and it will happen again, but something about tonight tells him there is risk. This will not be the first time they have been discovered - if, of course, that is what this is about - but it may cost them their lives.

Idly, he thinks on the others - if he should wake them, if he should find Luhan, if he should say anything at all - before remembering words have not been shared, and therefore it is best he remain patient. Still, he keeps his tongue locked behind the prison of his teeth, expecting to be accused without any viable proof at all.

'Junmyeon,' is the all the Magistrate manages before releasing a long sigh, eyebrows stitched together in concern. The tension in his voice is thick, palpable, casting a heaviness into the air that makes Junmyeon’s neck begin to ache.

Junmyeon nods in the effort of remaining polite, calling on the water in his cells to keep him as serene as possible. 'Magistrate Adams,' he smiles, voice slow and heavy with sleep. 'What business brings you here at this hour?'

'It's Sasha.'

Another voice breaks behind the magistrate, an exhausted, worried voice belonging to a man who steps forward with anxious and heavy steps. His weathered hands grip his straw hat as though it were a cross. The bags beneath his eyes hang low on his skin, bruising from lack of sleep. Immediately, Junmyeon recognizes him as Sasha Abott’s father, Jacob, a kind farmer with calloused skin and a complexion greying beneath his fright.

Junmyeon regards him calmly, feeling his stomach distend and bend to touch his feet. ‘What about her?’

Sasha is smart, perhaps his brightest student, young and inquisitive and with a penmanship careful beyond her years. She is his favourite student, his favourite and his most observant. Her eyes follow him, tracing his motions as if committing him to memory and gaze lingering on him even when it should not. At sixteen, she is on the precipice of learning her power as a woman, and now his mind reels as implication worms its way through.

‘She has been possessed.’

‘Possessed?’ Junmyeon repeats the word, but remains unsure if anyone truly heard him.

Momentarily, he feels as though he has been reduced, whittled down to little more than ash, blood leaving his face in favor of the company of his toes.

‘By the Devil,’ the magistrate adds sharply, as though it were necessary.

In the silence, Junmyeon listens to the way his breath becomes shallow, eyes flicking between their intense, penetrative stares. He knows it’s possible, that it’s happened before. It has happened before, but not for centuries. Still, he is haunted by the memory of their black eyes and the yellow of their tongues, the grotesque way man succumbs to darkness and renders their bodies inhuman. To be filled with such a cursed thing is an act of dark magic, dark and powerful magic that is as ancient as the moon, and with its power comes the sulfuric scent of death.

‘I am unsure why you think I may be able to help,’ he says eventually, speech slowed by his inability to process the implication. ‘She would need the priest, good sirs.’

He offers the suggestion in a low tone, a warning. There will be little he can do for the girl, little anyone can do - even the priest. To hold the devil within your chest is to kiss fire, to let your organs burn and burn until the soul that remained has been eviscerated, leaving only the scarred shell of a heart that once loved behind.

‘She has named you,‘ Sasha’s father announces, sounding desperate and lost.

For Junmyeon, time seems to stop, blood halting within his veins as his breath falters. He pales, he’s sure of it, looking as good as guilty in the moonlight.

‘It would appear yours is the only name she can say,’ the magistrate offers, watching him narrowed eyes for subtle tells. ‘She begs for you.’

Magistrate Adams holds onto the word beg like he’s gradually unveiling a secret, peeling at the letters with his teeth to bare their unholy core. For a moment, Junmyeon thinks on this word and how it is both a plea, a cry for help, and also a curse. She has named him, requested him, hissed his name at a group of men as grown as he, letting the syllables saunter over we skin to paint pictures in their imaginations.

Sasha has done more than name him - she has damned him.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Junmyeon bends his knees as through bracing himself, body preparing to run and preparing to ache. Locking all his emotions away behind his teeth, he grips the door knob tightly and hums.

‘What do you presume I could possibly do?’ he asks, disbelieving as his eyes move from face to face, taking in the shadows the light casts and letting their chill caress his spine.

‘I urge you, sir,’ Magistrate Adams warns, darkening his tone and slowing his speech. ‘Your willingness to assist will eventually play in your favor.’

It’s a chilling thing to say, the words heavy and weighted with threat. Regardless of how this night goes, blood will be spilled, lives will be lost, and Junmyeon’s name will be the first on the list of the accused.

‘Please,’ her father whispers, a broken splinter of a man bulked with strength. The sound of it startles Junmyeon, so heartbreakingly contradictory to Magistrate Adams’ severity. ‘Help her.’

Junmyeon takes his hand and holds it between his own, overwhelmed by the fear, the anguish, the anxious uncertainty that flows from John Abbot’s skin. For a moment, he tries to soothe the pain, easing what he can in the hopes of bringing either one or both some relief, but quickly stops, tightening his fingers around John’s hand to shake it.

Even as he shakes his hand, as he lets the wasted sorrow of a man burn in his chest, as he lets himself be consumed by risk in the name of a child, he knows.

As he offers promises of hope and healing, promises to witness and understand; as he promises let himself burn in the name of a child he wished he could call his own, he knows.

He knows there will be no way out of this, no way that does not involve the ash of his soul or the fracturing of the coven.

Junmyeon is damned. There will be no hope for him until the sun turns black.

Tucked just towards the back of a field crafted into bounty, the Abbot’s home stands small yet warm, the lights of the windows glowing through the night as a beacon. Even from a distance, Junmyeon can sense the pious modesty that defines their home and their land, a rarity to see for such a skilled farmer. But then, he knows the Abbot family is small, and will always remain so. They have only one daughter, and will only ever have one daughter - all other children perishing within Mary Abbot’s womb or within the first few months of life. As Junmyeon approaches the cottage, it is this knowledge that seems to spur a sense of urgency within his blood, an understanding that Sasha is cherished, adored, doted upon if only because she will be the last of her kind.

She is a blessing upon her family, and now, in the grim bleakness of the night, it seems she has been twisted and reduced to little more than a curse.

Before they reach the door, Bridget Bishop steps out to welcome them, seeming out of place in her signature red cloak and tunic. Wringing her hands together, the moonlight casts silver into the tendrils of her hair, the shadows on her face amplifying the intensity in the furrow of her brow. It is the first time Junmyeon has seen her this way, her normally bright disposition overcast with worry and discontent. Acting as Sasha’s nanny, the two had a close bond, often inseparable when walking together in town. Even more, Sasha would choose to sit with her rather than her family at mass, both seated in pews towards the back, whispering.

‘It’s gotten worse since you left,’ she announces, voice sharp as a blade as regards Jacob alone. ‘I fear she may not survive this night.’

From the corner of his eye, Junmyeon watches the way Magistrate Adams regards her with scorn, distrust painted over his features. For a moment, Junmyeon sees her as his only ally, understanding that it is no longer he who has been damned, but Bridget Bishop as well.

‘Is this what women do when they don’t have husbands?’ The Magistrate’s voice cuts through the night, a dagger intended for Bridget’s malleable heart, and to carve directly into the rumours of her adultery with Jacob. ‘Fret over a child that is not their own?’

She breathes his words in deep, letting the poison put lightning on her tongue, eyes falling on Magistrate Adams with a severity that gives Junmyeon a chill. Rooting her feet to the earth, she lifts herself a few inches taller, straightening her spine as though born of iron and steel. Neither scorned nor startled, Bridget simply becomes a viper, vicious in her regard for men who dare tear down a woman.

‘The likes of you have no place here, Adams,’ she says, hands falling to her sides with her fingers outstretched, knuckles tense. ‘With such hate in your heart, I imagine the Devil would take glee in your soul.’

‘Witch!’ Magistrate Adams calls, lurching forward before Jacob’s arm comes to pull him back, gaining rightful authority on his property. ‘This is a threat to vex me! I will not forget it.’

‘Enough.’ Jacob’s voice roars in the night, all warmth having left him somewhere in the walk back to his home. He, too, has become battle born and thread with steel, eyes the cold timber of metal as he regards Bridget with dejection. ‘We’ll be seeing her.’

Even as he steps onto the porch, Junmyeon can smell the sulfur that churns within the house. For several moments, he pauses in the doorway, eyes downcast in search of salt or basil. Finding none, his heart takes to bleeding. The devil has found a plaything here, and they have done nothing to neither keep him inside nor banish him away.

Within the house, the light from the candles flickers in irregular patterns, too uncontrolled and distorted for such a still night. The yellow of the flames casts their shadows tall, curls their edges around the hard angles of the house and makes them too appear as demons. In this light, everyone has claws and no one is safe.

Jacob leads them up the stairs to Sasha's room, and as they approach Junmyeon feels his soul begin to fissure. As with any powerful dark magic, the barriers surrounding the boundary of her room reject him, his light, and his healing. Gravity means to push him away, and it takes effort not to moan with the effort of continuing his ascent. Jacob and Magistrate Adams approach her door as though they have never felt so free, and Junmyeon envies them. He envies the simplicity of their life, and the way it will continue in a chronological order even if their experience of it will be forever altered after this night.

For Junmyeon, his feet struggle to deny their steady approach to doom, to death, to the gallows, or, perhaps, to an empty black of nothing at all. Furrowing his brow, he chews the inside of his cheek with the force of his push until the skin begins to bleed, the salty metallic timber of his essence urging him to turn back. Still, he closes his eyes and presses his hands against her doorway, breathing deeply even though the air makes his lungs and throat ache.

'This is she,' Jacob whispers, neither looking at Junmyeon nor his daughter, truly.

Opening his eyes, Junmyeon glances at Jacob before looking into the room, realizing that everything inside this small space reeks of necrosis. His eyes do not fall on his daughter, nor do they fall anywhere else. Now, his gaze is vacant, confronted with a truth so bleak his mind refuses to truly see at all.

Even in hell, the truth is the only thing he can see.

In her bed, Sasha moans, eyes wide and looking at the ceiling - rather, through the ceiling - as her chest warps tragedy into sound. To him, for a single moment, it appears she is summoning the stars with the force of her will alone.

But then, there is no cosmic nor divine magic to the strength of her stare, the whites of her eyes tarnished with a jaundice that seems to eat away at her skin. It flakes away from her, peeling as though burning and boiling the water in her pores, her blood. And where this should make her pink or pale, cells inflamed with the sudden heat of the fire, it only has made her gangrenous. Her breath, struggling against the spores of her lungs, rattles as though battling within a cage, seeming to echo in the quietness of the house.

Distantly, Junmyeon hears the sound of weeping. He does not know if it is Mary, or Jacob, or himself, or, perhaps, even God. In the end, he supposes it is everyone, hearts breaking in unison.

It seems unfair that he should weep for her, unfair that he should have a right to care for her as much as he does. But, if asked, he would never deny that she was his favourite. His favourite, his smallest, and the one who reminded him he wanted to be a father, a tether to a reality he would likely never touch.

And so, he lets himself mourn and grieve, before shielding his soul with an armor that comes from centuries of learning to kiss death and survive its taste; centuries of seeing the Devil and telling him to run.

With his guard high, Junmyeon feels for the water in her body, and realizes his assumption was correct - she has been subsumed and slowly turned to parchment. Lending her some of his own, he eases the moisture into her throat, permissing her voice returns to her with a vigor stolen by the death she carries within.

Coming to his knees beside her bed, he remains there for a moment as though in prayer, watching her head to turn to face him. He waits for fear to take him, the horror of it slowly walking up his spine and making the hairs on his arms stand on end. While it does not consume him, it holds him, much the same way she holds her gaze on him, unblinking.

‘How long?’ He does not bother to face Jacob as he speaks, arrested by the sight of her.

Jacob coughs, lungs pressured by the weight of his distress. ‘Five days.’

He presses his lips together in a thin line as he chews delicately on his tongue, biting back the condemnations he would spit if the circumstances of his inclusion had been different.

'Sasha,' he begins, keeping his voice gentle and even. 'What is it you've touched?'

Slowly, her mouth opens as though her jaw craves to become unhinged. Sound should come, the sound of a voice or that of a girl, but instead the only sound he hears is the shuffling of uncomfortable feet behind him. In silence, she remains this way, mouth open and black within, until, eventually, she screams.

The shrillness of her tone makes him close his eyes as though stung, but he does not turn away nor does he move back. Junmyeon waits. Junmyeon remains. And he counts the number of voices he hears within the sound.

Three voices from within speak through her, using her small body as a vessel towards a violent end. This is not the first time he has been confronted with possession, but it is the first time there has been more than one beast contained within a person. To summon a devil is black magic that costs a soul. But to successfully manage more than one would surely cost a life, the sacrifice required demanding something sacred, and Junmyeon is certain this magic is archaic and mostly likely older than him.

'The black witch did this.' Buried beneath the screams, the words begin to echo within the sound without the control of Sasha's tongue to give them shape. The syllables slur together, messy and almost indeterminable, but they saunter over Junmyeon’s neck, making his skin itch.

Jacob coughs in alarm and despair before excusing himself from the room, watching his daughter speak without speaking, in a voice that is no longer hers. The Magistrate huffs at Jacob’s apparent squeamishness, but Junmyeon pays no mind to either, letting the words linger in his mind. They do not belong to her, not really. He reminds himself as he studies her blank stare, expressionless and wholly disconnected.

Junmyeon nods, appeasing the things that live inside her with a pious understanding. 'Who is the black witch?' he questions, tone soft.

He abandons emotion, keeping his thoughts and fears and sentiments locked in the silence of his chest. It has taken centuries for him to learn the skill, and even now, when he needs it the most, he fears he may buckle. With water as with life, emotions were his strongest gift, the tool he uses to heal all the anguish he encounters. Stripping himself of them now leaves him feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable, but he cannot let his feelings be swayed.

Demons such as this feed off the power of the heart, and his heart was always the most powerful of all, a veritable feast born for the taking.

‘You know her,’ one of the voices seethes, emerging from the black with a laugh that sounded like fire. ‘You break bread with her, covet her. Why do you hide from the sin you crave?’

‘Tituba.’

The Magistrate’s voice cuts through the room, a low rumble of implication that bursts forth as a tidal wave. Unable to take his gaze from Sasha for fear of becoming vulnerable, Junmyeon narrows his eyes and thinks through the name. Behind him, the men shift from foot to foot, satisfied and pleased as though they have found the answer, ready to seek her and bring her to justice. But still, Junmyeon gives pause, knowing that, with the devil, it would never be that simple.

‘She is an easy target,’ Junmyeon counters, keeping his eyes trained on the yellow of Sasha’s irises. ‘Any accusations made must be made in fact rather than assumption.’

Magistrate Adams scoffs, disdain leaking into the air to mix with the sense of dread. ‘It does not need to be more complicated, good sir,’ he sneers. ‘She speaks in tongues unfit for the darkness of her skin and watches too deeply the men that give her quarter.’

Against his thighs, Junmyeon’s hands curl into fists that gather the cloth of his breeches. ‘She is foreign,’ he says gently, even though he wishes to battle the magistrate with the fullness of his tone. ‘That does not make her a witch.’

His thoughts are interrupted by a great roar that erupts from within Sasha’s chest, a violent sound that gives him the sensation the earth is quaking merely by the force. Her brow does not furrow with the effort, expressionless and serene, she screams and screams until the men around her have been silenced in wait.

When she falls quiet once more, he releases a breath he did not know he had been holding, neck and back tense with the effort of keeping still.

‘Sasha - ‘

At once, a voice cuts him off. ‘You know my name better than most, Water King. Honor me...honor yourself, and use it.’

Blood rushes from Junmyeon’s cheeks, racing away beneath his skin as though the air that kisses it is poison. It rushes down to his fingers, his toes, and into his ears as his eyes widen and his mouth runs dry. The sound of his true name instill a terror within his bones, one that coils around his spine and demands that it break, his heart shuddering in its rhythm to sustain the adrenaline that now courses through his veins.

Behind him, he feels the gazes of the men burn into his shoulders, the weight of his damnation further spiraling out of his depth. It does that matter that he could still easily dissuade their belief of his guilt, does not matter that they have no proof of his magic. His name has been burned into the pyre, and there will be no saving himself after this night.

‘I know your name as Sasha,’ he says, neither fully lying nor fully honest.

Yes, the girl who lays before him is Sasha. But he knows, even against his better judgement, that he has not been speaking to her for some time.

This time, when she laughs, he knows it is the demon who distorts her jaw and giggles with a glee that makes his stomach twist; he knows what he is capable of, what he has done, what he will give, and what he will take away. In irregular clicks, the laugh itself sounds more like grinding metal than a natural sound born from a throat, but Sasha does not appear to move. Instead, she remains still, laughing and barely breathing, waiting to be saved.

Abruptly, the sound comes to a halt, her body twitching in small seizes that make her bed rattles against the wall. Frantically, his eyes scan her body as it writhes beneath her sheets, hands trembling and unsure of where to touch. And then, she stills completely, as though she has been unmoved and undisturbed for the entire evening. It is only when blood begins to seep from her mouth, dripping over her chin and down onto the pillow that he knows she is losing the war waging inside her, and his time for saving is almost out.

'Please,' she whispers voice small and weak, twisted around the presence inside her. She gasps, a wet sound that sprays blood onto Junmyeon’s chemise. 'Help me.'

The sun peaks over the hills at dawn, making the sky burn with a red and yellow that make the seas rage. Junymeon does not take notice, legs burning as he runs from Jacob’s home to the manor, ragged breath searing the nodes of his lungs as he focuses on moving away from hell. In his speed, he is followed by the eyes of the townspeople, muttering curses about the way he does not stop to give greeting, the way he narrowly avoids the bodies that mean to break his stride, or simply because he interrupts the fragile sense of peace the town has created. Briefly, he wishes for Chanyeol, for the legs of a beast to carry him or beat him home, the news he carries weighing him down until his motions feel insufficient.

When he pushes through the manor door, he finds Luhan heading towards the kitchens, hair still mussed from sleep. On the hardwood floor, the stained glass window above the stairs casts coloured patterns on the ground, the coven tree reaching to touch both of their feet.

Closing his eyes, he struggles to catch his breath as Luhan’s gaze wanders over body, taking him in. It hurts to breathe, hurts in a way that Junmyeon is not used to, body trying to repress and suppress all the horror he has witnessed. Falling to his knees, he waits for gravity to send him over, to leave him and abandon him, a hopeless case left behind and forgotten. No longer feeling tired, he simply feels nothing at all, and he thinks this is the most terrifying truth of all.

‘Jun, what is it?’ comes Luhan’s soft imploring voice.

Opening his eyes, he sees the way Luhan watches him, concerned and gentle and every bit the leader he needs - present and ready to listen. But even then, he sees him as a ghost, a burning ember of a man who would not have a place in the world that blazes around them, for there would be no room for this sort of kindness.

Not anymore, and perhaps not ever again.

‘Paimon,’ he chokes out, voice not sounding like his own. ‘Someone is raising King Paimon.’

NOW

The water at Smith Pool is unusually quiet, the current guiding the waves calm in a way that is uncharacteristic for the late autumn season. Under the scrutiny of the afternoon sun, the waters glimmer, inviting and offering a hope that feels almost like hope, as though it is unaware of this falsehood. It laps at the embankment with gentle touches as it rolls back and forth, soothing and altogether too peaceful for the chaos that surrounds the world. Absent is the mist and fog that lingers over the horizon, hovering delicately just out of reach as though kissing the surface, guarding and protecting the secrets that dwell below.

He waits for it. He waits, and it does not come.

Hands fisted in his pockets, Junmyeon roots his feet into the wood of the dock with narrowed eyes, vision clouded by echoes of a time he once thought had been buried. Memories stir, faces and names he would never truly forget but had pushed away through the guise of self preservation; each brutal and all more visceral than the last. A breeze kisses his cheeks though he does not feel it, numbed and weary and worn by the totality of this sudden onslaught.

He remembers the day the lake was made, remembers when the water meant something - a salvation, a hope, a beacon of life for a community.

He remembers the bodies - the bodies that hung from the trees and the bodies that were thrown in the water, accused and convicted, regardless if they were innocent. Their grey shadows linger behind his eyes, hanging from the trees and looming from the black of his memory; humanity reduced to little more than symbols, threats. Always, he stomachs them, swallows them down into the burning acid of his regret and ignores the flavor. Lately, he’s been haunted, the shadows no longer vague, unfocused shapes, but men with faces - his coven, himself, the world.

He remembers a lot of things, nails digging into his palms as his mind swims and swims, the water before him running red. For a moment, he imagines there is nothing. Nothing but himself and the memories, trapped but breathing; naked but safe; and lifelessly valiant in the way he bleeds for the people he loves. For a moment, he imagines he is alone, witnessing the terror of the past and the future, and letting them blur together if only because he believes his iron heart is strong enough to withstand it.

But then, even the security of this is brief and shattered, a fragile, vain hope from the mind of a martyr.

Behind him, Chanyeol cries in a way he believes is ugly and undignified. The sound sours the air, spoiling the delicate pretense of comfort the lake offers. It smothers him, the grief and the intensity of it, building a pressure in the center of his lungs that stings. He rolls his neck from side to side, eyes fluttering closed with a huff as he tries to alleviate the tension that has gathered in his shoulders. Poised and patient, he’s sure his the steel in his posture is not a comfort for Chanyeol or, perhaps, anyone who would witness the way he appears rooted to the earth.

Junmyeon accepts this. Lately, he’s begun to think of comfort as little more than a myth.

For a long while, he remains silent, letting Chanyeol’s choked gasps of breath be the only thing the air touches, neither satisfied nor grieving, simply watching.

‘They’re just birds, Chanyeol.’ Even he is surprised by how empty, how cruel, his voice has become.

With a sniffle, Chanyeol wipes his nose on his sleeve as he inhales a shaking breath, finally daring to break the silence.

‘It wasn’t their time to die.’

Junmyeon does not turn around, unwilling to look at the dead raven Chanyeol cradles in his arms.

At three in the morning, the screams started. First as a low rumble of malcontent, they began to build into an anguished howl that made the house tremble. There was a terror to this noise, a chill to the realization that the voice making the sound did not belong to Yixing. He’d grown accustomed to the tenor of Yixing’s screams, to the cadence that sometimes bends into music as he sees and sees. It was the loudest Chanyeol had been in centuries, and he had almost forgotten the richness that had been locked inside his throat, hiding away from all the horror.

His long limbs thrashed in the bed, twitching violently as though he were being pulled, wounded and scarred. They’d gathered in the room to bear witness, seemingly forgetting the centuries of practice they had with someone else, bewildered by the sudden change. It was only when the rhythmic sounds of thudding on the roof cut through his cries that they moved to action, Chanyeol leaping from the bed as Baekhyun rushed behind on swift feet to cast light.

They followed, uncertain and afraid though fully prepared to fight. From the sky, the birds fell as though they were gliding, and in Baekhyun’s glow, Junmyeon felt a brief moment of peace at the aerial display he thought he was witnessing. For a moment, there was beauty to this new aspect of Chanyeol’s power.

The crash onto the roof hurt, the snapping of their frail necks causing Chanyeol to tear at his own skin, falling to his knees and dying with them. Even without Minseok, he knew, the dread making his toes tingle as he pressed them into the blades of grass.

'Can you not grieve for us?’ he asks, digging his nails into his palms hard enough to sting. The water surges as he speaks, moved by his words rather than the current. ‘For the fact that we might end up like them?'

Chanyeol releases a small whine, a barely there noise of hurt and scorn. 'They were helpless, Jun,’ he begins, softly. ‘This was done to them.'

He smothers a bitter laugh, cocking an eyebrow at the empty expanse before him as he purses his lips. 'That sounds precisely the same to me.'

Footsteps startle them both, the sound of heels on the dock making Chanyeol cough in embarrassment as Junmyeon finally turns, brow furrowed.

Hand in hand, Minseok walks along the dock with his partner, eyes dark and shadows on his face long. Beside him, she weeps silently, cheeks wet with tears that still threaten to spill regardless of her stoic expression. They grip one another as a cross, clutching at each other’s fingers in the effort of reminding themselves they are tactile, whole, and unified, hearts emptied of pleasure by what they had seen. Junmyeon watches the way Minseok runs a thumb over her knuckles, a quiet moment of comfort that provides more empathy than he has seen from him in centuries.

How odd, he thinks, to see one touched by love; touched and utterly terrified.

Standing to Chanyeol’s side, they complete the accidental circle created by the unintentional flow of magic.

‘What did you find?’ Junmyeon asks, casting glances between them both before finally lingering on Minseok, still unclear about the breadth of her power and choosing to trust what he knows.

For a while, they do not speak. Minseok looks longingly out over the water, hollowed, as the herbalist regards the dirt on her shoes with an empty stare. In the silence, Junmyeon minutely nods, the bare threads of his patience allowing them space to find their words. Images spring to his mind, all imagined and none wholly formed, all as bleak and battered as the crow in Chanyeol’s arms. He wonders what Minseok has seen, unable to avoid with a clarity bordering on entrapment; he wonders what she has heard, whispers on the wind of a life he thought he’d left behind.

‘The trees are screaming,’ she announces, eyes still downcast though her voice is sharp; blunt as the edge of a sword and equally as unforgiving. ‘They’re in pain.’

It settles over him, slow and uncompromising, the notion that trees could make sound - that they would choose to. The oldest wisdom lingers in their branches, and for one brief moment, he sees her as someone as old as their roots.

‘Are there ravens?’ Chanyeol asks, running his finger down its beak.

‘There are birds,’ she confirms, voice softening for this redirection of conversation partner. ‘I don’t know if it was only our homes that were affected or if they were drawn to us, in a swarm. I’m not skilled enough to recognize their songs, so I can’t tell if it was just ravens, either. I can only hear the plants.’

For the first time in days, Chanyeol smiles, thankful. ‘That’s good,’ he nods. ‘If there are birds in the forest, there’s a chance it wasn’t the whole species. I can check later.’

Tension builds in Junmyeon’s knuckles, teeth gritting as he stomachs the conversation. Nature is always eaten first in any apocalypse event. It disappears slowly, or even sometimes, swiftly, eradicated as if in warning of an oncoming storm. The seals breaking would always start with nature, and he is glad that they still have some semblance of time, even if the decay within is silent. He is glad, but he is not appeased.

‘Was there more than just...screaming,’ he presses, gaze still trained on the crooked angle of the birds neck.

‘I saw the hangings,’ Minseok says, and Junmyeon regards him with parted lips, blood leaving his cheeks. Together, for a moment, they remember, silent as their eyes trace the outline of nonexistent bodies. ‘I don’t know if...,’ he continues only to fade away, distracted and detached. ‘It felt like layers. Memories of how it used to look filling in details of the future.’

Shifting his weight in his knees, Junmyeon braces as though preparing to leave the earth, evaporating and dissolving amidst the sickness and unease. ‘Are you saying it’s happening again?’ he asks, voice low yet still demanding, bursting through the tightness in his chest with force.

Minseok keeps his expression calm, unreadable, save for the bags beneath his eyes. ‘I’m saying it looks the same,' he advises with a small nod. ‘It feels the same.’

Water sprays up from the dock, a cold mist that startles the herbalist and even Chanyeol. They cower away in shock and surprise, yelping slightly at the sudden chill against their legs, but Minseok and Junmyeon remain still. Together, they remember, a knowing look spreading a thousand words in the distance between them, and none capable of fully expressing the depth of how it feels to truly fear.

Nature is always the first to be razed because, with Paimon, the control of things once thought wholly beyond the command of true evil is always the proof of power. The trees will scream; the birds will die; the water will run black and beyond his control; and it will happen again. Just as it did before.

Shaking his leg to dry his pants, Chanyeol coughs to break the silence, glancing between his brothers in an effort to escape the hold of memory. ‘But if the seals are breaking then why are they different to the ones we used?’

‘There were over six hundred possible permutations,' Minseok shrugs, defeated. ‘I don’t think it matters which ones snap, only that they do and that we feel it.’

The herbalist nods, inching closer to Minseok's side in comfort. ‘The seals are breaking,’ she affirms, breathing her through mouth quietly to mask the shaking of her breath. ‘I don’t think there’s room for argument with that. It just feels like the downswing of the pendulum is out of control. Things are happening faster, more violent. Even in the woods it felt like we were being followed.’

Even as he watches the way they stand near one another, leaning into each other for warmth and comfort and healing, Junmyeon tastes the bitterness on his tongue. In another life, maybe he would have celebrated this union, would have hugged his brother and kissed her cheek in expression of welcome. Instead, all he finds is blame.

Blame that this consummation of love and sex has forced them back into the chokehold of evil. They learned from this, he thought. They had learned and bled and lost through the effort of saving humanity, and he did not think they could survive it again.

And for what, he thought. For love and all the soft effusive things that would never save a life.

Coughing, he stomachs these thoughts, knowing that they do not help their situation - don't even offer further insight. Now, more than ever, they don't need feelings. They just need answers.

'We lost the member of our coven who figured out how to stop this,' he says, dropping his gaze to the wet wood beneath his feet. 'And I don't think the answer will be the same.' He regards the herbalist with what he hopes is a kind, reassuring smile, the kind of expression that would make a person feel welcome and inclined to help. 'Does anyone in your coven have any ideas? Have they felt anything?'

She nods, though it does not come with the enthusiasm of solutions. 'One of my sisters has been turning towards sacred geometry for answers,' she explains. 'She believes that the cage was structured and built, and sacred geometry is builders magic. Maybe the answers lie in the construct seals rather than the consequences.'

Eyes wide, he blanches. Sacred geometry is an old magic, a magic that comes from learning the root and form of power rather than simply how to harness it. Each energetic spell has a form, structure, and texture, and the ability to confidently wield each is what creates a vessel to embody spirit. The heart that carries sacred geometry is usually raw, unyielding, able to process an immense amount of energy as though it were a generator. The last time he knew someone who could handle such raw magic was Luhan.

‘I want to meet her,’ he says, the eagerness in his voice turning their expressions curious. ‘Geometry gave us -‘ Junmyeon pauses, unsure if he wishes to continue.

Sucking in a breath, he holds it in his lungs until it hurts. ‘Context,’ he finishes. ‘Even if we didn’t know it at the time. It’s something both powers from above and below must yield to.’

‘The holiness of it was what turned against us,’ Chanyeol offers, gaze distant as he relives the church falling before his eyes. ‘We underestimated it once.’

‘She’s good at it,’ she says, offering a reassuring smile to Chanyeol. Warmed, he returns the smile, energy becoming at ease once more. Turning her gaze to Junmyeon, she grins. ‘She’s good, but she’s sometimes filled with so much hope she doesn’t see how darkness would twist the magic. You might be good at offering her perspective.’

‘I’m not hopeless,’ he counters, defensive though he does not feel offended by her jab. ‘You weren’t with us last time, so you don’t know how this looks.’

‘We felt it, though.’ In this, she is serious, unyielding, eyes dark and clouded over. ‘Don’t ever underestimate the reach of hell. Every witch was touched, marked.’

Closing his eyes, he sighs and pulls his hands from his pockets, catching the moisture on the breeze. The sky above churns, clouds gathering to mar the sun and the light. They seem fractious, tormented by the taciturn greyness that consumes them, and he allows this sadness to bring comfort. Droplets pool at the tips of his fingers, soaking into his skin before dripping slowly onto the dock, ensuring he feels protected and no longer alone.

The way it happened was swift, a downfall that forced even the most secretive of witch into hiding. Flavoured food and spices were seen as witchcraft, too much knowledge of the earth turning food into potions of their own; foreign songs becoming little more than voodoo; anything difficult to be understood, anything new, suddenly questioned with an intensity bordering on accusatory. It has never left society, a golden age of creation and growth spurred on only centuries later beneath the guise of money and capitalism.

It was swift, the pulling of creation and manifestation from humanity, until all that remained was the dull acceptance of eventual death.

Shaking the water from his fingers, he bites the inside of his cheek before speaking. ‘Would she be open to meeting me?’ he asks, watching the herbalist and the way her eyes study his face for hidden meaning. ‘Would she want to work with us?’

She smiles, seemingly gladdened by his offer. ‘I’ll tell her to come to the shop.’

‘Tomorrow,’ he says, offering a small smile before turning back to the water.

He hears Minseok usher them away, giving him time to be alone with the lake.

As they leave, the clouds pull back and bring forth the sun once more. Distantly, he hears the herbalist questioning Minseok about the truth of his power, and she is offered kind, shallow words - words that express the good, the kind, the valiant. Decidedly, he leaves out the darkness - the way water lingers in the blood, controlled by his hand; the way tears will leak and saliva will dry should he so choose.

Minseok leaves out the way he could be synonymous with Paimon, and is not simply by route of choice.

The numbers on the page are meaningless.

Running a hand through his hair, Junmyeon looks at the rows and rows of the shop account book, seeing little more than just colours, shapes of things that once held importance. Ink marks have formed symbols, letters and numbers, details in black that say the shop is fine. They are productive. There is no need to worry. But still, he does not see them. Not really.

Behind his eyes, his mind swims with thoughts - vague impressions and blurred shadows of days once lived or likely to be lived again. Slowly, his mind walks away from him, leaving behind the normal guard he has on memory and emotion - on the things he keeps pushed at arms length to feel effective and efficient, and to, at least, keep calm. Remnants of sorrow that usually would amount to sickness swirl in his stomach, the emotions of comparison rising like bile and making his eyes begin to create tears, exhausted.

This is not the first time this has happened, and he has grown accustomed to the fact that this will not be the last. He’s used to this feeling, the feeling of slipping down and deep inside his mind, detached though not altogether immune to the anxiety that comes with remembrance.

This is not the first time this has happened, but it is the first time he has thought, with any effort of consideration and focus, of the man he used to be. A once kinder version of himself. A softer version, with hands gentle and comforting like feathers. Seeing the details of his past is not something he devotes himself to, choosing instead to walk around and through the memory as though it is a photo, a thing he sees but does not truly witness. Seeing the details now makes his bones burn, fingers swelling with an angst uncharacteristic for someone his age or someone ageless, and he feels it in the liquid amber of his blood like wave.

Even before Sasha reminded him it was natural to play favourites, natural to commit time and attention to someone young in the effort of imparting wisdom, he knew he wanted to be a father. He craved the feeling, the earnestness of devotion that comes with unconditional love and the almost unbearable holiness that comes from creating life. Back then, he wanted it all, wanted to love and love and love, so that even if there was no longer a need for magic at least he could say he had a purpose, a reason.

Her possession came over him like a season, one ripe with loss and anguish and grief, and still it haunts him. Yixing screams in the night, and still he remembers Sasha’s empty eyes and the way she eventually asked to die. Minseok sees, and still he remembers the hanging bodies of Bridget Bishop, of Tituba, of women and strangers and anyone who threatened to question the order of things.

The birds rained down much the way the memories of their first brush with true evil reigned over him, an onslaught of brutality, loss, and grief. Omens come, and love blooms, and all he can sense is the entrapment - the way there is no longer space for this kind of feeling.

The opening of the door to the stockroom breaks his thoughts, Minseok peeking his head in to catch his attention. Junmyeon shifts abruptly in surprise, laughing lowly at himself as he struggles to appear busy.

‘You okay?’ Minseok asks, eyes narrowing as he considers the mess Junmyeon has made with careless hands.

Closing his eyes, he composes himself for a moment, heartbeat erratic and pumping the fullness of his blood into his cheeks. Pressing a finger to his lips, he silenced the noises in his chest, gathering the effort of his usual stoicism.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he nods, leaning back in his chair, settling and getting comfortable. It’s a lie, one he knows Minseok will sense, regardless if he speaks or not, but he says the words with confidence, unsure who he is trying to convince.

‘You look...,’ Minseok’s voice trails off, eyes running over Junmyeon’s flushed expression as he tries to find polite words. ‘Damp.’

Junmyeon shrugs, muscles in his neck and shoulders tense. ‘It’s just hot in here.’

Casting his eyes up towards the air vent in the ceiling, Minseok hums idly has he looks for signs of heat or airflow. Junmyeon watches him intently, knowing that the heat is not on, not yet - that it’s too soon in the season for such a thing. But still, he is glad. Glad that Minseok humours his statements without drawing attention to the truth, a kindness he does not deserve after the vitriol he had spewed over the last week.

Nodding at nothing and no one, Minseok returns his gaze to Junmyeon’s face and sets his lips in a thin line. ‘Okay, well, she’s here. She’s ready to talk when you are.’

The mere mention of you is powerful, giving rise to a lump in his throat strong enough to falter his breathing and make his brow furrow, affected. He swallows thickly, pursing his lips in bewilderment as his gaze loses focus. He does not know you, has not even seen you, but the violence you tests his strength.

‘I’ll be out in a second,’ he says, voice thick and barely audible.

Narrowing his eyes, Minseok grunts in acknowledgement before leaving, shutting the door with a soft click. Alone, a groan escapes his lungs, body reclining back into the chair as he starts to feel consumed. He knows, even without truly seeing, that this, all of the things that comprise him this day, is because of you. All day, he has guessed that the oncoming storm in the center of his heart is the nature and nurture of you, he wanted so desperately to be wrong.

This, he imagines, is how Minseok felt when he sensed his herbalist - compelled and overwhelmed, and, most horrifically, pleased. Of you, about you, for you, always, he his gladdened and unwilling to avoid all that has chased him across centuries of anguish and despair. All that matters, all that likely ever could have mattered, is that he feels you.

You are stirring things, churning away at his heart and his breath, and while they promise a freedom he craves to kiss, he considers this sort of possession a poison.

He feels you, and he is unsure if he will ever stop.

Making his way through the shop, his legs move of their own accord, driven towards you as though your heart is a compass and it takes him several seconds to realize he is no longer in the back room. He is lured by you, tethered and reduced to little more than a puppet in the wake of you, mouth running dry as the air turns thick with every step he takes.

Even without knowing, you will find them, Yixing had said. In the darkness, where there is no light, you will still see them. And this, this prophecy, he supposes, is all his body would ever truly need to be lead home.

Coming to pause behind the register, he watches as you lean against a bookshelf and keeps his distance, hiding himself away before he lets himself run raw. He takes in the soft angles of your profile, studies the way you nod enthusiastically in conversation with Baekhyun and the herbalist, and wonders if you feel him too.

Does your spine tingle with his presence, tightening the joints in your hands to twitch your fingers in time with his? Does your chest burn, or yearn, or ache, down into the caverns you once assumed empty, overwhelmed with the sudden onslaught of knowing? And in your bones, is the sudden awareness of all your connective tissues - your nerves, your muscles, your sinew - stinging with the overwhelming knowledge of being alive?

‘Jun!’

He jumps, shaken by the loud herald of his name. Gripping the counter, he had been swaying, a slight rhythm rocking him from side to side as though he has been lost at sea. Bakehyun waves at him, having noticed - likely, having seen everything, smiling with an impish grin that feels almost cruel.

‘Come over here and meet Y/N.’

He says your name as though it does not hurt, as though it were simply a name, and Junmyeon steels himself a moment to process how this could be so. Your name quakes inside his soul, pushes him towards a surrender to the unnatural and unresisted promise of misery. The misery of destruction, brutality of war, and the unbearable brutality of love. Love, he knows, is an annihilation that ambushes the unsuspecting beneath the guise of devotion, protection, and unity. Love is just as violent as war, just as permanent as death, and, by this law, for him, you are a hurricane.

The movements in his legs, the unintentional sway from side to side as if lost at sea have captured Baekhyun’s attention, and he calls his name with a delight that almost feels cruel.

You turn to look at him, glancing over your shoulder before you turn, eyes wide and resolute. Something he can't place swims in your irises, something delicate, and fragile, and untarnished, as if the exhaustion of living has never once touched you. As though, for all your years, you have greeted existence with hope. The herbalist was right, he thinks. There is a reckless endangerment to your positivity, the kind we would never need but craves just the same.

Crossing his arms as you approach, his fingers knead roughly into the fabric of his sweater, jaw tensing as you draw near. There’s a bounce to your steps, in the way you walk and carry yourself, a bounce that makes him roll his eyes as he begins to swoon.

The bounce in your footsteps frustrates him, and though he cannot truly place why this so, he imagines it comes down to envy.

He envies the you he was in his youth, before he learned how to lose things that matter - things that promise to stay, to never die, but vanish just the same. He was you, once, but you somehow learned to keep a smile that tells the world you are okay.

‘I hear you’re looking into sacred geometry,' you announce, standing before him with pride.

The counter separates your chests, your hearts, your souls. To Junmyeon, this distance is a canyon, a long void through which he yearns to reach but does not. His fingers twitch, nails digging into his palms with the effort of keeping still.

Resting on your elbows, you lace your fingers together and scrutinize him, not bothering to be discrete. 'It feels urgent that we talk,’ you continue, having your fill of him with glazed eyes. A small furrow knits your brow together, and Junmyeon’s fingers twitch, eager to wipe the wrinkles away. ‘Like there's nothing that matters quite as much.'

Warmth radiates off you, or perhaps it is the air, rolling against him in waves that rock against his perception of you as a person. It makes sense, he knows, that you would get right to the point, because you are made to wear at him, made to break his defenses and match him completely. He knows this, logically, but he did not expect to feel so awed by you, adrift in his mind and floored by the mere idea of you as his neck begins to flush.

‘I have little experience with it,' he admits, coughing as the breeze puts your perfume in his mouth. ‘One of our own was familiar but…' He fades, eyes glossing over much the same as yours, the weak edge of his tone dissipating completely as he remembers. Remembers the bodies and the limbs, the open mouthed scream Luhan released and the silence of it that made his ears ring. In front of you, he remembers everything he had pushed away, battled against for centuries just to keep himself upright.

Closing his lips, the memories die, fading away as the taste of you fades on his tongue.

And this is when he remembers you are deadly. You are lethal. And there is more still within him you could stir.

Clearing his throat, he corrects his posture, standing tall and wearing the mask of a leader with dignity, if not pride.

‘It might be best if we sit and talk somewhere else,' he suggests, hoping to expose his vulnerability to you and only you, rather than those who could suffer the consequences.

You select a table at the back of the cafe, tucked away from teenagers studying for midterms or couples on dates, preening before one another and hoping to be wanted. The oak table sits beneath a speaker, smooth jazz muffling your conversation from those who pass by on their way to the toilet. Shoulders hunched forward, you hold tightly to your mug of cocoa, letting the heat of the ceramics trickle into your fingertips.

Across from you, Junmyeon sits heavily in his seat, with neither drink nor pastry. He has become transfixed by the way your nails trace the edges of the ceramic designs, rolling over the supple curves of the mug, there and back again, just the way his life ebbs to you and back again. In these few short minutes of being alone, together, he has learned that you keep a smile tucked in the corners of your lips, that you laugh easily and you laugh loudly - at nearly everything - and that you sigh, wistfully, longingly, at every child that passes.

In this cafe, you are pink. You are pink and gold, a sunset whispering through a current and everything he suddenly finds himself defenseless against. It is not, he thinks, that he wants to protect you - he knows you do not need him to. It is that he wants to share with you.

His heart. His memories. His life. His family.

Junmyeon wants to share, a horrific thought he clutches at with both hands to remind himself it is not safe. You are not safe, regardless of how his lifetime listens so intently to yours.

And as he casts his gaze to the old map of Salem, framed on the wall behind the top of your head, so too do your eyes wander over his features; learning and memorizing and, often, dissecting. He feels you, feels your gaze with the same intensity as though this were skin to skin contact, your considered analysis of his mouth, his lips, his hair making him breathless. Beneath the table, his leg shakes, anxious from the effort of not reaching for you, of holding you tight as he wanders, head first, into devotion; holding back and holding his tongue with a fierceness that makes him clench his teeth together.

Eventually, you peer back down to your cocoa, satisfied with your findings, or, at least, yourself.

‘Where would you like me to begin?’ you question, words strong and authoritative, though directed at your cocoa.

Releasing a breath he did not know had been contained in his lungs, he bites his lip. There is little he remembers from his lessons with Luhan, and it pains him to admit he would be a novice on this subject.

‘Perhaps just there,' he shrugs, hoping to sound aloof rather than ignorant. ‘At the very beginning.’

Nodding, you intake a sharp breath as you straighten your back, eyes wild with thoughts.

‘This sort of magic,' you begin, confident and empowered, 'relies on the concept that the universe was created according to a geometric blueprint - that a god was the geometer of all things. And it continues, perpetually. A god is constantly at work, building and making. If you can consider that a god is a geometer, then this too means that all those in hell are constructing just the same.’

Tilting his head, Junmyeon traces the lines in the table, the intricate latching of wood and nail, with the pad of his finger. His recall on sacred geometry is limited, but with Luhan he remembers charts - not charts, cloths with shapes, designs with trigger points for magical access. Stand here, Luhan would say. Put the fire here. They were building magic, not the universe.

'I thought sacred geometry was for patterns, crystal formations,’ he questions tentatively. ‘Magic structures rather than...math.'

'It is,' you affirm, 'but that's just one element. Geometry appears in all things. Like I said, if a god is a geometer, this means everything in nature - plants, animals, people - are constructed with sacred proportions.'

Proportions. Like the way your clavicle leads elegantly to your shoulder. Like, the way your bottom lip pouts childishly and begging to be kissed. Like, the way the slope of your nose and the arch of your brow haunts him, puts a retinal burn behind his eyes and makes him feel parched. Like, the way his hand looks as though it would fit yours and hold it, steadfast and for eternity.

Proportions, he thinks.

'So Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man?' he says, instead, with a smirk.

A flush creeps into your cheeks, making you pink and pink and pink, as you regard him with parted lips

'In a sense, yes,' you continue, words rushed as you calm yourself down. 'People are divinely symmetrical, and therefore our actions are symmetrical. And if we are born from symmetry, then we build for the gods in symmetry. Most churches are built with sacred geometry in mind, mimicking the geometry in nature.'

‘Ah,’ Junmyeon intones. 'The Fibonacci spiral.’

‘Yes,’ you giggle, corners of your eyes crinkling in satisfaction. The sound makes the tips of Junmyeon's fingers go numb. ‘That pattern is usually described as God’s divine equation. But even still, Galileo’s lectures on the structure of hell as it lies within the Earth can be considered natural geometry.'

With a huff, you lean back in your chair and shrug. ‘It’s hard to summarize without showing you or working at it over time,’ you grimace. 'These rules and attributes are assigned to specific religious constructs, though it does not necessarily need to be made from god. That's probably the most important thing you could take away from this.’

Mirroring your posture, Junmyeon reclines back and feels his brain dig deep. ‘You’re implying, then, that we can make the geometry as well?’

Nodding, you hum. ‘With that in mind, you must not perceive the magic as the power, but the blueprint itself. All blueprints exist to make things and, by extension, contain them.’

‘Contain them?’ Junmyeon stares at you, aware that his imploring eyes are demanding, pulling at you for more, but he cannot seem to stop himself. ‘Should we then see the Earth as a vessel?’

Through the clench of your jaw, you take in a long breath, knowing he finally understands, grasps the sheer magnitude of this magic. 'If the Earth was made to carry, and hell is contained, it is indeed a vessel.'

Silence befalls you both as you regard one another, feeling the weight of change grow and spawn between you. Junmyeon swallows thickly, eyes gazing over your features, the decor, the table, your skin, yet seeing only truth. It swells inside him, the frustration turned sadness that makes his breath come shallow and uneasy. All the things he should have known, all the things he missed, laid before him so simply - and he’d have noticed if he only ever allowed himself to look back.

‘We solved nothing,’ he murmurs, to neither you nor himself, really. Just a release of vitriol that burns within his lungs, angry at their ignorance.

They never won the war. All they had done, effectively, was delay it.

Your hands slide down and away from your cocoa, pressing against the table to cool your palms. Eventually, you speak again, equally as demanding for information as he. ‘Your coven was here during the Great War?’

He smiles, though it is bitter, knowing you are being polite. You know this answer, you’ve always known this answer, but still you are soft and allowing him the opportunity to deflect. This, he thinks, is a kindness he does not deserve.

‘We were,’ he manages, keeping his tone stable and even.

‘Then,’ you try, nibbling at the inside of your cheek. ‘Maybe you can tell me the nature of the containment? A structure inside a structure - that kind of geometry defies our comprehension of dimensions.'

The question hits him in the center of his chest, and he turns to look away, staring out the window as though peering into the past. Mouth dry, he licks his lips and feels the heat without the moisture, nails dragging along the table as his hands form into loose fists. When he looks back at you, you are not apologetic, merely expectant, unwilling to let him retreat.

Inching your arm forward slightly, your fingers drum on the table as you bite your lip, considering, before moving back and gripping your cocoa with conviction. ‘We all know the truth, Junmyeon,’ you press, gently. ‘We were elsewhere, but we know the stories..how it ended.’

‘New York.’ He says, voice empty, acknowledging that, indeed, you were not here and so you did not suffer.

Unsettled, you purse your lips as you cast him a cold stare. ‘We had our demons,’ is your curt reply. ‘Some centuries later, but we had them.’

Junmyeon smirks, the unique singularity of your war slightly humours. ‘The headless horseman.’

Cocking an eyebrow, your response is immediate. ‘It’s inappropriate to tease about any war, regardless of its scope.’

For a long while, you hold his stare and remain still, eyes powerful enough to knock the wind out of him. They hold him, almost as intensely as they hold him accountable for his words, and he is glad for the severity. Glad, in the end, for the proof that you are just as tormented, and just as haunted as he.

It’s enough, he supposes, to share, to let himself be intimate. Exposure, of any kind, is a wound on its own. But with you, with someone who hurts just as deeply and carries it within their bones, exposure is a commiseration and a comfort.

‘Back then,’ he begins slowly, reaching back to scratch his neck in thought, ‘it was not us alone who created the seal.’ Stopping himself from continuing, from sharing too much, he pauses and rephrases his thoughts. ‘We were of great assistance, but we had help.’

Humming, you sip your cocoa as you process his words, lashes fluttering as you drink in pleasure. Licking your lips, you furrow your brow. ‘It sounds as though this help was unexpected? I thought your coven was alone, in Salem?’

Junmyeon nods, barely imperceptible. ‘The Reverend's wife…’

At once, he sees her face, the delicate frailty of her features. Ill, always ill, and carrying with her a shawl as if to shield her from a chill, even in summer. Often, the children said she was spun from silk, the supple length of her black hair and the finery of her skirts extensions of her skin and spirit. Always speaking about God as though she knew him, personally; pointing the slender elegance of her index finger at widowed or spinster women, and accusing them of being sinners, of being harpies sent to pray on the God fearing goodness of gentlemen.

‘She helped you connect with God?’ you try, puzzling together what he infers.

He shakes his head, barely there and barely focused. ‘It must have overwhelmed her,’ he mutters, haunted. ‘And...she only helped...because we saw. It was not offered to us.’

She said she had visions, that she had seen the devil and the scourge he would lay upon the Earth. Even as she burned, laughing and laughing, he still couldn’t believe she’d said the words with desire. The flames ate at her skin and still she laughed, said she wanted it, that she should feel him, that the dead, and their ashes, tasted sweet. Remorse never tainted her features, taking pleasure in her body count and making sure that all the world witnessed the glory.

Blinking, he brings himself back to the present. ‘She burned for what she knew,’ he says, finally. ‘We turned her to ash, but it still will never be enough.’

Pressing your back into your chair, you consider him for a moment, watching intently to see if he will swim in his memories once more. ‘A lot of women burned. Women are always burning.’

‘You say you know the truth, but did you know it started with her?’ he spits, not bothering to hold back the aggression in his tone. ‘That she had poisoned the girls, possessed children, ate their souls in the efforts of raising a King?’

Eyes wide, you lips open and close as though offering muted consolations and apologies, saying with breath what your mouth cannot before shivering and holding your cocoa once more.

‘Have you ever seen someone burn in holy fire? Seen the way it peels back flesh and sucks at muscle?’ he hisses, spurred on by a great resurgence of things long kept trapped inside. ‘Have you ever seen a child ask to die? Seen your coven leader pulled apart and ripped like cotton?’

And even as you regard him, pale faced and thin lipped, he still can’t stop himself from tossing the question out, offended by its flavor.

‘Have you ever seen a dead body?’ he finishes, coldly.

Separated from the words, he realizes he has leaned, rather vigorously, towards you and bent himself into a posture of hunting. For all your sweetness, you have not cowered away from him, but at such close proximity he can see the tears that have sprung to the corners of your eyes. The sadness in your expression, the under markings of horror that stain your cheeks, makes his fists clench, ashamed of himself for bringing the water of you to the surface.

He could pull at it, pull it away and keep you dry. Or, instead, he could push it further, push it down your cheeks and into his waiting palm so he could kiss your tears and swallow them whole.

Instead, he slumps in his seat, childishly, and stares emptily at his lap.

Sniffling softly, you discretely wipe your eyes. ‘Why?’

Unable to truly look at you, Junmyeon speaks to his lap. ‘Not all great evil has a great purpose. Sometimes, true horror, true fear, is senseless - existing just because it can.’

The vice at his lungs releases as he says the words, shoulders no longer feeling compressed into an impossible smallness. Testing this new freedom, he breathes deeply, letting the air stabilize his equilibrium.

‘No,’ he continues, correcting his posture and looking around you. ‘I don’t think we can ever really know and it took one of our own sacrificing his life to rest within the pattern to show us how to build the, as you call it, blueprint.’

Within him, the memory floods, the visceral and bloodstained image of body parts - limbs and digits and torso - aligned in intricate shapes. It was biblical, the sight of not just one, but many, still warm and festering from death as they bled, ceaselessly, into the grass. And in the center, a sacrifice The only magic strong enough to seal a promise.

Stomach churning, he grimaces, awkwardly meeting your gaze in apology.

You’ve blanched, considerably, somehow truly understanding him without knowing him at all. ‘Are you saying?’

Minutely, he nods. ‘He became the blueprint.’

Unnerved, you hug yourself, looking away as you bite your lip. It’s transcendent watching you fight through sadness and pain and fear, a cosmic sort of shattering he feels is too vulnerable for him to witness, and yet you show him, bravely, courageously. He does not think you’ve ever shied away from atrocious thoughts, rather simply kissed them until they felt beautiful.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you face him but you do not smile. He misses it. ‘I think,’ you say, quietly yet with more power than he could have imagined, ‘the last thing you need to know…I’m sorry.’

Furrowing his brow, his shoulders arch forward, body attempting to reach for you and hold you. ‘For what?’

Fixing him an intense gaze, you focus on him completely, showing, teaching, and reminding him what you are going to say will hurt. ‘Sacred geometry is mimetic...a mirror. As above, so below.’

You pause, watching as his mind reels and he races to the end.

He gets it. He understands. He wishes that he didn’t.

‘And if bodies are what sealed it -‘ you continue, only to be cut off.

Junmyeon finishes for you. ‘Then bodies are what will open it.’

The setting sun ignites the trees, dappling the red and gold of the leaves with such force for a moment he believes the kitchen is on fire. Shadows cast on the walls and floor stand tall, shifting until nearly unrecognizable - something profoundly other; an audience for his malcontent.

Slouching in his seat, he studies his whiskey, the liquid bronze that swirls within the glass as he turns it. Vaguely, he imagines he is turning time - turning back the clock to an era when he laughed easier, smiled wider, and touched with just as much voracity. Mostly, he is falling, backwards and head first into a state of confliction.

Elizabeth Eldridge was beautiful, something he would often voice with confidence and charm, a sense of satisfaction, as though he were pleased by the sight of her. It was not, he thinks, that he desired her, or wanted her in any sense of physical context. Merely that, he imagined her essence of ethereal beauty was the sort he wanted to marry, someone not unlike vapors - whole and tangible, yet effervescent, and cradled by his hands alone.

Elizabeth Eldridge, in the end, burned without dignity and with all of her pride. Holy fire kissed her, sucked the oil from her skin and used it as fuel. Unfazed, she smiled as though she expected it, as though she were gladdened by the heat, and laughed. She laughed - it is this he remembers most, the shrillness of it and the way Yixing had to look away, tormented by the sight of the flames themselves. She laughed as her skin fell evaporated, exposing the underbelly of her muscles and bones, marrow melting with little pomp and circumstance. In the night sky, her voice continued to echo, a shrill resolution and promises of a return, a throne, a king.

People, he knew, say an awful lot of things in their moment of death - some amounting to statements a profound lamentation of grief or honest declarations of validation, but most usually an annunciation of promise that summarises a life well lived or well intended. Luhan ensured her fate with the splitting of his limbs, and so Junmyeon did not think to question her words, ensured, even in death, by his leader.

Now, with little to comfort him, he wonders if he has earned quite as much from his coven. Had Luhan been wrong? Had he? Had their fate been sealed long before their birth and long after their death? Would he, with the same boldness and conviction, make the same choices?

Would he die, knowing as he does now, that even this selflessness may be in vain?

Would he let himself be shattered for you, if it meant your safety was only momentarily assured?

With a soft click, Yixing pushes through the door and comes to pause, regarding Junmyeon with a concerned expression as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He should be used to it, Junmyeon thinks, the feeling of inquisitive eyes resting and feasting on his skin, but still he looks down at his lap, burdened by the attention. At once, the air becomes thick, slithering down Junmyeon’s spine with the same slowness as Yixing’s eyes over his face, studying and questioning, and, most likely, knowing.

Yixing does not allow him a reprieve, maintaining his penetrative scrutiny as he takes off his shoes. ‘You’re home early,' he states, testing the atmosphere.

Junmyeon remains pensive, brow furrowed as he studies the denim weaving of his jeans. The universe has offered him a kindness, he supposes, that it is Yixing who has found him and not the others. Already, he can hear the words that will be hurled towards him once he tells the truth.

Liar. Hypocrite. Embarrassment. Asshole. Cunt.

He deserves them, he thinks, perhaps they suit him best. And he notes, with little emotion, that he has given himself over to you far quicker than Minseok gave over to his herbalist, wondering if he ever truly deserved the title of a leader.

‘I met her today.’

He tosses the words out with conviction, meaning them to the edge of the world and trying to be repulsed by them. There should be no instance in which he craves death or danger, no instance in which he seeks the palm of your hand and the fall of a mountain - but he does. He wants, with all of himself, every fiber of the release you promise and finds, as Minseok had said, that death feels justified.

Death, in this moment, is justified, for it is the only consequence equal to the sentiment he carries for you.

Unmoved and keeping his expression placid, Yixing blinks. ‘Met who.’

Junmyeon rolls his eyes, knowing this is both a formality and a test, and everything but a question. The words matter, need to be said out loud and broken apart; inspected, learned alongside the full breadth and scope of their consequence. But still, he hates it, feels childish that he must say it at all. There have never been any secrets in this house, not truly, and the bitterness of this truth rises on his tongue.

He swallows thickly before he speaks, petulant. ‘Don’t act like you don’t know, Xing.’

Sliding out a chair directly opposite him, Yixing settles softly and places his journal on the table, resting his hand on the leather cover. Idly, his fingers stroke over the worn texture, body positioned in a resolute show of peacekeeping and calm. Junmyeon watches the movements of his fingers, hypnotized though not altogether soothed. War lingers behind his eyes, and the contact Yixing maintains with his journal tells him he can feel it.

Yixing knows, senses the magnitude of his afternoon, and clutches to small comforts as though they are a cross.

For a long while, Junmyeon is glad to simply sit with him, neither speaking nor allowing hostility to enter the room - amazed that they are capable of such a thing without Chanyeol. For a long while, they simply sit, gathering strength to both say the words and let them breach the kitchen once more.

Eventually, Junmyeon pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing the end of this day - of this life - is inevitable.

‘My soulmate,’ he says, meeting Yixing’s eyes and letting his gaze pierce the edge of his lungs.

Yixing leans back in his chair, regarding him with some distance, words settling against his skin. Nodding minutely, he hums, neither accepting nor battling the admission. Simply, letting it co-exist between them, acknowledging that there is a becoming amongst them, and there is more of it to be said.

Yixing’s silence is much like quicksand, edging Jummyeon forward and urging him to continue.

Once more, he looks at his lap, unwilling to let Yixing’s potential judgement tarnish the memory. ‘She came to the bookstore and I...we…’ his voice trails, splintering under the immense pressure of explanation. ‘We went to the cafe across from the shop,’ he says, finally, returning his gaze to Yixing’s. ‘I spent over an hour with her, talking. She’s trying to help us.’

Removing his hand from the journal, Yixing nods once more, humming in consideration.

‘Even,’ he begins, tone curious though his eyes remain hard, ‘after you were...so adamant against Minseok meeting with his?’

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Junmyeon retorts, ‘like I’m the worst sort of hypocrite.’ Jaw tense, he grits his teeth before continuing. ‘She’s from their coven, and Min said she could help. I didn’t know it would be her. That she would be the one.’

‘And can she help?’ Yixing keeps his attention on the woodmarks in the table, the frayed and overstuffed pages of his journal, anywhere but Junmyeon’s face.

Face morphing into a scowl, Junmyeon cocks a brow and moves through the sense of judgement Yixing has cast, focusing instead on all the words Yixing made it a point to ignore. He chose to focus, not on the fact that she is his soulmate, but instead on the fact that she can help. Perhaps, he assumes, because it is this information that is most pertinent. And, even more, it is this information that must be handled, managed beyond, and alongside, the grave understanding of their impending demise. He was always like that, walking around and through a conversation to get to the heart.

Junmyeon shrugs, knowing that you can, and you probably will, but even still your help may not be enough. ‘She knows sacred geometry,' he announces, careful with the way he says it, watching Yixing’s expression for a sign of change.

It has the same effect on Yixing as it did on him: a sharp intake of breath, a soft blanche to the cheeks, and a hand returning to his journal. The temperature of the room seems to rise, putting a flush at Junmyeon's ears and neck, before it dissipates, and Yixing gathers his thoughts, placing his hand back in his lap once more as though nothing about Junmyeon’s words hurt.

Junmyeon almost smiles, witnessing your power as it walks over all of them, claiming their house and their skin as the fabric of your own. Slowly, delicately, you are touching all of them, pulling at their hearts with adept and agile fingers, exposing what lies beneath.

Yixing himself becomes distant for a moment, not altogether present as he walks backwards into memory with much the same force as Junmyeon. Irises clouded, he thinks and thinks, his silence heavy and full hearted with grief.

‘It seems ironic she would be a seal,' he reasons, a small frown forming at his lips. 'But then...so did Lu.’

It's difficult to ignore his choice of words - "did" rather than "was," delicately handling the visceral image that haunts Junmyeon from the moment he met you. Neither a memory nor a premonition, just an inevitable course of destruction: you in the blueprint, just the same as Luhan.

Shaking his head, Junmyeon takes in an unstable breath. ‘It feels like a cursed magic.’

Yixing shakes his head. ‘You’re a self fulfilling prophecy, Jun,’ he says sharply, refusing to let him wallow. ‘Preparing to lose her the way you blame yourself for losing him.’

Tightening his grip on his glass, Junmyeon takes a drink of whiskey, letting the burn cool the back of his throat. ‘Bonding leads to death, Xing.'

Feeling somewhat volatile, he brings the glass back to the table with a loud smack. ‘You know that, I know that. We had to lose someone in order to seal it away, and now we have to lose someone again to keep the order.’

‘You always knew these rules,' Yixing says evenly, combative in a way that frustrates Junmyeon. 'We all know these rules. We knew we would have to lose each other, at some point, to keep this world alive.’

And all at once, all over again, Junmyeon finds himself the week after Luhan died, when the world was quiet but still full of ash and smoke. Hollowed, is how he described the feeling, as though it were his limbs ripped away and placed into the pentagon. Yixing clutched his shoulder, eyes neither sad nor grieving, simply empty, dark in a way that made Junmyeon find him inhuman. With his nails digging into Junmyeon's chemise, he said these same words, unable to provide comfort for he too was beyond the point of consolation. Simply, stating the truth of the pain so they at least could understand the logic and the weight, if not the aftermath.

Rolling his tongue over his teeth, Junmyeon brings himself back to the present, cradling the difference between the here and now with the past in his palms.

‘It was easier when I felt the absence of it.' He feels small as he says it, childish and impossibly young, uncertain how to handle the intensity of such a truth. 'When there was nothing to feel, and everything to just know, it was so easy.’

Yixing chuckles. 'Pretending took work, once upon a time. You've just grown used to it.'

The center of his chest constricts, feeling the words into the nodes of his lungs, and he coughs. Looking away from Yixing, he takes another sip of his whiskey, downing the glass. ‘When was the last time...' he fades, licking his lips as he prepares his question, 'that we felt?’

Arching his brow, Yixing takes the bottle from the center of the table and pours him another glass. ‘I think the question, Jun,' he says, holding his gaze fiercely rather than watch the volume of the glass, 'is when was the last time you let yourself feel.’ Bringing the bottle to his lips, he takes a quick drink before setting it down, posture straight and austere. ‘You’ve been running.’

‘I’ve been leading,' Junmyeon snaps, ‘protecting. Holding us together.’

‘But you haven’t held yourself.' The whiskey in his throat has set Yixing's words ablaze, tongue unafraid of cutting him down. ‘Not together, not in one piece, just not at all. It’s like you’re in a constant place of triage. You can’t blame yourself for a choice he made, for a thing we all did. We knew, and we know - that will never change. What matters is how you experience it.’

Junmyeon laughs, cold and frustrated in bewilderment. ‘So what are you saying? That I’ve watched death and walked away unscathed? That I shut down and felt nothing at all?’

‘Not at all,' he says, voice like a thunderclap. ‘I’m saying you’ve watched death, and never walked away again. You’ve put yourself in a grave and called it a life.’

Junmyeon shivers, lips parting to speak or defend himself, only to fall silent, too aware of the honesty in Yixing's words to fight them. Shaking his head, he takes another drink, eyes unfocused and glassy with thoughts of how he got here.

‘What are we talking about anymore?’ he mutters, swallowing his drink and letting it sear his insides. ‘I feel like I’m drifting at sea. Like she’s taking me apart...unmaking who I am.’

Yixing cocks his head to the side, considering his words. ‘Or, she’s reminding you of who you were.’

It's like a falsehood, he thinks, remembering the person he was when magic felt like a blessing, a gift. The difference between his compassion and his sense of security is, he believes, down to a reduction. A reduction of life, of hope, of reasons to accept that all things end while losing the belief that they will end happily. Once, he thought he was getting better, that he'd had enough distance and enough peace to convince himself life both gives and takes in spades.

But that was decades ago, and just before the man in front of him started screaming in his sleep, tormented by prophecies.

‘There’s a lunar eclipse tonight,' Yixing says, gathering his journal as he comes to stand. 'You should go see it.’

Blinking, Junmyeon regards him, unsure when the notion the conversation was over had filtered into the room. Yet, the mention of the moon seems to smooth his edges, pulling hard enough at his ribs to give his lungs room to breathe. He needs her, he thinks, the only light that has ever given him peace.

‘You always feel best when she’s with you,' Yixing continues, letting his voice drift behind and fall on Junmyeon like rain. 'Just as empty or just as full.’

At night, Smith Pool assumes a foreboding aura, yet somehow maintains its majesty beneath the light of the full moon, the deep purple black of the sky reflected on the water with an otherworldly glow. His fingers idly stroke the blades of grass, damp with the evening’s caress of dew, coated and slick as though waiting in anticipation for his touch. The wetness walks along his fingers, gliding over his skin and tracing patterns that defy gravity, called to him the way he is called to the moon.

Tonight, he does not manipulate them, mold them, does not even consider it. He lets them go, wetting his hands before they slip away, lost but not forgotten. Softly, his heart breaks, releasing the water without truly kissing it or connecting with it an unnatural act for king amongst his children, but the memory of consequence haunts him, puts a terror in his bones that assures him he may never hold anything ever again.

Luhan’s face springs back behind his eyes, stone faced and ashen, eyes holding his gaze with a conviction that bordered on feral as he let the words wash over him.

‘Someone is raising Paimon.’

Even now, centuries later, he regrets saying it - saying it on his knees and gasping for breath, as though the world was already ending. It was. They both knew it was. It started to end the moment ritual die had been cast, but he wonders. Always, he wonders.

Would Luhan have run head first into annihilation if he had spoken calmly, concisely, without shame or guilt? If he hadn’t loved Sasha like his own, would all of this have hurt less? Would things have looked different, if he hadn’t been cut from the same cloth - one nature magician from above pitted against one nature magician from below?

If he weren’t the devil’s mirror, would they all be free?

Logically, he knows the answers - knows that, regardless of how it looked, the ending would always be the same. But still, the wonder reminds him that he hurts, and this is how he remembers he survived.

‘The moon brought you out too, I see?’

The sound of your voice pulls him from his thoughts, startling him with a small jump. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he sees you approach, footsteps light enough on the grass he almost believes you are floating. Your presence empties him, mind suddenly vacant of thought or action, heart stumbling to put himself back together, locking his secrets away.

‘Sorry?’

He doesn’t mean to sound breathless, like he’s overexerted himself to be near you. It’s just that, with your body close enough to touch, standing above him, in the dark and the night, with only the moon to see, he struggles to find his self control.

Biting your lip, you hang your head slightly and nod in apology. ‘I can sit somewhere else.’ You gesture vaguely towards the opposite end of the lake. ‘I just had a feeling…’ Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you sigh as your voice fades away, nervous. He smiles at you, the sound making his blood run hot. ‘It’s just nice to see that the moon touches you the way it touches me,’ you clarify in a rush, suddenly shy that you’ve said anything at all.

Any other night, any other person, and he’d have asked that you leave him, go far away from him so he can be alone and the world can be safe and he can imagine the universe only changes when you look closely enough to notice the difference. Considering the flush at your cheeks, he almost tells you to leave altogether, to go back to New York, because seeing you gone means he doesn’t have to see you get hurt.

But then, considering the flush at your cheeks, he knows to be away from you is just the same as death, and so he smooths the grass beside him with a tense palm, keeping his smile placid in the effort of not giving himself away.

‘You don’t have to,’ he says, trying to keep his tone casual. ‘Sit somewhere else, I mean.’

Beaming, you settle beside him, leaving just enough space between your bodies for the breeze in the air to feel like a chill. He hopes you do not notice him shiver.

‘How could you tell?’ he asks. ‘It’s pretty specific to assume the moon is why I’m here.’

The curl in your lips when you smile tells him you have a secret, that you’re proud of it, a dimple forming in your right cheek. His fingers twitch, stopping himself from reaching out to touch it.

‘I know I laugh too loud,’ you explain, smile unwavering, ‘and giggle a lot - at pretty much everything - and can sometimes come across as, I don’t know, childish -’

Junmyeon cuts you off. ‘I don’t think you’re childish.’ He holds your stare, watching your smile fall as you consider his serious expression. ‘I’ve never thought that. Not once.’

‘Thank you,’ you mumble, swallowing thickly as you hold his stare. When you speak again, it is only after you take in a shaking breath, looking away from him to peer out over the water. ‘I’m bad with words,’ you announce, either as apology or clarification - he is unsure. ‘I’m just saying, I know how it seems. That someone like me wouldn’t know or be aware...but I do.’ Looking back at him once more, your eyes are resolved, unwavering. ‘I see more than most people give me credit for. And I know. I know.’

‘That we’re soulmates?’ he tries, wanting to hear you say it.

Something about this makes you laugh, head cocked back and mouth open to the sky. The sound of your voice echoes, carries into the air and rains over him. The hairs on his arms stand on end, mouth running dry as he watches you surrender, heart first, into bliss.

Regarding him once more, your eyes seem to dance in the moonlight. ‘It’s very hard to ignore the elephant sized tension here, don’t you think?’ Resting your head on your hand, you smirk. ‘It’s a little distracting.’

It’s his turn to laugh, eyes falling to his lap, sheepish. Around you he feels young, so impossibly young and small and unprepared. ‘I don’t know how Min did this.’

‘He didn’t.’

You fill the words with humour, but he still catches the undercurrent - the rolling wave of want that makes them fall, thick and heavy, against his skin. When he looks at you again, you appear placid and serene, but he feels the tension that vibrates from your core - the same vibration at the core of his soul. It’s hurting you not to touch him, the same way his skin feels tight, wrapped around and around his bones, until the water in him has been wrung dry.

‘We can’t…’ He shakes his head, uncertain what he even intended to say.

‘I know,’ you concede, catching his meaning and leaning back on both hands to regard the water once more. ‘Seals are funny things aren’t they? There’s always a special kind of thrill in breaking them, some kind of rush - even if you have permission to open them, even if you already know what’s inside; you just want to touch them.’

Mirroring your position, Junmyeon considers your words and chooses to avoid them, unwilling to let talk of seals spoil the light of the moon. ‘How did you learn sacred geometry?’ he asks, instead.

‘The way you’d learn any other kind of magic: practice and study,’ you shrug, as though it took no skill or effort at all. Junmyeon briefly wonders if this is your magic - a knowing, similar to Minseok’s. But rather than a knowing of events, you manage to know the very nuances of magic itself. The thought makes his stomach drop, not in fear but in awe.

‘I assume,’ you continue, looking up at the moon and basking in the light, ‘you mean to ask why did I choose to learn it?’

Junmyeon nods. ‘I suppose so, yeah.’

‘It’s reciprocal.’ Brow furrowed and focused, you still don’t turn to face him, though he’s sure you can feel his eyes as they wander over your cheeks, your lips, the very curvature of your profile. ‘As above so below,’ you ponder, repeating your words from earlier in the day. ‘It’s a method of seeing the other side of magic - the origin, the darkness, and the beauty. If I can understand the madness, then I can understand how to heal it. If I can understand the symmetry, then aren’t I little bit more connected to the source?’

Someone like you should be impossible, he thinks, someone who holds the heart of magic and does not burn from the force of it. His heart beats like thunder in his chest, tearing through his sternum to get to you, awed and humbled by your ability to command the source of things, to understand and fathom the totality of it - accepting it without wanting to harness it.

‘That’s an interesting way of looking at it,’ he says, licking his lips as blood rushes in his ears. ‘Luhan, our brother…’

‘He’s the one you lost?’

Finally, you look at him once more. Shoulders lowering in relief, he is almost ashamed of the command you have over his body so soon. Grief lingers behind your eyes, sad for him and sad for the memory, and he wars with himself against pulling you close. The muscles in his arms twitch, and he presses himself into the ground with the effort of keeping still, stopping himself from closing the distance.

‘Yes,’ he says, though his usual contempt for the memory does not rear its head. He imagines this is because your presence is a balm, a comfort, and he wishes at once that you do not depart from him, not for the night and never again.

Eyes softened, he watches your hand as it moves along the grass, heading towards his fingers before retreating back to its original position.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say softly, the conviction behind it powerful enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

Centuries have passed, full of people he thought perhaps he could call friends, people who were there, in town and watching him grieve; others still who heard the tale, having lost someone in their life too - for different reasons, but lost just the sam - and all had offered condolences, reached for a hug or his hand or his shoulder as though the touch of a stranger would be comfort enough to ease the pain. For centuries, people have come and gone, and lived and died, and all have seen the grief within his soul and apologized for it being there at all, and not once had he believed they were sincere.

Never, until you.

‘He learned it to understand time,’ he continues, blinking through the dryness in his throat in order to keep his composure. ‘He wanted to understand how patterns repeat or don’t repeat; life and all the smallness of it.’

Junmyeon casts his gaze back out to the water, aware that he’s rambling and fearing he is speaking, now, just to speak. Your gaze remains on his, steadfast and unwavering, toying with his pulse as though it were your plaything. He wonders if you are having fun, invading his synapses so easily.

‘He mastered it,’ he continues, short of breath, ‘probably because he knew we never can truly separate ourselves from the cosmic nature of things.’

‘Ananta.’

The reverence in your voice as you speak nearly makes him whimper, wishing to be cradled against you the way your mouth cradles the word. Steeling his strength, he lets his eyes move over your body, fixing you with a confused expression he hopes does not morph into one of longing.

But you continue to smile, sighing contentedly as though pleased by the mere sight of him.

‘It’s a Hindi expression to describe the endless nature of the cosmos,’ you explain, licking your lips as your gaze wanders briefly down to his neck. ‘They were among the first to really study cosmology.’ With a small sigh, you move your gaze back up to his face, seemingly satisfied. Junmyeon’s fingers dig into the grass, spine going tense under your scrutiny. ‘The whole of the universe is within ourselves, and that is why we are sacred.’

Silence befalls you both, a comfortable silence that carries no expectation for conversation. Raising your eyes to the moon, you continue to smile, content and calm and glowing beneath the light of the moon. He begins to feel erratic, eyes tracing over your features in the struggle to process your existence, and the way you seem to accept the universe as though you were its sole creator.

‘When I’m with you,' he exhales, eventually, 'I feel like I know nothing.’ Slowly, you bring your gaze back to his, and still your smile does not fade. His breath catches, brow furrowing in the effort not to swoon. ‘Like, I'm starting over - I have everything to learn, all over again.’

A flush creeps up Junmyeon's neck, lips opening and closing as his eyes go wide. This sort of admission, this vulnerability, is unfamiliar, almost painful, and he suddenly does not know how to respond himself. Now, your hands are not just touching his memory, you are taking hold of his self-identity, coaxing words from his chest and knowledge from his mind, leaving him empty and wanting and completely at your mercy. With you, he feels fragile and uncertain, and he cannot remember the last time he let himself become shy.

Humming, you don't appear to notice that he's let himself become small. Or, perhaps, you do, and your smile of pleasure does not change, for you find enjoyment in all things, especially the stuttering rhythm of his heart.

‘That’s probably because there is always something to learn,' you shrug. 'You’ve been feeling as if you have to know everything, assuming that you do or, at least, assuming that you have to.’

At this, you fall back onto the grass, laying down with your hands tucked beneath your head as a makeshift pillow. Closing your eyes, you press into the earth, unbothered by the dampness that soaks into your shirt and jeans, luxuriating in the softness.

‘How do you do that?’ he mumbles, incredulous.

Turning to peer up at him, wide eyed and curious, you pout. ‘Do what?’

Again, his hands clench in the grass, clutching at fistfuls as he struggles not to bed down and kiss you; tongue running through your mouth and along your lip, hungry. ‘Approach everything like it’s something for play,' he manages with a cough, voice thick.

This only makes your pout deepen, and he swallows a moan. The sweetness of you is a poison, he reminds himself. He will want to taste and hold and devour you, and it is imperative he does not.

‘Is that a bad thing?’

‘No,' he shakes his head, 'I just don’t understand.’

Looking at the faded blue of his jeans and the browned stains on his white sneakers, he focuses his attention on these details as he speaks, rather than the pink curve of your lips.

‘How do you come away from everything as though it won’t hurt you? Or doesn’t?’ Frustration bleeds back into his voice, and he is glad his focus remains on these insignificant things, because now he feels like himself. ‘How can you laugh, even tonight? The moon is full but the water doesn’t glow, not really, not from below. The light doesn’t touch the bottom anymore, and you walked up to me ready to laugh. I know you’re smart enough to see these things, and you feel these things, but why do you...how do you...people have died.’ When he looks at you again, he is angry, and he is glad for the wrath of it. ‘Death stains things, it stains people, and you can’t ever walk away from that or pretend like it’s okay it happened.’

Rolling onto your side, you gaze up at him, face unmarred by hurt or upset. Junmyeon chews the inside of his cheek, breathless and ready to curse himself for his vitriol, but you don't seem to mind. Instead, you merely seem interested, appreciative that he shared these things at all.

‘Do you think that’s what I do?’ you muse, choosing your words carefully, almost tender with your selection. ‘Pretend?’

‘Don’t you?’ Junmyeon implores, feeling needy and small and praying you agree with him, because he can't fathom a life any other way.

Suddenly, your gaze hardens. ‘Absolutely not.’

His stomach drops, lips falling into a frown, crestfallen. ‘Then I don’t get it.’

‘Who showed you how to keep horror in your chest?' you almost laugh, he can hear it in the tightness of your words. ‘You weren’t born with it.’ Brow furrowed, you take your time picking him apart, considering the totality of him before continuing. ‘I don’t pretend. That’s so disingenuous.’ Shaking your head, you pluck at the grass near his thigh. ‘When anything happens, I just grieve. I grieve deeply and I’m not afraid of showing the pain. I let it out - I don’t rush myself out of it. When you do that, it never really lets go, it just holds onto you tighter. It makes a home out of you, and it stays there, waiting to rise up and eat away at you.’

Pursing your lips, you pause. In the quiet, Junmyeon finds himself missing the sound of your voice.

‘You heal by letting it win you over,' you finish with an almost imperceptible nod, 'just for a little while, until it’s small enough to slip out of your hands.’

He wants to laugh, howl at the idea that such a thing could even be possible. ‘You’ve never had to lead.’

‘Leadership doesn’t exclude you from the spectrum of human emotion,' you counter. ‘We have power, we are special, but we still feel and we still bleed.’

‘What if it never lets you go?’ Mirroring your position, he settles on his right side. He feels almost like a child, sordid and unsure and so, so contented by the nearness of you. It is for this reason, he assumes, that he is able to share at all, and the thought makes the tips of his fingers go numb. ‘What if it never gets small?’

‘Then you accept that it’s part of you, but you don’t let it own you.’ Taking in a deep inhale, you reach for his hand in the grass, twining your fingers together tightly, seriously. ‘You are not comprised of horror alone,' you announce, authoritative and almost severe. 'You are not a collection of misery and death. You are a man, and you are magical. You just need to take command of yourself, not those around you.’

Junmyeon is trembling, tremors running down and through his veins at the sudden feel of your skin against his. The warmth of your hand floods him like a fever, lips parting to take in more oxygen, world rocking beneath him as though he were out at sea. You seem to notice it too, eyes suddenly going wide, and the smooth expanse of your chest along the neckline of your shirt turning pink, and then red.

Behind his eyes, he sees himself, inching closer over the earth to hover above you, lips pressing against yours and knees parting your legs to settle between them. He sees himself clutch your hips, your hands brace his arms, his mouth at your neck, and -

He pulls his hand away, rolling back over to sit up, hugging his knees to his chest. His semi-hard erection strains against his jeans, protesting this new, uncomfortable position.

‘I didn’t expect you to be so blunt,' he says, weakly.

‘Well,' you breathe, voice unsteady and tone dry. Junmyeon smiles. 'The thing about me is I feel all my emotions. The whole range.’ He hears you sit up as well, brushing grass off what he assumes is the back of your shirt. He does not chance a glance. ‘Not just the ones I hold in higher judgement.’

Smirking, he glances at his hands, folded over his legs. ‘You’re getting spicy now.’

‘Spicy?’ you laugh in mock offense. ‘I just call it tough love.’

And then, he can't help it. At once, he's looking at you again, savoring you and the word you've put into the air, as if it meant nothing. As if it were light, and weightless, and easy. ‘Love?’

Settling your arms at your side, he watches as your spine straightens and your neck elongates, suddenly empowered. ‘Do you want it to be?’

His chest constricts, systematically removing the air required to speak. Yes, he nearly screams. He wants it, oh, how he wants it to be, knows that it should be. The joints of his fingers ache from where you touched him, furious to be separated and burning with the loss; his thighs ache, tense from trying to cool the blood of his desire and to ensure his arousal remains unnoticed. He wants you, all of you, and it is the first time in centuries he's wanted a person beyond a body within which he could briefly forget.

Undaunted by his silence, you look back up at the moon. ‘The moon is out. Maybe she knows something.’

The light plays with your hair as though it makes a home of you, casting silver and glitter into the strands in a pattern he finds hypnotizing. Always, the moon enhances aspects of a person - he has always known this, understood the full spoke and terror of the light she provides. She is a beacon, a hope, and a home for the lost creatures and souls that call to her, but she is rarely forgiving.

On you, she is exquisite.

The light settles against your skin, casting shadows and carving the edges of your jaw, your nose, your brow as though she were painting you, sculpting you. It radiates out from beneath your skin, glowing from within as the magic seeps from your pores. Staring at you, he feels he could be blinded, visioned burned by the holiness of you, and as the tears well in his eyes - abrupt and unwelcome and terrifying - the light becomes a halo, and then becomes wings, turning you into the goddess of the moon.

It was always you, his one and only serenity.

‘The moon pulls at water, creating the tides.’ He’s unsure why he says it, why he speaks at all. In the end, he supposes it’s because he sees you as something ephemeral, and speaking, even if it hurts him, opens him, will keep you by his side. ‘Everyone knows that,’ he smirks. ‘It’s basic laws of gravity. But people forget that they are made of water, and the moon pulls at them, too.’

Keeping still, you smile up at the moon and through the light, appreciative and proud. ‘The moon has always been responsible for deep emotional revelations.’

‘Insomnia, depression, psychosis, anxiety,’ he lists, joining you in adoring the moon. ‘She pulls at people, makes them confront what they don’t want to see.’

In his peripheral, he sees you shake your head, heartily disagreeing. ‘She heals it though,’ you say, voice serene. ‘She’s creative, intuitive, spiritual. You don’t hurt for nothing.’

It strikes him, then, that he likely was not wrong, not entirely. His heart sees you as a goddess, showered and anointed by the light, nurtured into full bloom in the dark and in the flow. He sees you as a goddess, but then, in the old days, when magic was known and revered and respected, the moon goddesses were often called oracles. And, perhaps, you are descended from the temple of the moon, a modern day priestess, sent to break and rebuild all his darkest pieces, sewing him back together with silver.

‘Is that your magic?’ he tries, realizing he never really did ask how you define your skills. ‘The moon?’

Suddenly shy, you bow your head and let your halo become a crown. ‘In a sense, yes.’ Turning to smile at him, he no longer sees your beauty as something soft but as something biblical. ‘I understand her, how she affects people - her cycles, her power, her secrets. I’m sensitive to her, aware of how the planets, all nine of them, bend and yield to her.’

Looking back up at the sky, it appears for a moment that your soul stretches beyond the earth, and beyond time. ‘The stars, too, I get power from them as well. The sun is a star, people often forget that. I see how the sun and the moon play together, and, I guess, how they play with people. That’s probably why people assume I’m weak.’ Biting your lip, you pause. ‘Because I’m perceptive rather than aggressive.’

For centuries, he's cursed the foolishness of mortals, hiding in plain sight and letting them win him over because he watched them die. Magic had burned the world - unholy and corrupted with sin - and he had let it. He let men and mortals define a great many things about him, and not once did he mind. But for you to be seen as weak or something unassuming, meager, he finds himself offended. You are one with the universe, and therefore all creatures should bow to you.

You, he believes, are the blueprint and creator of the universe.

‘The stars are going out again,' you announce abruptly, interrupting his thoughts.

Junmyeon blinks, surprised by this sudden change of subject. ‘Again?’

‘It was hard to tell in New York, but we saw it,' you sigh, closing your eyes and sucking in a deep breath, overcome. ‘Back during the great war, the sky went black.’

When he thinks back to the war, he remembers a great many things - terrible things that have coated his skin with wax, embalming him for eternity. He remembers the smell and the screams, the wet ink of notices on church doors declaring another woman damned; the trials and the yelling and the way no one could look each other in the eye. He remembers the way trust vanished, a frail thing that likely never existed to begin with, offered with a sense of reciprocity but never truly delivered. He remembers looking everywhere, at everyone, but not at the sky.

‘What was that like for you?’

‘For my coven?’ you ask, fixing him with a hard stare. It doesn't seem to suit you, but now he sees that you, too, are tormented. ‘Or for me?’

‘You,' he affirms, glad to be so direct.

‘It hurt.' You answer comes without hesitation, gaze unwavering and focused. ‘When the war reached its peak, the sky was completely black. It was a new moon for days, and I ached with the lack of it. It was unnatural - it felt like the universe was dying, decaying before my eyes and I was helpless.’ Momentarily, you pause, eyes searching the darkness that lingers behind him, eyes unseeing, simply remembering. ‘My sisters did their best. They’re empathetic and sensitive, completely aware, but they couldn’t feel it the way I did. Every death, I felt it in my soul, pieces crumbling away.’

He lets you wander in the memory, watches the way you swim inside it without ever falling completely into its clutches. Your eyes move over everything - over his face, his body, the water, the dock that lingers far behind him - but you don't stop. He wonders if this is how he looks, when he becomes consumed, and knows, with a small bush, that it is not. Where you remember actively, fighting through and around the length of your life, he remains still, letting it hold him until he surrenders just as he did the day he learned to hurt.

‘I suppose,' you continue, returning to the present, smiling as though you have a secret you're too excited to keep, 'in the end, what I was really feeling was you.’

His mouth runs dry, blood seeming to halt in the chambers of his heart, as your sentence ends. It rattles him, quakes him, unmakes his DNA as a floodgate inside him opens. He knows what you were feeling, knows that, even without knowing, he had felt it too - felt you too. Separate and together, you had survived the unnatural and unresisted surrender to the promise of brutality.

Thousands of miles away, in a small settlement in New York, you had felt the world end and felt his soul break. And he, confronted with the totality of hell, felt the loneliness that comes with knowing - knowing without seeing or feeling. Knowing that, he was falling apart, and someone was meant to be there to hold him, and was not.

He thought it was Lu. All this time, he had been grieving for Lu. And, only after you study him with care and attention and worry, does he realize he was grieving for you, too.

Pushing himself up and away from the earth, he rises to a stand as he struggles to keep his breath under control. Again, he feels himself become devoured, given over and overwhelmed by the understanding and the magnitude of your connection. If he does not leave, he will no longer be able to trust his actions and, after so many years alone, he stubbornly considers himself his greatest companion, unwilling to truly let himself go.

If he stays, he will have you, press himself against you until there are no edges along your bodies. He will live inside you, the way you live inside him, and nothing, not even the threat of death, will tear you apart.

'Are you okay?' you ask, startled by his sudden shift in energy.

'I have to go,' he says, words falling from his lips in a rush. 'I have to talk to my brothers. I...realized something.'

With this, he turns and leaves you and the moon feeling too full and too consumed to keep still. It hurts to leave, he feels it in the way his legs and feet ache with every step he takes, pulling himself from a soul deep comfort he has spent the length of his existence craving, but he does not look back, not even once.

Outside the door, Junmyeon can see the kitchen light is on.

Lingering on the porch, he shifts his weight from foot to foot, considering if he wants to go in. All the way home, his mind had been racing, spiraling towards thoughts of you, your body, the moon, your connection, and the all encompassing sense of dread that comes with it. He’s full, almost too full to be a normal and healthy person, breaths coming in ragged inhales that speak of exhaustion, and he’s not in the mood to talk.

He’s been praying for silence, to be alone with his thoughts and the empty nothingness of a glass of whiskey - his third of the night, but when confronted with a life alone or the ending of every life, he feels the numbers don’t matter. Silence, it seemed, would not be his companion this night, and he braces himself as he pushes through the door, readying for yet another discussion.

Minseok and Bakehyun busy themselves in the kitchen, cleaning and cooking respectively, deep in conversation. Upon his entrance, they hush, eyes falling on him and and expressions going calm, passive. Junmyeon’s eyes lower to the small carpet by the door, looking for Yixing’s shoes and finding they are not there. Gazing up once more, he notices the whiskey has been put away, placed back on the shelf and out of his reach. He’d have to cross Minseok if he wants to get it, and he bites his lip.

A brief twitch brings Baekhyun’s brow to a small knot, before dissipating, eyes warm with concern. ‘Are you ok?’ he asks gently.

It’s unlike him to be so soothing, usually boisterous and loud, and only effusive with Yixing. With both pairs of eyes on him, he roots his feet to the floor, fighting the urge to cross his arms defensively. Not that he could. Even down to his bones, he feels heavy and drained.

‘What are you guys talking about?’ he deflects, trying not to focus on the ache in his chest and the pain behind his eyes. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

‘The seals,’ Minseok clarifies, placing the tea towel onto the counter. Folding his arms, he considers Junmyeon with a speculative kindness. ‘How the birds dying were one, and that its the first time we’ve seen anything like them. They weren’t like this before, at least the birds certainly weren’t.’

Junmyeon simply nods, moving his focus to a seat at the table. He slumps heavily in the chair, closing his eyes as he leans back. His lower lip trembles, going numb. The water ran black, he remembers, undrinkable until boiled and sending the town into chaos. That was the first - and instead of living in the memory, he falls back to you. To your eyes as they wander over Smith Pool, unable to see that the moonlight no longer lets the water glow.

Neither black nor cursed, merely different. And that is frightening enough.

‘Baek thinks between Xing and myself, we could see if other seals, elsewhere, have been broken.’

It’s taking work for Minseok to keep himself peaceful and tender, a rough gravel behind his words giving an edge to his tone that feels conflicted. They’re both testing him, fully aware and not altogether sure they’re ready to address what they sense down to their very spirit, but Minseok has never been one to run from confrontation. And, tonight, Junmyeon wishes he would.

‘I’ve always wondered if it was just our coven with the curse,’ Baekhyun says, resuming the spread of his jam over toast. ‘Or if it was every coven.’

Keeping his eyes closed, Junmyeon frowns. ‘That sounds dangerously optimistic. Like you’re playing with fire.’

The words don’t sound like they come from him, his voice warped and garbled. The rhythm of his heart escalates, catapulted forward by Baekhyun’s simple statement, and he presses his nails into the palm of his hand. Optimism like this is dangerous - absolutely lethal. It’s an excuse and a reason to be with you, take you, feel you all over him and pretend that it’s not damning the rest of the world. If someone else is cursed, it means you might not be a seal, and that kind of hope is what leads men to shallow graves.

‘It’s worth a shot,’ Minseok counters. ‘I’m going to talk to Xing, see what else is in his notebook.’

Junmyeon tenses, spine going rigid as his breath falters. Behind his closed eyes, his vision runs hot, throat beginning to swell around the lump that has formed.

‘There’s a lot he doesn’t share,’ he persists, tone indicating he has seen Junmyeon’s reaction, but has chosen to continue anyway, ‘but I know something in there has to have an answer.’

‘Luhan’s head was in the center of that blueprint.’ Opening his eyes, he casts a cold stare at both of them, mind battling with too many thoughts and feelings to want to entertain this conversation. ‘We were sealed in the curse the minute she put him inside it. It’s pointless to go looking.’

Even after he finishes speaking, he regrets it. It’s the coldest, most insensitive he’s been in a long while, explicitly reminding them of all the things they had decided they’d never bring up again. But he does, and he hates himself for it, already knowing it was wrong.

Running his hands through his hair, he sighs, chewing at his tongue with enough force he hopes that it bleeds. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not now, not tonight. He doesn’t want to talk, but he knows he has to, and part of him, a sudden, overwhelming part, wants to share and share until there is nothing left inside him anymore, wondering how it would feel to be so free.

Minseok and Baekhyun remain quiet, and he feels their stares on him like a sickness. His skin goes damp, clammy, fingers carding through the strangs of his hair as they ball into fists, and he coughs. Regret consumes him, regret as old and ancient as his heart.

‘What’s up with you?’ Minseok asks, attempting, and failing to keep his tone soft. ‘You never talk this way.’

‘I met her.’ Junmyeon announces it, wet and unceremonious, between the palms of his hands. ‘I thought Xing would have told you.’

He waits patiently for the energy in the room to shift. He readies for it, bracing for the sound of Minseok’s cold hard laugh, a brutal I told you so, and Baekhyun’s sharp inhale sucked between his teeth. The chill will wander over him, making him shiver; conversations about pride, and how being a leader means he’s excluded from rules; the group called together at some unbearable hour of the night, and every cold hard stare reminding him he’s a hypocrite, and that he deserves this. He deserves this kind of hurt and separation, unworthy of a love as powerful as this.

He waits for them to say, without any hesitation, that if anyone deserves to stay away from love, it is him.

‘He wasn’t here when I got home,’ Minseok states, plainly. ‘She’s from their coven, isn’t she.’

Junmyeon tenses, brow furrowed in bewilderment. Lowering his hands, the blur of his vision focuses on Minseok, who leans against the counter with an expectant smirk.

‘You knew?’ he manages, voice suddenly impossibly small.

Minseok shrugs. ‘I had a feeling…’ He fades, bowing his head as he laughs to himself. ‘Yeah, I knew.’

His throat runs dry, mind racing. Pressing the flat of his hands to the table, he waits for the cool of the wood to seep into his skin. ‘Was this a set up?’

Raising his hands in mock surrender, Minseok shakes his head. ‘I only sensed it the day at the shop. I didn’t set that up on purpose. I promise.’

And he wants, with all of himself, to be upset and furious - because he is. There is a rage in him unlike anything he has grappled with before, a frustration so hot his skin feels tight and his teeth feel sore. His tongue has started to crack with words and thoughts, rubbing against the roof of his mouth as he watches Minseok smile and smile and smile, as if this were a game.

But he cannot. Because Minseok smiles, and Minseok knows, better than anyone, that there is nothing about this that is worth a laugh. He envisions you, standing beside Minseok with your warm smile, and the laugh lines on your face, and wants to hold onto the anger, but it fades, because all you are, and all he can be when presented with you, is pure, unfettered delight. Minseok has brought him home, and he did so without interfering, without judging, and without stopping him altogether.

Lips parted and body shaking, Junmyeon deflates, brow furrowed in remorse. ‘I’m sorry.’

Holding Minseok’s stare, he refuses to look away, imploring him to look and keep looking. Startled, he lowers his hands, looking at Baekhyun before returning Junmyeon’s focused stare, chewing the inside of his cheeks. He knows they both feel it, the weight of his apology and how it attempts, in just two weak, overdue words, to make up for all way Junmyeon fought him - fought everyone - battled through their emotions and told them it was unsafe to feel.

He’s sorry. And he knows they feel it.

‘Oh, shit,’ Baekhyun mumbles, posture straightening as his mind runs to conclusions.

Junmyeon moves his gaze to him, and regards his wide, doe eyes and the way his food remains, cold and forgotten at his side. Baekhyun seems more uncomfortable than Minseok, and this, he thinks, is just another unexpected turn the night could take.

‘Nothing,’ Baekhyun says, shaking his head in an effort to clear his thoughts. ‘It’s just...it’s been a really long time since you’ve apologized.’ He pauses, lips pursed momentarily before continuing. ‘For anything.’

He’s sure he must have, he thinks. He must have said the words at some point and some when, when things were less heavy and less dangerous than they are now. Reeling, he attempts to remember anything other than hurt and vitriol and trauma, and comes up empty. For so long, he’s pushed everyone, even himself, away, and now, he realizes, the only person who was unmaking him and his identity was himself.

‘Look,’ Minseok says, clearing his throat and getting Junmyeon’s attention, ‘I don’t blame you.’ The sincerity with which he speaks is uncharacteristic for someone just as austere as he, and Junmyeon feels himself arch a brow. ‘You did what you thought was right. And so did I.’

It’s the last thing he wants to hear, that connecting or letting you in or letting himself go is even remotely the right or moral thing to do. Eyes locked on Minseok, he silently wills him to take it back, imploring him to say it’s wrong, that they shouldn’t - that he shouldn’t.

But he doesn’t. He just nods, resolute in his convictions.

‘Jun, it is right,’ he affirms. ‘I don’t know how I was doing things before I met her, and, honestly, I don’t want to remember. Living like that -’ He cuts himself off, eyes scanning the room as his thoughts run wild before settling back on him, alive. ‘It’s not living. That was not living. She’s made me stronger, better. Do you really think I’d have forgiven you so easily if it weren’t for her influence? You were protective, sure, but you were an asshole about it.’

The argument between the two of them still lingers, smeared over the walls and chairs of the kitchen. They’d both been furious, Minseok and himself battling over an intangible possibility - a maybe that lead to a certainty, unclear yet already final.

‘Having a match means you are bonded to a duality, a light and a dark,’ he had said, as though it were simple and logical and effective enough to keep all of them away. But then, now, he has found you, and the ignorance of such a thing, the foolishness of it - as if the symmetry of being bound together were so easily ignored - makes him blush like a child.

And he thinks of you, the way the light washes over your skin, the way the moon holds you close, and the way you pull him towards you - accidental and unassuming - as though you alone are his moon. He thinks, now, that he is the darkness and you are the light he crawls towards, and knows that, for Minseok, it was likely this same feeling.

‘I feel like I’m losing control,’ he announces, pressing his fingers into his temples. ‘Like suddenly I’m helpless and immature, like my sense of identity is falling apart. I can’t let it go.’ Closing his eyes, he takes in a deep breath, shocked and alarmed that he’s saying this much at all. ‘It’s killing me,’ he continues, ‘the fact that a seal has been broken, and even worse, that I almost don’t care. It’s like nothing matters, and I know you said that - you were trying to tell me. But I can’t let it go. The risk, Min. I -’

‘Im telling you, its right.’ Minseok cuts off his rush of words, tone sharp and authoritative. ‘She’s there to make you better, she balances you. You weren’t wrong,’ he concedes, ‘that it’s a duality. But you have to realize that dualities are made for balance. I just so happens the result is just fucked up.’

They hold on another’s stares for a long while, Baekhyun looking awkwardly between them both, often glancing to the other room as if he wishes to leave. But he stays, and they stay, unified as the world seems to shift and change around them.

‘And no,’ Minseok announces, gaze resolute as he breaks the silence, ‘I won’t stop you from being with her.’

The tension in the room snaps, Junmyeon and Baekhyun regarding Minseok with alarmed, ashen faces. Even as he remains completely still, watching the way Minseok puts his hands in his pockets, casual and nonchalant, with steel in his spine that says he knows, Junmyeon feels the tectonic plates of the earth shift. It changes everything, the way they function as a coven and the way they approach their doom, has been reconstructed and made completely new.

It terrifies him, makes the tips of his fingers go numb and his breath halt. Hair falls into Baekhyun’s eyes, shifted from the force of his movements, but he does not bother to fix it. He, too, has been stilled, awed into silence, witnessing the cosmic shift with wide, wet eyes.

But still, he does not look as frightened as Junmyeon, who, behind his eyes, watches the world end and his heart soar, hands roaming over your body as you sweat gasoline into the grass, fires burning in the distance. Permission is dangerous, he knows, and Minseok knows it, too. And still, it does not stop him.

Nodding, Minseok merely smiles, seemingly unmoved by the shockwaves around him. ‘You have my blessing.’

The words cut Junmyeon deep, a gift he does not deserve and a sign that Minseok is better - better now and better before, a better man that he ever was; a better man than he could let himself be.

Weakened, Junmyeon releases a strained sigh, the sound breaking into the atmosphere as a moan. ‘You know what will happen,’ he argues, spitting dissent like it still matters to him. ‘Why I can’t, and certainly why I don’t deserve it.’

Minseok keeps his expression placid, and gaze stern. ‘I know.’

Emotion wells inside him, scorching against his throat as reality burns around him, shifting instead towards the reckless unknown of you. ‘Then why?’

‘Because you have to choose the light,’ he says, unmoved and unwavering. ‘If you don’t, it’s as good as letting hell win.’ Minseok smiles, running a hand through the purple strands of his hair, proud. ‘She taught me that.’

For a moment, they both get lost. Minseok in memories of love and growth, and Junmyeon in the knowledge that nothing will ever be the same. He’s full, full to the brim of you, and his breath comes shallow, empty, painful in his lungs as he thinks of you and lets himself want and want. And at once, its swept away, by visions of Luhan and the way they died, and how Sasha broke before his eyes and how he has always been feeling, and never once did he stop.

‘Did you really think there’s a way out of this?’ Minseok tries, redirecting the topic as though Junmyeon isn’t falling - as though, around him, everything is fine and normal. Junmyeon knows he must feel it, must see what he sees, but still he soldiers on. ‘That we’d be able to solve it or avoid it?’ He chuckles then, amused by their ignorance. ‘We were never going to resist. It was just a matter of time before we gave in, or before we were forced to come together. That’s the point of this - it’s bigger than us.’

‘So we’ve been helpless?’ Baekhyun says, gentle and sweet and Junmyeon can tell he sees something is wrong, but he, too, continues, leaving Junmyeon to drown on his own. ‘The whole time, it’s just been inevitable?’

‘Most likely.’ Minseok’s voice goes distant, the blood in Junmyeon’s ears turning his answers into little more than white noise, a static that does not bring him comfort. ‘Yixing’s been alluding to it, and even when the Black Witch burned, she promised the cycle would repeat. It was always going to look different, but she told us it would happen.’

‘So it’s all just been dormant,’ Baekhyun reasons, pushing from the counter to settle in the chair across from Junmyeon.

He sees him do this, but he does not actually witness it.

Instead, the tears that had threatened to consume him spill from his eyes. He’s glad for this, briefly, because now it means he can see Baekhyun, but the heat on his cheeks sears him deep, hand raising to the skin and discovering that it is wet. Around him, the world falls silent, Baekhyun’s shape blurring into a smear of nothingness while Minseok’s voice dies, muted by the throbbing in Junmyeon’s head.

The wetness glistens against his fingers, warm and slippery, and he wonders why he’s never bothered to touch this - the water that comes from his own body. He coughs, not realizing he’s started to sob, lips and mouth wet as he struggles to breathe, shattered inhales of pain and remorse and regret and the horrific, candied flavor of ardor.

He cries and he cries, feeling everything all at once with greedy fingers, pulling at his memories and pulling at you, wearing the images as tattoos against his soul. Luhan died, and so did he, and so did every part of himself he thought he loved. And you lived, smiled like he was a whole and complete man, something worth loving, reminding him he never did anything wrong, he just got scared. And the water, all this time, pulled away and came back to him with an aggression he thought was normal - waves that cast up against his legs, reminding him they are one and they are together - but never kissing him the same way again.

And now, for the first time, he cannot remember the last time the rain felt sweet, everything about a storm casting a gloom that made his shadow grow tall.

The skin of his cheeks feels trapped, torn between drying the tears as they stream from the heated temperature of his blood and feeling relief, a lightness to his pores as they release everything they’ve kept inside. There should be a reprieve from this, a release from his body as he shudders and fractures, letting himself feel vulnerable and aching with the shame of being seen.

Minseok and Baekhyun stay with him, neither reaching for his hand nor running away, frightened. Their presence, though not a comfort, is an alliance, an acceptance he had not granted himself for centuries, excluding himself from brotherhood under the guise of leadership. They welcome him back, silent and aware, keeping him company as he breaks, neither judging him for the noise or the shape this sort of breaking takes. He empties himself with them, pulls everything from the vessel of his soul and lays it bare, before them and asking that they hold it with him.

And they do, having done this together, without him; having done this centuries ago, finally gladdened that their brother has come home.

The moon remains full for three days, an omen waiting patiently in the center of the sky and altering the night. A halo of red orange light bleeds from its edges, spilling blood into its center and changing its usual silver hue into one of flames.

Chanyeol feels it the most, having been separate from all the conversations, but awoken and rattled just the same. A wolf inside him fights his spirit, affected by the moon more intensely than he normally would be, barely sleeping and leaving the house at odd hours, needing to be outside and needing to be alone. Minseok offers Junmyeon knowing looks each morning, reassuring glances that say it would have been this way regardless. Still, he sips his tea too slowly and too long, the liquid going cold until it is almost flavorless, worrying himself raw and wishing his resolve meant nothing would change.

With all of his remaining strength, he avoids Smith Pool, tucking himself away from the bloodthirsty and severe shadows he knows the light will cast. He feels this unnatural avoidance in the tension that builds in his neck, moving his head from side to side at the shop to release the pressure, mind wandering and unable to focus on anything other than water. Nightly, instead, he submerges himself in the tub, pressed to the bottom and letting himself be held, nurtured, and cleansed. He experiments with the droplets as he rises, pulling them off his body and making shapes, making stars, feeling as though he is making you, before calling them back to skin and ensuring they do not dry.

It does not escape him, even as he does this, invoking play with his power at liberty rather than tucking it away, no longer cowering from it as though scorned, that Paimon is a part of him. The great release of his tears means he has started to accept the reality that all things above are mirrored below, and takes great pride in the fact that he holds water out of respect; the water bends and opens for him, because he loves it, because he lets it, not because he demands it, and not because he expects it to.

And on the fourth day, when the pain of staying away from the lake starts to hurt, the colour fading from his cheeks and lips, he brings himself out, anxious and starved. With every step, he feels the water call to him, lapping against his spirit and carrying him home, remembering their maker, and luring him towards the dock, lonely and needy in its anticipation. He'd longed for it, unsure how he had been able to stay away between the cycles of the moon, for years denying so many parts of himself in the name of leadership.

Sitting on the dock, he swings his feet over the surface as the moon seems to pull him forward, his hands digging into the wood to keep himself from tipping. Leaning into the light, he hums, the echo of the current easing his mind, the thoughts and worries falling silent, if only for a moment. Worn thin, he'd been thinking through his feelings, engaging and pulling at them, working through the how and the why and the when, but now, he simply sits. All his emotions bubble to the brim, and he luxuriates in them, accepting them for what they are rather than what he’d like them to be - what he’d make them to be.

Junmyeon breathes deep, the mist from the water seeping into his lungs, and rather than make him cough, he simply sighs, glad to have felt, and glad to have lived.

The water beneath his feet sloshes almost violently, erupting up and over the dock in a small wave to spray him, playfully, welcoming him - his true nature - and he laughs, loud and long, eyes squeezed shut in childlike pleasure. Against his skin, the memories in the water make his breath catch, memories of the lake being made, of his voice blessing the water on completion, of his feet - breeches raised high and toes wiggling on the stony bed below - running and chasing and thriving. There were children with him then, always. Children from town and children from school, calling him their guardian as they learned to trust the water.

The memories fade as soon as they came, dripping down and back through the crevices of the dock, the atmosphere changing as he senses your approach.

Straightening his spine, his pulse begins to race, lips parting on a silent exhale as he counts each of your steps. The last time he met you here, he'd been imprisoned, locked in a self made cage where his hands and heart could not reach you - trapped inside himself, he could not feel you, not truly. Now, he is whelmed by the totality of your soul, overcome and overrun, and he struggles to keep himself from turning to watch you.

One look at you, he knows, and there will be no hope for him. Once he feels you, he will feel all of you, and then there will be no pretending anything would ever be the same.

‘Welcome back.’

Your voice is full of joy, thrilled by the mere sight of him, and he closes his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. Biting the inside of his cheek, he feels the excitement, the noise of you, gather within his spine, and he suppresses a contented sigh.

Finally allowing himself the comfort of your warm eyes and full lips, he takes his time watching you thrive beneath the light of the moon, ignited and given wings as you approach. Digging his nails into the dock, his breath catches, and he takes a moment before he speaks, gathering his words to ensure they do not break.

‘Are we making a habit of this?’

Settling beside him, excitement rolls off your aura in waves as you take off your shoes and socks. Scooting to the very edge, you smirk, teasing. ‘I hope so.’

Letting your feet drop into the water, just the barest ends of your toes touch the surface. Upon contact, your grip the dock a little tighter, a small yelp emerging from your chest. Eyes wide with shock, Junmyeon looks from your face to your feet and back again, bewildered.

'Isn't that cold?' he laughs, amusement tainting his surprise.

'Yes,' you nod, giggling as your toes splash lightly. 'But isn't it terrible we only let ourselves be silly in the summer? The water is always inviting, even if we can't dive in.'

Awed by the mere existence of you, Junmyeon remains quiet, letting the serenity you provide seep down and deep into his pores.

‘You look different,’ you say, breaking the silence. ‘A little more free.’

The heat from your stare peels back his skin, exposing all hs fragile, vulnerable parts as though readying for a feast. But he does not hide. Now, he is proud of the difference, and, most of all, proud that you have noticed. Rolling his shoulders back, he watches the water as it makes swirls on your feet, glad that it touches you when he cannot.

‘I am,’ he affirms, grinning bashfully. ‘I’m glad you feel the difference.’

Chuckling, you avert your eyes to the water at your toes. ‘I can.’ Your brow furrows, distracted momentarily before relaxing once more. ‘You feel like home.’

The air in his lungs catches, startled to a halt and held in place by your admission. In the aftermath, you don’t recoil from it, simply turn to face him with a conviction that makes his limbs start to feel heavy. In you, he could drown, happily surrendered to the depth so your soul and spirit, heart pulled out and left open, craving the affection of your touch.

You small gasp breaks his thoughts, his eyes following yours to the water.

‘This is your power?’ you ask, amazement lacing through your tone.

Before you, a thin veil of mist rises up and up, pulled from and out of the lake, sparkling beneath the light of the moon. Stretching far above and into the sky, the droplets hold their shape, their makeshift curtain refracting the light and elegantly speckling the dock as your skin becomes illuminated. Even without his permission, he couldn't let the water stay away, adoring and worshiping you, mirroring his heart and his affections; glimmering, in the effort of anointing you as wife.

‘Yes,’ he admits, watching the curtain fall back down, silently. ‘I’ve been called the Water King.’

Reaching out a hand to collect droplets as they fall, attention rapt and lips parted with wonder, you sigh. Junmyeon shivers, feeling your touch through the water.

‘I see why this has been hard for you,’ you offer, moving your hand through the spray until it is gone, a small pout pushing your bottom lip forward.

His head falls, eyes downcast through his lashes. Unsure if he is ready for you to expose his nature or if he simply misses the feel of your touch against his heart, he keeps silent, conflicted and feeling small.

‘Nature magicians,’ you tease lightly, sensing his discomfort and softening to keep him safe. ‘You always feel Paimon more deeply than everyone else. My sisters -’

‘The herbalist,' he announces, remembering the way she cried, on this dock, clutching at Minseok to keep herself together.

You smile, glad for his attention to detail.

‘She needs Minseok.' As he says it, he blinks slowly at the taste of the words on his tongue. Sentiments like this used to come easily, rolling from his heart and mouth at will, honest and loving and gentle. Now, he is simply startled at the comfort they bring, taking shape as though he had been waiting to say it for years. 'I’m glad she has him.’

Eyes warm and full of devotion, nails digging gently into your thigh, you continue. ‘Another one of my sisters handles fire. She’s been...well, she never really lets us see how bad it gets.’

The water rolls forward against the legs of the dock, aggressive and foreboding. Too many nature magicians, he thinks, all located in one place. The hair on his arms stands on end, and slowly he realizes Minseok was right. It was always going to be this way, whether they gave in or not.

‘I’m glad she has you,' he says, an odd, distracted rephrase of his previous sentiment, but still he means every word. ‘That you see through to her heart. It takes incredible strength to do that, and not run away.’

‘And who do you have?’ you counter without hesitation, angling your chest towards him, unwilling to let him back down. ‘Do your brothers truly understand how it feels to be a part of nature’s mirror into hell?’

‘They try,' he shrugs, lowering his gaze to the wet wood beneath your hands. ‘I’ve told them what I can.’

‘I see the moon finally touched you.’

A rush of blood cascades in his ears, eyes lifting to greet yours, bashful and suddenly defenseless against your sweetness. Looking right down into him, you see, he knows you see, the way he let his heart break open, shattered into an irreparable state in the effort of learning to remake his soul. You see and you see, and he lets you in, feels your hands touch and caress all the parts within that did not used to exist - or did, have always exists, but were bent into irregular, inhuman shapes to make breathing hurt just a little less.

You see and you see, and so, he sees you too, drinking his fill until his fingers ache with the future nostalgia of your hair and his lips burn with the flavor of your tongue; having all of you, unafraid of being greedy in the name of love and lust.

‘She did,' he manages, eventually, words fading as a sigh.

‘But, I have to say,' you begin, holding his stare and demanding he does not look away. 'There’s really only one heart I’d rather be looking into.’

Tipping his head back slightly, he feels himself smile, ecstatic and impish and warmed to a flush that makes his cheeks sting. Looking back at you, he sees the hunger in your eyes and knows that he mirrors the intensity, watching a flush creep along your neck.

Junmyeon licks his lips, seeing just how far he can tempt your blush. ‘I know the feeling,'

‘I remember you saying that we can't.’ You toss his words back at him, running a hand through your hair and leaning into the breeze, seeking relief.

‘Does that mean you don’t want to?’ he challenges, inching closer.

The closeness of your body, with each small movement, sends an electric current up his spine, heart racing in his chest.

‘It’s like seals,' you murmur. ‘The more you’re told you shouldn’t, the more you want to.’

‘You know that I’d want you,’ he replies, words heavy and thick, ‘even if you weren’t a seal.’

‘I know.’ Wetting your lips, you breathe deep. ‘Me too.’

It would be easy, he thinks, to lean forward and catch your tongue before it slips back into your mouth. Easy, to press his fingers into the back of your neck, tipping your head back to kiss you and kiss you until the breaths you share together make you blood hurt. It would be easy.

‘Before the first war,’ he says, moving his eyes back towards the water, feeling his heartbeat like lead with the loss. ‘I wanted a family. I was ready to get married, ready to have children. I wanted to be a father, not a leader. Many would say they’re the same thing, but not really. With a family, you have a partner. And I never let myself have that, I guess, in the coven. But even still, it’s not the same.’

Considering his words for a moment, he feels you shift, pressing yourself against the dock as if rooting yourself and keeping your composure. He does not chance a glance however, blood alive like fire.

‘I was engaged once,’ you share, breathless and clutching at the dock, tone bewildered by this shift in topic. ‘A long time ago, about seventy years or so. He was a nice man, but something was lacking. He was kind and funny and warm, but I never felt anything for him, because I never saw him as my partner.’

In the water, he sees reflections of your past - reflections of a man who held you tight, but incorrectly, kissing at you with thick lips and careless hands. He wanted you, wanted all of you, and would have loved you as best he could. Which is to say, he would have loved you in a human, simple way that echoed commitment and choice without lust and passion. And you, looking up at the moon and looking at the stars, would have waited for the universe to ignite in your heart, waited to love him enough to make a sky out of your bed, withering beneath the permanence of a contract that did not taste cosmic.

He hates it. Down to his core, Junmyeon hates it. Hates the idea of someone's hands on you, feeling you without feeling the moon, without feeling your heart. Hates that your lips have been kissed at rather than savored, that your mouth and body and hands made moon for a man who could not give you the sun, and wants, with all of himself, to prove that the galaxies you inspire in his bones are not a fever but a fate. To prove, once and for all, that the only man who could love you enough to let you shine, is him.

The cold front sweeps in, merciless and relentless, blowing with a force that tells him the sky has felt him too. The rain falls, sudden and heavy, bathing you both in the intensity of his affections, soaking through and through until you are laughing in it - laughing in him - looking at him with wide eyes.

You don't say anything, know that you don't have to, studying the way he breathes deep, water dripping down his nose and cheeks, unafraid of hiding.

'I'm not sorry,' he says, emboldened. 'Please don't make me think about that again. Someone else's hands on you, I -'

'Yours are the only hands I want,' you announce, cutting him off.

In the deluge, he feels the heat of your skin, hears the erratic rhythm of your pulse, and the way your fingers twitch, halting in their trajectory to touch him. Finding it unfair that he should feel you so fully, with you only dripping for him, he raises his hand and guides the rain away from you, sheltering you from his storm.

‘Did you walk?’ he asks, gravel building in his voice from the sight of you wet and wet and wet with him.

Unable to speak, eyes dark as you hug yourself, pressing the water into your skin, you nod.

Junmyeon nods, watching as your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt. Blinking, he catches his breath. ‘We can talk in my car.’

And he doesn't know why he does it, only knows that he needs it, body moving without permission from his mind. Taking your hand in his, he twines your fingers together, the wetness of the rain drying immediately to press your skin against his. He gasps, and you sigh, both of you halting in your steps to gaze at one another, feeling the current grow between your palms, a thunder clap he'd been waiting centuries for.

He takes his time walking the short distance to his car, savoring the feel of your fingers rubbing against his knuckles. As he walks, he watches your profile, studies the angular slope of your jaw, the elegant vein of your neck, the tantalizing juncture of your neck and shoulders. How he could have wanted, how he could have needed, anything other than you - how he ever thought he'd survive without you. A laugh rises in his chest, amused by is foolishness, and he swallows it down, unwilling to admit just how quickly he craves surrender with you.

In the car, he lets your hand go, sitting silent with his palms resting on his legs. Staring straight ahead, you both watch the rain as it glides down the windshield, feeling sheltered and submerged. Idly, he wonders how far this reaches, if this storm is just for you or if he has covered the town, announcing that he has found you and he will never let you go.

The windows fog, warmed by the heat of your bodies as the temperature rises in the car. Sweat on his brow mixes with the drops of rain, and only when he thinks he may break, when the tightness in his spine, his thighs, and his chest is enough he fears he may break, does he speak.

‘Its killing me,' he says, almost whining. ‘Not touching you again.’

Bold and unafraid, he feels your eyes graze over his face. Inhaling a deep breath, he wrestles with his composure, breathing through his mouth so he cannot smell you.

‘So touch me,' you say, almost demanding that he disobey, reckless and thriving.

And he looks at you, looks at the way the rain has made your lips and cheeks wet; how your eyes glimmer, hopeful even behind the dark dilation of your pupils, brave under the weight of your desire. He remembers you saying you felt everything, all your emotions, all your pain and wanting and fear, with the totality of you, and only now does he notice you are shaking.

‘If I do, I -’ he chokes, watching your hands pull your shirt away from your skin, attempting to keep yourself cool. ‘I won’t hold back.’

‘So don’t.’

Junmyeon shakes his head, sucking air between his teeth. ‘You don’t get it.’

‘I do.’ It's the loudest you've ever been, confident and strong and so completely regal. ‘Every time I see you, I’m waiting for you to reach out and touch me. I’ve seen into your heart.' Chest heaving for breath, you continue. ‘I've seen how badly you need to be loved, and heard, and witnessed. Your mind is powerful, and it’s been given so much of the attention for hundreds of years, but your heart is just as magnificent. And I see you, I see how deeply you’ve been feeling everything and I’ve wanted to hold you. I lay up at night, thinking about you beside me and knowing that I’m supposed to be there, to make light of the moon less harsh. To hear you. To kiss you.’

His head falls back against the headrest, pressing himself into the seat as he looks at you, wanting you all over him and wanting to be all over you. His fingers drag along his jeans, the last threads of his composure fading away.

‘Minseok gave me permission,' he says, speaking just to test his voice, to see if he can. ‘I know I don’t need it. But still. I’m telling you. There’s no going back.’

‘Do you even want to?’ you almost plead. ‘You’ve let it go. Does the past even look appealing when you think about it anymore?’ Holding his stare, you tilt your head back, exposing your neck and chest to him. ‘Does it look better than me.’

Junmyeon angles himself in his seat to face you, fully, eyes demanding your attention. ‘I need you to tell me you want it,' he commands. ‘You know what will happen.’

If he has you, there will be no stopping him. He will take you, all of him, breaking open a seal with giddy, greedy fingers. He will bond with you, press himself inside you and demand you never be separated again. The world will end, and many will die, but he will love you and love you and love you until even the ashes of his bones is left mixing with your cosmic dust.

‘I know what will happen,' you press, insistent. ‘And I still want it.’ Leaning forward, you run your fingers through the wet strands of his hair, sending shivers down his spine. ‘I want you.’

The tightness in your voice, the raw and all encompassing yearning for him, washes over him, breaking through the last remaining threads of control to which he had managed to cling. Looking at you, letting himself fall into your eyes, he slowly comes to realize that the only consent he needed was not from Minseok, but from you. To be damned alongside you, no longer alone, walking into hell and lust and desire with his hand clasped in yours.

And when you breathe, sucking air into your lungs as your breasts fight against your shirt, he finds that it does not matter - that being damned does not matter, so long as the taste of you remains on his tongue, until the only thing he can ever remember is you.

Over the console, he reaches for you, lips coming together full of hunger and want, starved over centuries for the press of your tongue against his lips. Reclining his seat as far back as it will go, the kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, wet from rain and wet from your mouths, rolling against one another to devour each other whole.

He nips at your bottom lip, pressing his teeth into the soft flesh and pulls, hearing you whimper as your hands fist at the collar of his shirt. Sliding his fingers up your neck, his hands gather fistfulls of your hair, tugging slightly and chuckling as he hears you gasp.

‘That’s it, princess,’ he murmurs against your lips, dipping his tongue inside the cavern of your mouth. ‘Let me hear you.’

Whimpering, you grip tightly at his shoulders as he pulls you, indelicately, over the console to settle in his lap. Straddling him, you grind your hips down into his, the heavy thickness of his erection pressing into your center through his jeans. Gasping at the contact, he peers up at you, at your swollen lips, your hair falling messily over your shoulders, and swallows thickly. Rolling up into your core, separated by all your clothes, your eyes flutter shut, and he brings one hand to the back of your neck, lowering you to his mouth where he begins to suck.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, as you hiss. ‘Right there, fuck. It’s sensitive.’

Against your skin, he smiles, biting softly without leaving a mark. ‘I’ve felt you,’ he breathes, running his tongue over the spot his teeth just touched. Beneath his hands, you tremble. ‘For so long in the rain, I’ve felt you.’

‘It’s not like me to hold back,' you moan, holding his face between your hands and tilting his head to kiss at his jaw. 'Ever.’

The feel of your lips against his bones ignites a fire in him, need pooling deep into his belly as his hips roll up into yours once more. Hands needy and urgent, he leans back in his seat, gripping the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head in one fell swoop. Your chest is flushed, breaths coming in hollow pants, and the supple skin of your breasts presses tantalizingly against the cups of your bra. Mouth watering, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you flush against his chest, lips moving against the space between your breasts.

'Unfair,' you gasp, pushing at his shoulders before reaching before tugging at his shirt.

Helping you, he releases his hold on your waist, skin still tingling from the feel of you, and lifts his arms over his head. Tossing his shirt into the back seat, your eyes rake over his chest, followed swiftly by the pads of your fingers as they press barely there touches to the curves of his muscles. With each graze of your skin against his, he sighs, hands coming to grip your hips tightly and pressing you against his groin.

‘Greedy?’ you smirk, bending down to kiss sweetly below his ear.

Junmyeon groans, rolling up against you once more. ‘Only for you.’

Holding you so close, the heat of your core resting against his cock, seeping through his jeans, he takes a moment to clear his vision, grounding himself in the moment. The rain against the windows rolls down in streams, the glow from the street lamps outside casting shadows against your cheeks and shoulders, and for a moment, you become the waterfall he has always craved.

The moment is broken by your agile fingers, pulling at the button of his jeans. Laughing at the way you fumble slightly, fingers slick and slipping along the button, he lifts his hips, holding you still against him, as you work his jeans and boxers down. Erection freed, he sighs in relief, only to choke on his breath as your strong hand wraps around him entirely, pumping his length slowly.

Biting his lip, his head falls back as his hands reach behind your back, unclasping your bra.

'Look at you,' he rumbles, throat tight as your grip squeezes around him. 'Fuck, you're perfect.'

Consumed, he presses up into your hand at the same time as he bends to take your breast in his mouth, rolling his tongue over your perked nipple. Your rhythm falters, releasing his cock as pleasure takes over, raking your nails over his biceps as he laps at your breast. Biting down slightly, he lets his teeth make bite marks, marking the soft skin as his own, claiming a part of you for himself.

‘Tell me if you want me to slow down,' he breathes, pulling away from your breast to pay the same attention to the other. ‘I’ll do anything for you. I’ll hold back for you.’

‘I told you want you,' you whine, writhing against him as his teeth graze over your nipple, sending static like tingles down to your core. 'I’ve been wanting you.’

Lifting his mouth, he releases his hold on your hips to scratch at your thighs beneath the thin fabric of your leggings. ‘I need to show the world you’re mine.’

‘I’m yours,' you nod, kissing at his lips messily, sucking his tongue briefly before pulling away to breathe. ‘Only yours.’

Invigorated, the tension in his hands reaches its breaking point, and he feels himself rip through your leggings without even realizing it. Blinking down at the exposure he created, he feels a blush of shame creep into his cheeks before you begin to laugh.

‘I’ll buy you a new pair,' he offers, apologetically.

Shaking your head with a smile, you kiss him deeply, letting your tongue explore the velvet texture. 'Doesn't matter.'

Pushing past the remains of your leggings, he moves your underwear to the side and presses two fingers into your core. Your head lolls forwards against his shoulder, one hand gripping at his arm while the other strokes lazily around his cock. He lets himself press knuckle deep, enough for your walls to clench around his fingers, hoping to keep him trapped inside, and a deep moan rattles against his ribs.

‘Already wet for me, baby?’ he manages, thrusting slowly into your heat before curling his fingers.

He's coated with your wetness, the slickness of you dripping onto his hand and signaling you are likely ready for a third, but he deprives you, wanting to keep you on edge. Pretty when you're needy, he likes the way you curl against him, whining into his touch.

‘What do you expect,' you manage, turning your face to bite at his neck, 'when you’re dealing with a water king?’

Hearing his name and title roll off your tongue, with pride and ardor and passion, he cannot help the possessive growl that overtakes him, a third finger slipping inside you as he lets his thumb rub circles against your clit. His chest grows hot, warmed to the brim of your and your sweet, inconsistent strokes along the veins of his cock, and he knows, for better or worse, he will bring you to orgasm on his hand if he does not slow down.

‘How do you want to come, princess?' he manages, stilling the fingers between your folds and letting them curl upwards.

Petulant, you grip his cock tightly, urging him to continue. Junmyeon shakes his head and clucks his tongue, wrapping his hand around the one that holds his cock, keeping you still.

‘Words, princess,' he says, voice dangerously low. ‘Use your words.’

‘Cock,' you whine, rolling your hips against his hand for some relief. ‘Need to feel you inside me.’

Junmyeon pauses for a moment, considering. He is not one to carry condoms with him, but he knows that Baekhyun usually keeps one in the glove compartment for nights when he feels the most lonely; nights in autumn and winter when the light retreats from his skin and he seeks a body to feel warm. The last time he sought a companion was a week prior, and Junmyeon is certain the condom no longer remains.

'I don't have a condom with me,' he says, pressing his fingers back into you in a slow, lazy rhythm. ‘I'll have to pull out.'

Clenching around his fingers, you nod vigorously into his neck.

‘Princess,’ he commands, halting his fingers once more and lifting his thumb from your clit. ‘Tell me it’s ok. I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.’

'It's okay,' you whine, pressing against him to have the contact once more. ‘Want to feel you inside me.’

'Are you on something?' he presses, being careful and making sure you mean every word you say.

'No,' you manage, kissing at his neck and squeezing at his cock to get his attention, hoping to hurry him along.

Stricken, he flushes, removing his hand from yours to tug at your hair. Peering into your wide, lustful eyes, he searches your face with panic. 'You could get pregnant…'

You nod, reaching up to smooth the hair out of his face. 'I know.'

It settles over him, the implication of your words and the way you seem so calm, so blissful, so at peace with the idea. There's no fear in your voice, no terror or uncertainty. You simple look at him, full of love, a full moon, waiting for him to kiss you.

‘What are you saying?' he whispers, heart thundering in his throat as blood rushes in his ears.

He'd forgotten what hope felt like, what it felt like to feel himself and his desires, the whole length of them from beginning to end. He'd forgotten, and now that he remembers, he does not ever want to stop.

Wordlessly, you bend down, capturing his lips and a sound, unhurried kiss. You suck at his lips, humming with a smile, as your let your hands wander over his skin, clenching around the fingers that remain inside you, reminding him you still want him, need him.

Breaking away from the kiss, he keeps his eyes on yours, needing to hear it. 'Princess,' he tries, a tiny, barely there whisper of the man he feels he could be. 'Can I put a baby inside you?'

And, once more, without any sound, you nod.

The motion breaks something inside him, his eyes suddenly going dark and wild, blood alive like liquid gold to press eagerly against your silver. It's unlike him, the vigor with which his fingers thrust inside you, spreading slightly to stretch you in preparation. Deep inside him, there is a deluge, something awoken - not altogether dark but not altogether himself - pressing at your skin, hoping to press through and live inside you.

'I want to get you pregnant,' he says, fingers pressing at your nerves and walls, hard enough to make sure you feel every hill and valley of his knuckles. 'Watch you grow my baby inside your perfect womb. Make you swollen and fill you so completely your body feels empty without me. Please, let me. Please, can I get you pregnant?'

Your hold on his cock is weakened, thighs and body starting to quake as he pushes you close to release. 'Yes,' you cry.

'Say it again,' he demands, pushing you against him to bite at your shoulder.

'Yes.'

Junmyeon lets his thumb tap roughly against your clit, swirling your juices over the nerves. 'Again.'

'Put a baby in me,' you moan, clutching at him as your finger smears pre-cum over his tip. 'I want to have your baby.'

Pulling his fingers from your folds, he smiles as you whimper at the loss. His hand lifts yours from his cock, and he grips the ample flesh of your hips, letting his fingers dip between the waistband of your underwear to press into your ass.

Holding you up, he bites at your lip before speaking. 'Sit yourself on my cock, princess.'

Moving your underwear out of the way, you slowly lower yourself down, holding his tip between your slit for a few moments, impishly keeping still. Guiding a hand between your legs, you hold onto him, keeping him still as your squeeze around his base, letting your nails idly tap against the veins. Junmyeon hisses, fighting the urge to press you down, to bury himself inside you to the hilt, and distracts himself by massaging your ass, hard enough to leave bruises.

'Gonna ride just the tip?' he grunts, eyes locked on the way he has just barely begun to disappear inside you.

'Just wanted to see how long you'd go before you broke,' you laugh, before sliding all the way down, taking him deep until there is no end to where you your bodies begin.

Settling your hands on his shoulders, you roll forward, gently thrusting against him to get used to the feel of him inside you. Junmyeon exhales through his teeth, the feel of your walls around him sending his body into overdrive, cock hard enough the ache in his spine has his breath coming in rasps. Lifting yourself, you fall back down on him, creating a rhythm that his him thrust up into your cunt in desperation.

Moving his hands forward, he holds onto your hip as he takes one of your breasts in his hands, massaging the flesh as you bounce on him, clenching tightly enough to make him gasp. In retaliation, he takes your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the bud tightly until you hiss. And then, in one fell swoop, brings his mouth and tongue over pink nub, sucking harshly.

Your hands move to his hair, carding through the strands as you grip him, gasping through the sensation.

'You're fucking tight,' he groans, meeting your downward fall with an upward thrust. 'I'm gonna have to spend my life fucking you hard enough to fit.'

The power behind his words has your body shaking, the wetness of your bodies coming together filling the car as a symphony. His orgasm builds behind his eyes, the tension in his legs wrapping around him as a coil. Around his cock, you clench, desperate to hold and keep him inside, and the more you do the more his control slips away, body driven to powerful thrusts, seeking an end.

Bringing a hand between your bodies, he returns his fingers to your clit, tapping hard circles in time with his thrusts.

'Next time,' he groans, 'I'm gonna eat this pussy out for hours. Suck it dry and make it wet again.'

'Jun -' you moan, lapping at his lips as your bouncing becomes erratic.

'You gonna come, princess?' he breathes, smiling against your panted breaths.

All you can manage is a nod, aware that the noise in your chest sounds just like begging. Inside you, he is relentless, seeming to press himself deeper and deeper with each thrust.

'I'm going to come,' he manages, the first clear and well constructed sentence he's said since he's been inside you.

Admission means he's giving you one last chance, one brief opportunity to change your mind, and he thrusts so deeply inside you, he hopes his motive is clear. He wants you pregnant, swollen, carrying his baby, making sure all the world knows you are his and you are his home. He gives you this opportunity, because he can wait, he has been waiting - for you, he has been waiting, and there is a lifetime during which he can build the life with you he craves.

But you hold on tight, grind down onto him with a moan, and look him straight in the eyes.

'Come inside me,' you whisper, speech steady and careful. 'Fill me, please. I want it.'

Unleashed, untamed, and alive, Junmyeon presses against your clit, babbling into your ear as he feels his orgasm burn inside his belly. With each thrust, he sees it, sees you, full of him and laughing, body mooned outward because of him, and he suddenly cannot catch his breath.

'I'm gonna put a baby here. Right here. You're going to get big, round, so fucking pregnant you'll think you might been waiting for it your whole life.'

That’s all it takes, the mere image of you rounded and pregnant as you ride him, to send him over. He spills into you, hot and moaning your name, feeling you tremble around him as you come together, your legs shaking on either side of his. Your voice is thick and heated in his ear, wet cries of pleasure and moans, whispers of permission, of love, and hope dripping from your mouth. The whine of his name from your lips makes him gasp, pressing deep inside you as he feels his come spill out of you and back down onto his thighs, jeans, and your skin.

Trembling against him, you gasp to catch your breath, body sensitive as his cock softens inside you. Stroking your hair, he presses soft kisses to your cheeks and shoulder - anywhere his lips can touch, he kisses, reminding you he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

With his eyes closed, body encased in bliss, he lets the world remain at peace, for this one brief moment.

And outside, outside the car where he does not choose to look, the moon comes out, but still it rains. It rains, unholy and unnatural, spilling backwards up into the clouds, up and up and up, defying gravity.

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missmarquin · 5 years

Text

Magnetic, Ch. 3

In the future, romantic attraction is literal: each person is fitted with an electromagnetic bracelet which will pull you to your soulmate. It’s hard, wondering who’s out there for you. It’s harder yet, when you have to come to understand yourself first.

Read on A03 (proper italics and such!).

Armature

‘In a DC machine, the armature reaction changes the distribution of the magnetic field, which affects the operation of the machine as a whole.’

---

“I’m so fucking exhausted,” Yuri groused, leaning against the headboard of Mila’s bed. He didn’t have many friends this side of Moscow, but he was lucky to know her. For the times that he and Otabek weren’t glued at the hip, she filled in quite nicely. He moved to pull off his shoes, intent on massaging away the day’s practice and--

“Ew, get your nasty feet off of my comforter--”

“Your feet are just as nasty,” Yuri snapped, ignoring her plea. The moment his boots were off, he shook out his foot, trying to stretch the soreness away.

Mila stuck her tongue out at him, plopping down next to him. She removed her shoes as well, pulling a roll of bandages out from her bedside table. “I swear, Madame is cruel to us.”

“I’m pretty sure that she delights in seeing our feet bleed.”

“No pain, no gain,” Mila hummed, rubbing her fingers along the fine bones of her foot.

“I’ll take the fucking pain,” Yuri groused, following suit. His feet were worse than hers, all bunions and crooked toes and purple nails. The look that Mila shot him was laughable, like she couldn’t comprehend such a ridiculous thing.

“Yuri, you hate pain,” she deadpanned.

“Yeah, but it’s a welcome distraction,” he replied, and then he hissed slightly as his fingers ran over a tender area of skin. He opened up a tub of some numbing pain cream, slathering it over the area.

Mila watched for a moment, but when it became clear that he wasn’t going to continue, she said, “Explain.”

Yuri looked up at her, ready to dodge the question, but the moment that he saw her determined expression, he knew that it would be a futile effort. So instead, he sighed heavily, and replied with, “It’s the fucking bracelet.” He shook his wrist for dramatic effect. “It won’t shut the fuck up.”

“What do you mean shut up?”

“The stupid tug. Or whatever it is. You know, the feeling.”

Mila was older, and had her own bracelet. Yuri knew that it was active too, he’d seen the gentle green light as it blipped quietly. Mila had never really seemed to pay attention though; she’d never seemed bothered by it. She lifted her wrist slightly, looking at it.

“I mean… it’s not like I feel nothing,” she finally said, regarding the thin metal links wrapped around her skin. “But it’s not like…”

“Not like what?”

“It’s just there,” she finishes. “It’s a gentle tug, but it’s not going anywhere, you know?”

Yuri just blinked at her, uncomprehending. “Gentle,” he repeated. “What the fuck are you on about? Mine’s practically roaring in my veins.”

It was Mila’s turn to blink, her lips tugging into a slight frown. “Yuri, I don’t think that’s normal--”

“It’s constantly distracting me,” he cut in. He wasn’t looking at her, aggressively wrapping sports tape around his toes, fingers curled tightly around the sticky cotton. “It’s like this searing itch, a burning underneath my skin. My blood is practically on fire, and I’m trying to ignore it, but I just--” He paused, sighing, dragging a hand down his face. “My body wants to go. Wants to follow it, and I just can’t--”

Yuri tied off the tape, flopping onto his stomach, laying there pathetically on the covers. “I have things that I need to focus on,” he finished with. “Primo Ballerino is right fucking there for me, and I can’t be dealing with this shit.”

Mila was quiet a long moment. In fact, the moment was so long, that Yuri was concerned that he broke her, but then-- “Are you sure that this isn’t about Otabek?”

Yuri froze.

Yuri felt the little tendrils of anger flood him slowly. How dare she bring that up, how fucking dare--

Yuri regretted telling Mila about that. It been years ago, but it had been a mistake. Mila rarely mentioned it, knowing how testy it made him, but it was the wrong fucking thing to say at that moment, that was for sure.

She couldn’t hide the sly little smile that tugged at her lips though, like she just knew she’d hit the bull’s eye on the target.

Yuri refused to answer, so she spoke again. “His bracelet never turned on,” she said quietly. “And now yours has, and the pull is so strong that your body just wants. But your head doesn’t, Yuri, because--”

“Don’t,” he snapped.

“Because--”

“I fucking swear to God Mila, if you finish that sentence--”

“You’ll what, kick me out? This is my room.” Yuri practically hissed at her in response, which only caused her to sigh. “You know, tons of people ignore their bracelet,” she continued. “If it bothers you so much, then just take it off.”

It was such a simple solution, really. And Yuri had considered it. But then there was just the question, that entire what if of the entire thing and--

And then there was Beka. His nearest, dearest friend Beka, who he cared more about in the entire world. Who, once upon a time he hoped to have something with. But then there was Amita.

And then there wasn’t Amita.

And then there was nothing, nothing for Otabek. Which was ridiculous because as far as Yuri was concerned, Otabek was fucking perfect.

“It’s not fair,” Yuri finally said.

It was Mila’s turn to sigh, leaning over, moving to run a gentle hand along his back. “It’s alright,” she tried to soothe, moving her hand in comforting circles along the curve of his spine.

But it wasn’t okay.

Otabek didn’t have a bracelet that worked.

Yuri’s tugged him somewhere else, and he just couldn’t follow it because--

It wasn’t okay, because Yuri loved Otabek, and he had for as long as he could remember.

How was that for fucking fair?

…

Yuri never asked the Piggy for advice.

Usually Yuuri just gave it to him, free of charge. Or you know, forced it upon him. Yuri wasn’t the kind to ask for help, so when he did, Yuuri knew that something was very wrong. He immediately met him for coffee, a little bit too eager to lend a hand.

Maybe that was why Yuri fidgeted in his seat, his fingers tapping against the ceramic mug set between them. It was hot to the touch, and he knew that the liquid would burn, but--

“Yurio,” Yuuri started with, causing him immediately sneer.

“Don’t fucking call me that--”

And then Yuuri smiled gently, his eyes practically shining behind his stupid glasses, and Yuri realized that he’d been duped. He’d fallen right into the Pig’s trap, his attempt to gain some normalcy between then.

Yuri was pissed, because it had fucking worked.

Yuuri watched him worry the handle of his mug for a minute, before asking, “Yuri, what is it? Is something the matter?”

“Why did you follow the tug of your bracelet?”

Yuuri blinked at that, and then looked at his wrist. He didn’t wear the gadget anymore, he didn’t need to. Instead there was a gold wedding band on his ring finger, because he’d found his one, and while Yuri would never fucking admit it, he was a smidgeon jealous that he could accept it so carefree and--

“Oh I didn’t,” was Yuuri’s reply.

It wasn’t an answer that Yuri expected, but far more in line with the man’s personality. Yuuri was a nervous ball of anxiety, and somehow, he’d managed to snag fucking Victor Nikiforov, the world’s most eligible ballerino-turned-bachelor.

“Explain,” Yuri demanded.

“I ignored it,” Yuuri said quietly, before sipping at his tea. He would always complain about the quality of the green tea in Russia, but drank it anyway. “I was too busy with school you know,” he continued, swirling his finger along the rim of his mug. “Med school isn’t easy and my eyes were set on becoming a doctor. Besides, the idea that there was someone out there for me-- well, it didn’t sit easily.”

Yuri cocked his head to the side at that. “Why?”

“Yuri, look at me. I’m an anxious, nervous mess. Do you really think that I wanted to introduce someone to that? That they’d like it?”

“But I mean,” Yuri started, but then struggled to find the right words. “Soul mate,” he finally blabbered. Not his most articulate moment.

“What if you crossed the world to find that special someone, only to have him turn out to be like me?” The face of disgust that Yuri pulled was almost immediately, but Yuuri laughed. “Exactly.”

“But Victor--”

“Is an absolute idiot,” Yuuri cut in, but he said it with affection. “And a brilliant example of how you can’t always escape your fate.”

“Explain,” Yuri said for the second time.

Yuuri sighed, warming his fingers on his mug. “I spent so much time ignoring my own bracelet, that I didn’t think of the alternative.”

“Alternative--”

“That the person on the other end might come looking for me instead.”

That effectively shut Yuri up. He worried his lip between his teeth, worried his mug between his hands, worried just about everything on his body, because that was something that he had never even considered.

He might be adamant about forgetting it, but that didn’t mean that the person on the other end wouldn’t. And even if he took off, even if he never wore it again, it didn't matter-- the damned thing was a fucking beacon, and it would remain that way until they met.

Yuuri must have seen the panicked look on Yuri’s face, because he spoke again. “I thought it was the end of the world, at first. Victor is a gorgeous man, and I mean, how the hell could he be my soulmate?”

“Yeah, what the fuck is with that?” Yuri’s ill attempt at humor made the other man crack a smile, at least.

“I know you’re scared,” Yuuri said. “And I know it probably has to do with Ot--”

“Nope, stop right there!” Yuri snapped, his chest suddenly tight. Jesus fucking Christ, was there anyone that apparently didn’t know?

But unlike Mila, Yuuri did as he asked, dropping that particular topic. “It worked out for me,” he said quietly. “I never would have thought it would, but it did. And now I’m happy.”

“But was it worth it?” Yuri asked, a rare moment where the question was genuine, and he wanted the answer to be as well.

“It was worth every fucking moment,” Yuuri said with an uncharacteristic swear, a wide smile crossing his features.

And that’s when Yuri might have thought he saw it-- whatever it was that Victor saw in this man.

The difference was that they were apparently made for each other.

Yuri left the coffee shop with things to think about, but his heart wasn’t quite as heavy as it had been. Maybe there was something to what Yuuri had said-- maybe things would just work out.

And then Yuri laughed bitterly. What a joke.

Things didn’t work out for him, they never did.

They never would.

…

Skype calls were hard.

They were the highlight of Yuri’s day, sure, but they were hard. When Otabek had first moved away all those years ago, they were like a lifeline to him; the only way to see his most precious friend. But as the years wore on, the harder and harder it got because there was just no---

Well, he couldn’t ignore Otabek so easily anymore.

When Amita was still in the picture, it was easier. Otabek was getting married, Otabek loved her. Yuri could look and never touch, and Otabek would be none-the-wiser, because he had this amazing woman by his side. But then Amita left, and things got awkward, they got really awkward.

Otabek would sit there in his sleeping clothes-- loose shirts and soft pants hanging low on his hips-- and suddenly, Yuri didn’t have to keep it so clean anymore. And who was he to blame? He was a young adult, with raging hormones. And those hormones all pointed to dark, brooding and handsome that graced the screen in front of him.

Otabek made it effortless, which pissed part of Yuri off. He went out of his way to seem inviting. Low-necked shirts, sitting across his bed certain ways, laying across his stomach to show off his perfect calves-- but Otabek seemed immune. Yuri wished that were the case for him. It’d save him the headache at least. All it took was one stupid smirk from the other man, and Yuri would be melting into the bed, ready to turn off the camera as soon as possible, so he could rut into his hand until he couldn’t think anymore.

File that under things he’d never fucking tell anyone, ever. Was there anything more embarrassing than furiously masturbating to the thoughts of your best friend? Probably not.

So like always, he distracted himself with something, anything really. Something Mila said earlier had stuck with him, and so Yuri turned to the vast world of the internet to figure it out. Too much information, perhaps, but he prepared to sift through it all.

And then an article stood out to him, as he skimmed it.

“Huh,” he breathed. “Beka, did you know that the bracelet tugs harder, if the two people already love each other?”

He looked to the computer screen. Otabek was laying against his headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. He had his old and dingy, dog-eared copy of Dune in his hands, flipping through it slowly. Glasses perched across his nose, his hair unstyled, curling around his forehead as he looked up. His lips parted just slightly and--

Yuri forced himself to turn away and take a deep breath. “At least, that’s the theory. No one really knows and there’s not a lot of evidence because… well, you know. They can’t prove what the pull feels like for people, I guess.”

He turned back to Otabek, who shook out his wrist slightly, a line furrowed across his brow. The video feed was grainy, but Yuri could tell that he was thinking hard about something.

“Well, in any case, it sounds stupid,” Yuri continued with. “I mean, who believes this shit, right?”

“Hopeless romantics?” Otabek supplied, his tony only a tad bit dry.

“Oh, so people like you,” Yuri joked with good nature. Otabek finally smiled that tiny little smile of his, and it felt genuine, and God above the things it did to Yuri. He shifted slightly on his bed, adjusting his legs.

“Would it be so bad?” Otabek asked him suddenly.

“Eh?”

“Would it be so bad?” Otabek repeated. “For it to be someone that you already know?”

“In a perfect world, maybe,” was Yuri’s reluctant reply. He knew that it was a load of shit though, because there was only one person he loved, and it was clearly unrequited. “Really, I can’t think of anyone that I’d want it to be,” he finished with, trying to maintain a cool tone.

No point in scaring off Otabek with maybes and what-nots.

But to his surprise, Otabek looked… deflated. Yuri could count on one hand, how many times he’d seen that particular expression across the older man’s face-- when they said goodbye at the airport the time he moved away, and when Otabek introduced Amita to him.

Yuri didn’t like it, the subtle downturn of his lips, the furrow in Otabek’s brow. He didn’t like it so much, that he changed the subject.

“Hey, remember that I’ll be offline for the rest of the week.”

“Ah, yes,” Otabek replied, slipping back into his usual ease. Maybe Yuri had seen something that wasn’t actually there but… well, he knew Otabek. “Your big debut solo,” he continued with, a proud smile spreading across his face.

“Ugh, I’m so fucking nervous.”

“Yura, you’re never nervous.”

Well, Otabek was kind of right, he rarely felt the gut-wrenching butterflies that people often complained about. But this was different. “If this goes well, Beka, I have a shot,” he said quietly. “A real shot at Primo Ballerino. Could you imagine?”

“Yes,” Otabek replied easily. “Always. In fact, I don’t imagine it, because it will just be.”

“God, you’re such a sap,” Yuri groused, smacking a hand across his forehead.

“Yeah, but I’m your sap.” Otabek punctuation the sentence with a laugh, but all Yuri heard was the word your and he just about died inside. When he finished, Otabek leaned closer to the camera, setting his book aside. “I wish I could be there for it.” He sounded regretful.

“Yeah, same.”

“You’ll do great though, you always do.”

“Hey Beka,” Yuri said, but then hesitated. “Thank you.”

Otabek raised his eyebrows. “For what?”

Yuri sighed. “I don’t know. Or everything? You’re like… you’re like my person and all that. Friends are great, but you’re just something else.”

Otabek smiled, really smiled. Wide across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It took Yuri’s breath away.

“I know what you mean, Yura,” he said in reply.

They said their goodbyes and Yuri disconnected the call. His heart felt light, like he had gotten something off of his chest. And you know, Otabek’s smile didn’t hurt.

It was something he could go to bed to every single night.

….

Yuri’s feet were fucking killing him.

He was used to pain. He was used to the pain and the aches of being a ballet dancer. He was used to to stress fractures, the cracks and bruises and even his fucked up feet. Of the pulls in his back muscles, of the strains in his legs, of everything.

But the last four days had been, by far, the most brutal workout, he’d ever put himself through. But it was necessary. It was worth it, to see the look of utter satisfaction on Madame Baranovskaya’s face. She never handed out compliments, but she had sent him home early, with a simple request to rest.

That alone was worth a thousand words.

Yuri stumbled into his apartment, broken and weary, but good. He had this in the bag, he’d fucking nail his solo and then--

Well, and then he’d be the prime pick for principal male of the company. And if he did, it’d be the best achievement of his life. Victor Nikiforov had snagged principal at twenty-one, over a decade prior. It was worth his bleeding toes, to see the smug smirk wiped off the idiot’s face when Yuri did the same at twenty.

He dropped his duffel by the kitchen table, collapsing onto the couch. He was too tired, too sore to properly undress at the moment, so he just sat there, sinking into the well worn fabric. He turned on the television, the volume low. He just wanted a quiet distraction, something to play in the background as he closed his eyes and--

There was a knock at the door.

At first, he thought it was part of the television program-- until he heard it again. The second time, the knock was louder, more insistent. Yuri groaned softly, before pulling himself to his feet. The only person who could possibly bother him this late at night, was his neighbor Vera. And as much as he’d like to just leave her hanging in the hallway, she was just too much of a sweet old lady to ignore.

She probably needed help turning on her space heater, because her fingers just didn’t work the way that they used to. Her words, not his.

He pulled open the door, a greeting ready on his lips-- only to freeze immediately.

Because it wasn’t Vera on the other side of that door.

“Ah, Yura,” Otabek said, shifting around the duffel thrown across his shoulder. He was wearing his old leather jacket, the one that was Yuri’s favorite. He’d spent days wrapped in that jacket when it was cold and Otabek was too kind to let him freeze to death--

“Beka,” he breathed, leaning against the doorframe, trying to make it look casual. Not like he was trying to hide the sudden hammering of his heart. “Not that uh, not that I don’t want to see you or anything, but what are you doing here?”

Otabek hesitated, which was something he never fucking did. “I, uh--” Yuri crossed his arms over his chest as he listened, waiting patiently. And then Otabek raised his hand, shoving his wrist out towards him.

Yuri saw the bracelet.

And the bracelet burned a brilliant green, not like the gentle little blipping he was accustomed to seeing. Not dead, like it was supposed to be.

Yuri blinked, as he regarded it. And then he left the doorway, leaving Otabek behind, following him in confusion. Yuri ignored him as he dug through his practice bag, looking for-- there it was. He pulled out the metal circlet, holding it like it might shock him. He had taken it off for practice, and then he’d kept if off at the advice of Mila.

And then Yuuri’s words came back full force. I didn’t think of the alternative.

Otabek paused in the kitchen and Yuri looked back at him, still holding the bracelet.

That the person on the other end might come looking for me instead.

There was no way, Yuri concluded. There was absolutely no fucking way. Otabek didn’t love him like that, Otabek wasn’t even fucking gay. Otabek was his best friend and the only person that meant something to him, but that didn’t mean he had to reciprocate.

Otabek was clearly in the wrong place, and Yuri would prove it. He opened the clasp on the bracelet and slapped it around his wrist and--

The tug was so strong, it felt almost like his heart was being tugged right out of his body. It didn’t just burn anymore, it was like an all-consuming fire. It was like electricity, crackling through his veins, surging through his blood. Yuri stared at his wrist for a long moment, before turning back to Otabek, swallowing thickly.

And Otabek just stood there dumbly, scratching at the back of his head like an idiot. Like he didn’t know what to fucking say.

Which is probably why he settled on, “So uh, I guess we should talk, huh?”

#otayuri #otayurismut #Otabek Altin #otabek and yuri #OtabekAltin/YuriPlisetsky #yuri on ice fanfiction #Yuri on ice #Yuri Plisetsky

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