my demise, my downfall [kylux, rated M]

Summary: Hux had no idea that Ren, his bedmate and partner in crime, was actually Ben Organa-Solo, the sole heir of First Order's biggest rival in the industry.

He didn't know Ben had a girlfriend, either.

Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

Tags: Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Use Your Words, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Armitage Hux is Not Nice, Kylo Ren isn't Much Better, Canon-Typical Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships

Notes: Photo by Mitchell Griest on Unsplash, cropped.

2.9K || Also on AO3

Hux wakes up to gentle caresses, a feather-light finger drawing unrecognisable shapes over his shoulders, down his back.

His eyes ache behind his eyelids, that didn’t-sleep-enough taste in his mouth. Torn between giving in to his body’s demands for rest and enjoying the soft touch while it lasts, he drifts on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, basking in the pleasant warmth.

Something rattles far behind him, jerking him fully awake. The touch withdraws.

Pushing his disappointment down, Hux takes a deep breath and rolls onto his back. Ren is sitting up in the middle of the bed with his legs stretched out, tapping away at his phone.

“Go back to sleep,” Ren says without looking, his tone sleep-gruff. “’s not morning yet.”

“Why are you awake, then?” Hux mumbles, though he doesn’t particularly care about the answer. A short night wasn’t enough to make up for six weeks of absence; Hux won’t be settled without at least a few more hours of sleep, another round and brunch.

Thank fuck it’s Sunday.

Ren doesn’t respond, focused on whatever he’s doing on his phone. Stretching languidly on the bed, “Come back here, Ren,” Hux purrs, kicking the covers away in the process. Ren’s eyes latch onto the bared skin.

“Can’t,” Ren says, shaking his head. The phone buzzes again, as if reminding them of itself—as if it gave Ren a chance to forget it. “Got plans.”

Hux’s mood sours. Plans. Ren has barely returned to the Core Worlds and he’s already making plans with others.

“What plans?” Hux asks, keeping his tone mild. It can’t be work; they don’t hide Snoke’s various demands from each other, if only so Snoke won’t be able to blindside them later. Ren doesn’t have any friends in this sector, either—none that Hux knows of, at least. Is it that girl? Is Ren running out of Hux’s bed straight into her arms?

Hux has never woken up in Ren’s bed, but he now knows how it would feel to be kicked out of it.

Ren is still typing, not even acknowledging the question. What the hell is he writing, a novel?

“Let me guess, then,” Hux says, poison-sweet. “Early breakfast with your sunshine?”

Ren freezes.

A vicious delight fills Hux. “Unless you two had urgent business to take care of at the Resistance HQ,” he continues evenly, ignoring the tension that thickens in the air between them. “First Order’s latest requisitions have put them in quite the bind; your mother is right to want you on-site, now that you’re—”

—pinned on the bed with Ren’s overly warm body covering his, Ren’s forearm across his throat and knees on Hux’s shins. Ren’s other hand presses Hux’s wrists into the mattress; so close to the knife Hux keeps between the mattress and the headboard, but at the entirely wrong angle to grab it.

“Bastard,” Hux hisses in Ren’s face, the bed groaning as he feebly tries to shake Ren off. Ren presses his knobbly knees harder into Hux’s legs in answer, as if trying to dig grooves into Hux’s bones. The pressure on his neck remains steady, only hard enough to make it uncomfortable to swallow. A half-hearted threat at best.

What a bloody embarrassment.

“You’re not supposed to know any of that,” Ren snarls, his nostrils flaring as he glares down at Hux. Hux stares back, keeping his gaze steady and his breathing even. He’s never been afraid of Snoke’s hound; that won’t change now. “I know Snoke forbid you from investigating me. Have you been fucking—fucking digging anyway?”

Hux scoffs. As if he’s got the time to dig into Ren’s life. “I was having a business dinner at the Starkiller last month, when you walked in with your lovely girlfriend.” It’s quite telling that Ren didn’t even notice Hux there, so captivated by her. “Have you ever noticed how her voice carries, Ben?”

Ren growls low in his throat like the beast he is, his shoulders and neck tensing. Inhaling deeply, Hux waits for the moment Ren will put his crushing weight on Hux’s windpipe, visualising his hands clenching and unclenching as his body struggles to draw air into his burning lungs, unable to even scrabble at Ren’s forearm. The spots in his darkening vision until he can’t see Ren’s face anymore. Waking up with bruises on his tender neck—or not waking up at all.

Ren can’t kill him, though. He isn’t allowed to, not until Hux outlives his usefulness for Snoke. Killing Hux now would mean Ren signing his own death warrant.

“That name,” Ren says lowly, his breath warm on Hux’s face, “isn’t for you to use. Nobody—nobody—can find out that you know it, or there will be consequences.” He gives Hux a long look, anxiety shining through the ebbing fury in his eyes. What happens if word of Ren’s real name gets out? What’s so important about it? “Hux. Do you understand?”

Hux scoffs. “Yes, damn you. I won’t tell anyone.” He wasn’t planning to anyway; this sort of personal information is more valuable as a bargaining chip. When the time comes, he’ll benefit from having leverage over Snoke’s protégé. It just might turn the tide in Hux’s favour.

Satisfied, Ren rolls off and away from Hux. For a moment, Hux can only breathe as his blood rushes back into his feet and hands with that pins-and-needles sensation. Something dark and ugly gathers in the pit of his stomach, a need to sink his teeth into Ren’s throat until he tastes blood rising in him.

Later. His chance will come later.

Ren’s found his trousers on the floor, putting them on. Hux feels oddly naked, vulnerable in only soft trousers while Ren dons his armour again.

Well, Hux is clearly not going back to sleep. Might as well start his day.

“I hope you realise that this cannot continue,” he says conversationally, stepping into his slippers. No point of pulling the sheets up; he’s going to throw them all in the wash as soon as Ren leaves anyway. “This double life of yours, I mean—it’s too much of a risk to allow.”

“It’s not a double life,” Ren grumbles, trying to shake the wrinkles out of his shirt. The spiteful part of Hux hopes that Ren won’t have time to change out of the mussed state Hux put him in before his plans.

“Well, what would you call it?” Hux asks, raising a brow. “Polished, charming Organa-Solo heir on one side, Snoke’s brooding enforcer on the other? Unless I’m wrong and you’re mixing business and pleasure, in which case Ben’s dry cleaner had better be very discreet.”

“I’m not—” Ren cuts himself off with a huff, his unbuttoned shirt hanging off his shoulders. His glare isn’t quite effective with the entire bed between them. “Look, Snoke knows. Okay? He encourages me to keep Ben Organa-Solo alive—to have past connections we can use. I’m doing his bidding.”

“Sunshine—or whatever her name is—she’s one of your honeypot assignments, then?”

Ren runs his teeth over his bottom lip. “I didn’t say that.”

The space behind Hux’s eyes is throbbing, the beginnings of a headache making itself known. Kriffing Ren and his kriffing inability to say one thing straight.

His robe hangs off the hook behind the door—a strategic mistake. “What, then?” Hux asks as he strides over to it, the luxurious fabric his lifeline to feeling a little more put-together. A little more like himself. “Care to explain how she fits into the picture?”

“None of your fucking business,” Ren mutters—suspiciously like around something. Hux is unsurprised to turn and find one of those death-sticks between Ren’s lips and a lighter in his hand, though annoyance is another matter entirely. “I’m doing my damn job; what more do you care?”

Hux fishes out an ashtray from his vanity with a pointed sigh, throwing it vaguely Ren’s way on the bed. Ren picks it up before dropping himself on the edge of the mattress, balancing the ashtray on a thick thigh.

“You wouldn’t be so cagey if you were only following orders,” Hux points out, ignoring the light tickle at the back of his throat. If Ren drops a smatter of ash on his carpets, there will be hell to pay. “What is it? Does she know something she shouldn’t?” Hux can make it go away, if she does.

“No, of course not. She knows nothing.”

Right. Very convincing.

Crossing his arms over his chest, “Is that so?” Hux asks, leaning a hip against the vanity. Ren barely glances at him before turning to the closed window, blowing the smoke out of a corner of his mouth. “Say, Ren, what does she think that you’re doing for a living? Snoke’s bodyguard works only so well when the man is bedbound. How do you explain your long trips abroad? Or the nights you return smelling of sex?”

Ren releases a long breath, loud in the otherwise quiet room. He ashes his cigarra and takes another drag, cool as you please, while irritation crawls underneath Hux’s skin.

It’s like Hux isn’t even kriffing there.

An odd desperation tugging at his chest, “Or maybe she already knows that you’re fucking someone on the side,” Hux throws, spitefully hoping for it to land.

Ren’s jaw works, his lips pressing into a line.

There.

It’s all of ten steps from his spot to Ren’s. “You’re loyal as a dog; I don’t imagine I’m your dirty secret,” Hux adds as he takes them slowly, satisfaction buzzing through him. Ren’s shoulders grow more rigid with each word, the ashtray moving as his legs tense. “Maybe it’s a thingbetween you two. Is that why you never shower here—because she likes smelling another man on you, feeling how open you still are from—”

“Rey’s my cousin, you jackass,” Ren snarls, a vein pulsing on his forehead. A knot unravels in Hux’s stomach. “What the fuck is it to you anyway? I know you don’t get lonely without me.”

The anger Hux was aiming for—the unmissable undercurrent of hurtin Ren’s tone gives him a pause. Hux hasn’t taken a lover since he and Ren started their… arrangement. He could have—and perhaps should have, instead of relying on his hand alone to get him through Ren’s weeks-long disappearances—but he didn’t even want to.

It worries him, sometimes.

“It’s a matter of security,” Hux says, waving it off. “Secrets have a way of leaking during pillow talk, you know that better than anyone.”

Ren laughs, bitter and hollow. Something in Hux twists at the sound. “Security,” Ren spits out, putting out the cigarra like it offended him personally. “Do you wanna do background checks on everybody I slept with while I was gone, then?”

Sharp hurt jolts through Hux.

Ren is staring at him with an intensity that borders on uncomfortable, waiting. Hux unclenches his jaw, breathing through his nose. “You’re an old hand at this; I’ll trust your judgment,” he responds, turning away. What is he doing, reacting to Ren? What the hell is wrong with him?

Ren grabs him by the wrist, jerking him to a stop.

Irritation rises in Hux again. “Ren,” he bites out in warning.

“No really, I think you should,” Ren says, a dark look shining in his eyes. “I don’t remember every name, but I can give you some other details. I’m sure your network of stalkers—sorry, slicers can find out enough.”

“My slicers have more important intel to chase after,” Hux bites out, looking pointedly at Ren’s hand around his wrist. The grip is loose enough that he might break himself free, but suffering the indignity of struggling doesn’t quite appeal to him. Once was enough. “Will you let me go?”

“Only if you admit it.”

Hux scoffs. “Admit what, exactly?”

“Admit that you’re jealous.” Hux goes ice-cold all over. “You hated thinking about me with Rey, didn’t you?”

Of course not. What a ridiculous claim. Hux holds a certain dislike for missing out on critical intel—understandable given his line of work—and finding out that he’s been left entirely in the dark about Ren, Snoke’s other right-hand man and the only person Hux remotely trusts in the First Order, was a bit of a hit. That’s all there is to it. He’s got no reason to be jealous of some girl who calls Ren by his given name, who can laugh and joke with Ren, be seen in public with Ren, who can loop an arm around Ren as they leave—

The dismissal gets stuck in his throat.

“Because I hated it,” Ren murmurs, looking into his eyes. Hux wants with his whole being to escape the depth of feeling in Ren’s earnest gaze—can’t look away. “Thinking about others warming your bed while I was fucked off on some bullshit mission that barely needed me—it killed me, Hux. Tell me you hated it, too. Tell me you want me to be only yours.”

Only Hux’s. As if Ren, with his constant need for attention and validation, wouldn’t chafe under Hux’s negligence.

Hux shakes his head, wishing he could shake off this spell just as easily. Ren must be similarly addled if he’s talking of fancies of flight like exclusivity. “You don’t know what you’re saying. This isn’t what we agreed on, Ren.”

The light in Ren’s eyes dims. Hux hates himself.

“You’re right,” Ren says, his tone just above a whisper. A glance downwards—he starts buttoning up his shirt like he’s being timed on it, only barely getting the order right. “Sorry I ruined it, I thought—never mind what I thought, I’ll just see myself out. You won’t see me again unless Snoke summons both of us, promise.”

Ren rushes past Hux and out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind himself. It hits Hux in the next moment that perhaps he should’ve stopped Ren.

Stars, what a kriffing mess. Hux intended only to stop Ren from jumping off a cliff in the hopes that Hux would follow, not to end what they had. Leave it to Ren to take it as an absolute rejection.

He takes a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. All right. All right. First step: He can’t let Ren storm off. Ren will be damn near impossible to get a hold of if he leaves like this; Hux’s network truly has more important matters to take care of. Hux needs to make him stay long enough to listen.

As for what Hux will say to fix this, well. He supposes he can tell Ren what Ren wants to hear. He can set his pride aside for a moment. It should be good, shouldn’t it? It should be enough.

It had better be enough.

Inside, Ren is nowhere to be found, his jacket and trainers gone. Hux hasn’t heard the Silencer’s roar, though. Hoping he’s not too late, he grabs his keys off the hook and dashes down the front stairs, catching up with Ren just as Ren reaches his bike.

“Ren,” he says, embarrassingly breathless.

Ren turns to him with wariness etched on his guarded face. He’s waiting for beratement, Hux suspects, or the tongue-lashing that Hux is famous for.

“I was lonely without you,” Hux confesses in a rush, words tumbling out of his mouth in his haste to get them out before they clog up his throat. “When you were away, I—I missed you. I did.” Do whatever you want with it.

A series of emotions cross Ren’s face, too fast to parse. A part of Hux—a part that will always remain Armitage no matter how hard Hux tries to purge it—wants to curl into a ball and hide from the moment Ren will laugh in his face for falling for such a blatant prank.

“Hux,” Ren breathes, breaking into a wide grin. It’s the goofiest, stupidest expression Hux has ever seen on his face—and entirely devoid of any mockery. “You missed me?”

“I won’t repeat it,” Hux says, ignoring the growing heat of his cheeks. Least of all in the middle of the street, where all his neighbours would overhear them if it weren’t shit-early on a Sunday—wearing nothing but his robe and slippers.

Stars. What a disgrace.

Ren’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket. He fishes it out only far enough to silence it, letting it go to voicemail. “I really have to go,” he says with a touch of regret in his tone, running the backs of his fingers down Hux’s cheek. “But I’ll come back right after, okay? I’ll come back to you.”

Such coddling. Hux wants to roll his eyes, but the look on Ren’s face, the same one as when he said tell me you want me to be only yours, stops him.

“You had better,” he mutters instead. It’s a new sort of thrill, getting a genuine grin out of Ren.

Cupping Hux’s face, Ren presses a hard kiss on his lips before getting on his bike. Hux watches him leave with an inexplicably heavy heart.

He misses Ren already.

as embers settle (3)

the soul of a flame masterlist

pairing: levi x reader of color

summary: you get a blast from your past. or, what happened to you in the Underground and how you got out.

warnings: alcohol, cursing, some violence, mentions of prostitution (it’s not detailed), harassment

word count: 3459

a/n: sorry for the almost 2 month delay!! enjoyy

***

Levi doesn’t come by often. But when he does, he turns heads every time. And he stays for hours whenever he has the chance to. It goes on like this for a few weeks- him arriving late at night or the early evening. And staying until past closure. Just to get a glimpse of you. A chance to talk to you. 

He never once denied himself of that reprieve. He won’t deny to himself that he likes you, that he enjoys your presence. This life within these three walls is too short to pretend and to deny himself of those small joys.

You talk about everything, and nothing. Lately, he’s taken to daydreaming about your lips when he can’t sleep. His thoughts flit to your scars, the one on your forehead and the one on your clavicle. It’s not the first time he’s wondered if you carry any other scars. 

Levi wonders if you’d ever let him see them. He wonders if he’d ever show you his own scars.

He sits at his usual table in the back, rubbing his hand over his face tiredly. Can you see how tired he is? He hopes not. Those shitty kids, the shitty titans, and even shitty Erwin will be the death of him.

If you heard him say that, you’d tease him and tell him that he’s saying that out of love. To which he would scoff.

Today, he expects to see your usual smile and the teasing glint in your dark eyes. But instead, he’s met with a frown and lines of irritation fracturing the planes of your pretty face. It looks out of place on you. In fact, you’re gripping the pitcher in your hands too tightly and even Misaki is looking at you warily. Your eyes are steely as you watch a group of men at the other end of the bar.

They’re MP’s. No wonder you look so displeased.

“Aww, come on,” One of them jeers at you, “Give us a smile, won’t ya?”

You so desperately want to turn them away. But money is money, and if there’s anything the Underground taught you… it’s to grin and bear it. Even when all you want to do is scream. Normally, you’d play along. To rake some extra coins from them. But not today. Because this one- he’s one of the MP’s you’d known quite closely in the Underground. He would roam where you lived late at night, you’d hear the commotion and the ruckus that came along with his arrival.

You’re disappointed that he’s still alive. 

His hair is greying, wrinkles around the corner of his eyes. But he’s very much alive and well. Alive enough to be throwing back your precious liquor like it’s water. 

You hate him, you hate that you’ve known him since you were nineteen, and you hate that he still has this hold on you. That you can’t just kick him out and be done with it. 

He knows it and you know it. He comes by every few months, whenever he feels like torturing you with his face. Whenever he feels like toying with you, reminding you of what you had left in the Underground. Or rather, what you had ran away from.

You hold your head high around Roz, the way you always have. Even if he smirks at you like he knows your secrets, which he does, you ignore him. The way you always have.

You’re usually much better at pushing the bitter memories to the side. But tonight, they threaten to spill out spitefully. Memories of shared sheets, sweaty skin and unkept promises. And then a face, a face you think about every day, a pretty face that makes your heart leap and ache at the same time.

The face of your friend, of your dead lover. Liya. 

When you see him, you see her. You see her stained, dead eyes, her cold skin, her lifeless arms. Her neck bleeding out in your frozen arms, your tears mixing with her blood. 

It was a long time ago. It was a long time ago that you had gotten involved with the wrong crowd- specifically, with Roz- and gotten her killed. The bitter pill of regret dies on your tongue but you push it away.

You were foolish. She had been your partner in every sense of the word. She was the one who had discovered the secret to earthwater. Earthwater was her creation, and she wasn’t even here to reap the benefits. 

The two of you had had an idea. Liya brought it to life. She had figured out how to proof alcohol and distill sugar and starch to create the perfect blend. You were thieves in the night, stealing every bit of raw material as you could to bring your dream to life.

Your makeshift brewery was in the corner of your attic in the small apartment (if you could even call it that) that you shared with Liya. It had taken about seven months of meticulous experimenting to create something that you both believed in.

It was worth it though. To see her smile so full of hope, shining in a way you’ve never seen her shine before.

“People will do anything for booze,” She said confidently, her eyes glinting, “We’ll turn over a profit in no time.”

“Even if we don’t… The memories we made along the way were worth it,” You giggle.

“Shut up, memories won’t get us out of this shithole,” Liya snorts derisively.

The version of earthwater that you both had concocted isn’t identical to what you currently brew and sell in your bar. It was a primitive version, not as tasty or flavorful. But still, it was impressive enough that it had caught the ears and eyes of your little neighborhood. And then word spread further and further. Until you and Liya had enough money to invest a little more in your little slice of magic.

Your little attic operation took off rather quickly. You had wanted to buy a nicer place to live in, but Liya had told you to look at the big picture.

To think about the sun. To think about how the sun would feel once you both saved up enough to get out.

Pretty soon, earthwater had attracted the likes of the MP’s to your corner of the Underground. You gave them free samples, just enough to entice them. And then, of course, you charged them extra for your booze. 

You were happy with what you had. Creating something with the love of your life. Scamming the shitty MP’s. Providing something fun in a place where the sun didn’t even shine. Liya wanted more though. She wanted the sun. 

Sometimes you wondered if she wanted it more than she wanted you. She reassured you though, when her head was in between your thighs, that that wasn’t the case. And you believed her. 

And then Roz came along. With his false promises that fed into your naivete so nicely, like it belonged. 

You would give Liya anything to fulfill her dream. Even if that meant giving up yourself. He had promised you money, so much money. A chance at leaving this hellhole. A chance at a full belly and a good night’s sleep. A chance of not having to be on edge all the time. A chance at a happy life with a girl that was supposed to be your soulmate. 

And then Roz was demanding more of you. Liya didn’t even know- all she knew was that you were returning home later and later at night, with tired eyes and blooming bruises. She wasn’t stupid. She had put the pieces together before you could even confess to her.

“You’ll get yourself killed!” She screams. Certainly loud enough that the windows rattle. You wince.

“I know what I’m doing!” You say stubbornly, “We almost have enough money to get out! That’s what you wanted!”

“What I wanted?!” Liya protests, voice reaching a fever pitch, “I didn’t want you to prostitute yourself to the fuckin’ MP’s so we could get out! 

“It’s just the one-”

“As if that makes it any better! How are we having this conversation!”

“It’s just Roz-”

“Just Roz! Do you know how many girls have gone missing here after meeting him? Everyone here knows Roz! God, you’re so stupid,” Liya begs, eyes filling with tears.

In the end, she was right. You had gotten yourself killed, at least a part of you. In the end, you had rebuffed Roz after that and he had retaliated by slitting Liya’s throat when you weren’t home. Like a coward. You had found her in your bedroom, the sheets dark and stained with her blood. 

Everyone in the vicinity could hear your cries and your broken, raw screams that night and for the next few nights. 

There had never been any evidence that it had been Roz. Liya was a nobody in the Underground, and so were you. But you knew it was him. And he knew that you knew.

You spent months torturing yourself by keeping all of her things in your bedroom, sleeping on her side of the bed. Until you saw Roz again and you knew that there was nothing holding you at home. You vomited the next time you saw Roz, and the feeling never quite goes away even now.

You needed to get out, and it burned like an itch. And ironically, when you pooled together your money with Liya’s, you had almost as much as you needed to buy your way out. It was only a matter of months.

Your train of thought is interrupted by Roz. Seeing him traps you back into a version of yourself that you don’t think of often. There was no point to thinking so much about it- if you dwelled on your decisions when you were younger, you would get wrapped up in this vortex of guilt. You knew that. But damn, Roz always had a way of getting under your skin.

It’s a shame. That he’s still alive, and Liya isn’t. 

His words are garbled in your ears and it takes you a few seconds to realize what he’s saying. You cast a glance over to his table and a sense of dread fills you. He’s alone now- his party has left him. Most likely because he was drunk and being irredeemably stupid. 

Goosebumps rise on your skin. Words bubble in your throat, words you’ve never had a chance to say. You want to cut him, cut him right where it hurts…

Instead nothing comes out of your mouth. He derisively laughs at you and your silence. Misaki clears her throat, about to say something when Roz’s eyes slide over to lazily take her in.

The world tilts on its axis a little bit when his mouth opens.

“Who’s this?” He sneers, light eyes flashing at Misaki, “She looks so much like her… Like your Liya-”

Your heart thumps erratically out of your chest and your face is warm. Before you realize what you’re doing, you’re on your feet and your knee connects with his chest. He falls back in his chair to the ground with a thump. Roz only looks at you with a knowing smirk and your hand latches around his neck.

You must look wild. You feel wild. You feel the pent up fire of nearly ten years burning through your veins and you finally succumb to it. 

“This feels familiar-”

“I should’ve fuckin’ killed you all those years ago,” You scream, your chest heaving and your hands shaking, “Don’t fuckin’ look at her. Keep Liya’s name out of your fuckin’ mouth-”

“Killin’ me wouldn’t have brought her back-”

“No, but it woulda been so fuckin’ sweet,” You grin with the taste of blood in your mouth.

“Not as sweet as you-” 

And then you draw your hand back and punch him. Your ears are ringing, you don’t hear Misaki screaming, you don’t feel your right hand starting to throb or feel your knuckles splitting. You only feel rage wash over you and turn into numbness. 

Tears are falling fast and heavy down your face and your eyes are blurry. Suddenly, you feel a pair of arms circle around you and yank you off of Roz. One last look at his bloody face and crooked grin does nothing to calm the sudden hysteria rising in your chest and blooming from your lips. 

“Get out! Get out!” You scream repeatedly, and you’re not sure who you’re screaming at. There’s nobody here. Nobody but you and Misaki.

And the person holding you close. You whip your head around to rip yourself out of the person’s arms to break your other fist into Roz’s face. With wide eyes, you realize that it’s Levi holding you back. You know him well enough to see lines of concern and confusion dotting his steely eyes.

“Stop,” Levi murmurs in your ear, “Relax. Stay with Misaki, I’ll get rid of him.”

Misaki steps closer to you, something unwavering in her gaze. And she holds your hand, squeezing tightly and taking you to the backroom to get you some water. And have you sit down.

You hold your head in your hands and squeeze your eyes shut. Misaki holds your hands and kneels in front of you, getting you to breathe with her. 

Levi drags the man with a broken nose out of your bar, allowing Roz’s head to hit the door frame with a soft crack on his way out. Roz groans but Levi pays him no mind. 

“I’ve met scum like you before,” Levi says lightly when he dumps him in a dark alleyway.

Roz looks up at him, eyes flashing in recognition. But Levi just scoffs at him and turns his back, heading in the direction of the Silver Sapphire.

***

“Go home Misaki,” You sigh, “I’m a mess. Stay home tomorrow, I’ll probably keep the bar closed.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” Misaki says indignantly and gently cleans your split knuckles with a wet cloth.

You hardly even feel it. All you feel is the quiet ache of your heart from being closed off for this long. Maybe you should have handled Roz all those years ago. Would it have helped?

Levi finds you and Misaki in the supply closet. You’re sitting on a crate, your eyes dazed and Misaki is kneeling in front of you. She murmurs words of comfort to you but you’re not listening. Levi doesn’t know who that guy was or why it sent you into such a rage, but he can read in between the lines. 

“Thanks,” You mumble, finally raising your eyes to meet his stare, “For getting rid of Roz.”

“That’s his name? What a stupid name,” Levi says lightly and you snort.

“Misaki. Go home,” You urge quietly, “I’m sorry you had to see any of that.”

She looks at you and then at Levi unsurely. Her green eyes scrutinize Levi for a moment longer, trying to decide if she trusts you with him. With softened eyes, she nods and tells you to rest up before heading out with her bag.

Levi rolls his sleeves up and pulls up a crate to sit on in front of you. He gestures for you to give him your right hand. Against your brown skin, your knuckles are split a bright, brilliant red.

He gets up abruptly to wash his hands before inspecting your hand further, and to look for medicine and gauze. 

“Bottom left shelf,” You murmur.

“Where’d you learn to punch like that,” Levi muses, sitting in front of you with the cleaning solution, ointment and gauze next to him.

“The Underground,” You mutter, “Like you.”

Levi bristles wordlessly. Your words solidify an already existing suspicion of his. Levi motions for you to give him your hand and you wince as his fingers brush over your throbbing knuckles. Despite the pain, heat blooms in your chest at his sudden but soft touch. His hands are rough like yours, but still gentle. 

“This will burn. I’m cleaning it to make sure it doesn’t get infected,” Levi says.

“No shit, I know how to clean wounds,” You scoff. Levi gives you an unimpressed look that you return. 

“Congratulations,” He says dryly.

You barely react when he lightly dabs the cleaning solution on your knuckles. Levi wonders how much of this is muscle memory to you. The pads of his thumbs press into the back of your hand, almost soothing you. He’s quiet as he works, concentration folded into the creases of his handsome face. 

“You’re not going to ask me what happened?” You ask tersely.

“If you want to tell me, you will,” Levi shrugs. He’ll never press you to share more than what you are comfortable with.

An anvil sits on your chest, filled with pain that you’ve spent a long time convincing yourself was gone. If anyone can understand the pain that comes from the Underground, it’s Levi. 

“I had a friend. She was brilliant…”

And so you peel your lips open and tell him of your sinister love story cut short by your own stubbornness. You tell him about Liya, about Roz never leaving you alone, about finding Liya dead in your bed. 

You say it so swiftly, so factually that Levi wonders if you even realize what you’re saying. Your bottom lip is bitten as you look at him sadly, with guilt written in your eyes.

“You did what you thought was best at the time,” Levi murmurs, his voice quiet but firm, “Don’t taint her memory with your guilt and regret.”

“How can I not? This was her dream,” You reply, your own voice sounding far away to your ears.

“So honor her dream,” Levi says simply, “And honor yourself.”

Your eyes widen and his words immediately make you halt the spiral downward. His silver eyes are disarming, almost seeing through you as if you were transparent. But then you realize, he’s not seeing through you… He’s looking at you as if you were a mirror.

Levi pulls his eyes away from yours and gingerly continues to wrap your hand with gauze. His touches are fleeting and familiar. It makes your heart jump erratically, and how ironic that you were in the same place when he had so awkwardly cleaned your face up… All those days and weeks ago.

Something new blooms in your chest, mixing with the heat and adrenaline already pounding through your blood. It’s been a long time since you’ve been touched the way Levi is touching you. Firmly, but as if you were delicate. 

That’s not to say that you haven’t been touched in the past few years.

“What about you? Whose dream are you honoring?” You ask softly.

A breathless sort of sound falls from Levi’s lips. He doesn’t answer you, only smooths his fingers over the bandages around your hand. Silver meets your brown eyes and your pulse quickens again at the intensity of his stare.

He looks at you long and hard but still says nothing. You don’t think you’ll get an answer from him.

“Change your bandages twice a day,” Levi says lightly, “And don’t get infected or somethin’ equally as shitty.”

“Thanks, Levi,” You say with a laugh.

He squeezes your shoulder fondly, allowing for his thumb to float towards the base of your neck. A soft caress, and then another. His hand twists to cup your cheek, thumb gentle against your cheekbone. You lean into his touch, and something quietly shifts in the air between you and Levi. 

“I lost track of whose dream I’m honoring a long time ago,” Levi says softly, “It’s just my dream these days.”

As quickly as he allows for the touch, he pulls away. You find yourself missing his unexpected warmth, but you know that’s the most you’re going to get out of him.

He leaves soon after that and leaves you with the lingering heat of his fingers on your cheek. It feels like something new, something old, and something you lost but found again.

Eventually, over another night of late night tea he does tell you. Levi says it in passing, the names of his friends from the Underground. Isabel and Farlan. He says it fondly, as if he’s telling you a tale from a storybook.

You slide your hand across the table and squeeze his hand lightly. Before you can pull away, he keeps your hand tucked into his. Surprise lights up your features and then it melts into a bright smile. The candlelight illuminates your dark eyes and Levi can’t draw his eyes away.

So he doesn’t, and he lets himself fall into you. Wholeheartedly and completely.

***

tags: @simpingmaize

ok so a clack fic from ffviir w prompts 2&12 from “angst” featuring cold!awkward!cloud that is so desperately touch starved and emotionally distraught and comforting, loving bf zack🥺 and forehead kisses plz

Ach! So this got a bit long (and a bit sappy lol). I hope it was what you wanted XD. If not, feel free to send in another (or the same) request and I’ll do a different version. There’s no such thing as too much whump, and I will not at all be offended.

“I can’t sleep, you’ve been gone too long” / “We could...take a nap together?” (From This Here Prompt List)

-If you want to send in a prompt, the guidelines are here!

---

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Oh yeah! You know it, babe. I’ll be there bright and early so we can have breakfast together. Or even better...brunch.”

“Okay, have a safe flight.”

“I will! Love you bunches. Bye!”

Zack hangs up first, and the snick of the call ending is the only sound in Cloud’s apartment for a long time. He’s smiling, he knows. The sort of wide, goofy smile Zack would pinch his cheeks for. That only ever shows for others on the rarest of occasions.

Cloud goes to bed happy that night, surrounded by Zack’s scent. Content and buried in a mound of covers he knows Zack will be hogging come tomorrow. The thought is a strangely comforting one, and he falls asleep with his smile still in place. Dreaming of radiant blue eyes and a smile like sunshine.

The next morning, Zack isn’t there.

He doesn’t come home for days.

---

It begins with the delays. Small ones. Easy to miss. Zack’s missions start to last just a bit too long. Going on for one too many days. Cloud hates it, of course, and Zack says he does too, but they aren’t so codependent they can’t handle some minor changes in the schedule. So it never becomes too much of a problem.

Then Zack starts to get called out on his off days. Leaving in the middle of meals and parting from Cloud’s embrace in the dead of night.

It’s harder, then, for Cloud to ignore it. When it encroaches on their lives and their peace and happiness. Yet he can’t bring himself to mention it. Can’t even think of causing discontent when they already have so little time together.

The thing is, Zack is ecstatic about his extra time on jobs. He says it means he’s important and indispensible. That he could get a promotion. That his superiors are finally (”finally, Cloud!”) respecting his talent.

Cloud knows Zack loves him, but Zack loves his work too. More than anything. Infinitely more than Cloud.

So he doesn’t say a thing.

Then three months pass. Six months. A year. With worse and worse schedules and a steady rise of tension. Which only gets worse with each day that passes.

Until, finally, Zack calls home two weeks after he should have been back already, and says he needs to stay even longer.

“I’m sorry, Cloud,” he sighs, and he genuinely does sound sorry, but there’s an upbeat tone to it as well. He’s clearly excited to be doing this job - to be getting this opportunity - and Cloud feels guilty for even thinking of robbing him of that.

Cloud swallows down the selfish urge to demand Zack come home. He pushes it all aside and bites his lip, ducking his head closer to the speaker until his lips brush against it. He tries not to think about Zack’s missing warmth at his side. Soft lips and gentle touches. Kind words whispered in his ear, feather light fingers through his hair.

Cloud’s skin aches.

“It’s fine,” he finally mumbles, voice raw. It must be too low for Zack to hear, though, because he continues on in that chipper voice like nothing’s happened

“You’re going to have to sleep alone again tonight. But I promise, once I get back we’ll spend all day in bed! I’m make you breakfast. Breakfast in bed like the prince you are, Cloud. It’s just...just for tonight...” He trails off like he’s going to apologize, but he doesn’t, and the conversation goes dead for a moment as Cloud stews.

He grits his teeth against the urge to bite out a reply. Beats down the ache and the need and doesn’t say I can’t sleep, you’ve been gone too long, because that would be selfish and immature and Cloud is past all of that. He’s a better person now. A good one.

He is.

Zack loves this job, he reminds himself.

Zack is happy.

That’s all that matters.

“It’s fine, Zack. Stay safe.” He pauses for a beat, but Zack doesn’t say anything in response. “I love you,” he continues, voice low, and he doesn’t know if Zack heard him this time, either.

Cloud hangs up the phone first.

He doesn’t go to bed at all that night. Drinking well into the morning.

---

“...Cloud.”

There’s a weight on his shoulder, heavy and uncomfortable, and Cloud hums with agitation, batting it away.

“Cloud...” a voice says, muffled through the the mash of pillows against this ear, “hey, are you awake?”

“‘S mornin’“ he grumbles, nuzzling forcefully into the plush down. It isn’t warm enough or sturdy enough. Isn’t Zack enough. It just isn’t enough, and it leaves him whimpering pitifully, fighting another hand off with weak movements. “Go ‘way.”

There’s a sigh, quiet and disappointed, that makes Cloud huff into the blankets. He tugs them up spitefully until they reach his forehead.

“It’s five in the afternoon, Cloud, and - ugh. You smell. Have you been drinking?!”

“Fuck off.” Cloud’s had enough of disembodied voices for one liftime, thanks.

Although he supposes it’s not entirely disembodied if it has hands. A dismembered hand demon, perhaps?

“What are you mumbling about under there?” The ghost says, and it’s more amused now, loud enough to make Cloud’s head throb. He whines in protest and curls into a ball. Tries to keep as much warmth as possible, alone under the cold covers.

“I want Zack,” he mumbles groggily, “go...go ‘way. I don’t want you.”

“It is me, Cloud,” the ghost lies, sounding almost sad about it, and Cloud hates it with a burning passion for making him feel hope. His eyes sting and he clenches them shut, burrowing even further into the empty sheets.

They smell like nothing.

“Hey,” a soft voice whispers, close enough to make breaths curl light and ticklish across the back of his neck. “Cloud, I’m so sorry. It really is me.”

“Stop.”

“It is. It is. I’m so, so sorry. Cloud, I’m so sorry. Hey...” Fingers inch up the back of Cloud’s neck, burning a trail over his skin, and this time he doesn’t protest it. Doesn’t have the energy to.

This is a dream, he thinks. Maybe he should just let it happen. Maybe...maybe he can pretend, and not be so...so tired. For just a few seconds.

He hums as the fingers brush his scalp, pulling at his hair, tugging patiently through the thick tangles.

“You’re a mess,” Fake Zack says.

“Shut up.”

There’s a weak chuckle. “As you wish.”

Another hand comes to drag across his cheek, and he whines at the contact, pressing into it thoughtlessly. He has a second of doubt - of shame - for acting that way. For not being strong. For being so selfish. But this is a dream, he reminds himself.

Dreams are for weakness.

“Hey, hey....hey” Fake Zack says after only a moment of silence, and Cloud thinks he’s certainly nailed the annoying parts. This ghost deserves a raise. Or is it a dream demon. Both?

“I think I’ll make you pancakes.” Padded fingertips roll across his scalp, pressing into the aches, massaging rhythmically, and the pain washes away.

Cloud groans. Sighs and tilts his head into it, desperate, and the fingers spread out in response, sliding soothingly. Palms meet his skin, chilled and refreshing against the inflamed heat. Petting gently until Cloud’s entire body is limp with pleasure, moans practically turning to purrs as he lays content and happy.

“Hmm...I’ve missed this.” The breath comes back again, carrying with it soft, gentle lips. They press to his forehead, a stray touch brushing back Cloud’s insistent, irritating bangs and pinning them away with a firm touch. “I’ve missed you,” the voice continues, kissing his forehead again.

Cloud lets himself sink into it completely, mind lulling. He turns his face to the other, but doesn’t dare to open his eyes for fear of it all disappearing on him.

The breath that hits him this time around is cool and deliberate, blowing gently across his forehead. Cooling him down and letting him rest. Cloud sighs, mind going blissfully dark, and sees Zack’s loving smile against the red backdrop of the blocked out sun. Sees adoring eyes and happy wrinkles. Hands of ginger, delicate touches, like he’s holding the world in the palm of his hands.

“Breakfast in bed,” Zack mumbles against his skin, lips meeting his cheek and then his chin, biting there gently. Cloud huffs, blinking his eyes open.

“I thought it was noon?”

“Well, exceptions can be made for our Very Important Princes.” Cloud snorts. “And besides, breakfast for dinner is a classic. Everybody loves breakfast food!” Zack’s grin is cheesy and wide, and he winks exaggeratedly. “Even you.”

Cloud says nothing, frown returning as he glances away. “What about your job?”

“Wasn’t important!” Zack chirps, fingers still carding through Cloud’s hair. Zack blows across his forehead again and Cloud closes his eyes. He tries to relax, but the discontent is slowly bubbling to the surface. He tenses and reopens them. Just a slit to see Zack’s smug grin.

Ugh.

“This was important, Zack. You said so.”

“I did, didn’t I?” He doesn’t look all worried about it.

“You could get in trouble-” and Cloud would know. He used to work in the same circles, back before the breakdown and the therapy and the stay at home order - “You could lose your job.”

“Nah.”

Cloud narrows his eyes. “No?” he challenges, lips thinning, and Zack finally pulls away, wincing. Taking something seriously for once in his damn life.

“You’re more important to me than some stupid job, Cloud.”

The words are unexpected, catching Cloud completely off guard. His heart pangs, eyes prickling, and he has to quickly twist around to hide his face. He swallows down the lump in his throat and says nothing.

“I’m serious,” Zack murmurs, and his voice is relaxed but not cheery. Tone even. “But if you’re really worried...you’ll be happy to know I got promoted.”

“What?! Promoted?!” Cloud sits up, wiping at his eyes furiously. “But that’s - you - that’s...good. Great. Why didn’t you say anything? It - Congratu-”

“To director!”

Cloud freezes. Waits for a beat of silence as the words sink in and Zack doesn’t laugh at the joke.

Then the anger bubbles over. “A DESK JOB?!”

Zack rears back, eyes wide and hands raised in surrender. “Whoa there, pony. Now let’s just-”

“Don’t call me that,” Cloud threatens, expression closing off.

Zack sucks in a breath through his teeth, laughing shakily, and runs a frantic hand through his hair. “I thought you’d be happy,” he says weakly, “because it’s...after everything, you know.”

Cloud didn’t think it was possible for him to get any tenser, but his muscles hurt with how taut he is. “So it’s my fault?”

“No! That’s not what I was saying.” Zack looks harried, now. Springy in that way he gets when he’s nervous but he doesn’t know what to do about it. If he should leave or keep pushing. And Cloud hates that he can read that so well. That he can’t keep hold of the anger. He grits his teeth and stares sideways at the wall, distancing himself, and he can practically hear Zack’s heart drop, deflating like his strings have been cut.

Damned puppy.

“I just wanted to be with you.”

Cloud scowls. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Well maybe that’s the problem.”

He blinks, peering suspiciously at the space behind Zack out the corner of his eyes. “What?”

“You didn’t...you didn’t say anything.”

“I’m not like that.”

“Like what?!” Zack explodes, and Cloud jumps, eyes widening. He turns to see Zack before can help himself, fingers twitching with the need to comfort, to help in some way as he sees the large, distraught eyes and sad frown.

“Like a boyfriend?” Zack demands, biting his lip with frustration. He exhales loudly. “A partner? You’re allowed to feel things, you know. Hell, I do!”

“Cloud, did you ever think that I missed you too?” Zack deflates again, ducking his head, and Cloud instantly misses his beautiful eyes. No matter how distraught they’d looked. “I...didn’t want to say anything.”

And isn’t that funny? Cloud hadn’t wanted to, either.

Zack shuffles. He fidgets with the skin around his nails and picks at it aggressively. Until Cloud finally can’t help it anymore, reaching out to take Zack’s hands in his own. He studiously doesn’t say anything, looking down at their interlocking fingers for a moment.

Zack’s tense too, he realizes. Clenched up and ready to fight. There’s no way he’d flee, Cloud knows, but he’d leave if Cloud asked him to.

Cloud never would.

Instead he presses into Zack’s palm, fingers digging into the flesh there. He works it for a while, massaging the knots away. Then rubs a firm, gentle caress over the knuckles. Light, tight circles that smooth out the worn, persistent pains of hands on work. 

Zack sighs with relief at the action. He hesitates only briefly before leaning forward to lay his head on Cloud’s lap. Humming happily, shoulders falling.

Cloud huffs. Runs his grip over the meat of Zack’s fingers until the tension bleeds away and his hand becomes completely loose.

“You really are a puppy,” he laughs. It’s a light one, but those are really the only kind he can do regularly. At least in Zack’s presence.

Not so often in other people’s.

Cloud can’t help thinking how lucky he is, knowing that. Thinking it, with Zack laid out like this. Expression almost reverent as he gazes up at Cloud. Pliant in his hands.

Cloud’s chest overflows, heedy and buzzing and tight with adoration. He knows his face doesn’t show it, though. Or his eyes. So he leans down and kisses Zack. On the top of his head and his forehead the tip of his nose. He nips only lightly at Zack’s lips, waiting, and is met by a surge of passion as Zack arcs up to meet him.

“I’m so lucky to have you,” Zack breathes, eyes glazed as he pulls away, and Cloud’s chest aches at the words. He swallows, lashes fluttering. Retreats as his cheeks start to burn, focusing on the give of Zack’s flesh. The warm, languid curl of his fingers as he parts them from Cloud’s own and folds them again atop the back of his hands.

Cloud stops.

“I thought you liked field work,” he breaks the silence.

“Yeah, well...Sephiroth says they’ll probably still call me in for the big stuff, but it won’t be as often. So it’s not completely permanent, y’know?”

“You think you’d be able to sit still that long?” Cloud quirks a small smile, and is happy to see a large one of Zack’s own when he looks back up at him. Then it turns lascivious, a mischievous twinkle entering Zack’s eyes, and he leans forward to cage Cloud between his arms.

“If I have the right incentive,” he purrs, eyes hooded.

Cloud’s face heats all the way to his roots at that, and he coughs, turning his head and holding out a hand. “Not now.”

Zack bounces back, pouting. “Fine! So then we can have breakfast instead, right?”

“Not now.”

“What, no breakfast and no sex? What else is there?”

Cloud gives him a deadpan look, unimpressed, until Zack subsides, pout still in place. “I’m tired, Zack,” he sighs, tilting back until he falls into the bed’s soft embrace, “I want to sleep.”

“Okay, fine. So, we could...take a nap together?”

Cloud raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Hah!” Zack exclaims excitedly. Though for what, Cloud isn’t sure. He nods sharply, standing and pulling off his shirt in one smooth motion. Cloud watches on, lazily eyeing the trial of scars down his torso, before Zack draws his eyes up again.

“I’ve missed sleeping with you so much,” Zack pants, rubbing at his mussed hair, face flushed as he bounces from one leg to another and pulls off his pants.

“Just sleeping, Zack.”

“And cuddling!” Zack protests. He throws his clothes to the other side of the room and jumps onto the bed before Cloud can say anything about it. “I call big spoon.”

Cloud huffs, reluctantly rolling over to make room. “You’re always big spoon,” he grumbles.

“Aww, poor chocobo. Don’t pout!”

“Then don’t call me that.”

“No can do chickaroo.”

“Ugh.”

Cloud feels strong, muscled arms slide around his sides. The line of Zack’s body pressed tight to his own. It’s a long streak of fire. Bands that Cloud can break. That he doesn’t want to. Wrapped around him and against him, cradling him gently. He presses back into the softness and exhales contentedly as Zack’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder, cheek rubbing insistently at his neck.

“You’re beautiful,” Zack breathes, hold tightening minutely. “I love you.”

Cloud smiles. Big and goofy and happy, and doesn’t bother to hide it. “I love you, too.”

Rescue You; chapter 8

➳ pairing: hector x witch|reader ➳ genre: fantasy, angst ➳ warnings: violence, swearing, smut, mentions of rape, slavery, spoilers for seasons 1 thorough 3. ➳ word count: 2316 ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ summary: In which y/n, a witch from Dracula’s court, tries to save the forgemaster from his fate.  ➳ a/n: this chapter contains scenes that some readers may find uncomfortable 

Chapters: 01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10

No Hope

This is it. You found it, the book you were looking for. She was keeping it in a locked drawer in her desk, not that the lock could stop your magic from getting inside. All you have to do now is lock the draw again and get back to the forge, back to Hector, before anything could go wrong.

You breathed a sigh of relief but it wasn't over yet.

That became abundantly clear the moment the door flew open, smashing against the wall before something rather heavy collided with your head.

Pitch black, complete nothingness, it was like that for a while, until your eyes finally began to open again. Your vision slowly adjusted to your dark surroundings, noticing the dim flicker of candlelight. The air was cold, the ground beneath you colder. A shiver ran across your bones but not because of the cold.

You tried to reach up to your aching head but were only met with the jingle of chains that bound your wrists.

"H-Hector?" You called out, his face the first to come into view. He looked sad, guilty, shameful.

The first thing that ran through your mind was her. You were too late, you couldn't stop her. But then, you realised that if that was the case you would not have been here, in a cold and damp cell.

The cell door was open, almost teasing you, tempting you to try and escape. The chains holding you in place saying otherwise.

"Look at that, she's alive. I told you she would be, didn't I Hector?"

That voice, her voice, it was the last thing you wanted to hear. Your eyes flickered to her for a moment, straying back to him not even seconds after. He looked as though he wanted to say something but he wouldn't, or rather, he couldn't.

Hector, unlike you, was not bound physically. Nor was he guarded. Lenore knew he was loyal to her, the ring on his finger made sure of it. There was no possibility that he could betray her, there was no reason for her to even worry about such things.

"So, you were looking for this after all. I knew Carmilla should have never agreed to let you stay," Lenore sighed, flicking through the book in her hands, "But, I suppose we do need you. Well, your magic. You'll find that cuff there weakens your magic but don't worry when you are needed you will be able to work at your full capacity. Under the watchful eye of me and my sisters, of course."

You once again glanced over to Hector, trying to reassure him without words but you knew as well as he did that this was not good. You could no longer protect him and any hopes of freeing him were a distant daydream. 

This was it. This was the end. The end of your freedom, the end of your peaceful times together. You still loved him, nothing would ever change that, but now there was nothing you could do about it other than sit in this cell and know that he was with her.

Lenore saw the way your eyes softened on him, the way his softened back. She hated it.

"Hector here is the one who gave you up. Obviously, he couldn't have kept his mouth shut even if he wanted to. In fact, he can't really do anything he wants to anymore, only what I want him to," she explained, tilting his head towards her with a finger under his chin.

You felt sick. Just watching this, watching her establish her authority, was too much for you. All you could do was sit and watch knowing what would be in store for Hector from the moment he left this dungeon.

Just when you thought it couldn't be any worse, Lenore pulled Hector forwards a few steps and turned back to you with a slight smirk. "Take off your clothes Hector."

Your eyes widened, as did his.

"I wasn't asking."

You could see the tremble in his hands as they slowly began to unbutton his shirt. He didn't want this, you didn't want this, but Lenore, she wanted to show you just how wholly the man you loved belonged to her. She wanted to demonstrate his lack of freedom and his incapability to refuse anything she said.

"Stop. Lenore, stop. Please." Now you were the one who sounded broken, begging for her cruelty to cease.

This was your fault after all. You shouldn't have dived headfirst into obtaining the book. There had to have been another way but you were desperate. Desperate to get away, desperate to take him far, far away from here. You made a mistake and now he was the one paying for it.

The vampire tutted, "Now, now. I don't think you're in any position to be telling me what to do."

By the time the words had finished rolling off of her tongue, Hector's shirt was slipping from his shoulders and falling to the floor. Then it was his boots. His hands began to shake even more when they landed on the hem of his trousers, his hooded eyes focusing on the ground to avoid looking at you.

Soon they were gone too, joining the pile of clothes that littered the stone floor. He was bare save for the undergarments that covered his manhood, his last remaining piece of dignity.

"All of it," Lenore added, her voice spitefully soft.

You saw the bob in this Adam's apple as he gulped, his hands clutching to the sides of the only fabric remaining on his body.

"Hector, it's okay. It's okay, it's just me. Okay? It's just me."

You tried to comfort him, to let him know he had nothing to be ashamed of and, for some small part, it seemed to help.

"Now, Hector," Lenore almost snapped, growing impatient with the two of you.

He closed his eyes and removed the fabric, his hands quickly moving to cover himself.

Lenore, with a satisfied smile, made her way back over to the forgemaster. Slowly, she walked around him, her hand running along his figure until she was beside him with her hand draped over his shoulder.

"You see, y/n. Our dear little Hector here belongs to me."

Her hand began to stray, running along his back. "Every single," his waist, "piece," the curve of his ass, "is mine."

You felt the water building within your eyes but held it back, determined to stay strong. You needed to show him that it was going to be okay, that you were not giving up, that you would find a way out of this. You just didn't know how yet.

"If you lay a fucking hand on him ever again-"

"You'll what? I don't think you have quite grasped the situation you're in, little witch. You see, you're in that little, smelly cell and your dear Hector is out here, with me. I don't know what he has to complain about though, I've been feeding him, cleaning him. I even gave him an outhouse, his own personal space. I suppose he won't be needing that anymore though, it seems I need to keep him on a tighter leash," she remarked, pressing a light kiss to the forgemaster's shoulder.

You pulled on the chains but it was no use. There was nothing you could do. Not even your magic could save him now.

"Come now Hector, don't look so sorrowful. Put your clothes back on, you must be getting cold."

Hector once again did as he was instructed, once again back to being nothing but a slave. A toy for the vampires to play with, for her to play with.

Without another word, Lenore began to walk away with Hector following behind. He spared one last saddened glance over his shoulder towards you before leaving with her. 

Seconds after they left, a guard came in to close the cell door and you were left in the darkness alone.

~~~

A few days had passed since then and your cheeks were still wet with tears. You were cold, you were hungry, but most importantly, you were angry. Angry at yourself for letting this happen. Angry at her for ever laying a hand on him. Angry at Carmilla for bringing him here in the first place. Angry at everyone and everything- alive or dead.

"Food, little one."

You lifted your head towards the familiar voice, almost welcoming the somewhat sympathetic tone. You were hesitant at first but then reached out to the bread the vampire was offering you. Striga then pulled up a chair and sat with you, waiting for you to ask what she knew was on your mind.

"How is he?" You yourself were shocked by your own voice, of how beaten it sounded.

"Worse than he was before you arrived. He spends his days in the forge and his nights with Lenore."

You knew what the answer would be but you had foolishly hoped it would not be as bad as you expected when, in fact, it was worse. A tear rolled down your cheek as you picked at the mouldy food in your hand. You were hungry, starving but you had suddenly lost your appetite.

"I'm sorry, little one, but you knew what would happen if you crossed Lenore. There is nothing even I can do to help you now. Just... behave... and maybe my sister will at least allow you a proper meal." With that, she got up to leave.

"When is it? The attack you've planned?"

She stopped but didn't turn back to face you. "Three days." Then, she left.

Three days. You had three days until you were going to be granted access to all of your magic but even then would it be a big enough opening to fight back? Surely they would have a failsafe against your magic and even if they didn't were you powerful enough to fight all of them alone? 

Of course not. That was why you had intended to free Hector secretly in the first place, you knew that you would not stand a chance against the council of sisters alone.

~~~

"How can you be sure that she will still help us? You threw her into a cell and haven't fed her in days. Will she even be strong enough?" Carmilla questioned.

Lenore sighed, "Striga fed her today, she'll be fine."

"One piece of mouldy bread is not going to make up for her empty stomach or lack of energy," Morana remarked, rolling her eyes.

"It's only been a few days, she will be fine. Besides, we still have Hector here," Lenore gestured to the forgemaster who remained idle beside her chair, "The witch seems to have feelings for him. She won't go against us knowing that he could get hurt."

"Feelings?" Carmilla repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Before Lenore could elaborate herself, Striga interrupted, "It would seem that she is in love with him."

"Him? Who would love him?" Carmilla choked, greatly amused by the thought of someone loving such a pathetic little thing.

Hector clenched his fists, knowing that it was better not to but in and anger Carmilla.

"Even so, her feelings for him are clear. If she wants him to remain unharmed then she will do as she is told," Lenore concluded, glancing back at the forgemaster behind her.

Her pretty little forgemaster. He was hers and hers alone.

"The battle will go much smoother with her co-operation. To ensure it maybe we should grant her a reward?" Striga suggested but Lenore scrunched up her nose.

"A reward? Her reward is that I won't rip out her intestines and feed them to his dog."

"She clearly has little value for her own life since she risked everything to save him. She knows that we need him but her, she is disposable. I think a reward might at least provide her with some reason to help us," Morana agreed with her lover.

They all looked to Carmilla, knowing that she would have the final say on the matter. "I think a reward is a good idea but Lenore, my dear, you will not like it."

"What do you have in mind?" Striga asked, noting the way Lenore was already gritting her teeth.

"We will allow her a night with the forgemaster. If she really does love him then surely that will be motivation enough to get her to do her job."

"Absolutely not," Lenore snapped.

Hector watched as everything played out in front of him. He knew he had no say in the matter and, as much as he hated the idea of being the thing to drive you to help the vampires, the thought of spending a night with you wasn't so bad. Even if it was only to talk or to sit quietly in your presence. Just to see you would be enough for him. It had been days and what little life was left in him was beginning to fade. He wanted to see you, to hold you, to free you.

You were all he had thought about since Lenore had thrown you into a cell. You were all that was getting him through it. He had company every night, company that was far less than welcome, and the thought of you was the only thing that could distract him from what was happening.

Before he was good at shutting it all out, at feeling nothing, but now it was different. Now, nothing mattered but you. He wasn't unhappy because he was suffering. Unfortunately, he had learnt to live with this. He was unhappy because you were suffering and that, to him, was a greater pain than anything Lenore could inflict on him.

Chapters: 01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10

Two worlds apart

So, I finally got to watch Aquaman! It came out recently in Japan (and by recently, I mean it came out last week) and I think I’m very biased when I say this but I love it. I should have posted this sooner but I was also busy packing for my trips and what not and only just got to settle down yesterday. That aside, this was inspired by some bits from the movie. There will always be mistakes so I do apologize for that!

p/s: this is probably the longest one I have written this year (not that I actually have written much but I will start posting more soon and going through your requests).

Arthur should have known right at that very moment that something is wrong, especially when you have this indescribable expression on your face. You don’t know this, but Arthur had actually seen you sitting at the end of the dock and something about you just seemed very forlorn. It should have been a sign to him that something is absolutely wrong but being the fool that he is, Arthur clears his throat and casually walks over to where you are sitting. “Hey, babe.” Arthur greets you and as he is about to presses his lips atop your head, you duck away from him and Arthur is slightly taken aback – this is the first time you have ever moved away from his affections.

Trying your hardest not to look at Arthur’s face, you scoot over slightly and stand up, making sure to leave enough space between the two of you. You have known about Arthur’s background ever since the two of you were younger – you had found yourself a friend in Arthur when you first moved to the area and over the years, that friendship slowly grew in to something more and it was not until the end of college that the two of you actually decided to give it a try. But now that is evident that Arthur Curry is no just the Arthur Curry that you know and love – he is also Arthur Curry, the rightful King of Atlantis… and the man who also broke your heart into pieces (especially when he had admitted to kissing Mera not once but twice – one during the midst of battle and another he shared right after the war ended and he claimed his rightful place on the throne).

“Y/N?”

Arthur’s voice pulls you out of your train of thoughts and you finally turned to look at the man you should probably be hating but absolutely cannot. Arthur is just as handsome as he has always been and your fingers twitch; the urge to cup his cheek and press your lips against him is almost overwhelming but you shake your head. “We need to talk.”

The dread that has been building in him escalates and it should have triggered a warning in him, but Arthur continues to stare at you. “It’s never a good thing when someone says that.” He says weakly and his lips are beginning to dry.

You try to smile at him but when Arthur continues to stare at you in slow recognition, you drop the smile and look away from him, staring at the water. “We have been together for over ten years now, haven’t we? But we have known each other twice as long. I like to think that I know you better than you actually know yourself sometimes, Arthur.”

“What are you trying to say here, Y/N?” Arthur has a feeling that he knows exactly what you are about to say but he just can’t seem to wrap his head around it: like you have said, the two of you have known each other twice as long and have been together for over ten years now.

You take a deep breath and turn to look at Arthur straight in his eyes. “I love you, Arthur Curry, very much so but I think it’s about time for us to break up.” As soon as those words leave your mouth, you almost want to take it back immediately. “Before you say anything, yes, it is partly because you kissed Mera not once but twice and it hurts. I tried to get over it, I really did but I just can’t.” You shake your head as tears start to slowly well up in your eyes.

Arthur’s face blanches and he inhales sharply. He had been contemplating whether or not he should tell you about what had happened during his journey to reclaim the throne and knew that if he didn’t tell you, he would remain guilty. Now, Arthur thinks he should probably have kept that information to himself because he just cannot see his future without you by his side – no, he really can’t. “Y/N, please,” His voice is heavy with emotions, as he tries to convey his entire feelings for you through his eyes.

“Matter of fact is we come from two very different worlds and we are never meant for each other, Arthur and…” You have to swallow the lump in your throat as you stare at the man that has been a constant in your life and your heart clenches in pain, as if it is being squeezed very tightly and right at that moment, you know you need to get away as soon as you can. With the tears in your eyes blurring your vision of the man that you love very deeply, Arthur steps towards you with the intention of wanting to comfort you, you step back and shake your head, creating more distance the two of you. “Sometimes, you have to do what’s right even when your heart aches against it and I really think we should just end it here, Arthur.”

Arthur would not admit it to anyone, but his eyes actually tear up the slightest bit upon hearing those words coming out of your mouth. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat and the look on your face – defeated yet at the same time, the way you are staring at him as if trying to map every inch of his face for the very last time scares him more than that time he had to fight for not just his own life but everyone else in the nation – stops him from approaching you. His fingers twitch against his sides and he clenches them into fists. Against his better judgment, Arthur tries to take another step towards you but when you scramble backwards – and away from him, Arthur freezes but not just because of your actions – rather, Arthur had stopped because he sees a few drops of tears running down your cheeks: the same cheeks he had been kissing just a few days ago and his heart thuds against his chest almost painfully.

You let out a choked sob as one of your hands fly to your mouth and you keep it there, to keep your sobs from escaping. You wanted to show Arthur that you are fine with the decision you are making- even if it is costing you your own chance at happiness. Gingerly stepping towards Arthur, you hold up your hand towards him and when Arthur does nothing but stare at you with a heart-breaking expression, you grab his hand and forcefully open his fist so that you can drop the necklace he had gotten you for your first anniversary.

Honestly, after seeing Arthur – King Arthur, you remind yourself – with Princess Mera, you know there is no place for you: the two of them had shared something better than the years you have spent being by Arthur’s side. Saving worlds together has got to be a game changer, isn’t it? You step back and take a deep breath, quickly wiping the tears away from your face. “I love you very much, Arthur Curry. Thank you for giving me the chance to experience happiness with you, even if it was just for a while.” You had to mentally applaud yourself for not breaking down as you utter those words. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

You turn to walk away when Arthur finally snaps into action. He grabs your wrist, stopping you. “Y/N, where – where are you going to go now?” He asks numbly and you gently pull your wrist from him, causing Arthur to once again feel his heart clenching in pain.

You straighten your back and glance over your shoulder. “Some place where no one knows my name.” You tell him and with one last look, you turn around and continue to walk ahead – leaving your heart behind in the process.

Arthur, on the hand, continued to stand there despondently, hand clenched over the necklace you had returned. He didn’t know how long he had been standing there, not until someone clasps his shoulder and Arthur’s immediate reaction is to throw them back in the water.

Mera sputters as she resurfaces, not expecting that coming from Arthur. “What was that all about?” She gracefully gets out of the water to stand on the dock beside Arthur but when Arthur fails to respond and she can see the sadness present on his face, Mera swallows her playfulness and furrows her eyebrows. “What happened?”

Arthur shrugs his shoulders, mumbling an apology as he sits down at the edge of the dock, looking out at the setting sun. “What else? Just when things were finally going to be better now.” He mutters the last part to himself but since Mera had been close to him, she had heard each and every word.

Mera scans the area and sees nothing out of the ordinary but knows from how tense and tight the muscles on Arthur’s back – something must have happened between Arthur and you. She hasn’t met you personally yet – Mera has only ever seen you a handful of times and one of them was during that time Orn had caused the tsunami and she had seen the look of absolute love on Arthur’s face that time. “Is there a reason for why you are here and not chasing after her, Arthur?”

Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes. “We are too different – from different worlds.” He says spitefully. Despite the brave front he puts, Arthur still cannot believe that the two of you had just broken up: he never thought you would ever leave him and he never thought he would ever experience this much pain either.

Mera shakes her head as she looks at Arthur. “I have mentioned this before: you are the bride between land and sea, Arthur.” Mera states, causing Arthur to glance up at her but when her gaze became too piercing, he looks away towards the sea. “I admit what I had done during and after the war was not the right thing to do, given the fact that I know just how absolutely in love you are with Y/N and I know the both of us were simply caught up in the moment, from the rush of the battle and winning the battle but that is not an excuse and I would like to apologize.” Mera informs him; she had definitely let the adrenaline and the rush from their adventure together rush to her head and in a whirlwind of emotions, she had decided to kiss Arthur.

Mera cannot really say that she isn’t attracted to Arthur because she definitely is. However, she understands the difference between being physically attracted to someone and being absolutely in love with someone and Mera can guarantee that whatever feelings she may have for Arthur, they are all merely superficial – beyond what has been painted of him, Mera knows nothing more. She also knows that right after they had kissed the second time, Arthur had looked very distraught – Mera reckons perhaps right at that moment, Arthur had thought of you, his lover of over ten years. “Y/N makes you extremely happy, Arthur and there is absolutely no reason for the two of you to separate on the account of coming from two different worlds. You have managed nicely so far so Arthur, why are you here instead of chasing after the woman of your life?”

Arthur takes a while to mull over what Mera has said. If his parents can work things out even after all of these years, why can’t he do the same thing? You mean so much to him and honestly, as cheesy as this sounds, whenever Arthur thinks of the future, he always imagines you being with him, building his own house for the two of you to live in together, having children together, growing old together – every single thing revolves around you and clenching his fist, Arthur nods his head, determined to win you back. He stands up abruptly and look at Mera.

“You are a pretty cool chick, Mera – I hope one day you will find someone who completes you.” Arthur tells her, pulling her into a brief hug. He lets her go and turns to head towards the light house.

“How are you going to find her?” Mera calls out from behind him.

Arthur looks over his shoulder. “I think I know a guy who might know.”

HanaHaki

In Amalafye, the Jezfeld flowers bloom on the 7th month of each allseason. They unfurl their long, velvety petals each night at sundown, only to close at moonrise. Perhaps it is in spite of the heat of the summer and the crags of the terrain, yet no elders quite recall. Why such flowers spring out to grace the land for only 1 moon cycle. Perhaps if they had a word for it, they would know the Jezfelds are perennial. Despite their beauty and strange existence, it is disappointing that Jezfelds are not particularly useful. They do not lend to medicine nor does their emergence call for celebration. Though, it is common to propose with one. No longer schoolboys, would-be-suitors present their beloved with a beautiful and in-tact bloom of startling white. Wrapped in a handkerchief, which most often is dotted with blood. For you see, the barbs covering the underside of such gorgeous petals indeed are as sharp as its stem’s thorns, and the gifting of one untainted is a testament to a suitor’s gentle care. Many a bonding is created during the Jezfeld’s season. On the other side of the coin, even a slightly bloodied Jezfeld is seen as an ill omen and a sign of incompatibility. If Jezfelds weren’t as dangerous, perhaps individuals would pick them apart petal by petal to determine their love instead. As it stands, the opulent flowers are as a footnote in Amalafye’s culture. ------ Minnow had finished checking the traps her father had cast into the sea the day before. It wasn’t unpleasant a day, for the rainy season. And it had rather been a good allseason throughout. They had been gifted a plentiful harvest, and their dry stores had not rotted as they had the allseason before. Wiping the sweat from her brow, Minnow yawned and glanced up at the mountains. That is how her brother found her, shielding her steely blue eyes from the sun. “Hey, Minn, catch” he called, tossing her an empty bucket. She startled, barely stepping out of the way. Glaring at the bucket and then her brother as it landed in the water. “I did it two nights ago!” she protested. It didn’t really need to be said what the bucket was for, bless their sick mother. Trout, Minnow’s slightly-older brother just stuck his tongue out at her and raced away before he could be caught. His sister loved him, sure, but her ire was a hell of a thing. She sighed. Chasing after him didn’t seem worth it, and it wasn’t the time to daydream. Sparing one last glance towards the mountains, Minnow squared her shoulders and got to task. There would be more to do before the heat of the day hit its peak. ----- But as Minnow worked, the sun swam across the sky, the glint of the water blinding, and Preffy doing her absolute best to produce no milk, she began to wonder. She cursed her stubborn nanny goat but released her all the same, running a cramping hand through her white-blonde shaggy hair. Then, the heat exhaustion set in. Minnow coughed away the sensation of having something stuck in her throat, shaking her head and swallowing when it wouldn’t abate. Listing to the side, she was grateful when a familiar pair of arms steadied her. Long locks of red hair filled Minnow’s vision as her best friend held onto her shoulders from behind, looking down at her with curiosity. “Why so tired, little sardine?” Clover asked, the echo of her question a larking laugh. Immediately Minnow stifled a cough come out of the blue, her eyes wide as she waved Clover’s answering concern off. She stood quickly to face Clover, her mother’s friend’s daughter, and Minnow’s closest companion since they were sprouts. “The usual, thistle.” Minnow sighed, ignoring the crease between Clove’s eyes. Suddenly she was feeling much, much worse. ---- It’s not that Minnow had ever truly longed to receive a pure Jezfeld blossom. She simply had never seen them glowing in the light of the moon, and she wished to see them for herself. Alas, her father was not rich and the flower’s season was always when he needed her at the market stall. When Minnow was younger, she and Clover used to talk and giggle about what future boy would venture for one in quest of their hand. They talked about what the boys would look like, they bickered that each of them would get a cleaner token. It had always made Minnow feel sour, once the levity wore off and Clover lay fast asleep. Minnow tossed on her bed, sweating and aching. Her lungs seemed constricted, her stomach a pit. With another roll, Minnow leaned over and heaved, the force of the cough swaying her as she covered her mouth. Crinkling her nose at the warm and wet sensation on her palm, Minnow went to wipe it on the hem of her dress. Instead, when she opened her hand, she stared in shock at the site of a torn, bloodied Jezfeld petal. Its barbs nicked her skin as she dropped it in horror. Continuing to stare at it as it mingled with the dirt on the floor. It was a little withered, still torn, still bloodied and damp. But it was beautiful. Carefully, Minnow removed a stocking and daintily picked up the offending object. It crushed where her fingers pressed it, as she turned it this way and that. A little deliriously, Minnow finally tucked the petal under her pillow and resolved to go back to sleep. People just didn’t cough up flowers. And Jezfelds only grew during one particular moon cycle, in one particular place. ---- The petals did not get the memo. Moons went by, as the rainy season came to an end and the cold took over. Some days Minnow would be fine, just a little short of breath. Others she would sob, her throat torn and bloodied petals at her feet. She kept them all, even though she didn’t understand what was happening. Wishing Clover were there to get advice from. But her best friend always stayed in the mountains through the dead season. All Minnow was certain of, was that the flowers flowing from her lungs were growing healthier, larger. In defeat, she turned inland, and set out. It took days, and it snowed, but Minnow was determined. The thought of awaiting comfort fueling her. When she arrived on the 8th day, she expected to be welcomed by her mother’s friend and Clover. They were welcoming as such, but it was not as Minnow had hoped. For as happy as Clover was to see her, she was happier to announce the wonderful news of her intended. It was no secret that Trout had always had a bit of a crush on Clover. Of course he did, she was beautiful and sharp. In comparison, Trout was a dolt and Clover had never accepted his advances before, so it came as a blow to hear that they had been trading correspondence. It was no salve to Minnow’s heart that her best friend insisted they had planned to clue her in. She had never hated her brother more. Objectively, Minnow knew her brother had grown into a fine enough man, his baby white-blond hair darkening to wheat, muscles toned. Maybe he’d even grown a brain cell or two. Realistically, Minnow knew this day would come, that someone would claim Clover’s hand. It did not stop her heart from falling, and she regretted asking when he would. It wouldn’t be possible to forget the glint in Clover’s eye as she conspiratorially whispered, “the 7th month”. That night, Minnow cupped 1/3 of a full bloom in her hands, letting them bleed. ---- There is a cottage on the cusp of the crags where the Jezfeld flowers grow. This, Minnow was unaware of as she trekked to the site. It was finally the cusp of the season of renewal, allowing her to walk along the mountain paths. It was beautiful, full of flowers of varying colors and sizes. Blues and purples and yellows. No white. Minnow would not see the mountainside covered in Jezfelds. Still she had to see the place where her brother would pick Clover’s. She spitefully hoped he bloodied it, as she fervently wished hers would emerge from her throat white as snow. Clover had offered to accompany her, taken aback when Minnow refused. She didn’t know this was something Minnow had to do alone. Of course, Minnow could have told Clover everything. She just didn’t feel like it was her place, ever since that first day she’d arrived and had her heart broken. So, there she stood, on strange terrain, alone. Nothing in her rucksack save some bread and petals. “It’s a shame-” Minnow shouted and jumped back, having not heard the woman who’d stepped in beside her. She placed a hand over her rapidly beating heart, her other hand covering the ensuing coughing fit. Her eyes watered, hiding the bud in closed fingers. Willing the woman not to notice. With horror, Minnow spat out a thorn. The woman waited with patience, eyeing the thorn in fascination. “I see.” she said simply. Turning back to the land before them. “It’s a shame Jezfelds bloom so shortly, but I see they are more persistent than most know.” As soon as Minnow slipped the bud away, the woman eyed her again, as if she’d been giving her privacy. Silence continued. “Who are you?” Minnow finally asked, giving up on any pretense of hiding what had just happened. The woman smiled, then began to walk away. “I’m Jezabel, dear. You’d better come with me.” She didn’t stop, and Minnow didn’t follow. At least not immediately. ---- Uncomfortably seated in a chair at Jezabel’s table, Minnow cupped her mug of tea and shifted her eyes anywhere but on the woman’s deceptively young face. Not brought out of her stupor until Jezabel propped her chin on her steepled fingers and spoke. “Are you poetic?” Jezabel asked. “It might be easier to swallow if you are.” Minnow swallowed uncomfortably around a leaf, taking a sip of tea to ease it back down. “No.” she admitted resolutely. Jezabel shrugged, retracting her elbows from the table. “Unless you confess your love to your desired, the flowers will grow until you can draw breath no longer.” Minnow grimaced. “And the poetic version?” she mumbled. The woman laughed. “Your love is so ardent and pure it has manifested within your very heart, twisting around it as it aches for the one it cannot have. Child, will you grow gardens in your heart, or a funeral bouquet?” It wasn’t a much better explanation. “I can’t confess” Minnow admitted quietly. “She loves another.” Jezabel didn’t seem too concerned by that, waving her off. “Will he bring her one bloom, while you create hundreds?” She asked rhetorically. “Who do you believe can better love her?” Minnow knew what she wanted to answer. But she couldn’t hurt either Clover, or her own brother. As she and Jezabel shared a stilted conversation, she learned that her choice would lead to the disease killing her within, of course, Jezfeld’s season. The hedgewitch gave her some tea to keep to ease her suffering, and let her stay until she could make it back to the sea. ---- Minnow returned, carrying the weight of having little time left. Her father was glad to have a set of helping hands back, though he noticed how his daughter lagged. He feared for her, they all did. Nobody spoke it aloud, but the village had agreed Minnow had contracted her mother’s illness. They didn’t see her flowers, for she didn’t let them see. Clover had returned, and Minnow treasured every moment they spent together. Yearning after her when Clover and Trout teased and ran off together. Which was becoming more and more common as the sun began to bake and trade picked up. It was nearly the end. Minnow wrote to Clover as breathing for her became a true labor of love. She asked her mother, once. What it felt like to know you’re dying. Her mother hadn’t replied, and her father had cuffed her for her insolence. They didn’t know. Or else worried she was serious. Then it was the day. Minnow hadn’t known it was the day, and she wasn’t ready. She’d known her brother had gone off when word of the first Jezfelds arrived, a week past. Minnow had cried. The only silver lining she could cling to, that Clover would be at her side until his return. And she was. With all the strength she could muster, Minnow made the most of her last days. They swam together, and made daisy crowns. They ate tarts and played pranks on travelers. Clover came over that afternoon. The sight of her, always having made Minnow smile, did not this time. For she had Trout in tow. And not even the sight of her friend’s out-of-place frown could shake the way she beamed. Minnow’s chest seized. Eyeing the handkerchief Clover carried. Not a spot of blood. Within its folds, a lush and full, perfectly white Jezfeld blossom. ----- That night, Minnow sat on the dock. She couldn’t cry. The water below her filled with Jezfelds, finally glowing in the moonlight, for it was finally their season. They were beautiful, even if they weren’t perfect. They were perfect to her though Minnow couldn’t see them when silent tears finally rolled from her eyes, and she was going to die. So consumed with grief, she almost missed the intake of breath behind her. “Minn....” came the torn note of Clover’s voice. Minnow froze. Holding her breath as her favorite red head sat beside her. At a loss, they both remained in silence. Gradually, the two leaned onto each other. Minnow resting her head on Clover’s shoulder, feeling heavy. Clover propping a knee against Minnow. “I’m a fool,” Clover whispered. Minnow tried to say a reassuring ‘no’ but only ended up in another fit. Resigned to the fact that Clover would see this, that she would know. Yet as she held the latest Jezfeld in her hands, tilting them to let it fall into the water- Clover caught it. “It’s beautiful,” she said, mesmerized. Though damp with spit and stained with blood, Clove didn’t seem to mind the flower. Minnow could tell because when Clover lifted her chin and kissed her, she didn’t seem to care about the taste of copper. They broke away, and for the first time in allseason Minnow felt breathless not from petals drowning her, but from being kissed by her love by the sea. ---- EPILOGUE As Jezfeld season ended, Trout wound up married to a girl named Gecko. She’d had a crush on him for forever and stole his school-boy heart away. Minnow and Clover returned to the mountains to speak with the hedgewitch, Jezabel, but the cottage was completely empty. In the surrounding garden, they were astonished to find growing naturally deep-crimson Jezfelds. They moved in, and now and again someone else will show with petals on their lips and sorrow in their heart. And Minnow, well she brews them tea while Clover tells them all about “how my wife wooed me.”

Redemption has Stories to Tell

Welcome back to chapter two! Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos, I am always so so nervous whenever I post a new story and it really means everything to know that you’ve all been enjoying this. Please keep telling me what you think of it. 

Time for Roman to have a trip of a lifetime! 

Chapter title is from Voices by Switchfoot. 

Previous Chapter: HERE

Title: Redemption has Stories to Tell

Chapter Two: Oceans Trapped in your Eyelids

Words: 6.3k

Pairings: Virgil/Remy. Eventual Roman/Virgil, Roman/Remy, Roman/Virgil/Remy.

Warnings: Demon Virgil, Demon Logan, Demon Remy. Angst. Angst with an eventual happy ending. Sympathetic Deceit (of a sort. he still isn’t in this chapter). soul contracts. Ownership of souls.

Summary: The road to hell may be paved with good intentions but regardless of his attitude Roman is heading right there. 

--

A demon.

Did... had... the other boy had said he was... a demon. And what was worse, was that neither of his parents had batted an eyelid at that, only by the fact that he was here at all. Roman was struggling but he had to admit, there didn’t seem to be any other answer beyond the fact that demons were real and he was looking at one. A mostly normal looking boy bar his eyes. Reasonably attractive if moody emos were your thing, but still just a boy. Nothing special. 

“We didn’t think it would rebound back on us like this!” Roman’s father snapped. The older man had taken a step forward and a little to the side, as if trying to block the demon from view. Or perhaps the other way around. 

“Ailsa and I thought... we thought...” he trailed off, glancing back at his wife and along with the fear, Roman could see such love in his eyes. After all this time, they still loved each other so very much and he had always thought of his parents as a storm, twin hurricanes raging against the world. Nothing seemed to stop them, nothing could come close to matching the intensity of their love for each other. Roman had always longed to find a love like that of his own, that special someone who he would tear down mountains for and know they would do the same. 

Now it was starting to look as if he might never get that chance. 

“We thought I was incapable of bearing a child,” Ailsa finished, one hand reaching out to grasp her husband’s hand, squeezing it tightly.  

“Oooh,” the demon drawled, phone turned off and slipped into his pocket. He leaned forward, chin resting on his knuckles, attention fixed on his father. Roman didn’t like that, not one bit. There was a dangerous gleam in those unnatural eyes, and if anyone was in danger it should be him, not the people he loved. 

“You thought you could trick a demon? Yeah, that sounds like a wise idea. You’re lucky you were wrong and you had a kid, because deliberately going into a deal you are knowingly incapable of fulfilling? I would not have liked to be in your shoes.” 

“Who are you anyway?” Ailsa asked, her eyes narrowed, attention shifting from what had been to what now was. Her gaze was almost calculated as she examined the young looking male still on her counter top, tears no longer flowing. Roman didn’t understand what she was doing, why she would wait until now to ask such a question and surely she already knew the answer? 

The demon lifted a hand to press it against his chest as though deeply offended, a somewhat mocking smile on his lips.

“You don’t recognise me? I’m hurt. I’m the demon you made the deal all those years ago with and I’ve come to collect. Happy Birthday Roman.”

“No... no you’re not him.”

“We can shape shift. You think this is my real form? I’m just trying to be kind is all. You mortal minds couldn’t handle my true form, yadda, yadda, yadda.”  

“You’re not him,” Ailsa repeated, more firmly this time, head held high. She glared at the demon in undisguised contempt, taking another slow step towards him. Any trace of fear Ailsa might have had was long since gone and in its place was an icy anger. An anger that the demon seemed more than capable of matching, the youthful looking male slipping gracefully down from the counter. He almost floated as he moved, gliding up to meet Roman’s mother face to face. 

He was... shorter than Roman had expected. Shorter than him at least and now that he was standing, it was easier to see a vague outline under the oversized hoodie, to realise that he was truly lanky, almost unnaturally so. Plus, they could shape shift. Yet this was the form he chose to show them? Hardly a threatening looking person and yet Roman had long ago learned not to take people at face value. 

Throughout the whole interaction, Roman had simply stood there, had let his father try and protect him, had let his mother attempt to out talk the monster. He was letting them fight his battle and that didn’t sit right with Roman. True, he might not understand exactly what this battle was or how he could come close to winning it, but that didn’t excuse his cowardice. If only he knew what else to do. 

The demon clicked his fingers, a long and thin scroll suddenly appearing in his hand with a flicker of flames. Roman couldn’t help but jump a little at the sight, eyes growing wide. He had seen magic tricks in his time but somehow that didn't look like any of the sleight of hand he had witnessed before. It almost looked... it almost looked as though it had been real. Those flames had been real. The scroll itself was certainly real, Roman leaning forward and to the side a little in order to try and get a closer look at the object in the other boy’s hand. 

It felt... familiar to him somehow. As if he knew the pale cream scroll intimately, as if it was part of him that he had only just realised was lost and ached to regain. Which was crazy, he had never seen it before and it was just a piece of paper rolled up. Why would it be anything important? 

“Doesn’t matter who I am now does it? Because I have this, which means I have him. Full body and mental possession of your first born child upon he, her, them or other reaching their eighteenth year,” the demon almost recited, twirling the scroll casually in his fingers as if it were a baton or something similar. Roman felt his heart leap into his mouth every time it spun and looked seconds away from falling to the ground. He couldn’t help but feel protective towards it for some bizarre reason.

“What are you going to do to him?” James asked, his own eyes never leaving the scroll as the demon effortlessly taunted them. The smirk on the dark haired boy’s face only grew wider and Roman was pretty sure he was enjoying this. It made him hate the demon boy, his fingers itching to curl into a fist and land it right into one of those purple eyes. He could probably take him in a fight. At least long enough to grab that scroll off him and Roman didn’t know why but he really wanted to get that away from the demon. 

“That is for me to know and you to find out, oh... never. Go and get your things Roman, we have places to be. Or at least I do.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere with you,” Roman snapped and enough was enough. Demon or not, he wasn’t going to just let himself get... get what exactly? Get kidnapped? It felt as though that was what was happening. The demon seemed to expect him to just pack up and leave, to go somewhere completely new and unknown, somewhere dangerous. 

He wasn’t going to walk to his slaughter. 

“I can make you,” the demon threatened, purple eyes staring deep into Roman’s brown ones. He slipped past Roman’s mother as if she were nothing, weaving through the room in a second to suddenly be directly in front of Roman. “Please, don’t make me prove it.” 

Perhaps Roman was just imagining it, but he could have sworn that the words came across more as an honest plea rather than a threat, as if the demon didn’t want to do this. What? Where had the smirking horrible demon gone, the one he had felt no hesitation in hating and had wanted to punch squarely in his face? The male who stopped in front of him seemed to almost begging that he do as he was told - and there was the rub. Even if Roman wanted to do it, which he didn’t, there was no way he was going to do anything he was ordered to like some dumb dog.

Roman titled his chin up, arms crossed, his defiance clear without a single word being spoken. This was his home. Why would he ever want to leave against his will? For a beat, nothing happened, the pair simply staring at each other. 

“Fine,” the demon suddenly snapped, eyes narrowing spitefully. Fingers curled around the scroll, tightening his grip on it, the parchment crinkling under the pressure. His stomach dropped at the movement, almost feeling himself tense. Ridiculous, ridiculous, this whole thing was ridiculous and he didn’t understand why he was taking it so seriously. It was just a piece of paper at the end of the day and this boy was just one person against the three of them. Why hadn’t they just called the cops? 

“Roman T. Sanders, I order you to go quietly upstairs and pack of a bag of things you feel you most need for a trip away from home. Quickly.” 

Roman opened his mouth to laugh at him, to tell this so called demon exactly what he thought of his order and ask if that was all he had, his grand plan was adding the word order and to make his voice grow deeper for a single word. As though that was going  to scare him into doing what he wanted. 

Instead Roman found himself turning on his heel and slipping away from the kitchen, marching rapidly through the house and back up the stairs he had crept down what felt like a lifetime ago. No matter how hard he tried to, Roman couldn’t make himself stop moving. It was as though his whole body had slipped into autopilot and no matter what he thought or how hard he grabbed at door frames as he passed, there didn’t seem to be any way to prevent himself from carrying out the order the purple eyed monster had given him. 

It was as though the demon child had completely hijacked control of his body and was taking it for a joy ride.  

Tears blurred his vision as he felt himself start to throw clothes into a bag but they were angry tears, frustrated tears. Roman couldn’t control his hands either and it made him rage, kicking and screaming in his mind even as he pulled open his closet, dumping various items into the two suitcases he had pulled out from under his bed. Distantly, Roman noticed they were the ones his father had surprised him with last week, large and lightweight, perfect replacements for the tatty ones he had been using to and from college previously. 

His parents had bought him brand new luggage just a week before his birthday. 

Roman wasn’t sure what to really made of that. Coincidence? Hoping that he would be able to use them for collage as he had planned? Or a silent admission that they knew there was no way around this and they were just trying to make things as easy for him as possible? He could fit a lot more into them than he could in his old ones, favourite clothes, books, keepsakes all being piled high. His body seemed to know exactly what he would have normally chosen to take no matter his mind’s silent protests. 

All too soon he was dragging the two suitcases and bulging backpack down the stairs and back into the kitchen. Roman would have probably packed more if he had the arms for it and there was so much he had left behind, so much he would miss but there had only been room for a certain number of things and the demon had told him to pack for a trip. 

Some part of him couldn’t believe he was thinking like that but then right now it seemed as if he had little choice. When that boy held the scroll it seemed as if he could say whatever he liked and Roman would jump on command. Roman liked to think of himself as a very imaginative person, always spinning so many different threads in his mind, different ideas about everything and yet he couldn’t come up with any way out of this mess. What could he do against something that could compel his body to do whatever it damn well pleased? 

The demon was engrossed in his phone once more, the harsh blue light of the screen reflected onto his face as he stared down at it, the very tip of his tongue flicking out between his lips as he tapped away. Whatever it was had to be pretty important because he appeared to be completely oblivious to the death glares being sent his way by Roman’s parents or the way James hand his hand lightly on Ailsa arm to try and calm her.

A couple of broken plates lay scattered on the ground between them, as if they had hit an invisible wall and shattered. Perhaps not so oblivious after all and Roman didn’t know which of his parents had thrown them - almost certainly his mother. Roman couldn’t help but feel a little envious at that, at how she had been able to let lose her anger and frustration. He still felt wrapped up in the power of the demon’s words, bound by the instruction to be quiet, unable to rant and scream as he wished. 

Purple eyes flicked up to glance at Roman for a moment, taking in the sullen face and the fact that he had actually returned with the desired suitcases. 

“You can... uh... you can say goodbye. If you want.” The demon was back to looking almost unsure of himself and Roman didn’t understand why he was behaviour so... off. Every time Roman thought he had gotten a handle on what he was like - cruel spiteful, trying to get a rise out of his parents or himself just for the fun of it - he then twisted everything on its head by softening and giving him this chance when he didn’t need to. The demon held all the power here, and what's more it clearly knew it. 

Roman had watched Beauty and the Beast, the kidnapper was under no pressure to let them have a goodbye if he didn’t want to. It was under no pressure to do anything and yet he took a step backwards to allow Roman to move closer, his fingers still tapping quietly against the screen of his phone as he apparently texted someone. They had phones in hell? 

His mind was buzzing with questions from the ridiculous to the sublime and even if he wanted to, he couldn’t pick where to start because his mother was suddenly in front of him, peppering his face with kisses.

“This isn’t goodbye,” his mother vowed. She pulled back a fraction, hands on his shoulder to look deep in his eyes with an intense stare. “I swear Roman, I swear we are going to get you out of this. You stay strong, you stay alive and you don’t trust a word out of his mouth. No matter what he tries to promise you or how he tries to trick you.”

Roman wallowed heavily, biting down the confusion and anger. Some part of him couldn’t help but think it was all very well for her to start giving him advice now. His father had been right, it would have been better to tell him sooner. Even if he wouldn’t have believed them at first, if he knew the rules he could understand how to beat his enemies, but now he was just too lost to even know where to start. The demon already could control him, he had demonstrated that to chilling effect. How could he trick him further? How could she think he would even start to trust him? She stepped back after a pause, his father moving into her place. 

“I love you Roman,” James whispered, wrapping him in a fierce hug. “Like your mother said, stay strong, we are going to sort this.” 

Oh how he wished he could believe that. For so long he had believed that his parents knew best and while they might not know everything they still came pretty close. And now they knew nothing, Roman’s hands creeping up to hug him back, trying to pour everything he felt into that embrace, everything he couldn’t quite bring himself to say, the good and the bad.

“Okay, that is enough of that, lets go before I vomit.” 

Enough? That hadn’t been nearly enough time and how could it ever have been enough time to say everything that had to be said. Roman hadn’t even said anything, a sob working its way up through the lump in his throat. For a moment he was thrown into a feeling of pure, blind panic, everything clicking horribly into place.

This was real. 

This was real. He was being kidnapped by a demon and was about to be dragged off to hell or whatever. And then... what? Tortured for eternity? That was what happened to souls owned by demons right? But then why had it told him to pack if that was going to be his fate? He didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to do this, to go wherever the purple eyed demon was going to take him. He wanted to go to college, he wanted to get drunk before he was meant to, he wanted to explore the world, to see Europe for the first time. He wanted to see his own name lit up in front of him and know that other people knew it, that they loved him and his work. 

The world spun around him, leaving Roman breathless and dizzy, as though standing at the edge of a precipice of pure darkness and Roman didn’t want to die. What else could this monster offer him but death?

His parents stumbled backwards from him as though burnt, leaving a clear gap between them. 

“What are you doing to them?” Roman demanded, eyes wide. He tried to move after them, managing only two steps before he reached an invisible wall. No matter how he pressed and pushed, it was impossible to get beyond it and return to the previous safety of their embraces. His mother was mere inches away and yet she couldn’t close the gap either, couldn’t move beyond the barrier that separated them. Her hand pressed against the space of his own, Roman’s eyes brimming with tears as he tried so hard to hold her one last time.

She was saying... something. Roman could see her mouth moving but no sound seemed to escape. Or was it no sound could reach him? 

“It’s just a little bubble for us both. Can’t have them trying to interfere now can we? It’s a dangerous trip, try and mess around with it and well... someone might lose a limb,” The demon explained lazily, one hand lifting absently to wave in their vague direction as he spoke. There was a slight lift and lilt to his voice as he spoke those last words, something menacing in the undertone. 

By someone, Roman could only assume the demon meant one of them. He was threatening his parents? It wasn’t enough that the demon was going to kidnap him and do god knew what to him, he had to threaten his parents as well? Roman scowled, his own fear wiped away in an instance by the protective fury of his rage.

The male stepped closer, hand still holding the scroll and Roman could almost feel hot fingers around his neck now that he allowed himself to think about it. Not that it changed his anger at all, if anything, it only made it worse to know how utterly helpless he really was.

This close, Roman could see all manner of shades of purple within those irises, flashes of colour as he stared deeply into them. They were almost beautiful, in an abstract fashion and he hated himself for thinking that. It didn’t change the truth though or the way Roman couldn’t quite bring himself to look away. Even his parents seemed to fade a little from his thoughts, as though everything outside the bubble was gradually ceasing to be important. 

“Close your eyes,” the demon breathed, words fluttering lightly against Roman's cheek and no, he hadn't been imagining it, this demon really was shorter than him, almost nestling against his neck and chest as he pressed close. Far too close for comfort but what could he do? Roman wasn't foolish enough to think he could just pull away. All he could do was focus on the words themselves.

That wasn’t an order. Roman didn’t feel that weight pressing down on him that he had before, that impossible to ignore urge that had overridden any logical desires or wants, the one that had made him a puppet on a string. 

It wasn’t an order and so he wasn’t going to do it.

The demon didn’t seem to notice, one hand taking his own, Roman flinching at the contact. After the sensation of heat against his neck he would have expected the actual hand to be burning hot. Instead it felt cool. Refreshing almost, like slipping into something more comfortable after a long hard day.

As Roman watched, the demon closed his eyes, face screwing up in concentration.

The scroll vanished from his hand, free fingers shifting forward to slide around Roman's hip. He knew he should pull away in disgust, but something about the gentle hold kept him pinned effortlessly in place. Just like the eyes, he felt trapped in a way completely independent of the actual power the scroll had over him. There was a danger here, something beside the demon himself, the words of warning, the threat still lurking in his mind, the whole reason that the demon had cast this bubble around them in the first place. 

Roman opened his mouth to ask what on earth the demon thought he was playing at, what he was going to do when the soft crackle of fire came to his ears, a whisper at first, a soft tickle at the back of his mind and throat before it came over them like an inferno. A ring of flame suddenly burst into life around them, scorching its way deep into the wood panelling of the kitchen. It flickered to knee height level, the tips of the flames dancing hungrily, shifting and weaving as though it was alive and glorying in being set free. 

The sight was enough to drag his attention away from the angelic face of the demon - a terrible contradiction in words if ever he thought one and yet one that somehow seemed to fit the stranger - and focus on the flames themselves. Roman swallowed heavily at the sight, mouth snapping shut. He couldn’t help but slightly regret his choice to keep his eyes open. But no, he had made his choice and he had to stay strong, he couldn’t give in now just because fire had appeared out of nowhere. It was close enough that if he wanted to, Roman could reach out and touch it and yet he didn’t feel any heat coming from the fire. This wasn’t normal fire. 

As if anything about this had been normal. 

An unpleasant sensation grew in the pit of his stomach as if something had curled around his insides and started to tug - hard. The intensity of the pull increased with each passing second, Roman biting down on his lip in order to keep quiet and he wouldn’t let some discomfort defeat him, The grip the demon had on him was tightening too, fingers curling further around him in time to the deepening scowl as it seemed to try even harder to... well, do whatever it was that the demon was attempting to do. 

The wooden floor dropped away with a whoosh, more flames racing up to meet them.

There wasn't time to even wonder about the flames, to wonder about anything because all of a sudden they were falling.

They were spinning down through the earth, Roman instantly pressing himself tighter against the demon as they dropped, clinging on tight as though holding him would somehow protect him. Almost as though he was on fire, his mind and skin burning as he watched thousands of split second moments all at once. It was as though he was every soul they fell past, experiencing their punishment as they went deeper into hell.

He was the man who was forced to stand in a river of water with fruit overhead only to have the food and drink shrink from his touch, constantly tortured by the need for substance but never allowed it. He was the one who had to push a rock up a hill, feeling it dig and cut into his skin, only for the boulder to bounce back down the other side so his job was never done. His skin was burning away, tried to an endless flaming wheel that spun without rest. His liver was being pecked out and devoured. He felt the whip lash against his back, skin splitting apart. He was all of these and so many more, his voice stolen from him as they sped past the horrors, unable to even scream. 

Feet connected to the ground, Roman jerking and gasping, as if he had been submerged in a fiery bath and only just now coming out to breathe. The images shattered around him, potent moments of pain vanishing as if they had never been there, leaving him with nothing but their ghostly presence, the memory of what had just been interfering with the now. 

He felt so lightheaded. So... awful. He wanted to throw up and scream all at the same time. The sights of the trip pressed against his mind like after images burned into the ground, a flash fire of what had once been and it shook him down to his core. Roman could do nothing but sag into the surprisingly strong embrace of the demon, let him support him as he whimpered and shook. All thoughts of remaining strong were lost in the haze of pain and illness, in the struggle to push away the images and focus on what he knew - thought - to be real. The feel of arms supporting him, one snaked around his back, the other lifting to press a hand against his forehead as though they would tell him anything.

The hand was as cool as before, blissfully so, Roman unconsciously leaning into to try and chase away the feeling of phantom flames that still licked against his skin.

“I told you to close your eyes... why didn’t you close your eyes, why did you have to be so damn proud?” The demon sounded more panicked than angry or amused, the two emotions he would have expected when it realised he hadn’t obeyed him. Roman wasn’t some trained dog, he wasn't going to just accept anything he was told and behave. That wasn't his way and maybe it would have been smart to just do as he was told. But that would have given the demon completely the wrong impression as to what sort of person Roman was. He would fight and snarl and resist to the bitter end.

Right now however, he sort of wished he had listened.

Roman couldn’t do anything but make a faint little whimper of pain and confusion. His mind felt as though it was being ripped apart at the seams and as soothing as the touch was, it only offered him relief in his forehead, the rest of his body still screaming out in agony. 

“Antagonist is going to have a field day when he senses you, we’re going to have to be extra careful.”

It was getting harder and harder to focus on the words that still made no sense, and Roman wanted to ask who on earth Antagonist was. Or for that matter who the demon actually was and he never went home with someone on the first date. Certainly when he didn't even know there name. He wasn't that sort of boy.

The giggle that slipped out at his thoughts was anything but joyful. It bordered on the hysterical, Roman unable to control it. The demon was saying something else but his words were too hard to make out, sound slipping in and out so he could only make out every other word. The world kept flickering in and out of focus, Roman unable to make his eyes narrow in on the demon that had stolen him. 

Roman gave up and let the darkness take him. 

--

Coming back to awareness was a slow, lazy progress. He felt as if he was swimming up through thick quicksand, each movement sluggish and uncertain. 

For a moment, he simply stared upwards at the ceiling, trying to piece together the very strange dream he had been having. That there was a supernatural world. That his parents had somehow known about it enough to be able to make a deal with a demon and had offered their first born as payment and that the demon had come collecting. That he had been, quite literally, dragged down into hell. It had been such a vivid dream and he had never had one like that before.

Roman blinked a couple of times, mind slowly turning. 

Wait. This wasn’t his bedroom ceiling. And now that he thought that, he realised this wasn’t his bed. It was larger and far more comfortable than any bed he had ever slept in before. With a jolt, he sat upright, regretting it almost immediately. The world spun and shook with the sudden movement, Roman flopping back into the bed and the handful of pillows that just begged for him to sink into them and forget about his troubles for a little longer. Roman stared up at the ceiling and slowly let the truth unfurl in his mind. 

It hadn’t been a dream.

He had been kidnapped. Or sold? Was sold a better word? His parents might have tried to stop it but they had been the ones to do it in the first place. Either way, it didn’t matter what word he used in his mind. All that mattered was the end result, was the fact he had been torn out of his life and thrown into... into... into a really luxurious bed. That was not what Roman had expected. 

Admittedly he hadn’t really spared much time to working out what he had expected but from the various stories he knew of demons and hell, not to mention the hideous glimpses he had seen as they had been pulled down here had led him to believe that something terrible awaited him. Chains and screaming had seemed more likely than a comfortable bed and no restraints in sight. 

Not that he was complaining, but it just dragged out the other torture, that of not knowing what the demon planned to do to him. If not torture then what? And why?

Slowly, he pushed himself upright once more. This time, the world didn’t blur together horribly. After a couple of moments of heavy breathing, he carefully turned and slipped from the bed. His suitcases were placed neatly by the bed, Roman staring at them as he walked by. The demon had gone to the effort of taking him to bed and then had brought his luggage with him. Roman didn’t even remember seeing it come down to hell with them. And all his stuff seemed to still be inside. The demon hadn’t violated his privacy, hadn’t seemed to have gone through them. But why?

That was a problem for later. Right now, Roman needed to get some answers. It was time to confront the demon once and for all. 

He pulled open the door, stepping out into a quiet corridor. Like the room he had woken up in, it looked like a normal corridor. Comfortable, nicely furnished but not ornately. It was the sort of place he would expect to see when he visited a friend, not a hell demon’s home. The door directly opposite him opened up onto a bathroom, Roman looking inside just long enough to make sure it was empty before he moved back and continued his search.

At the end of the hallway was another bedroom door. This one was locked when he cautiously tried it. A ‘V’ was carved above the frame but aside from that there was no way to know what was on the other side. Nobody came storming out to demand what he was doing which meant that it was either empty or someone was trapped and unable to answer. Roman eyed it for a couple of moments before deciding to come back to it later. 

There was nothing else of interest upstairs, Roman slowly making his way to the bottom floor and it seemed as if this was a whole house instead of an apartment. Demons had houses. Who knew? 

The downstairs looked as normal and unremarkable as the top floor. As empty too, Roman feeling his anger and frustration growing with every passing second, every room that he looked in and found it empty of the demon. A living room, a kitchen, a dining room. They were all carefully furnished, although the dining room had that look about it which made him feel like it was a rarely used room. Everywhere else seemed more homey, Roman eyeing the obscenely comfortable looking sofa warily. 

There was even a television in the corner of the living room and that was messing with his mind more than the bed had done because what did that mean exactly? They could get signal down here? The internet? Demons watched television? 

His exploration of the kitchen had only yielded more questions. A coffee maker stood on the counter top, a large glass jar of coffee pods set beside it. No cheap instant coffee for this demon it seemed. 

Fancy. 

The fridge was a little more sparse than he had expected after everything else in the building. Some milk, a couple of leftovers wrapped in foil, even a few vegetables pushed to the back that looked as if they had been left there far longer than they should have been. Nothing in it answered any of his questions and it certainly didn’t tell him where his demon host or kidnapper had vanished too. 

Roman pushed it shut, shuffling out of the kitchen and into the hallway. All in all, this was a perfectly normal house. It was all very... mundane. If he didn’t know better he would have thought this was just a place where a human lived, someone who prioritised coffee over any sort of healthy food true, but still a human.  

A flash of memory shot across his mind, the sensation of limbs breaking only to be instantly healed in order to break again, the sensation making him flinch. Roman had no idea what that soul had done to warrant such an eternal punishment but he was fairly confident that he didn’t want to know. The second of agony he had experienced had been more than enough and Roman wished he could push it out of his thoughts as easily as it had arrived. He wished he could forget.

He really wished he had closed his eyes. 

No, this wasn’t a normal place. And he needed to get out of here while his captor wasn’t about before he returned and put whatever foul plan he had into practise. What could those moments be but a taste of what was to come? Roman swallowed heavily and forced his legs to keep moving. 

The front door loomed up in front of him. It looked as normal as the rest of the house but Roman didn’t dare trust it or allow his hopes to get the better of him. All the better because when he finally reached it and tugged on the handle to get out, nothing happened. 

The door was locked.

Of course the door was locked. Roman felt the wild, hysterical giggle build up in him as he tried the handle again and again as if he could somehow force it open. There had been no keys to be seen in his search of the house, no hint of any way to unlock it which meant he was still trapped here. No doubt his captor had the only set of keys, the panic and terror clawing its way up his throat at the realisation that he really was trapped here. There was nobody here to witness his breakdown, nobody he had to be strong in the face of which meant that Roman didn’t have to hold himself back.

Alone, he could let himself feel all the horror and dread his situation inspired in him, the mind shaking fear that make him laugh and scream at the same time, noise slipping out as an unorganised jumble of sound. Legs refused to hold Roman up any longer, the male slowly sliding down the wall, hands clamped over his mouth as though he could somehow stop the noise by sheer force of will. It was impossible to hold back the flood though, to control himself now that the reality of the moment had struck with its full force. He dissolved into tears, curling up into a ball of misery by the front door, his whole body shaking with the energy of his sobs. 

Alone, with nobody to hear him, nobody to help him, Roman gave in fully to his fear. 

--

General Tag List;

@jittery-glittery @applecannibal @cookiethedevil @i-will-physically-fight-you @jemthebookworm @4amanxiety @plaid-purple-patches @wewuzraw

......WHY DID I THINK WINGS WERE A GOOD THING?!?!? SO MUCH WORK Anyways, This ideas been floating in my head for a while. Not sure how it’d work out, but let me have my little bouts of insanity.

“Ha, so now what. Isn’t it your duty to save the helpless, Red?” Mercury taunts, praying she falls for it. His leg crushed, wings always in poor shape. With the room collapsing, he has no way to escape and he’d be damned if he just died quietly. He recalls the early days, with her too wide eyes and ill-placed second guesses, though it also comes to mind what happened in Mistral, her own words declaring her intent to shut him up. It makes him wary, but she is his way out of a no win situation. “What?” She asks, as if offended. He laughs and motions to his leg. “You’re some hero right, well I’m not going to be able to get out of here on my own…’ His throat closes as she stands up straight and stares at him, lips pressed tight. He recalls Emerald’s illusions for Cinder, the weak pitiful, mewling thing, and he can’t help but think it is the furthest thing from the truth right before him. No, now he can see the strong leader, soul forged in fire, adventure, and agony, a woman whose seen too much and would be very willing to leave him here to die like a dog. Chills creep down his spine, because he can tell that mere words like innocent and delusional cannot be used with her anymore. She towers above him a look of pity on her face, before kneeling down and lifting one arm over her head and pulling him up. She doesn’t look back at him, too insignificant to be more then a foot note. “…Even though it is the right thing to do, don’t assume anything… Too many important, precious moments and people drive me forward. No matter how sad they make me feel, they’re a part of me now, and you don’t deserve to be on the same pedestal as them. You aren’t going to haunt my dreams. So get up, we’’re getting out of here, I have other things to do.” She shifted his weight a little, before taking a calming breath. “Don’t hold your breath and don’t bite you tongue.” Staring up at the patch of sky above, she crouched, and kept her hands steady.

Ruby’s Semblance encompassed all she touched. From an absurdly over-designed war scythe to the living muscle that was Nora, so long as she allowed herself to hold on, then it would be possible to carry them both out of the tower. Part of her wanted to leave him, it would not be the first death nor the last. She knew that she had killed others, inadvertently at least. She wasn’t as naive enough to think that the faunus in the tunnels had all survived back at Mountain Glenn. There was blood on her hands of strangers whom she didn't even know the faces of, but she knew his face, his voice, his sarcastic tone. It would linger in the back of her mind, like a buzzing fly; Yes there was always a chance this would backfire, but the risks were outweighed by the peace of mind. With only a second thought, she let her aura pass through and wrap up his cold void. Slowly, Ruby exhaled as she could feel her aura bubble up in her chest, and with a powerful flap of her wings, the world’s colors became dull.

Mercury couldn’t help but marvel as the world seemed to slow and the light fade as she leapt up the tall shaft, petals drifting around them lazily as if escorting her. Up, down, left, right, the direction didn’t matter anymore as she twisted and turned through the debris, sometimes moving so fast the pillars of wood seemed to curl around them instead of the logical other way around. Those small wings twitched and the one on his side pressed him closer as the once distant sky grew closer, and he could feel her aura grow thicker as she pushed her semblance further. The feeling of it dancing on his skin was both surprising and instinctively comforting. He would of honestly assumed it to be either too hot or cold, but it was warm. Like the sun on a perfect spring day, warming him to his core. Stomach turned, he grit his teeth as the sensation of life and comfort continued its embraced, until she broke through and reclaimed the sky, great wings snapping wide and they floated in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced down at where the airship he and the rest of his villainous band had arrived in was, only to find it missing. He shouldn’t of been too surprised, Tyrian would of naturally assumed him dead, dragging a weakly protesting Emerald away. It was more then he could expect; Salem’s will had done a fine job of corroding her will until she had been cowed into following orders when pressured, and Tyrian was a sadistic bastard. His own wings ached to glide on the breeze, but then the warmth shattered, ripped away as she landed. Dropping him, she moved away, placing several steps between him. Her back was turned, wings tucked against her back, and he could feel his rage simmer at her indifference. The scythe unfolded as she found what she was looking for and chopped a thick, sturdy birch branch from a tree. She tossed it at him, his own reflexes kicking in to catch it. “That should be good enough to make a peg leg. Do you carry a knife with you?” She asked, leaning against her weapon as if relaxed, but he could tell by her shoulders she was ready for him to make one wrong move. “Why would I need one of those?” He asked spitefully, though it occurred to him after the words left his mouth that any good survivalist would carry one. She gave him an oddly Schnee like roll of her eyes, huffing in annoyance as she reached under her skirt, the leather sheathe briefly flashing against a pale thigh, before she threw the small pocket knife at him. It was too small to do any noteworthy damage against any aura owner, but it was well cared for and sharp enough for him to hack away at the wood. Occasionally she twitched, lips pressing tight as if smothering a comment or suggestion, but remained quiet, thankfully. Rough substitute hacked out, he gave her a annoyed look, to which she motioned to him to throw the knife back. Once the tiny thing had been exchanged, she lifted her skirt, pulling the leather belt off her leg and pulling the case off its harness before tossing the sturdy leather his way. With a grunt, He tested the stability of the temporary limb. Not the sturdiest thing, but it’d do; A better alternative then hopping through a forest on one foot. Now the problem was the forest and whatever god forsaken creatures dwelled in it. Once they went their separate ways, he could hopefully use his scroll to notify the others of his survival or find a town to hide out in, but what if he was attacked before he…

The floor shook as if to flip him the bird. Ruby jumped as well and launched herself into the tree line, hugging the treetops as she scouted for the source of the noise. When she landed hard next to him, he could tell whatever she had seen was close and well aware of their presence. She said nothing for a moment, hand gripped tight on Crescent Rose, before taking a deep breath and moving forward, placing herself between him and whatever was moving towards them.

“If you are going to run, then do it when I attack. It’ll buy you time.” Her words were uncharacteristically uncaring and every warning bell in his head was screaming that it was a trap. She had no reason to think letting him go would be better then protecting him right? Besides, he wasn’t some helpless sap, he was a trained killer. Granted hobbled, but it wasn’t in him to go down quietly anyways. “Bullshit.” He grunted, leaning against a tree. Again, he was thrown for a loop because this time she turned her head, her expression one of pure dumbfounded confusion. She had clearly expected him to bolt, not stand his ground.

“Can you still fight?” She asked, biting a lip. Mercury could almost see the hamster wheel in her head kick into overdrive as the tree line started to him and the bellowing grunts of a giant Grimm grew closer. “Tch, not on this leg.” He snapped, dread twisting in his guts. Ruby shook her head as the red eyes peered through the trees. “Could you fight if I kept you in the air?” She clarified, taking a step back as the final few trees splintered, the gaping maw of what could only be a mutated turtle crossed with something else opened. The beast lumbered forward, screeching in pain. “What? …Well yeah, but My wings aren’t exactly flight worthy.” “Hrmph, It’s obvious you need to someone to teach you proper wing preening and maintenance, but I think I can handle all the hard work. Just keep gliding and looking pretty and I’ll deal with the hard parts. Just so you know, we’re not aiming to kill it, just outrun it. Unless my friends arrive, we can’t take it down.” There was something in her tone that made him think that she was hiding something else, but now wasn’t the time to question it and focus on not getting eaten, crushed, or any other horrific death, “Awww, someone things I’m Pretty do they?” “… That’s not exactly a compliment for a guy you know….” “Whatever, let’s just get this over with and go back to passive aggressively insulting each other.” “Heh, well then, Mercury, shall we dance?” She gave him a strained smile before shifting her grip on Crescent Rose and held out one hand in invitation.

Obsidian & Angelite Ch. 3

Oya has spend centuries bound to one single plot of land when one day a stranger with a voice of velvet and presence that can only be described as dark and outmost interesting. He comes with an offer she can’t refuse and suddenly her entire world changes, both for better and worse.

But what does Langdon need of her? And how can she use him to get what she want? Maybe they’re bound by something bigger than fate.

Warning: Dark themes, Strong Language, sexual tension

ArchiveLink

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Soil in which the seed grows

A week felt like a long time when restless, waiting to be set free. A week she had spend trying to distract herself from the question of when. In that week the garden had grown with flourish by her hand and a little touch of magic, patience for the seeds to grow all too small to let it grow by nature itself.

When that week were up even the garden couldn’t distract her and she decided that if Langdon didn’t want to answer the question, she’d bother him until he caved. But since Langdon had barely been seen, she drowned her frustration in an old bottle of whiskey.

If he avoided her she’d make so much noise he’d not be able to think, let alone avoid her. At first she randomly hammered the keys of the piano but eventually -or rather quickly she got all too distracted by creating a melody than just creating noise.

With controlled motions her fingers danced over the keys creating a haunting melody. The whiskey started to have an effect, her fingers every once in a while hitting the wrong note.

“Have you played before?” Michael asked walking around the grand piano with his hands folded behind his back in a poised manner. Oya glared at him and continued to play.

“I’m a fast learner,” she said. Michael raised his brow at her, tilting his head curiously. With a sigh she stopped in the middle of performance, leaning back to look up at him. “Do you play?”

“No,” he mused but moved closer until he stood behind her, leaning over to let his fingers continue where she left off. Blond hair tickled against her shoulder sending a trail of goosebumps up her neck. His body heat engulfed with a warm embrace and his scent pulled at her heartstrings in a mesmerized way. “But I’m a fast learner.”

Drinking had been a bad choice.

With her inhibition lowered Michael had a much bigger effect on her. It made it hard to think, hard not wanting his energy to consume her whole, to not imagine what his skin would feel like against hers.

She stood forcing Michael back.

Oya quickly grabbed the bottle of amber liquid and took a swing, swallowing the burning sensation.

Michael chuckled when she glared at him spitefully.

“You’ve kept me here for a week. When are you going to tell me what I need to do to be ‘ready’?” Despite trying to sound angry and brave, her voice wavered under Michaels watchful eyes. Her fingers fiddled over the cool bottle almost nervously.

“Is that why you drink?”

“I drink,” she said with a faltering confidence, leaning against the cold glass of the window, letting it cool her skin. “Because I’m bored and restless.”

Moving like a predator, in a way that was smooth and captivating, eyes burning with a cold blue flame, he stalked towards her. Even the cool of the windows was nothing against the burning he made her body feel. She waved at him, kicking her leg out in front of her in a childish way, shaking her head.

“Don’t come closer,” she protested with a frown. Michael stopped short just outside of kicking range. Looking down at her feet there was a moment she mused over the dirtiness of them and how it stood a complete contrast to everything else in the house. One of the best feelings in the world was burying your bare feet in the soil where life springs from and because of that and the lack of need to dress up she was usually found with bare feet.

The only pair of shoes in Langdons vast sortiment for her that she might wear was the loafers with golden bees embroidered onto them. The rest were heels and though they looked fine on her, she prefered bare feet.

“Why?” Langdon questioned with that velvety voice of his, rich and humming. “Do I affect you that much?”

“Yes,” she breathed honestly. Why bother to lie when he had already told her he’d see right through them. Instead the truth might serve as a shield, if used correctly. This shield, however, were much too little to hide behind. “Why do you keep asking when you already know the answers?”

“Because it’s much more entertaining to get people to admit things than to just presume them.”

“Just tell me, Michael,” she faltered with a sigh, looking up at him with big black eyes. It was the first time, she realised, that she had used his first name without his last name, without contempt or annoyance but rather a softness.

This made him take a step forward, his power moving along the skin of her bare legs, rising up in a way that made her inside flutter.

Stubbornness took over her features, eyes glaring but wavering.

“For me to be able to,” he almost tasted the the word, savoring it, while looking directly at her. “Release you from the spell you need to trust me, fully.”

Oya held her breath as he came closer, his breath warm on her face. Light as a feather, his finger ghosted up her throat sending a fire curling through her body. He made her look at him, directly and without a way to hide.

“You have to trust me and give yourself up to me,” he finished.

The alcohol might cloud her mind but Michael drove her closer to the line she had drawn. She felt herself wanting him, felt the way her body reacted to him being this close and how his power lured her in.

With all the resilience she could muster up Oya broke away from Langdon and his siren song, stumbling further away. With the distance she could breathe easy, think.

Langdon in all his might leaned against the glass in a easy stance, playfulness radiating from him. His golden hair nibbled at his shoulders, still perfect as ever and she wasn't sure why she fixated on that when his lips smirked so mischievously at her. And that’s when a surge of her own mischievousness formed.

“I’m not the only one affected, am I?”

“No,” he admitted with a hum without blinking an eye. “Your face is turning red.”

Oya felt her cheeks, trying to cool them with her hands but finding the heat unrelenting. With a frown she glared at him, something that had become all too common. “It’s warm in here and you’re deflecting.”

“I am attracted to you. There’s this pull towards you and it’s enticing, more so because you try and deny yourself of it.”

“Yea, I feel it. I feel it under my skin, tugging at me, whispering to me but you know what?” She said, putting down the almost empty bottle with a sigh. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Is that so?”

“Trust, Mr. Langdon, goes both ways. When you give me something to trust I might reconsider.” It was her turn to walk closer to him, to let her feet silently walk over the concrete with her back straightened, mirroring his mischief with her own. This dance to each others siren song was a battle. One moves and the other does too, much like before. But these moves were of need and want.

“Something tells me, Mr. Langdon, that you’re a virgin,” the thought left her mind and formed on her tongue, sweet as nectar but ready to poison if needed. Michaels smirk grew, eyes darkening as he tried to read her.

“And would that bother you?” Everything was a game, he moved a piece and she did the same. He had a strange way to draw out one's thoughts, ones needs and wants, a way to reveal his opponent and even further a way see exactly what pieces needed to be moved and where.

“No,” she matched his musing, the one that drawed out the word and made it velvety, filled with a soft sensuality.

“Did you get your needs filled being trapped in that place?”

“Would that bother you?” She copied.

He tried to hold back the chuckle but it vibrated through him with a wide smile on his lips, delighted that she’d bite back. “No.”

Under her skin the need to rise up on her toes and press her lips to his, those that sinfully smirked at her, those that withheld the silver tongue and ways to manipulate. The need tickled under her skin, made her breath hitch in her throat and pulse rise. Need was such a dangerous thing and Michael Langdon even more so. He commanded it, sharpened it, spoke silverd words of it and used it to his advantage. He wanted her to give in and for that she spitefully turned, walking away with inflated confidence in and the unspeakable ache pulsing between her legs begging her to turn around and let him ease it for her.

But there was this thing she needed, this little thing he hadn’t given her and that was the only thing to keep her back. And by the gods it was tethered in a thin string.

“This game is fun but it can only go on for so long,” Oya said over her shoulder, her her tickling down her back in wild locks of ebony silk.

“Indeed.”

“Goodnight Mr. Langdon.” She left up the stairs in a calm pace, walking with the inflated confidence until her door closed behind her and she let out a shakey groan. Throwing herself at her bed, she buried her head in the pillows, trying without luck to rid herself of the ache between her legs and the one that pulled at her heart.

It felt as if strings were wrapped around it and Langdon was the one holding their ends. Or just maybe he had strings around his heart too and she was the one pulling his. There were no doubt anymore of what he wanted and certainly no doubt about the attraction that affected the both of them.

With honesty she came to the conclusion that the only thing that stood in the way was her stubbornness and the need to know one simple truth, what was he?

“I hope to whatever god you believe in you feel just as frustrated as me,” Oya uttered her voice somewhere between a whine and a curse. Irritably she threw a pillow through the room, listening to it softly hit the wall with a pat and fall to the floor.

Pushing the soil over the seed Oya wiped at her brow with dirty hands before letting them hover over the small hill of it. Closing her eyes and whispering a few words, her tongue curling them into reality, letting the energy she had access to flow through her and down into her palm, letting tendrils fall from there and into the soil.

Slowly the seed began to grow, spurting up into the light with a green finger, growing and feeding on the energy. She let it grow until the plant reached a few centimeters and then she cut the line between it and her.

Satisfied with the result she gave it water, caring for it and nurturing it so that it’d grow faster.

On her knees, she moved to the one beside the new addition, fingers going over the leafs looking for flaws to pick at. Her hands and legs were dirty, soil underneath her nails and sticking on her skin. The expensive cream dress Michael had provided all but ruined.

“Have you ever made something grow, Mr. Langdon?” Oya asked when she felt his presence behind her. It was the first time he had visited the greenhouse and she could feel this eyes look through the various herbs she had planted, she had made grow with the little magic she had.

“No,” he admitted. She rose to her feet and walked to the table scattered with seeds and potted plants, finding a rose seed.

“Your power seems more malevolent, like mine,” she said and walked to an empty lot, toes digging into the ground. Michael followed her with childish curiosity. “But you can use it for much more if you want to.” Pushing the soil away until a perfect hole was created she let the seed drop into it and pushed the soil back over before looking up at Michael.

“Would you like to try?” It was funny to see him look almost uncomfortable by the thought. He had used his power to wither and kill, darkness evident and clinging onto his power, much like her own. She recognized it and if he were like her, he also had droplets of light, often hidden by a layer of laced darkness.

If goddess of the underworld could make things grow, he could too.

Almost reluctant he crouched down, letting her take his hands in hers, leading them over the buried seed. He looked at her, face in a mask she couldn’t decipher, waiting for her to tell him what to do.

“Reach out, let your powers flow to your palms and form strings into the soil,” she softly murmured. “Then you tug at those strings and send energy through them, letting the seed grow root and let the sprout seek light.”

Without breaking eye contact she felt his power reach out, a tendril softly caress her cheek unconsciously. His energy grew, his hands beginning to burn against hers. Even Though they were inside a wind gushed through the greenhouse, rustling the plants with a singing whish. Time speed up, the plant sprouting through the ground and into the light pushed by his magic until the first flower, red as blood, bloomed. It grew and grew, more flowers blooming until they withered.

For a moment every plant grew in the greenhouse, blooming and withering until they were all withered and orange, dying or dead.

And their eyes hadn’t broken contact.

“You’re reaching too far,” she said, retracting her hands from his. In a blink of an eye, he pulled his to him, an expression on his face that were unplaceable. With a clenched jaw he rose, hands in balls at his sides and knuckles white. Puzzled she looked at him, disregarding that he had killed her entire garden in the matter of moments.

“I fear I don’t have the talent for creating life,” he said with a strain in his voice, almost angry.

“You’ve have brought someone back from the dead, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but that was… different,” Michael voiced with a strange pondering. “Creating life from nothing and breathing life into someone is vastly different.”

Oya grazed the withered rose bush and watched as the prickly brown leaf broke off from the stem and fell down to the other leaves. Intently she looked at it, picking the withered parts away to reveal one single green stem that ended in a red rose. “Nature is resilient, Mr. Langdon. You may chop it down, you may burn or drown it, but nature will always find a way. There’s a balance to everything.” The thorn pricked her finger when she inspected it and she stood, looking at her middle finger and how a single drop of blood formed at the puncture.

Michael took her hand looking at the blood with fascination. Even goddesses bleed, anything that bleeds can die, but by the powers that be, she’d only return to her turf, at least that’s what she guessed.

“Balance,” Michael drawled and looked through his eyelashes at her. “Is so boring, isn't it? Chaos is much more amusing.”

She nodded agreeingly. “Besides, it took me 6 years to not kill every plant I guided along with magic.”

Michael raised her hand until her finger were inches from his mouth, still looking at her with a darkened and sultry gaze that invoked a burning between her legs. He brought them to his lips and then into his mouth, a hot tongue lapping up the blood in a hungry way.

Her breath hitched and jaw clenched.

As fast as it happened as fast it was over, this time he left her with a smirk on his lips, hands folded behind his back while he walked out, leaving her in ruins among her withered plants.

When he was gone she released her breath and fell to her knees, entirely puzzled. It felt like a dream, or a nightmare depending on how she needed to look at it. Maybe it was just that, a dream.

God she hoped it was a dream.

When You Didn’t Say ‘Yes’

Who: John Seed/Deputy/Joseph Seed Concept: John Seed baptizes you in hopes you will just say yes, but he is interrupted by Joseph Seed. Warnings: Strong language Notes: The Deputy has no gender attached. There’s not really any romance in this, but I enjoyed making it anyway. This is the first fanfiction I’ve done for Far Cry 5, so I hope they’re in character! Enjoy. (I am also taking requests, and I have more stories I’m writing now!)

          “You believe you’re on the righteous path, you believe you’re 

                                     a force for good, but you’re not.”

“I will tear your sins from your heart and soul; I will make you confess. No matter how small, how petty—I will make you atone,” his low, almost growling voice spun circles around and through your head, successfully corrupting any thoughts and plans of resistance.

You want to fight, you want to resist, but your eyes can’t focus on his face, the Bliss making you see double—no, triple. If you can’t even control your eyes, how are you going to successfully do anything else?

‘God damn Bliss.’

Bliss is something short of magic; it’s a drug produced from a plant and abused by man, but its effects are extraordinary, almost magical—almost.

Bliss makes people different; it makes them perceive and live differently, and the couple times you were subjected to Bliss was enough to almost convert you completely.

Victims of The Bliss will perceive a place of eternal happiness—whatever that happiness may be—and freedom where everything is littered with rose petals and drenched with sunshine. What they don’t know, and what they will never know (unless miraculously saved by some legitimate force of good), is that they are living a lie, forever mesmerized by addictive hallucinations—manipulated to get them to follow, “convert,” and obey.

Hell, half of them are so far gone that they’re considered ‘angels,’ unaware they are given that title because they’re stuck so far up Faith’s ass—

“Wait. This one’s not clean yet… I’ll handle them.”

Your buzzing thoughts are interrupted when an affirmative grunt came from one of the Peggies as they went off to shore, praising the cleansing and singing:

“Now that this whole world is ending,

A new world begins.

Let the water wash away your sins.”

You involuntarily mumble along, earning an excited glance from your captor while you become annoyed at how easily the music taints your ears, hauntingly sweet, like honey oozing through a burning nest.

The rising of your chest quickens as he flashes a menacing smile—a smile that screams for you to fuck all and attempt anything to escape—but the glint in his wild blue orbs told you to stay as still as possible.

Either way, you know this won’t end well because John always has a way of making every outcome unbearable, and you recognized that pattern three captures ago.

‘John fucking Seed… bastard.’

You two always found your way back to each other, and that would be quite romantic if he wasn’t him and you weren’t you.

John Seed is the youngest of the Seed family, and he’s the one who captures citizens to convert them through beatings, torture, and baptisms in lakes of Bliss—all of which you’ve gone through, and, honestly, you tend to think you only survive because the eldest of the family, Joseph Seed, tells him to leave you alive.

‘She is special. You have to love them, John.’

Joseph’s words ring through your head just as clearly as when you first heard them. Only this time, you feel longing—longing for him to be here, to come save you, to comfort you…

Only because John is so much worse than Joseph’s incessant bible talk.

When you finally decide it’s now or never and take a step forward, you suddenly feel as if you are floating with nothing to tie you to the earth, and, as you blink, seemingly in slow motion, the followers on the land pour more Bliss into the lake.

‘Fuck.’

Your body feels lighter than air, and your mind is clearer than it’s been since you came to Hope County. Every cell that created you now whispers for you to breathe. Relax. Accept.

“You are safe,” John steps closer to you, friendlier, livelier, and his outstretched hands seem to glow with light, promising of a better future.

‘It’s a lie,’ you try to remind yourself, ‘he is a monster.’

‘John Seed is the Devil.’

You attempt to speak and reject him, but a weak whimper is the only sound you can muster, the Bliss making it beyond difficult to produce anything else.

“You are so stubborn,” John’s rough hands grip your shoulders, and he clicks his tongue as he holds you away from him, “Let the water wash away your sins.”

Then, you are underwater, barely any force needed to keep you there as the lake invaded your lungs, replacing any oxygen left.

Maybe you’ll die this time.

‘No, you are being saved.’

That’s what The Bliss is telling you, or more accurately, Faith, the “sister” in charge of The Bliss.

She is reassuring you, whispering that you aren’t going to die, even though your body suffocates with every passing second. She whispers ideas of redemption, saving, atonement, forgiveness—ideas of a new you. Her voice comes from all around you, filling your body with something—a feeling that can only be described as a deadly peace, one that you knew you’d never come out of if you accepted it because it was a fucking lie.

‘I have to fight this.’

Your arms barely began to move when your ears registered singing, distracting you again.

“In holy water, there can be no tears…” John’s faint, distorted voice ripples through the water as he lightly sings his song—it was sure like him to allow himself to be the last thing you ever listen to.

Then, his face clouds your mind, and you begin to find it fitting that he was deemed the Baptist; those deep blue eyes that just so happen to match the darkness of the lake, and that intense, yet fragile, temper that mirrored the way the lake overrides all your senses when you’re down under—the way the lake’s coldness screamed John’s name, filling every hole with pieces of his dialogue, telling you to “say ‘yes’” before it was too late to be forgiven, and his sadistic nature that seemed to mimic the lake’s movement when a body was thrown in…

No wonder he’s the Baptist.

John’s grip on you becomes unbearably tight, and it dawns on you that you have been thrashing for a while now, but you still aren’t scared. Maybe it’s because of the Bliss, or maybe it’s because you’re just so tired, and, as your body fought for survival, your mind admitted its defeat.

‘It’s just any moment before it’s all over.’

Until you are lifted out of the water… again.

Your body aches as you hack up warm water, your lungs struggling to hack and breathe at the same time.

This is not what you asked for.

‘God damn it! Just turn it all off,’ your thoughts plead, ‘I want this to be over, John. Quit playing around.’

“Oh, I’m not playing around, Deputy,” John’s face is only inches away from yours, his breath tickling your ear as he purs, “It can be over. Just say ‘yes,’ and the door to forgiveness will be opened for you. You won’t regret it.” John flashes a small smile, both of his hands holding the sides of your head.

Spitefully, you cough water in his face and flash a weak smile, frustrated you can’t even control what comes out of your mouth and what stays in your head.

You grip his forearms, ready to slip back under, as his facial expression goes from a content smile to a sadistic, angry smirk, “Excuse me?”

“I say ‘no’,” your words seethe with venom as you dig your nails into him, “John fucking Seed.”

He scoffs, bringing one hand behind your head, and yanks your hair so hard you’d bet your scalp was bleeding. Then, his forehead harshly met yours, making your vision dim, before he began speaking,

“You are so,” he pauses, releasing a shaky breath, “so sinful.” John’s forehead pulses against yours and his eyes scan yours, possibly searching for any other weakness, “for fuck’s sake, how many lessons have I tried to teach you, hm?” John’s eyes close for a brief moment as he whispers, “Wrath, Pride… oh, Sweetheart, I’ll have fun etching each and every letter into you.”

He proceeds to shove you in the water to possibly—most likely—end your life, but he stops when he hears his name in a familiar and disappointed tone.

“John,” a calm, easily recognizable voice surfaces, music to your ears, “do not let your sin overcome you—do not let your sin mock the cleansing, John.”

You both turn to face the voice, your eyes lighting up while John’s grip on you releases, allowing you to stand, using John’s shoulder to balance.

“Father Joseph,” you, almost too excitedly, exclaim, before mentally chastising yourself, ‘Father? That damn Bliss!’

John’s hand swiftly moves to your shoulder, and his nails press into your fragile and soaked skin, “I’m sorry, brother.” His eyes glance between you and Joseph before focusing on the water, “I was careless.”

“Bring her to me.”

You couldn’t help but smile as John’s hand rests on the middle of your back, shoving you towards Joseph’s open arms.

‘That’s right, I escaped again, asshole.’

“You,” Joseph rest his hands on your neck, gently moving your head to look at him, “have a gift. I hope you will recognize this,” his wide eyes stare into yours as one of his soft hands trail to your cheek, “and when you do, come back to us, for we pass no judgment here, and I will forgive.”

You lean into his touch; Joseph is so welcoming, and, as bad as it is, you like to be touched by him, especially after being handled by John. Joseph’s heart seems so pure, yet here he is, persuading you to join this godforsaken cult.

“Joseph, I—“

He shushes you before welcoming John to stand beside you, “John, I want you to take care of this one. They’re special. They will have a chance at forgiveness.” Joseph’s tone was stern, yet compassionate, earning a nod from John.

You suddenly wince, the Bliss beginning to wear off and your senses heightening, the cold air like stabs to your chest, and the water cold as ice. You become aware of all the sound around you, ranging from gunshots to cougars to singing, and you know you have to escape before they drug you again.

You grasp Joseph’s arm and fall into him, forcing tears to leave your eyes, “I believe you, I believe you… Please, Father, take me- take me to the church.”

His hand brushes the back of your head, wet hair trapping it like vines before he brings you to his chest, “my child,” Joseph’s breathing remains unchanged, “I will leave you with my brother; John will take good care of you. Once you confess and your atonement begins, I will bring you to my church,” Joseph’s chin rests on your head for a couple minutes until a deep, gruff voice mentions that a van arrived.

“Take this one to John’s bunker. There seems to have been progress,” Joseph nods towards John, who shoots a glare at you before ordering a Peggie to toss you in the van.

You feel like you’re losing your mind as tears pour down your face, sadness and anger mixing to boil your blood, and frustration controlling your muscles as you throw one last punch at a Peggie, the crack of his jaw and exclamation of pain fueling your—

“Wrath! See? There’s been no improvement,” John smirks and commands Peggies to restrain you.

Before you are able to grab a gun, a syringe finds your neck, pumping you full of bliss, almost immediately causing you to collapse.

‘No, no, no, no!’

You desperately begin to crawl as a last attempt until John steps on your hand, crouching before you, a wild smirk on his clean face, “Oh, I’m going to have fun with you, Deputy, and it won’t be over until I have every last inch of you saying ‘yes’ for me.”

You mumble, trying to scream, cuss, cry—anything—but there’s nothing, and you are thrown into the van again, traveling back to John’s bunker, trying to muster up a plan or a fight…

Or maybe you will just say yes.

dad!Namjoon - expecting parents AU - fluff sooooooo much fluff

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: i got drunk and got too soft over Joon and wrote this 

"I hope she has your dimples," you say quietly, absently running your hand through Namjoon's hair, silently reminding yourself to deep condition his hair when you had the chance.

"I hope she has your height. She'll be short and cute just like you!" Namjoon giggles, making you smile.

The two of you were laying together in bed. You had finally found that comfortable position to lay on your side where the baby growing inside of you did not suffocate any of your organs, and there was minimal discomfort to your back. Namjoon lay next to you, with his head pressed close against your engorged breasts, gently pressing his cheek against them as he ran his hand over your protruding stomach.

These were the soft moments you lived for. When the group had been given a break from their constant work - which were more frequent the closer you were to giving birth. Namjoon would just stay home and spend time with you, setting up a make-shift studio in the nursery next to the crib because he had told you that he planned to work exclusively from home after the baby was born, so why not set up in the same space his child would be occupying. You couldn't complain, after all his things were in there before the baby's things. You thought it was going to be endearing, as you imagined him sitting at his computer composing tracks for their new album with one hand, while the other cradled your baby against his chest.

"We should really figure out what we're gonna name this kid. Are we going to have a korean or english name?" You ask, feeling the slightest bit frustrated over it. You were almost ready to pop and the two of you hadn’t decided on a name yet.

"We can have both, and she can choose which one she likes better when she gets old enough," Namjoon suggests, peering up at you.

The baby shifts inside of you, nudging a rib causing you to wince in pain. The father of your child notices the cringe on you face, and comfortingly strokes the area where your ribcage would be, as it had gotten lost under fat and a baby.

"I can't wait till this is over," you grumbled, taking a breath to ease the pain.

"I thought you didn't mind being pregnant?"

"That was two months ago, before she decided to take up too much room in my body, and destroy my libido."

Namjoon chuckled. "Tell me about it, good thing you're very easy to get off to pregnant. You've never been sexier."

"Not even that time I didn't wear any underwear to your album release party, and masturbated in front of you to your mixtape back at the hotel?"

"Not even then," Joon confirmed, flashing his dimples as he smiled "I don't know what it is about you that makes you incredibly sexy while you're pregnant, but I can't get enough."

"Thank you for finding my swollen ankles and non-existent bladder sexy." You couldn't see his face since his eyes were trained on your stomach, but you knew he was rolling his eyes at you.

"You know what I mean. Knowing that's my child growing inside you makes me feel things I've never thought of before."

"Well at least one of us is enjoyment pregnancy, because I'm not having the best time."

"Sorry," Namjoon murmured, pressing a kiss to the skin of your chest that he could reach.

"Not your fault. It was a team effort, and I forgot to take the pill."

Namjoon fell silent as he ran his hand over your bare, very pregnant stomach. You had given up on a shirt, since it was too damn hot for you to be wearing one. You'd sweat through it in an hour. You were only wearing a bra, and that was because your breasts were way too tender to let them hang out on their own. Predictably, Namjoon was always delighted whenever you weren't wearing clothes, as he ran his hands over you, taking care to feel all the ridges of your fresh, angry looking stretchmarks. You had matching ones on your boobs too, as you had never been well endowed in that area. But pregnancy had filled you out like nothing else, so you got to experience for the first time in your life what it was like having big tits.

You weren't exactly happy at the new development of stretchmarks that grew over your skin, but you were an avid feminist who thought all women were beautiful no matter what, so you tried to take it in stride. They weren't even your first set of stretchmarks, as you had your fair share of stretchmarks from growing up littered around the soft flesh of your thighs, and on your hips, and fanning over the inside of your arm up next to your armpit, it's just that the ones from pregnancy had appeared so quickly, and were so deep and bright compared to your other ones that sometimes it was difficult to deal with.

There were a few nights when Joon had caught you scrutinising your body because of what having a baby had done to it. Those nights he like to strip your clothes and lay you down, touching and kissing all the parts of you that you weren't entirely comfortable with anymore. He would strip you of your clothes, tearing down your mental defences until you were a silent, sobbing mess as he brought you to a tearful orgasm. One that made you feel uncomfortably vulnerable, and incredibly loved. Those were not the most earth-shattering orgasms, but they had given you what you needed emotionally. It was something you would be grateful for, being with Namjoon, he always seemed to know exactly what to do to make you feel better. He knew how your mind worked, almost like he lived in there with you.

"I'm proud of you," he spoke quietly, looking up at you, his pupils blown wide; not from lust but from sheer admiration and adoration. "You have the ability to create life, and you did it. You are growing an entire human being inside of you, suffering to bring another person into this world. Someone who will have their own experiences and opinions, who might not always appreciate what you've gone through, but will always love you. This tiny baby growing inside is a whole new person. She might change the world, or she might just exist peacefully. She might even turn into a he if it suited her. She’ll have her own understanding of the world, and her own thoughts. We made an entire person, can you believe it?"

You were crying by the time he finished speaking. "Considering she likes to kick me in the ribs," you sniffled, wiping away the tears. "I can believe it."

Namjoon looked up at you, startled by the sniffling noises you were making. You looked down at him with his head snuggled against your chest, and his hands searching for the limbs of your baby that sometimes liked to stick out, and you couldn't help but start bawling your eyes out. You didn't even understand exactly why you were crying, just that seeing Namjoon all soft was pulling at your heartstrings which had a direct line to your tear ducts.

"Baby," Namjoon cooed, shifting upwards so that he could curl himself around you, careful to not nudge you out of your comfortable position.

"I can't stop," you sobbed loudly. "And I need to pee again, but I don't wanna move."

He knew he shouldn't laugh, but he couldn't help it. Pregnancy had made you ridiculous, you could hardly control your emotions anymore because your hormones had been out of whack since the beginning, and as much as you hated it, Namjoon couldn't help his amusement. He will never forget the time you had started crying as you forced him to eat sushi for you, frustrated because you couldn't eat it yourself. It had happened last week.

"How about you go to the bathroom, and we'll sleep on the couch tonight. I'll set up all the blankets and cushions so you can sleep sitting up comfortably," he compromised, wiping your tears away for you.

You nodded, pouting. "Can we watch Gilmore Girls and eat ketchup on oreos?"

"Whatever you want," he told you, stroking you face.

He had gotten used to your weird pregnancy cravings, especially after that one week where you seemed to eat nothing but taco shells. Not a whole taco, just the shells. Not tortilla chips either, and they had to be a specific brand of taco shells. He knows because you threw a fit when he once brought home to wrong brand because they didn't have the ones you usually eat at the supermarket. So, at one in the morning, he had to go to three different supermarkets, before finding them at a convenience store and spending almost double the amount than at the supermarket. That was almost two months ago. But you were the one putting your body through hell to have his baby, so he wasn't about to complain.

You struggled to sit up, flailing one of your arms as the other shook under the weight of the human living inside of you. Namjoon slipped an arm around you, helping you sit upright as you let out a breath at the physical exertion of sitting up.

"Do you need help getting to the bathroom?" Namjoon asked helpfully, watching you take deep breaths to calm yourself down.

"No, I'll be fine," you pouted, unhappy that you could barely sit up on your own.

"Not much longer to go, then you'll be free," he attempted to comfort, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

You snorted spitefully. "Not much longer before labour pains and contractions, and hopefully not having my vagina ripped open to my asshole, and bleeding enough to make up for all the periods I missed being pregnant in like three days, and then having my nipples bitten off from breastfeeding. Don’t forget about the post-birth cramps while my uterus goes back to normal."

"At least you'll be able to lie down comfortably?" Namjoon suggested, rubbing that one part of you back that seemed to constantly ache these days.

You sighed irritably. "Next time we're adopting."

"Anything you want, baby."

"I'm being serious," you called as you waddled to the bathroom.

Namjoon watched you go with a smile on his face, his chest bursting with happiness and contentment. He knew you were suffering, and hurt to see you in so much pain so he tried his best to always be supportive even when he couldn't keep up with your swings, but it made him so damn happy that the two of you were starting a family together. He'd do whatever you wanted him to do for the rest of your lives together for gifting him with a child. Namjoon honestly didn't think it was possible to love someone as much as he loved you and your unborn child, and sometimes the intensity of his feelings scared him but he never backed away from them, choosing to embrace whatever you made him feel.

His heart was so full of love for the both of you. He never wanted this feeling to end.

The sound of toilet flushing snapped him out of his thoughts, as he scrambled to collect all the blankets and pillows on the bed to carry them out to the living room. He wasn't going to have the best sleep out on the couch with you, but if you couldn't comfortably sleep anymore, the least he could do was share your pain.

"Oh, I want peanut butter too! The crunchy kind!" you called from the bathroom.

Making a list in his head of all the food you liked, he arranged the pillows on the couch the way you liked them as you came waddling into the living room, tugging one of his old shirts over your head. Namjoon’s heart clenched at seeing your stomach poke out of the shirt that was baggy even on him. You had gotten so round, he observed. His baby was probably so big inside of you now.

"And sprite," you added.

"Yup," he acknowledged, making his way over to the kitchen to pull out everything you wanted.

Settling on the couch, you craned your head to watch him load his arms with all the food you requested. "You're honestly the best person in the world for putting up with me like this, did you know that?"

"It's the least I can do, you're the one who has to give birth," he reminded you as he dumped all the food onto the glass coffee table, pushing it up against the couch so that you wouldn't have to reach too far for your snacks.

"I love you," you said softly, tears brimming in your eyes again.

Namjoon settled on the couch next to you, staring at you again, his gaze so deep you swore that he was peering into your soul. "I love you too, baby," he pressed a soft kiss to your lips, gently wiping away the stray tear that fell. "Do you remember what episode we were on? I fell asleep last time."

Sniffling again, you blinked away the rest of the tears that threatened to fall, you reached forward to grab the ketchup bottle and one of the boxes of oreos from the coffee table. "We just finished season two."

With a noise of understanding, the two of you settled in domestic bliss.

CHAPTER 11: YODA TRIES --- The Dark Side of Obi-Wan Kenobi - Part 1

Summary: Yoda tries to have a conversation with Obi-Wan. Kenobi is not so friendly as he used to be. One might even call him cranky... Can you blame him? The exchange is not going well when things suddenly take an even more unexpected turn.

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CHAPTER 11: Yoda Tries

Coruscant – Jedi Temple

Obi-Wan was having a nightmare. Yoda sat by his side, watching as the young man hyperventilated and clutched the blankets so hard his knuckles turned white. As Kenobi twitched in the throes of his torment, the old Master could see the boy he had once known; Obi-Wan’s fiery hair was soft and feathery, sticking out at undignified angles except where plastered to his temple from sweat; his face was open and unguarded, showing all his anxiety – very unlike his usual, carefully crafted reserve. Obi-Wan seemed vulnerable, rather raw and exposed, and Yoda thought it gave him a youthful appearance despite the bruises and burns. It reminded the Grand Master of a sixteen year old Obi-Wan, still just a Padawan, desperately ill after contracting Dantari flu. The tenacious boy had refused to tell his Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, that he was unwell, and it was three days before Obi-Wan collapsed in the middle of an assignment. Qui-Gon had been beside himself with worry, haunting the temple corridors, hounding the medical droids, orbiting Obi-Wan’s bedside, until Yoda had finally required him to meditate with the Council in an attempt to quell his anxiety. It was easy to be fond of Obi-Wan, even at an early age; his smile was disarming, his manors well tailored, and his conversation effortless. Yoda understood Qui-Gon’s distraction.

However, in addition to Kenobi’s current vulnerability, Yoda could sense something even more concerning in the young man’s aura. He could tell that Obi-Wan’s thoughts were very dark. Kenobi had never exuded hopelessness or devastation until now; it radiated off him in waves. Yoda knew that in the past when the young man had been wounded or in difficult situations his devotion to the Jedi Code always helped him rationalize the regret and impossible guilt that he sometimes felt. But now Yoda could tell Obi-Wan was truly miserable, that the Code brought him no comfort, and that Kenobi was not even trying to find a way through his chaos. For the first time in his life, it seemed that Obi-Wan Kenobi had given up. Yoda knew something ruinous must have happened to the young man; he sensed that imprisonment and torture were not the only things on the Jedi Master’s mind.

Obi-Wan began to mutter incoherently. Yoda held his breath, silently trying to decipher the young man’s ramblings. Kenobi’s brow was beaded in sweat and he clenched his teeth together so tightly they squeaked. His head rolled to the side. “Satine…” The word came out breathless and desperate, almost a plea for mercy, almost a confession. Yoda’s eyes became wide and his ears perked into angled points – of course, the Duchess of Mandalore. What had become of Satine Kryze?

Obi-Wan’s eyes suddenly sprang open, burning with fear and wild with rage. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision; it took him a moment to recognize his surroundings. He swallowed thickly and lay back against his pillow, steadying his breathing.

What had he been dreaming? Someone had been screaming… he had been screaming. Four bounty hunters hovered over him; they held him on the ground while they drove a grisly Force suppressor into his forearm, twisting it through his flesh and breaking his bone. Qui-Gon ran toward him, Satine close behind, but he knew they would not get to him in time…

Obi-Wan wiped the sweat from his brow then covered his face with his hands. These visions and nightmares would drive him mad. He had to find a way to make them stop – Jedi were not supposed to have nightmares.

Yoda watched silently, unsure how to make Obi-Wan aware of his presence. He need not have worried; the younger master suddenly became still and he turned his brilliant blue eyes on the old green Jedi. Yoda smiled gently and stood up on his chair, moving closer to Kenobi.

“Master?” Obi-Wan’s voice was weak and dry. It was the first time he had spoken in days.

“What were you dreaming, Obi-Wan?” Yoda leaned forward on his gimer stick. He watched Kenobi suddenly wince and stiffen; the young man was clearly in pain, his entire body drawn with tension.

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said.

Yoda was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled before saying, “It is unlike you to lie, my young friend.”

Kenobi felt a guilty pang in his heart, quickly followed by uncharitable resentment; he tried to ignore his irascible inclinations and self-sympathy (not to mention his wounds’ searing pain) and forced himself to obey. “I was dreaming of Qui-Gon, of our mission on Mandalore.”

“A nightmare it was, or a memory?” Yoda asked, gently trying to encourage Kenobi to elaborate.

“Both.” Obi-Wan had been captured by four bounty hunters while protecting Satine. They had tortured the young Padawan until Qui-Gon came to his rescue. He and his Master had decided to leave the event out of their final debriefings; Qui-Gon did not want Obi-Wan to relive the ordeal, forced to describe it before the entire Council. Now, after all these years, Obi-Wan was not sure he should confess everything to Yoda.

The Grand Master waited patiently but Kenobi did not speak again. “On this mission you first met the Duchess of Mandalore?”

Obi-Wan stared up at the ceiling, his eyes dark and brooding. “Yes.”

The ancient green Jedi could feel the young man’s overwhelming grief. Yoda had always considered the Jedi Code and Obi-Wan Kenobi to be synonymous, but now he began to wonder if perhaps the pain he was sensing was rooted deeper in Obi-Wan’s past, a pain that was currently causing doubt and fear to separate the young man from his beliefs.

Yoda reached out and placed a hand on Kenobi’s wrist. He was shocked when the young Jedi flinched and pulled his hand away. Yoda proceeded cautiously, trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring. “Obi-Wan, never have you come to me for help. Always do you keep your internal conflicts to yourself. Blind to your turmoil the Council has been.”

“You’re not blind. You simply see what I am willing to share.”

Yoda was surprised by the sharpness in Kenobi’s voice. He tried again, tentatively placing a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He saw the young man’s eye twitch but this time he did not pull away. Yoda could tell Kenobi was mastering his emotions; even in this moment of physical pain and emotional turmoil Obi-Wan was mindful of his own thoughts and reactions. It impressed the Grand Master. “Why did you disobey our orders? Why go to the Duchess of Mandalore when forbidden it was?”

Obi-Wan still stared at the ceiling, unable to look Yoda in the eyes. “Because I couldn’t just stand by and let her…die…” As the words came out of his mouth he realized that was exactly what he had done. His actions had made no difference at all.

Tears filled Kenobi’s eyes but he angrily blinked them away. Yoda could feel the young man’s pain and then a sudden surge of hatred. The Grand Master was startled by the realization that Kenobi was consumed with self-loathing, that he blamed himself for something terrible that had happened to the Duchess. Yoda wished to help ease his suffering but the young Jedi was well practiced and quickly blocked the older master from his thoughts.

“Obi-Wan,” Yoda said soothingly, “release your emotions into the Force. Heal you it can. Clinging to anger will only prolong your suffering.”

Kenobi knew Yoda was theoretically right but Obi-Wan was not ready to let go of the storm that surged inside his heart. Satine had been murdered because of him. As she lay dying he had not been able to squeeze out a single kind word to comfort her. He hated himself for his disastrous failures and he hated Maul for using Satine as a pawn. Kenobi squirmed when he remembered what he had said to the Sith. It takes strength to resist the Dark Side. Obi-Wan was tired of being strong. He rather wished he would simply die, but the medical droids would not allow it; instead he decided to stubbornly cling to the feelings that felt most sincere, most genuine, and that certainly was not compassion or charity.

Yoda could see his words were having little impact. He sighed heavily and sat back. “Unburden yourself; confide in your friends you must.”

“Jedi are not supposed to have friends,” Kenobi said spitefully. “Attachment is forbidden.” His voice was still coarse and strained. He wanted Yoda to leave. He was not in the mood for a lecture and he was exhausted from having to keep his consciousness shielded. The aching in his body was growing more intense, like hot blades pushing up through his flesh.

He suddenly could not focus on anything else. Pain began to build, rising exponentially to a critical level where self-control was impossible.

The Grand Master slowly moved back as Obi-Wan’s body seized in agony. The young man began to gasp and clutch at his chest, his eyes rolling back in his head. He cried out in pain, his head straining to the side, and then Yoda saw blood soaking through the white sheet that was pulled across Obi-Wan’s abdomen. The older Jedi was speechless, unable to call for help, frozen in place. Kenobi convulsed again, frantically clutching at his neck as the healing dagger wound suddenly split open, spilling blood across his throat.

Three droids and Doctor Neema appeared and hurried to Obi-Wan’s side, alerted via an alarm triggered by his spiking vital signs. The doctor leaned over the Jedi, taking him by the jaw and turning his head. She inspected the wound while muttering to herself. “Not again. In all my years I’ve never seen anything like this.” She pulled the sheets back and revealed Kenobi’s chest wounds, both reopened and bleeding.

“What is happening?” Yoda asked fearfully as he stepped back to make room for the droids.

Doctor Neema retrieved a large syringe from the medical consul while the droids surrounded Obi-Wan. “It’s the wounds made by the Dathomirian dagger,” she said. Once again she leaned over the young Jedi, turning his head to the side, exposing the gash along his neck. Obi-Wan had gone limp, his eyes drooping, and his breathing shallow.

She spoke while she worked. “The wounds heal, the bleeding stops, the cells regenerate, then they suddenly tear open as though freshly made. None of our treatments have had lasting effects. I suspect the blade was forged with some sort of Nightsister’s magic.” She held Obi-Wan’s face in a tight grip then looking up at the other droids she said, “Hold him firmly, please.”

Yoda watched as Doctor Neema inserted the syringe directly into the open wound on Obi-Wan’s neck. Sparking hot pain flashed through the young man causing him to let out a sharp yell, his body straining against his restraints. “It’s alright, Master Kenobi,” Neema soothed. “It will all be over soon.” The droids continued to hold Obi-Wan down as the doctor administered multiple bacta injections into the lacerations on Kenobi’s neck and chest. When the injections were complete, an FX-6 droid lumbered forward and carefully cauterized each wound while Neema increased Kenobi’s pain suppressors. She peered into his eyes with a bright light, watching his pupils contract. “Is that better, Master Jedi?”

Obi-Wan only managed a weak groan.

Doctor Neema turned to Yoda who looked at her expectantly. “This is the third time,” she said pulling off her bloody gloves and tossing them into a receptacle. “Fortunately he was not conscious for the previous episodes.”

“Terrible these wounds are,” Yoda said, his brow pulled tightly together with concern.

“Indeed. He suffers cruelly. I wish we could develop a cure, but it is nearly impossible without knowing what curse or magic created the weapon.” She placed her hands on her hips and looked down at Obi-Wan. “If you wouldn’t mind, Master Yoda, I must ask you to step out while we clean up Master Kenobi.”

“Of course.” Yoda moved toward the door. “For your kind care we are all grateful.”

Doctor Neema bowed respectfully. Once Yoda left the room they began pulling Obi-Wan’s bloody clothes and sheets off the bed.

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READ IT ON AO3 - Kudos and Comments Welcome!

READ CHAPTER 1 - It’s All My Fault...

READ CHAPTER 2 - Heed My Word

READ CHAPTER 3 - Brothers

READ CHAPTER 4 - A Sacred Memory

READ CHAPTER 5 - For Obi-Wan’s Sake

READ CHAPTER 6 - Our Time Has Run Short

READ CHAPTER 7 - Rescue

READ CHAPTER 8 - Everyone is a Mess

READ CHAPTER 9 - Nightmares

READ CHAPTER 10 - Opportunity

READ CHAPTER 11 - Yoda Tries

READ CHAPTER 12 - What Do You Need From Me?

READ CHAPTER 13 - Master

READ CHAPTER 14 - Into the Storm

READ CHAPTER 15 - Anakin’s Report

READ CHAPTER 16 - Sidious Manipulation

READ CHAPTER 17 - Darkness Waking