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vancekilo · 2 years

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The Last Stop Before the End of the World, Chapter 1

It hadn't stormed in Aravice in weeks. When the first few droplets of rain finally hit the white cobblestones, everyone in the city breathed a sigh of relief. Maeve was among them, though she'd only been in Aravice for a few hours.

She'd led her horse through the white gate, sweating and cursing the weather. The first few drops had fallen then, and her mood had improved.

It was as though the rain was greeting her - and it was probably the friendliest thing about Aravice. Despite the late hour and the downpour, there were still crowds of people clustered everywhere. Aravice was a city of white, with most of the color coming from awnings that covered the streets, allowing alcohol soaked patrons to stumble through relatively dry. Some of them had tried to grab at Maeve's coin purse but she'd weaved out of their reach. It was strange that despite her father's work as a problem solver for the queen, Maeve had always been taught that anyone could be of use; there was no sense in alienating a potential ally just because he cut a few purse strings. For this reason she didn't report any of them, though she did give them her best glare.

Maeve was used to the small town hospitality of the Draewood. People in Aravice had a place to be and no patience for anyone in their way. She was pretty sure she actually had a bruise on both shoulders from people pushing past her. It was a little easier once she boarded her horse.

Maeve got tired of the chaos and slipped down an alley. It wasn't covered like the rest of the streets, but the poor of Aravice didn't have the benefit of wide open spaces. The buildings loomed overhead like a dark canopy of trees. The slums were painted white just like the rest of the city but heavy shadows hung over everything, casting the buildings in grays and blacks. A few of the new "electric" lamps had found their way into the dark alleys, though they did very little to chase away the shadows. The lamplighters were relieved they no longer had to risk their lives to light alleys very few entered. Or rather, very few left.

Still, the oppressive buildings managed to keep Maeve mostly dry as she walked through. She was meant to be meeting her mentor in a different part of the city, but the blasted place was a maze. Destane was an interesting old man. He was still handsome, too, in that old man kind of way; salt and pepper hair and a world-weary kind of experience.

It helped that he was the complete opposite of Maeve's father, Jasper. Destane had promised to never lie to Maeve and as far as she knew, he never had. Jasper found new ways to lie almost daily despite the fact that he loved nothing more than to send his children into terrible danger.

Not that, truth be told, Maeve didn't like the danger. But the lies were annoying.

The sounds of fighting hit Maeve's ears before the smell of blood. She wrinkled her nose as she crept through one of the dark alleys. Who would be fighting at this time of night? In the rain? The city was so strange.

Creeping low, she pushed past laundry lines that hung nearly into the dirt and boxes of unknown contents. She peaked over a half-wall into an open area. "Open" was relative, but it was the most space she'd seen in the slums. Men, some stripped to the waist, stood in a circle. A few looked injured but they all seemed large and scarred. Maeve was used to seeing bare flesh but there was a lot of it...

"Like what you see?" said a voice and Maeve nearly jumped out of her skin. It took a strangely long amount of time for her to see the source. He melted out of the shadows like ink. Tall, thin, and pretty. The prettiest man that Maeve had ever seen; his eyelashes were thicker than hers. Black hair and pale skin (almost blue) and a sharp grin.

His hands were on her before Maeve could even think, but the grip was gentle. Strong as a vice, but gentle. She could still reach her sword if needed, though.

"I don't know what I'm seeing," she said finally. He rested his chin on her head and pressed her against his chest.

"My brother," he answered, "is going to win."

There were two people in the middle of the circle. One was a bull of a man, a soldier or gladiator, body like steel and thick with fat. The other was as thin as Maeve. He had long dark hair and thick purple circles under his eyes, as though he never slept. His dark skin was smooth and unmarked. The only possible evidence that he'd ever been in a fight before was a slight crook to his handsome nose.

"Is your brother the big one?" Maeve asked.

"No." Maeve felt a cheeky grin pressed into her skull and his fingers on the hem of her blouse, above her belt.

The fight was intense. There didn't seem to be any rules beyond no weaponry.

The skinny one moved like lightning and never quite seemed to be where a blow would land. He seemed more interested in wearing down the other man rather than using any energy to hit back. His clothes, all silk, bled out of the bigger man's hands when he tried to get a grip.

"What's your name?" asked the man above Maeve.

"Maeve. What's yours?" she answered. The big man had roared. He was getting angry. He had managed to clip his opponent in the shoulder. A single landed hit in a thousand misses. This did nothing but make the smaller man start to fight back harder. Despite his thin wrists, he hit like a viper.

"Salem. That's Halden. What brings such a nice girl to such a terrible place?"

"Work."

The hand on her belt tried to go lower but she stopped it.

"Not that kind of work. I'm a mercenary. I have a sword." She rolled her eyes though she knew he couldn't see it.

His hands found her hips instead. "Dangerous times. I'm not gonna judge."

Dangerous times indeed. Halden had started to fight back. The bigger man was out of energy. He took breaths in great gasps. Halden feinted and got him in the gut, then brought his elbow up to the man's nose. With a crack, he broke it. Blood poured into the man's mouth but any retaliation was stopped as one of the other men in the circle came up and grabbed Halden's hand, holding it aloft as victor.

"Undefeated again, you little stick insect," said the man who'd intervened. He threw a coin purse at Halden. Halden's opponent was left to lie in the rain, bloodied and embarrassed, as Halden strutted up to Maeve and Salem.

He finally seemed to notice her, eyes on her hips and breasts. "Salem, what did I tell you about..."

"I have a sword!"

Annoyed, Maeve grabbed Salem's wrist and twisted. He was very strong, but surprise was on her side and she managed to wriggle from his grip.

Halden shrugged his uninjured shoulder. "Dangerous times," he pointed out, divvying up the gold and throwing Salem half.

From somewhere, Salem produced a white hat. The brim was large, small beads decorating the edge. The top was pointed, like a witch's hat, though it was too clean for that. Salem slapped it onto Halden's head as he pulled his shirt and top robe back on.

"So, where you headed, pretty one?" Salem asked. He grunted when Halden punched him.

"Sorry, he's a raging stereotype. But same question?" Halden asked.

"Oh, I'm looking for the fountain disrict," she said, ignoring that being called pretty had turned her face red. "Destane Sidorov. He has a shop there."

"Oh, you're way off. That's north almost to the castle," Salem said.

"Well, fountains. I thought it'd be in the middle," she answered, hoping her blunder explained the redness. It was also embarrassing, though not as much as the compliment. "Can you point me in the right direction?"

There was a moment where the brothers stared into each other's eyes, a silent conversation. The significance was missed by Maeve, and she didn't feel right asking.

"We'll do you better." Salem linked an arm under Maeve's and gestured for Halden to do so on her other side. When he didn't, Salem rolled his eyes and just began walking. "We'll be your gentleman escorts."

Halden tipped his hat at her and followed.

#writblr #fantasy writblr #fantasy romance #my writing #long post #writing #TLSBTEOTW #TLSBTEOTW Chp 1 #Maeve Salem and Halden #un-edited un-beta'd #The Last Stop Before the End of the World

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magalidragon · 3 years

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paris is always a good idea | a Jonerys Drabble

Thank you @youwerenevermine for my wonderful birthday gift, I love it so much and I love Paris so much and Jonerys and you for making this for me so I felt inspired and wrote a quick little drabble thing, lol. It’s only the fourth time I’ve written Jonerys in a modern, non-Westeros world, but it was fun! And I wanna’ go back so much! Paris, je t’aime!

They met while in university, oddly enough, as fate would have it, on her birthday.

She had been there to study art, for a year abroad, savoring every last second wandering the wide, arched hallways of the Louvre, staring at grand masters for hours on end, burning the vibrant colors and mesmerizing brushstrokes into her memory, wishing she could be as good as them one day. One day, someone would have her art in their house, and proudly boast they'd gotten it back when she was but a nobody, painting on the streets or in the grassy parks.

Since it was her birthday, she decided to treat herself, and instead of heading straight to the university to get some time in the studio, she decided to get an ice cream at Berthillon, heading to the Ile-St-Louis instead of to the metro, taking her time to admire, as she often did, the glory of Notre Dame, it’s gargoyles and buttresses.

At the glacier she took her time selecting a flavor, did not even mind paying the exorbitant price and shouldered through tourists taking refuge from a cold rain that had begun to fall. She savored it, the clean water bouncing off her peat coat and the beanie she’d tugged over her silver hair.

She was about to set off, to eat her ice cream and wander into the Marais, perhaps drop down into the Latin Quarter— maybe take a trip to Chanel or Dior or Celine to admire the creations she couldn’t afford— when her ice cream went flying, straight onto the wet sidewalk. Where a mass of pidgins attacked it with gusto.

“Merde! Faites attention!” she shouted, stomping her Doc Marten on the ground in petulant annoyance.

The man who had bumped her because he’d been roughhousing with another friend had been apologetic. He bought her another and said his name was Robb Stark. He was from Scotland, was on spring break with his buddies, which she didn’t care about. To apologize he invited her for a drink, especially when the worker who she’d told it was her birthday had commented on it again when she got another ice cream.

She figured why not? He was attractive, sorry, and nice enough so she agreed, although she had commented his French was terrible best to speak English. “You’re English?” he had teased.

“Half and half,” she answered. English father, French mother.

At the comptoir where she suggested they meet, in Montmartre, she brought her roommate Missandei and Missandei’s boyfriend Grey. It was just a drink and they’d leave and go to the dinner Missandei planned to take her to anyway.

Except that’s where she met him.

The dark, brooding figure at the tiny table in the corner, ignoring Robb and Robb’s friend Theon, and a couple others, favoring silence and his drink. He was in all black, barely acknowledging her and slipped out for a smoke when Robb began to shamelessly flirt. She didn’t care about Robb, she cared about him.

Jon.

She exited, saw him lighting a cigarette against a lap post. She flicked her coat collar up and sidled towards him. “Puis-j’en avoir un?”

“Sorry I don’t speak,” he began, and his eyes— black in the orange lamplight glow— flicking to her. He smiled gently “French.”

She smiled and repeated her question in English. “Can I have one? A smoke that is?”

He stuck the cigarette between his pouty, sinful lips, framed with a cropped dark beard, and reached into his coat pocket, removing a pack. She took one delicately and he lit it, cupping his hands around the tip so the wind didn’t blow it out.

A stream of smoke escaped her nostrils when she puffed and she smiled up at him, hoping he got the hint. “Do you like Paris?”

“Not especially.”

“Aw come on,” she teased. She hummed, closing her eyes and taking in the cold night. The electric buzz is people on the street and at the cafes and bars around them. “Paris is always a good idea.”

“Someone famous said that.”

“Audrey Hepburn.”

He sucked on the cigarette and smiled, a tiny one, the curve of his lip sly rather than shy. “You aren’t in there with the rest of them.”

“Because it’s my birthday and I want to do what I want to do.” She stubbed the cigarette out on the post and turned, disposing it in the bin by the door. A quick text to Missandei: I’m going to skip dinner, I think I have a date, she turned and studied him. “I’m…”

“Dany,” he said. He shrugged, finishing his smoke. “I remember.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think you were listening when Robb introduced me.”

“I was.” He pulled the tartan scarf around his neck tighter. He glanced towards Sacré-Cœur, illuminated white in the lights around its base. He smirked at her. “You going back in?”

She shook her head. “No,” she drawled. She followed his gaze to Sacré-Cœur. “Have you been up there?”

“No.”

“You should. Some of the best views of Paris.”

He chuckled, voice tight. “You should invite Robb.”

“I think he might be a third wheel.”

It took him a second, the gears in his mind turning, understanding what she was saying. He cocked his head. His black curls were in a mess around his face. A few scattered rain drops landed on them, and he shook it free like a dog. Or a wolf, she thought, noting the animal embroidered on the edge of his scarf.

He narrowed his eyes again. “I told you I don’t really like Paris.”

“Why?”

“It’s loud. Busy. Dirty.”

She laughed. “Every city is like that but in Paris it’s different.”

“Why?”

Her bravado got the better of her and she stepped towards him, linking her arm through his. If he didn’t get it now, he was a stupid fool who deserved it when she kicked him into the gutter. “Because,” she murmured, rising to her toes, trying to gaze as directly as she could into his eyes, which she now saw were actually gray. His breathing quickened. “You’re with me.”

The wolf got the point with that comment. He allowed her to keep her arm around his and lead him towards the cathedral. They spoke of nothing and anything on the long walk through Montmartre to the highest point in the city.

He was in Paris for a research trip. He was studying medieval weapons and was going out to Bayeux to study some relics. His cousin Robb and friends came along for the free trip. They spoke about being starving artists in their field-- her literally an artist as it were. They talked about Paris-- how much he disliked it, how much she adored it. The top of Sacre-Coeur might have changed his mind, but he pretended he still didn’t get the appeal, so she dragged him back down to the streets, to her favorite all-night boulangerie, into the metro and across town to the Eiffel Tower, spinning in circles on the Champs du Mars. They ran across the Pont-de-la-Concorde and across the Tullieries. They wandered down the Seine, smoked cigarettes in the doorsteps of old buildings in the Latin Quarter, and drank cheap wine in one of the tourist-cafes near the Jardin du Luxembourg.

They meandered back through the streets, the city oddly quiet, the rain stopping, and she brought him to her garret studio in the Bastille, up the six flights of stairs to the top of the building, where she shed her coat and boots adn scratched her fat cat Drogon’s ears, leading him to the wrought-iron bars in one of the four windows she had, pushing the window open and crawling out, up onto the roof where she wanted to show him something.

“Look,” she directed, when he climbed up next to her-- less gracefully-- pointing to the lit-up Eiffel Tower.

He cursed under his breath. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s my favorite place in Paris. The rent is steep, but it’s worth it for this.” She chuckled. “And it has the best view.”

He whispered. “Yes, it does.”

And to her surprise, since she didn’t realize the time, the tower began to twinkle, the 20,000 lights across its metal beams flickering and she glanced sideways; he wasn’t watching the tower, but her face. She arched her brows. “You know, the lights twinkle for five minutes every hour, on the hour.” She smiled and shrugged, whispering. “It’s a sign that you’re supposed to return to Paris.”

Instead of saying anything, like how silly that was, he leaned in and cupped her face in his wide palm, callused and warm, bringing her face to meet his, kissing gently, in the twinkly glow of the lights. He pulled back a moment later, breathing, “I think I like Paris. And you’er right...this place has the best view.” His eyes were wide on hers, focused. She chuckled, nodding in agreement, and pulled him back to her for another kiss.

That night she savored every moment with him, as they pulled each other’s clothes off slowly, kissing and touching, every smooth curve and muscle of each other, each hard ridge and plane of his strong, muscular body or her soft, lean one. He touched her and kissed her and stroked her in ways she’d never experienced, bringing her to heights she’d only dreamed about. It was intense, the lights behind her closed eyelids when she came, over and over, gripping his shoulders, hair, the bedframe behind her. He rose up and over her, in and out, their bodies moving as one, thrusting and arching.

She didn’t know if she’d see him again; if this was a one-time, romantic Parisian adventure, but in the morning when she woke, she found him coming back inside from getting pastries and coffees, the faintest scent of cigarettes and her toothpaste on his lips when he kissed her good morning.

They exchanged their information, vowing to speak daily, and he would see her when he got back from Bayeux. She couldn’t believe when he did call and he kept his word. “When you lie, words lose their meaning,” he’d explained, obviously reading her surprise.

And when her year ended in Paris, she found herself in London, back at university, dreaming of their magical time there, even when they made time for each other, going back and forth from London to Edinburgh; and he from Edinburgh to Paris during the last couple of months of her year there.

They made it a priority; every single year they spent time in Paris, like they were students again, on that magical night.

They grew older, no longer needing to find the cheapest drinks and cigarettes, or staying in studio garrets, eventually able to experience some of the best hotels and restaurants the city had to offer, as he sold books and became a well-known author and professor, and her dream of becoming a famous artist came true, when sure enough, someone bought one of her paintings on the side of the Seine, someone who happened to be an art dealer in New York.

It was their city, where they met, and where they could remember.

After they married, about fifteen years after that fateful birthday, they visited again, and spun together on the Pont-Neuf, kissing and murmuring how they loved each other and always would, and he took her back to the tiny studio garret, which was now theirs, and sat on the rooftop and watched the Eiffel Tower sparkle.

“Paris is always a good idea,” she murmured, head in the crook of his neck, her back to his front, wrapped in a warm blanket, and his arms tight around her middle. She tilted her face up to his, sated, and still hopelessly in love with him. “Take me to Paris, Jon.”

He nuzzled his nose into her cheek, whispering. “You are Paris, Dany.”

As it was the city where they’d met, fallen in love, and found true happiness, she grinned, because that was his way of saying how much he loved her. She brushed her lips over his, sighing, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And they kissed, as the Eiffel Tower lit up, and she curled up into him, falling asleep in the city of love and lights.

#jonerys #jonerys au #jonerys drabble #Erika's gorgeous moodboards!#my random drabbles #Paris is always a good idea #Paris and jonerys is a better idea #happy birthday to me lol

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callboxkat · 3 years

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Those Long, Lonely Nights (part 1/6)

Author’s note: This is a retelling of the story These Deep Dark Woods, but from Roman’s perspective, plus a few new scenes. I recommend reading that story first, but this can also stand alone. Please read the warnings!

Summary: Roman, a knight, insists on accompanying his best friend Logan, a potion maker, when he decides to head into the notoriously dangerous woods bordering their home to find some rare herbs and minerals for his apothecary. They find much more than they bargained for when they encounter Remus, a bloodthirsty giant. Logince. Angst with a happy ending.

Warnings: food mention, blood, injuries, death mention, killing mention, gun mention, mild body horror (it’s Remus), disturbing imagery (it’s Remus), character death, temporary/believed character death, kidnapping, guilt, attempted self sacrifice, talk of giants, vampires and other monsters. Very unsympathetic villain Remus.

Word Count: 1764

Part 2

Ao3 Link

Writing Masterpost!

...

Roman bounded down the bustling street, waving to familiar passerby as he went. He knew he was easy to pick out and very recognizable, in his white knight’s uniform. Despite the early morning, many people were already up and about, setting up for the day, but the street lamps still glowed—a recent installation, they actually ran on electricity! Roman still didn’t quite understand how that worked, but he was proud to see his settlement prospering, and it was fascinating, how much light came from them, just from a few little wires and some glass. Perhaps there was some sort of enchantment involved.

“Good morning, Sir Roman,” a shopkeeper called.

Roman tabled his nerdy thoughts for the time being. He put on a bright smile and approached the shop, where a woman stood sweeping clear the welcome mat. “Good morning to you, Maryanne!”

The woman put aside the broom and dusted her hands off on her apron. “Would you like a pastry? The peaches just arrived from Mellow Valley, and they are simply delightful in a fruit tart.”

Roman hummed consideringly. “Oh, that’s very tempting, but I’m afraid I’m in a rush this morning!”

“Some other time, then. Perhaps you could even bring that handsome young man you’re always with.” She winked.

Roman really hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Of course—you know I love your treats.”

Roman was on his way to his shift guarding the outer wall, an imposing structure built of shining gray stone that protected the citizens of his home from the monsters that roamed the forest beyond. It was an important job, entrusted to the expertise of the knights, and one that Roman loved doing; but it wasn’t always the most exciting prospect. Their settlement, Old Haven, was one of the longest standing, enough so that most of the monsters had known since generations past to stay well away; and between the few times that things truly got exciting... they could be terribly dull.

But, before Roman went to his shift that morning, he had a stop to make, and this he was definitely looking forward to.

The apothecary was located just a couple of blocks from the main square, in a small, warmly colored cedar and stone building with windows filled with neatly arranged bundles of colorful herbs and evenly spaced rows of bottles of medicinal powders and potions. A hand-painted sign read, Please come in, in neat, white letters, in an only slightly decorative script.

Roman reached the shop just as the door opened, the bell overhead chiming. A customer stepped out, dressed in a dark robe with the hood up. At first glance, he seemed to be clothed entirely in black, but on closer inspection, his robe was actually a deep plum color. He clutched a bottle of pomegranate juice in one pale hand and a neatly sealed packet of herbs in the other. Dark bangs poked out from under the hood, but his face was cast in shadow. Roman frowned slightly noticing the dark, grayish veins in his hands as he stepped back to give the man room. He hurried past Roman and disappeared down the street. Roman stepped inside the apothecary once he was gone.

The apothecarist, Logan, stood behind a counter within the shop, wearing an elegant, navy colored coat and his usual pair of spectacles. He was pushing together a pile of coins on the counter. Copper and bronze coins only, Roman noticed. No silver.

“Got a lot of vampire clientele?” Roman asked, leaning (or perhaps posing) against one of the display cabinets.

Logan looked up, the warm lamplight making his deep blue irises glitter in a way that never failed to make Roman’s heart skip a beat. He glanced back down and finished tucking away the money. “Six,” he said honestly. “Seven, most likely, although she has not personally shared that information with me, and if she is, hers appears to be a mild case.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t approve?”

“Ah… they’re a little too similar to monsters, for my taste.”

“It is a monster-derived affliction, that is true, but with modern treatments, most of those afflicted with vampirism can lead nearly normal lives.”

Roman shrugged dismissingly, waving him off. He hadn’t come here to talk about vampires. “I know, I know. Anyway. How’s my favorite nerd this morning?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Logan sighed.

“You know you love it.”

Logan did not deny it, Roman noticed with a small smile. Instead, he adjusted a few already perfectly positioned potion bottles on the counter, before saying, “I am well, although rather busy.”

Roman glanced around the room, noticeably empty of customers. “Ah yes, this is a very busy time for your shop, I see.”

“A customer did depart only moments ago,” Logan pointed out. “Although, no, I was not referring to customers. I’m preparing for an outing.”

“An outing?” Roman was interested, now. “Finally taking a little vacation, are you? Good on you. Where are you going? And more importantly—can I come?”

Logan wanted to smile, Roman could tell. But he didn’t. The guy took himself too seriously. “Not that type of outing. I require materials to restock my shop.”

Roman sighed dramatically, making it a full body motion. So much for a vacation. And the hot springs in the hills of northern Old Haven were so nice this time of year. “So? Just put it on the list for the traders. Mellow Valley should have most of your things in season by now. Did you hear the peaches arrived? Maryanne, that baker on Lilac, promised me some of her delightful pastries. We could go get some, when I’m finished with my shift on the South Wall this morning.”

Logan shook his head “Mellow Valley won’t have everything I need; and besides, the costs are considerably lessened when the materials are personally collected.”

Roman furrowed his brow. “Collected where?”

“Outside.”

“You mean outside, like, as in the park, right?”

“In the woods,” Logan sighed, beginning to sound exasperated.

Roman opened his mouth, then closed it again. The woods. The veritable ocean of dense trees beyond the settlement’s walls, filled to the brim with monsters, held back from advancing only by the strength of the guard and broken only by the occasional human stronghold and the heavily protected trails that linked them. Generally, only knights and the traders they accompanied ever ventured beyond the walls—this was, in fact, why Roman had become a knight in the first place, to get to see some of the world that most only saw through pictures and stories. Citizens were allowed to leave—they weren’t prisoners—but it was very rare, and highly discouraged. Many who went unprepared—or even those who did—never returned; and sometimes even those who did return were not the same as when they left—like the vampires who apparently frequented this shop, or at least one or more of their ancestors. Vampirism could be tricky like that. Sometimes it cropped up randomly, somewhere down the line.

Logan had begun sorting through some of his supplies, acting for all the world as if he hadn’t just announced he had a death wish.

Roman shook off his distracted thoughts of vampirism and knightly missions, and focused on the most important thing: “Please tell me you aren’t planning to go out there alone.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Logan sighed. “I will have my dagger, and I will go no further into the woods than required.”

“Oookay, first of all, why am I just now hearing that you’ve been hanging out in the monster-filled woods by yourself?”

“I would hardly call it ‘hanging out’.”

“And second of all, you are absolutely not doing that.”

Logan gave him a dry look. “Yes, I am. My herbs will not pick themselves.”

“Get a garden like a normal person.”

“You know I have a quite extensive garden.” Logan paused, looked confused. He shook his head, going back to counting bundles of tiny black seeds. “Some of these herbs do not naturally grow within human settlements, let alone ours, and my attempts to recreate their preferred environment have in many cases proven thus far unsuccessful. Besides, I cannot ‘get a garden’ to form mineral deposits, several of which are required in even non-specialty potions.”

Roman still didn’t quite see why Logan wouldn’t be able to get all of this stuff using a trader. Knowing Logan, it was less about the money and more about needing to personally ensure that he received the correct materials. Surely, though, even the least-versed in medicinal resources could get him what he needed, if he described them well enough.

Also knowing Logan, though, he would not be dissuaded from going.

Roman pulled himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest and putting one hand on the protective-charm engraved hilt of his sword. “Alright, then, I am coming with you.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming to collect herbs? Can you even tell wormwood from hemlock?”

“I’m not going to find your nerd plants, I’m going to protect you.”

Logan scoffed quietly, clearly believing Roman’s very generous and heroic offer was unnecessary. But he sat down on his stool, finally, and looked at Roman without busying himself with his apothecarist duties. He glanced Roman up and down, apparently trying to decide how serious Roman was. “Alright, then, if you insist.”

“I do!” Roman nodded firmly. He relaxed his posture. “So, when are we going?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes?”

“I—” Roman groaned, looking up towards the wooden beams of the ceiling. “Fine. It’s a little short notice, but fine.” He worked his jaw, then mumbled, “I’ll need to cancel a couple days… maybe Sir Leo can cover? Hm.”

Logan tilted his head slightly, adjusting his spectacles and watching Roman’s dramatics. “I am not forcing you to come.”

You are, though. “Well, I am.”

“Alright.”

A beat passed in silence, Roman feeling triumphant, before Logan gave the knight a slightly amused look. “I thought you had a shift on the wall?”

“I—right. Yes.” Roman had gotten a little distracted. He took a couple of steps back. “So, you, me, tomorrow, woods. Great.” He turned towards the door, stopped, and turned around. “About those pastries?”

Logan hummed. “I can take a break two hours after noon, which is when your shift ends, if I remember correctly. I suppose I would accept one then.”

“They have fruit in them,” Roman encouraged. “That makes them healthy!”

“I do not believe that is entirely correct.”

Roman grinned and left the shop.

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obscureoperations · 3 years

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ok feel free to delete this if you aren't into blood play cuz I know its not everyone's cup of tea

but.

I was thinking about a scenario where Martin agrees to be tormented when he's gotten really hungry. tie him up, make sure he knows the rules, establish a safe word. basically the scenario involves teasing Martin with your own blood and making it so he can't get to it to drink, but also pushing and teasing him about the fact you're bleeding and he's hungry and all he really has to do is safe word and he can drink. but he's a good boy, so he won't. and you know he won't.

(of course this involves a lot of trust and intermittent check ins to make sure he is truly okay in the moment which brings out the intimacy here (yes. intimate blood play. it makes sense leave me alone))

telling him to keep his eyes on the cut in your finger as it drips blood down onto his chest. not letting him look away. reminding him how hungry he must be and telling him to not struggle and keep his eyes on you.

by the end of the scene hes crying and in a real deep headspace. ignoring his most important need. for you. all because you told him to.

(of course afterwards he gets taken care of all sweet n stuff :) )

I'm actually not opposed.. not at all! I love the detail.. and I really tried to do this justice to no avail. This is one of the premises that I can see myself coming back to. Trying to turn it from word vomit into an actual story!

Stray tears continue to trickle past his hairline, seeping into the thousand thread count pillow..Cheeks burning with shame.. Martin’s eyes remain fixated on the ceiling--the thin jagged crack that starts at the fan all the way to the far corner of your room. He felt heavy, nearly saturated with guilt the moment you began to ‘take care of him’. Your fingers gripped his thighs with an almost otherworldly force, as you pin his slight hips to the bed. Questions of who he belonged to.. What was his name… why exactly should he be apologizing.

Martin was still at you kept him tethered to the edge of delirium. Lips moving over his flesh in a way that reminded him that you still cared-- Teeth gently nipping at his neck tongue laving over his racing pulse. His mouth was dry, the gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach was almost unbearable. The coppery scent was unmistakable, it curled at his nostrils causing him to swoon. The smell was unique, almost spicy-- everything about it was decidedly you. He would catch glimpses of the heady aroma when you would accidentally nick yourself preparing dinner. Or that one time when you fell off your bike skinning your knee.

His hands were numb, wrists tied to the bedposts, he had no idea where you managed to acquire the rope. His legs were extended towards the edge of the bed, slightly parted ankles tethered to the bed. Luckily for him, you decided to spare him some dignity. He was completely bare save for his shorts. Mouth sized bruises adorn his collar, chest and ribs-- all ranging in various colors. Pools of blood began to dry and stick to his skin, he could feel them tighten under the breeze. He was shivering, eyes fixated on the laceration on your arm--he prayed you didn't press in too deep.

He could still taste the tears streaming down your cheeks the moment he crawled in through the window. You were shaking, struggling to contain your sobs.The look on your face practically broke his heart.

“Martin… where were you?”

He momentarily seemed to lose the ability to speak. His eyes remained glued to your angelic face. The tears flowed freely. He never knew you to display any emotion beyond very mild annoyance-- You were shivering, arms wrapped around yourself protectively-- this was something completely new. He messed up.

“Y/n… I’m so sorry..”

“Why not me?”

You had asked him that question every single time. You knew all about his sickness, his actual need for blood. You knew that he couldn’t go to a hospital...he would be locked up forever-- Then why not you?

He claimed that you were far too precious to him. If he ever hurt you “He would die”

This was far worse, he had been doing so well-- You were on the verge of full blown panic whenever you could hear police sirens in the distance.

Martin knew what he was doing, he was quick on his feet, there was very little reason you should fear for his safety. But still, what if he messed up and made a mistake. You would never forgive yourself if something happened to him.

So he agreed. If anything to regain your trust-- and hopefully make amends. The safe word was “silk” ; he could use it at any time when things became too much. He wasn’t allowed to drink from you until you explicitly tell him it’s okay.

He had no idea what he was getting into, he nearly used the word the moment you picked up the blade.You winced ever so slightly as the steel pierced your skin--the ropes were the only thing stopping him from wrapping you in his arms. You didn’t have to hurt yourself for him. The blood began to pool down your arm, he wanted to scream. You seem almost mesmerized for a moment yourself as the crimson rivulets begin to drip down your wrist. His eyes remain transfixed, his face grows hot--the stabbing pain in his stomach causing him to wince. “Yn..p-please be careful” he whispers. Was that a warning or a request?

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you poise your arm over his chest-- squeezing gently as a few droplets land against his skin. He hisses sharply, eyes immediately screw shut-- white hot electricity surged up his spine. Every nerve ending set on edge as the coppery scent hits his nostrils

You take your time, painting red washed lines across his chest as his fingers helplessly grasp at the bed posts. He was panting, clearly tenting in his shorts, but he still refused to look at you.

“Martin, open your eyes..”

He shakes his head, images swirling through his mind. He saw mobs chasing him through the city. Torches blazing as he scrambles down cobblestone stairs. He saw the woman on the train laying practically lifeless. He saw the image of you from one of his dreams.

The two of you had very nearly broken up--but that was towards the beginning of your relationship. You knew that Martin had nightmares--this was when you first began to discover the depth of his sickness. It started with him talking in his sleep, waking up in tears unaware of his surroundings. It only got worse till one day you woke up in the middle of the night to find him locked in the bathroom sobbing uncontrollably. You begged and pleaded for over an hour for him to just open the door. He refused, he was so scared that he might have hurt you. As it turns out he dreamed that he had actually killed you. It all started from accidentally tasting a stray droplet of your blood. In fact, it was a few days after he had patched up your thumb after your run in with the kitchen knife.

Better than he ever imagined, the taste alone sparked something inside of him. He was so worried that one day he might not be able to contain himself. He was so scared that he might hurt you. You noticed his somber demeanor, but the pieces didn’t click until you found him in the midst of a literal breakdown. You didn’t care, you wanted him with you for the rest of your life. You were certain you could show him how to be good.

“Martin.. It’s okay… please look at me darling”

After a moment, he opens his eyes. Damp lashes cling to porcelain cheeks-- you only wanted to hold him. His gaze gradually moves from your face to the tips of your bloodied fingers, still glistening in the light. His stomach turns, threatening to collapse in on itself as he resumes tugging at the restraints.

“Y/n.. p-please.. We--ah.. We shouldn’t do this…”

Do what… sweetheart?” You coo, painting a crimson line just beneath his lips. In that moment you could have sworn his eyes shone brighter, almost amber under the lamplight. The force of his thrashing causes the bed posts to creak.. Groaning heavily beneath the pressure.

No no no… this was not a good idea everything about you smelled so warm and inviting.

He tries his best to school his face into a pleading expression, tongue darting over cracked lips.

“You should-- just clean up, and untie me.. I feel so much better now. “

“Untie you?” you snort as you trace your fingers over his lips, as he fruitlessly attempts to tilt his head. You can feel him tense as a strange sort of shiver rolls through him.

“And then what are you going to do…”

Tears begin to freely flow down his cheeks as he shakes his head. “N-nothing.. I swear..”

“I know this Martin.. You’re not going to hurt me.. You never would.”

His chest heaves, you could have sworn you feel some of the tension leave his body.

“No.. never!”

“Are you hungry darling?”

“Y-yess” There was something about the raw unfiltered need in his voice that caused something inside to ignite. You were familiar with it sure-- it wasn’t rare that you had him nearly slipping off the bed.

But this was different.

You only wanted to cure him of his nightmares, but in that moment you feared you were making everything worse. You just wanted to show Martin that you trusted him completely. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you even if he tried.

With a shaky hand, he draws your fingers to his lips, keeping the blood stained digits poised directly over his mouth. His breath came out in heated puffs, reminding you of this old rottweiler that used to be chained up in your neighbor’s yard.

You couldn't help but smile to yourself as you weave your fingers through his hair--noting as he leans into your hand. Breath ghosting along your palm--the tip of his nose brushing over the hardened bits of blood. You can feel him inhale deeply, as another shiver shoots through his slight frame. His teeth digs into his bottom lip as he relishes in the brief bits of attention. You continue to whisper to him words of affirmation. Thanking him for behaving so sweetly.

There was always one small vein on his forehead that always seemed more pronounced whenever he was in pain. Martin had migraines, so you saw it alot. He refused to take medicine, in fear that it might “make him loopy” His cheeks were flushed, brows furrowed in agony-- you couldn’t help the sudden pang of guilt. You already knew that Martin would never hurt you… why on earth did you think this was a good idea?

In a haste you reach for the razor, digging it into the palm of your hand. You begin to squeeze at your wrist, urging the blood to flow. You lean in, pressing a kiss against his temple as drops of blood coats your fingertips. You press one of your stained fingers to his mouth

“Martin… drink..”

He shook his head almost violently, pressing his cheek against the pillow. The motion left a bloody streak across his face. He could feel the droplets hardening by the second, his teeth immediately sink into his bottom lip. You were perched atop of him, knees resting against each side of his hips-- you sink down just a bit further. He lets out an audible gasp as your hips rock against his clothed erection-- droplets of blood pool into the dips of his collarbone.

He wanted to die… he truly wanted to die. There was no way that this could possibly be okay. Why would you want him to drink from you? You were so much more than one of his victims, you were his entire life. He valued your livelihood so much more than his own.

He failed to realise he was staring off into space, until your fingertips began to ghost along his jawline

“Sweetheart, are you okay?

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to stop?” you sink back further onto your knees. The sudden bout of friction causes him to shiver.

“Plea- No.. y/n. Don’t stop..”

After a moment, he slowly reaches for your hand, you press your palm directly against his lips. You can still feel the rumbles emanating from his ribs, arms tugging fruitlessly at the restraints. Stray droplets of blood adorn his chest, the crimson stream begins to drip past his cheeks. He was panting, even as you press your fingers through the crack of his lips. Breath seemed to still within his chest.

Tears continued to spill down his cheeks, seeping down into his hairline. Had you actually “broken” your boyfriend? What was wrong? Surely he wasn’t this repulsed by your blood alone.

“Martin.. I’m so sorry..” You whisper suddenly, his eyes remain fixed upon the ceiling, the crimson rivulets drip past his firmly closed lips.

You continue to weave your fingers through his hair, as his lips slowly part beneath your hand.

Tugging as you whisper against his ear. “ Darling.. Please drink..”

#martin 1977 #martin 1978 #martin mathias #martin/you #martin/reader #bloodtw #blood play #self harm #consentual self harm

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sableflynn · 3 years

Text

Out unseen - ch. 4

first | previous | next

Now presenting Marcus angst plus a casual convo between Felicia and Volkan 😈 yeah uh if you’re here for the spicy whump that’ll be back next chapter

cw: kidnapping, noncon touch, references/threat of noncon, captivity, just uhh overall dread? people having a bad time

Also on Ao3

---

She was gone.

Marcus had circled around as soon as he could, weaving through the maze of shipping crates, desperate to lose the guards tailing him. It might have been a few minutes or it might have been hours; when he made his way back to the meeting point, it was deserted. Even the dead man’s blood had been cleaned up. It was as if no one had ever been there at all.

And Felicia was gone.

And Marcus had let her get taken because he had turned tail and run like a coward, because he wasn’t brave enough to break his promise to her and fight for her. He should’ve thrown himself at them and done whatever it took to get her to safety. Instead, he ran.

He didn’t head straight home. He walked the city, scouring the streets for the tiniest fragment of something to point him in the right direction. Eventually he ended up at Volkan’s mansion, a luxurious estate in the heart of the upper-west side. For hours, he cased the outer grounds, shivered in the hedges, waiting for a car to return or a light to turn on or some indication that someone was home.

No one ever showed up. And if Volkan wasn’t bringing her to his house, where were they? Visions flashed through his mind of Felicia tied up in some secluded warehouse, or dumped in a shallow grave in the middle of the woods, or—

No. He would find her. They would all find her, together.

The sky was lightening with the faintest glow of dawn as Marcus finally made his way home on legs that barely worked. He was going to walk into their house alone, and the others would see him alone and immediately know.

As he approached the front door with its peeling paint and worn knocker, he was brought back to that night the week before, returning home after the dance had changed everything. And now he had left Felicia with the same man who had forced that change on them, fuck.

Elyse was waiting for him as he stepped through the threshold. She greeted him with a hug, and he said nothing as her eyes moved from his face to look over his shoulder. Looking for Felicia, he knew. Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, and Marcus shattered.

“She’s gone,” he managed to gasp out. “He took her, she’s gone, she’s with him, and I just—I—”

“Hey. Come sit.” Anna was at his side, one warm hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the table. Elyse was frozen, still staring at the door as if she was waiting for Felicia to walk in. Marcus felt like he was moving in slow motion as he allowed himself to be sat down at the table. He was faintly aware of the others around him, Kailo and Darya pulling some extra chairs up to the table and Elyse finally, finally coming to join them with that distant, lost look in her eye.

“It was my fault,” he said at last. “We were—I let him take her, and I couldn’t save her, I fucked up and now—”

“Marcus.” He couldn’t help but look up at the bite to Anna’s voice; her expression softened as their eyes met. “We need to know what happened if we’re going to do anything about it.”

We can still do something about it. He wasn’t alone. He let out a slow, shaking breath and forced himself to look at the others.

“He was buying a person,” he said. “That was the trade deal. It wasn’t weapons or drugs or whatever, it was a fucking person.” He clenched his fists on the table till his nails dug into his palms. “And we just...god, it was so stupid but we just couldn’t leave this guy there, we had to try…”

“I don’t blame you,” Darya said, and there was a cold fury in her voice that Marcus had never heard before.

“Volkan caught her.” Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the images flashing through his mind—Felicia dragged to Volkan, his hand on her face while a man bled out and died behind him. “And then he killed the man he was buying. Like he was nothing. And then I—I ran.” The last word came out as a sob.

“Marcus, you…” Kailo was hesitant, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “If you both got caught, we never would’ve known what happened. But you came back, and now we can find her—”

“Or she’s already dead.” Terror clutched at Marcus’s chest as he said it, but he had to voice the thought that had been consuming him since Felicia had vanished. “He took her and shot her and dumped her body in a shallow grave somewhere. Got rid of one more thorn in his side.”

Elyse spoke for the first time since Marcus had gotten home. “He isn’t going to kill her.” Beneath her exhaustion, her eyes blazed. “Not right away, anyway. He was clearly...buying that person for a reason.” Her voice dripped with disgust. “And he just...decided Felicia would work better. For whatever god-awful fucked up thing he’s planning.” She swallowed, took a deep breath that almost sounded of a sob. “She has to still be alive.”

Marcus clung to the tiny tendril of hope Elyse gave him. She had to be alive.

They just had to find her and get her out while there was still something of her to save.

“He wasn’t at his house.” Marcus thought back on the manor, silent as a tomb in the night. “I went and searched and waited there all night. I was sure they’d come back eventually, but...I don’t know where else he could’ve taken her.”

“We’ll find her.” Anna’s voice was steel. “There has to be something we can follow. Who was there? What else did you see?”

He didn’t want to revisit the scene in his mind. He didn’t want to remember anything about this night. But he forced himself to think back, the secluded docks filtering into his mind, Volkan and Becker chatting under the dim lamplight while a man shivered beside them. “It was the docks, the southern port. Volkan and Becker, and a few guards, and the...the man they were selling.”

“Becker? That businessman?” Elyse tilted her head, then turned to Anna, half-lost in her own thoughts. “Anna, I think…”

Anna was already nodding. “I’m on it.”

“Who was the man?” Kailo’s voice was small. “The one they were...the one they…”

The one Volkan murdered. The one who would still be alive, if Marcus and Felicia had done what they had gone there to do and haven’t stuck their noses in. “I don’t know.” He hated saying it. He never would know, now. “His face was covered the entire time. And then he died.”

“They’re fucked up.” Darya’s fists were clenched.

“And if we—” Marcus buried his face in his hands, overcome, and then forced himself to continue. “If we had just gotten the fucking pictures and gotten out of there, we could take them down, and Felicia would be fine, she’d be here with us—”

Elyse stopped him. “We’ll get her back.”

“How?”

“We will.” She reached across the table and took his hand. “We’re not leaving her. Not for an instant. We’ll find her. We’ll talk to people—”

“We can’t go to the police,” Anna cut in. “They’re in his pocket.”

“Not the police,” Elyse agreed. “People we trust. We have to move carefully. But we won’t stop until we have her back.”

A wave of exhaustion washed over Marcus as he looked between his friends’ faces: Darya simmering with anger just below the surface, Kailo heartbroken, determined, Anna already planning her next steps, and Elyse…

“We should get some sleep,” Elyse said, her eyes red and lined with weariness. “We need to be able to think clearly about this. We...we can’t rush into things.” Rubbing at her face, she stood to leave the table.

“Elyse—” Marcus couldn’t stop himself from grabbing her hand. “I just—all of you, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I…” He struggled to find the words. I fucked up. I lost her. She’s gone.

Elyse opened her mouth to speak, shut it with a sad smile, and paused before finally saying, “We’ll find her.” She slipped her hand from Marcus’s and left the room, the solid wooden door shutting behind her. Through the door, he could hear the faintest sound of sobbing.

***

The first thing Felicia was aware of was a soft, persistent scratching noise.

A pen on paper, she realized belatedly. Then at all once, the floodgate burst open, and she was struck with all of the other sensations around her—the firm cushioning of the chair she sat in, her bare feet on a hardwood floor, coarse bindings tight against her arms and legs. The scent of leather and old books. Tendrils of magic in the air, the faintest trace, but enough to set her teeth on edge with the ghost of pain.

His touch sent magic coursing through her like a bolt of electricity, lighting all her nerves on fire, and then he’d held her and whispered in her ear as he slipped a needle in her vein and ushered her into darkness.

Her stomach churned at the memory. Pushing it down, she opened her eyes the thinnest crack.

She was in a stately office, with dark walls lined with bookshelves and a gleaming mahogany desk. Sitting at the desk, studying some papers and scratching notes in the margin, was Volkan—

She slammed her eyes shut at the sight of him, her mind flooded with the memories she had forced down. Volkan’s hands caressing her cheek, Marcus vanishing into the night, a man bleeding out from his slit throat—

She let out the smallest gasp at the memory, and the scratch of pen on paper was silenced. Then the scrape of a chair against the floor sent a shiver through her and, defeated, she opened her eyes once again.

Volkan sauntered towards her, savoring. She flexed instinctively against the rough ropes holding her, and his lips twitched in a smile. He had killed someone and kidnapped her and tied her up and now he was walking towards her with that smile on his face and she couldn’t do a thing about it.

He pulled up a chair and sat across from her. Posture relaxed, he said nothing for several heartbeats, his gaze exploring her body. She swallowed and suppressed a shudder.

He broke the silence first. “You’re awake.”

“You’re observant,” she snapped.

“You don’t have to worry.” He leaned forward to wrap one hand loosely around her throat and rest his thumb along her windpipe. Her pulse jumped under his touch. “I just want to talk. I don’t have to hurt you yet.”

Felicia refused to allow herself to dwell on the yet. “If you just want to talk,” she said instead, “why am I tied to a chair?”

His eyes trailed over her again, lingering over the ropes digging into her soft skin, and he said nothing. She was still clothed, but had never felt so exposed.

Then he shrugged. “Fair enough.” He crouched at her feet and began undoing the ropes binding her ankles to the chair.

As the first ropes fell away, she suppressed the urge to lash out and kick his face. He was so close, so intent on undoing the knots...and her boots were gone and her wrists were still tied, and she knew he would pay back anything she did to him in triple.

If she was going to get out of here alive, she needed to be strategic. Stall him and placate him, and move very carefully when the opportunity presented itself. And survive whatever he had planned for her.

Then he untied her wrists, his warm skin brushing hers, and she couldn’t help it—she knew he was watching her, waiting, but she couldn’t help but twist around in her chair and look at the door behind her.

She could make a move right now. She could leap over the back of the chair, throw herself at the door, pray it wasn’t locked—pray whatever he’d drugged her with didn’t make her clumsy and slow—and if she fell he’d catch up to her and tower over her while she lay vulnerable on the ground, and he would—he’d—

Swallowing down bile, clenching her fists, she turned back to face Volkan again. He was grinning, taking in every twitch of her fingers, every flicker of her eyes.

Holding her chin high, she said, “Talk, then.”

“I just want to know more about you.” Volkan studied her as he lounged against one arm of the chair, as if they were two acquaintances catching up over coffee. “You’re so clearly out of your depth. How does some no-name healer from the east side end up embroiled in investigating the most powerful man in the city?”

Something in his question prickled at her. “I’m not a—”

“Not a healer? You’re not Felicia Haywood, graduate of Trisgate University, working as a healer at Gentle Care Clinic up on South Hill?” Her stomach dropped with each word, and he laughed mirthlessly. “For god’s sake, Felicia, you interned at a hospital I own. It’s easy to learn anything I want about you.” His smile broadened. “And your friend Marcus, too.”

The mention of Marcus, hearing his name from this man’s lips, jolted through her awareness, and she gripped the arms of the chair with white knuckles. “Where is he? If you hurt him—”

“Wouldn’t that be something? To have you both here, play you off of each other…” Volkan gave a wistful sigh. “He managed to slip my guards last night. I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later.”

Felicia exhaled, nearly sagging with relief, but Volkan pushed further. “You didn’t answer my question. Why did you suspect me?”

How much does he really know? She studied his face, trying to gauge what would be safe to tell him, and what would reveal too much. “Maybe you don’t have quite the flawless public image you think you do,” she began slowly.

He laughed. “We both know that isn’t true. My image is spotless.” He placed one hand on her knee, and even that tiny touch sent a tremor of fear through her. “Try again,” he said, “and remember, the longer you talk, the longer it’ll be before I drag you upstairs and give you exactly what you’ve deserved ever since you threw yourself into my arms at that dance.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and his hand on her knee was fire, burning her body, lighting up every place he had ever touched her. She swallowed down a sob, and one thought arose in her mind: stall him. Marcus had escaped, and her friends knew where she was. She just had to hold out until they were able to rescue her.

Breathing deeply, she gathered her thoughts, gently probing at and untangling painful memories buried deep within her mind. “It was a few years ago, when I interned at Greater Mercy Hospital. Your hospital,” she added, the faintest trace of bitterness in her voice. “I had a patient there, and one day I went into work and he was...gone. No records, no trace of him at all. Like he had never existed.”

She still remembered how lost she had felt that day. No one else would even acknowledge that the patient had ever existed. She’d worried she was imagining things, losing her grip from the constant stress of her schooling...and then Dr. Sousa had pulled her aside to talk. “My supervisor met with me privately. He said it had happened before. And he...he was so secretive, he didn’t trust anyone, but he just...he pointed me down a trail.” She swallowed. “And then he vanished too. And I followed the trail he’d shown me.” And here I am.

“Your supervisor was Victor Sousa, yes? I remember him.” Volkan’s voice brought her out of the fog of memory, and she was staring into his cold eyes once again. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t kill him. The starvation did.”

He was so matter-of-fact, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She’d known by now he must be dead, but for Volkan to be so casual about it—and here she was with him now, trapped in his house, completely at his mercy—

No. My friends will find me. They had to.

Volkan stood then and paced around her, a predator circling his prey, and she was frozen in her seat. Trembling, she breathed, “Why are you doing this?”

“How many people are you working with?”

His voice was behind her now, above, and he was leaning on the back of her chair. She couldn’t bring herself to look up at him. “What?”

“You heard me.” She could feel him looming over her, simmering with tension. “Is it just you and Marcus? Or are there more friends I should be worried about?”

Was this a test? How much information did he already have? Was he toying with her? All she knew, with a bone-deep determination, was that she couldn’t let him find the others. She would stall, lie, take anything to keep them safe. Desperate to buy time, she allowed fear to soften her voice. “Please don’t...I can’t.”

The click of his shoes on the hardwood was deafening to her ear. He was in front of her again, towering at full height above her, and he took her chin in a rough hand. “Don’t make me ask again.”

He wasn’t going to let her stay silent; she had to give him something, just enough to point him in the wrong direction, get him off their trail. Mind racing, she took a deep breath and forced herself to speak. “We...we’re a team. There’s around twenty of us. It—It’s an underground network, investigating—” She jerked her chin from his hand, scowling. “Fighting against you and your corrupt friends that think they can own this city.”

For a long moment he said nothing, studying her face. Her heart was hammering. She didn’t breathe. Please, please. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said at last, and he smiled. “So it really is just the two of you, then. Good. That makes my life easier.” He settled back into his chair.

She held her breath to avoid revealing herself with a sigh of relief. He’d taken her decoy—for now—but he was still watching her like a hawk, appraising. A shiver ran through her at his piercing gaze. “Other people will be looking for me,” she finally managed to say. “My job will notice I’m missing. You can’t just—you can’t keep me here!”

“I’ll admit it was a bit impulsive, what I did last night.” Volkan lounged in his chair, once again perfectly at ease, completely in control of the conversation. “That boy had no one, and no one will miss him now that he’s dead. He was no one.” Bitter grief struck Felicia then, at the thought of that man dying alone and unknown. Volkan didn’t give him another moment’s consideration. “But you, Felicia...you have a job, and friends. People know you. It was a risk, taking you.” He leaned forward, completely boxing her into her seat with his body. “But the things I’m going to do to you...I think it’ll be worth it.”

The cruel hunger in his smile left her speechless. Overcome with dread, she pressed herself into the back of the seat, her breath quickening, her hands clutching the arms of the chair. His eyes tracked each movement with a lazy appreciation.

“Don’t worry about your job,” he said, placing a mock-comforting hand on her thigh, one thumb caressing. “They’ll be getting a letter from you this morning, letting them know you had to leave town for a family emergency. You don’t know when you’ll be back.” His touch deepened, still burning into her skin through her clothes. “And if they decide to dig too deeply into things, it’ll be easy enough to shut them down forever.”

Gritting her teeth, she shoved his hand off of her, and he let her with a grin. “You can’t just do this forever,” she hissed. “You can’t just crush everyone who inconveniences you. At some point you’re going to fall.” She needed to believe it was true.

“Then I might as well enjoy everything I have while I can.” Volkan stood again, and his eyes slid down her body with a barely-concealed hunger. “Now, why don’t I show you to your new room?”

“No!” Panic seized Felicia like a vice gripping her chest. She pressed herself against the chair, unable to take a deep breath, throwing another desperate glance at the door behind her. It was too much, all at once—the knowledge of where she was, who she was with, what he would do to her.

“It’s happening either way,” he said, pulling her up by the arm as if she weighed nothing, “and it’ll hurt less if you don’t fight.” With rough hands on her shoulders, he shoved her out of the office and forced her down the hallway.

She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t. He was going to walk her upstairs and rape her and probably kill her after, because she was some rat who dared to stand against him, and she couldn’t let it happen while she waited for her friends to find her. All thoughts of enduring until the moment was right fled her mind. She needed to get out now.

He hasn’t tied my hands, she realized dimly as she was forced along the hallway. He hadn’t tied her hands, and he was relying on her fear and his strength to keep her there. This was her last chance to take him by surprise.

Her bare feet caught on the rug underneath and she allowed herself to stumble, falling to one knee. A soft sob escaped her, and she thought, he loves to get close. Let him get close...

His breath was at her ear, one hand on the back of her neck. “You must be exhausted,” he murmured. “You poor—”

She slammed her head back into his face as she shot to her feet, skull colliding with his nose. He grunted in pain and his hands were off her and she ran, throwing herself down the hallway, adrenaline coursing through her.

Scrambling around the corner, she saw the ornate oak door of the front hall. I just need to get out to the street. Volkan’s mansion was surrounded by the bustle of the city. If she could just make it outside, someone would have to hear her, help her. Even he can’t explain away someone running screaming from his house—

She threw the door open and stopped short at the threshold.

The grounds were neatly manicured, a single road leading away from the mansion. A thicket of woods sprawled as far as her eyes could see, and to one side—a lake, morning mist swirling about the surface. The sky was blush with the light of dawn, and she could just barely make out mountains in the distance. No streets, no buildings. No other people.

They weren’t in Trisgate at all.

Volkan stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her chest, pulling her close to his body. Stunned, she didn’t fight him. “Where are we?”

He pressed a gentle kiss into her hair. “Somewhere no one will ever look for you.”

#out unseen #my writing #my oc: felicia #my oc: marcus #my oc: volkan #yeah honestly just consider this whole series a 'choose not to warn'#bc i'm trying to warn for stuff but never knew exactly what to warn or how to word it haha #so i'll do my best but i apologize if i didn't warn for something i should've!#anyway this is like one of those chapters where i pretend i have an actual plot and characters and stuff #ty for bearing with me #ou content

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squad51goals · 3 years

Text

Summer of 51′s #6: Sleep

Title: I’ll Just Leave This Here

Dix and Kel and the how and why of what they keep at each other’s places. Includes PTSD, some maladaptive drinking, and a doctor in tennis shorts.

AO3 version here.

His grandmother had made the patchwork quilt for him years ago, out of scraps she'd saved from childhood clothes he'd outgrown, as a going-away present for when he went off to college. He had brought it over to Dix's place as a precaution -- Dix has a tendency to steal the covers, and while waking up to find her contentedly asleep in a sort of blanket burrito is undeniably cute, it's also kind of chilly over on his side.

This winter night is particularly cold for L.A., down in the 40s, and he has to divest himself of hat and coat and gloves once he's inside and Dix teases him a little about his hat hair. It's one of those quiet nights where neither of them says all that much, where they just end up slouched together on the couch watching bad sitcoms and then after a while she's slowly sliding her hand up his leg with raised eyebrows and a mischievous little smile.

The bedroom is definitely warmer, and the degree of frisky they achieve means all the blankets end up on the floor anyway. It only starts feeling cold again afterward, when he's lying there tangled in a single sheet and Dix is in the shower, splashing and whistling fragments of some jazz tune.

He rolls over to the edge of the bed, enough to pull the quilt back up without actually having to sit up. The slightly frayed patchwork makes him smile. Gram had probably figured it would be on his own child's bed by now.

He'll have to get that fixed before it gets any worse -- it probably needs a stitch that's not surgeon's sutures, maybe Dix knows how. Gram and Dix would've liked each other, he thinks.

II.

Sometimes, at his place, Dix gets up in the middle of the night to go read. Investigating her prolonged absence from bed at 2 a.m. that first time and spotting her curled up in the corner of the couch, head bent over the book in her lap and the lamplight turning her hair numinous, had been like seeing some Renaissance painting. (He's never told her that and will probably never get up the nerve to.)

At some point, he's not sure just when, she'd started leaving some of her books in the end-table drawer: cheap paperbacks, some a little frayed around the edges. He'd been in a rare mood of cleaning out all the odd places you hide stuff when company's coming -- a mood sourly buoyed by not being able to find the flashlight or his spare keys or the last electric bill -- and at first he hadn't known what to think.

Cherry Ames? Sue Barton? Those bubbleheaded fictional twits who've now given about three generations' worth of young women completely wrong ideas about what nursing is like? I thought you were more levelheaded and practical than that, Dix --

And the last paperback is Cherry Ames, Student Nurse, and a dog-eared bit of the corner is missing and there's writing on the flyleaf underneath, Lt. D. McCall 5/1952, and he remembers where she'd been and what she'd been doing just barely out of being a student nurse herself and decides that just this once he'll keep his big mouth shut.

III.

Dix's place is just about halfway between Rampart and the tennis courts, so it only makes practical sense for him to keep a set of clothes and one of the really good racquets at her place, stashed on the top shelf in the bedroom closet. If a morning after happens to be the start of a full day off and the weather isn't too obscenely hot, a couple hours of chasing down serves (mostly from a machine, in the mornings) is one of the few things that makes his brain be entirely quiet these days.

She'd come along a few times, a little sleepy-eyed and gamely whacking at serves like she was macheting her way through a jungle, and for someone so fast on her feet and quick to react in an ER, is she ever hopeless at tennis. You can go score love, I'm staying home and scoring loaf, she'd finally said after that time she'd tripped and hit the court in what he could only describe as a dry-land belly-flop.

Bold of you to assume my final score there, he'd said mock-indignant, and she'd just laughed.

These days, on tennis mornings, she's usually still asleep when he leaves, stirring just enough at a quick kiss on the temple for a smile and a murmured See you. Sometimes, though, she's awake enough to chat a bit, and sometimes he's just finished changing into tennis whites only to turn around and find her sitting up and eyeing him up and down, analytical and appreciative all at once and --

Those mornings, he usually ends up getting to the courts later than he'd planned, but he can't say he minds the reason why at all.

IV.

They don't talk about the war.

He has some idea of the specifics, of course -- he'd seen her resume when reviewing his new staff's qualifications after being named Emergency Department head. Nurse, United States Army, Korean Conflict 1950-53. Near-frontline duty caring for combat casualties at the 8063rd and 4077th MASH units. A list of service medals and commendations that made no sense to his lifelong-civilian self but sounded impressive.

Not unusual, really, emergency as a specialty was drawing a lot of staff who'd been in either Korea or 'Nam. If he'd thought anything at the time, it had been along the lines of Well, if she could handle that, L.A. ER on a bad night shouldn't knock her down. And he'd been right, Dix is practically a perpetual motion machine when she's really in her element.

They don't talk about the war, so it had taken time for him to start noticing the little tells. How sometimes, after certain types of cases -- usually ones involving explosion injuries or amputations -- he'll go into the break room to find her there, smoking and looking eerily spaced-out and taking a second to respond. The slight double-take she does if a copter flies over (he'd only really picked up on that during the first fire season they'd worked together, damn things were always buzzing around then).

After the Rampart research lab had blown up, there had been nights when he'd been repeatedly vaguely awakened by her restlessness, till finally she'd just gotten up and left. The first time, he'd crept down the hall after a while to check on her and spotted her sitting out on the balcony, back against the sliding door, which was cracked just enough to let the taut phone cord stretch through. Her voice, a little hoarse: I'm just tired, Roy, I don't know --

And he'd gone back to bed with uneasiness stirring like an eel just below his sternum -- of course that whole mess might've brought up bad stuff, at least she had the sense to talk to DeSoto, he himself had told her he didn't want to discuss it and did that make him a coward or just insensitive?

They don't talk about the war, but in early April a bottle appears in his medicine cabinet: Valium, two milligrams, Dix's name as patient and Joe's as prescriber. I'm keeping it at your place because I don't want it right at hand if I can't drop off straightaway, she tells him, that particular glint in her eyes that means he'd better not ask for any more detail if they don't want a fight brewing.

But his next free day, he spends some time at the library, looking up some things about Korea -- noting, especially, what had happened along the front lines in April 1951, no wonder it gets worse for her in spring. After that, if she's staying over and wakes more than twice in a night, either tossing and muttering or just bolting right up, he gets her a Valium and some water and she doesn't argue, and if she's not too jumpy for it he curls up around her till she passes out again.

They don't talk about the war.

There are certain cases that are just the equivalent of bar-fight sucker-punches. Everyone who works anywhere near medicine knows that. The ones that knock you on your ass are different for different people. He hopes no one working at or around Rampart has spotted the pattern in his.

(Tommy Mannering, calmly playing with building blocks, as if he hadn't attempted suicide that very morning. Frankie Gentry and the X-rays showing the violence stamped into his still-growing bones. The sick helplessness when a child is on your exam table and you somehow just know what's been happening before you even get started.)

He and Dix don't talk about his childhood any more than they talk about the war. He thinks Dix has probably figured something out, though, because it's after those types of cases being resolved (or at least out of Rampart's hands, one way or another) that she offers Martini Night the next time they both have the night shift off. And he always accepts, because otherwise his brain will just pointedly Not Sleep and he'll only lie there unable to stop thinking. At least at her place they can doze off on her couch after a couple of belts.

Except he's pretty sure Dix makes the absolute worst martinis in the Western Hemisphere: barely short of lethal alcohol content and the flavor of a saturated bar mat. Definitely the worst drinks he's ever had, and that includes his ill-advised attempt at being in a fraternity. He's taken to waiting till she leaves the room, then quietly pouring part of his glass down the sink and replacing it with olive brine.

(Dix just leans back and casually drinks these horrendous disinfectant-like concoctions with the arch sophistication of someone sipping a hundred-dollar cocktail in a fine restaurant, and all he can think is that her palate has somehow not just been ruined but entirely burned off.)

The day the Freeman kid is discharged is no different. (The Freeman kid, slightly pompous and full of high-level medical reading and very scared, and underneath all that the simple fact of being there because of being hit and it was like looking at himself at thirteen.) On the drive over, though, he stops at the first liquor store he spots.

He gets to Dix's place just as rain is really starting to come down. He's not sure what's better, her face going from puzzled when she spots the bag to surprised when he takes out the bottle of high-end gin, or finally being able to mix two proper martinis in this context.

I'll just leave this here, he says as he tucks the bottle away in a kitchen cabinet, and when he brings her her glass she's smiling and he feels the weight lift off him, just a little.

~~~

Note: April-May 1951 was the Chinese Fifth Phase Offensive, when 700,000+ Chinese troops ruptured the Korean War frontlines and poured south. The resulting casualties hit the medical units like a nonstop load of bricks. Remembering it would give Dix a hard time, to say the least.

#emergency!#summer of 51's #fanfic

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chasingmyfreedom · 3 years

Text

Grand Plans

SNAP!

Isadora hissed and flinched backward from the sparking electronics, dropping the headset to the ground with a crack of plastic. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The wires were all covered. She’d wired them correctly! ... Right?

... Right?

A cry of frustration bounced around the room. Why wasn’t it working?! These things weren’t that complicated! What was so complex about a pair of Song-Cancelling Headphones?! Izzy wiped some tears from her eyes before picking up the device from the ground once again.

Across her desk was not her typical paints and colored pencils, replaced with screws and electrical tape. A book of electrical engineering glared up at her. She’d have to return it soon or risk suspicion and late fees.

Another night. Another failure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“A-Natural reporting: all quiet on the Northern front.” The Lucid paced between a couple of buildings, holding their ear and sighing at the night sky. The third designation she’d heard that week. Never the same patrol. Never the same personale. With more people came more patrols getting closer to her escape route. Too close for comfort. Izzy cursed under her breath as she marked another loop on her map.

Another night. Another setback.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Keep your thumb outside of your fist, or you’re going to break it.” Izzy leaned against a tree nearby as the Fool’s pink menace and her emotional support ginger practiced forms. This was... slow. Slower than she wanted. Slower than she needed. There was no way this child would survive a Hunt. Not long enough for Izzy to get to her.

“Plant yourself more solidly. You’re tiny and easy to throw.” Another command. Short. Frustrated. Impatient. This was going to take longer than she thought. Longer than she had. This was only one of her concerns. She sighed.

“Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Try it one more time. You’ll get it.”

Another night. Another worry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No. Not another one. Eight was already too many. Eight was hard enough to keep alive. Isadora stared at the other red-headed child, smiling as she worked on stringing some lights around the boxcar. Intelligent. Eager to learn. Unflinching at allegations of being the Hunter’s whelp. Still willing to speak and assist in spite of those. A good kid, with a good head on her shoulders.

Absolutely not. No. Not another mouth to feed. Not another body to keep alive. Not another child to protect.

And yet. She was tempted. But not yet.

Another night. Another addition.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Markers and bleach and alcohol filled the air. Lamplight and old t-shirts. Giggles and memes. A good night. A good day. Hastily scribbled designs bled into flowering creations of color and atrocities to the nose, swirling ink into ripples and melting just enough to still be recognizable, yet unique.

She’d always wanted to try spray paint. Perhaps this would be a good trade. Artistic warfare at its finest. A feathered, glowing mask. Hers. Theirs. Glorious, but fleeting. Fading. Dying.

... Dying.

Another night. Another fear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A flash of teeth. A roll of eyes. Years of knowledge passed down and put into practice. Rolling. Shifting. Thinking. Acting. A deadly dance of skill between teacher and student, yet neither believed they were better than the other. Equals with so much to learn. At least this one she wouldn’t have to worry about. This one could take care of himself.

But that was what made him so difficult. Both of them. Headstrong and determined to fall as deep as they could go until they drowned in a black sun and a sadistic grin. Would either even come? Would either even listen? She wouldn’t leave them behind. Couldn’t.

Another night. Another heartache.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Izzy stared at her plans, written nicely on a large scroll of butcher paper. A map of the town. A basic diagram of the woods. Patrols and numbers and estimated populations all scrawled across the tops and corners with several equations and estimates. Singes and spare pieces of tape. A plan, finally coming together.

A list. A list of eight, maybe nine.

Izzy stared at her handwriting as if it wasn’t hers. Too many. Much too many. Maybe even Hosts by the time she managed this. Would it even work, then? Could she even test that? Doubt and indecision coiled around her mind.

And yet, still a glimmer of hope. A vision of freedom, a sunrise, all outside over the treetops. Friends and family, found and otherwise, all there. All together. All survived. That’s what she wanted; Not blood or glory, but simply the right for her to live and for others to learn how. It was time. She needed help now. And all of them deserved a chance at life.

‘There's a whole universe out there. I promise, you'll see it.’

#TBC-Tober2021 #drabble

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t-underneaththeradardancing · 3 years

Video

youtube

That's Entertainment (Live At The Glasgow Apollo / 1982)

A police car and a screaming siren Pneumatic drill and ripped-up concrete A baby wailing, a stray dog howling The screech of brakes and lamplight blinking That's entertainment That's entertainment A smash of glass and the rumble of boots An electric train and a ripped-up phone booth Paint-splattered walls and the cry of a tomcat Lights going out and a kick in the balls I say that's entertainment That's entertainment La la la la la, ah La la la la la, ah Days of speed and slow-time Mondays Pissing down with rain on a boring Wednesday Watching the news and not eating your tea A freezing cold flat with damp on the walls I say that's entertainment That's entertainment La la la la la La la la la la Waking up at 6 A.M. on a cool warm morning Opening the windows and breathing in petrol An amateur band rehearsing in a nearby yard Watching the telly and thinking 'bout your holidays That's entertainment That's entertainment La la la la la, ah La la la la la, ah La la la la la, ah La la la la la Waking up from bad dreams and smoking cigarettes Cuddling a warm girl and smelling stale perfume A hot summer's day and sticky black tarmac Feeding ducks in the park and wishing you were far away That's entertainment That's entertainment Two lovers kissing masks a scream of midnight Two lovers missing the tranquility of solitude Getting a cab and travelling on buses Reading the grafitti about slashed-seat affairs I say that's entertainment That's entertainment La la la la la, ah La la la la la, ah La la la la la, ah La la la la la La la la la la, ah La la la la la, ah La la la la la, ah La la la la la La la la la la, ah La la la la la, ah La la la la la, ah

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arahul-abyssia · 4 years

Text

An Old Memory

As part of @starprincesshlc and @jklantern ’s Nintember event, celebrating the founding of Nintendo, I’ve decided to try writing some stories, each based around five of the prompts (since I can’t write complete mini-narratives every single day). This one is based off the first five! (Note: I’ve hidden most of it under the cut, because nobody needs to have to try to scroll past it on mobile)

~~ Hero, Speed, Home, Friendship, Journey ~~

“Awwwww, why can’t we play outside?”

“You know very well why, Abby. It’s too dark for that right now.”

“But Daniel gets to!”

“Well, when you’re as old as Daniel is, maybe then you’ll get to run around outside in the dark. But until then, Elly, it's inside for you two.”

“Uuuuuggghhh… fiiiiiiine!”

“Good. Now, run along to the living room; your grandmother has something she wants to show you.”

The two children ran into the room to find their grandma sitting on the couch, looking at them with eyes as sweet as ever through thin glasses. She motioned them to sit on either side of her. Whenever the twins’ Granny Eva came over, she always had something cool to show them or some amazing story to tell, and they were sure that this time would be no different.

As they got seated, Granny Eva reached behind her and pulled out a large book, full of pictures nearly falling out and bulging in the middle. They had seen this particular volume many times before; it was her scrapbook, her pride, joy, and treasure, containing countless pictures of all the adventures and events that had happened throughout her life. She could recount even the smallest details about each and every image on its pages, and the twins were always invested in the stories each picture told.

“Alright, Abby, Elly! I’ve shown you two plenty of photos from when I was an adult, but have I ever told you about what I did when I was a little girl?”

Their eyes immediately widened, practically sparkling in the lamplight, as they let out a resounding gasp and subsequent “No! Tell us, tell us!” in perfect unison.

Granny Eva chuckled; they always were so easily invested in her stories. “If you insist…! Let me tell you girls… about my Pokémon journey.”

She pulled open one of the first pages and pointed to its first picture, showing her with a Pokémon held in her arms in front of a house. “This is the picture my mother took of me at the very beginning of my journey. I was only 12 years old then, quite a bit older than you two now, and this here is Sal, back when he was only a Sobble.”

“Why’d you choose a Sobble, Granny? Who else was there?”

“Well, my other choices were a Cyndaquil and a Turtwig, and it was a tough decision. But I think what ultimately got me was that look in Sal’s eyes, like he was nervous, unsure of himself, about to burst into tears. I guess I wanted to be the one to help dry them, and help him become strong enough that he’d no longer be constantly sad.”

She looked up as the shadows in the room shifted, and smiled. “And I’d like to think I succeeded. Wouldn’t you agree, Sal?”

Standing at the threshold to the living room was her long-time friend and partner. The years had taken just as much a toll on him as they did on all creatures--the vibrant yellows of his crest and cape membrane were faded and he occasionally struggled to walk without assistance--but his eyes were as sweet and bright as ever, just like hers. He smiled and nodded in response.

“Would you like to join us? I’m telling my granddaughters about our first journey together.”

In a flash, Sal climbed onto the couch and draped himself across its back, his head resting on Eva’s shoulder. She knew that probably wasn’t the best for his physical conditions, but she had long since given up trying to get him to stop it.

The four settled in once more as the former Trainer moved to the next pictures and pages and explained each one. Most were pictures of the first landscapes she saw or the first cities she visited. One depicted her and a young boy, her first opponent in a Pokémon battle (“I won easily, of course.”) and the Nurse Joy of the first Pokémon Center where she healed her Pokémon (“I learned later that her real name is Lucy. ...You didn’t think they all were actually named Joy, did you?”).

Another page turn gave way to a small poster, one that barely fit on the page, of the first Gym she challenged and beat. “Sal and I beat them alone; just us two! The attendants weren’t sure if I’d do well with a one-Pokémon ‘team’, but we proved our strength!”

At this, Sal let out a breath of agreement.

“And over here is me with the first Gym Leader I beat. Poor Clifton… Most new Trainers challenge him first, since both Water and Grass do very well against his Rock- and Ground-types.”

She turned to the next page. “Oh! This here is Lexa’s newly sealed Pokéball, and here she is outside of it, back when she was still an Electrike. She was the very first Pokémon I caught in the wild. You’re supposed to catch a few before you challenge your first Gym, but as you just saw, I didn’t. She was a bit unsure about me at first, but we quickly became close friends.”

“Ta!”

“Yes, of course, Sal, you’ll always be my best friend…! No one could replace you. …Y’know, girls, Sal actually had a bit of trouble with the battle with Lexa, since he’s weak to Electric-type moves and all--don’t give me that face, you know you did!--but we pulled through and became all the stronger because of it.”

“Wow…! I hope I can be as strong as you someday!”

“Yeah… me too!”

As the girls piped up, Eva heard the hints of sleepiness creeping into their voices, though if she brought it up, they’d deny it. Deciding to quicken the pace of the story, so their mother could put them to bed properly afterwards, she skipped ahead a few pages, quickly describing the points when Sal evolved into a Drizzile and then an Inteleon, then stopped on one with several photographs of individuals dressed in grey and orange uniforms running out of a building. “If you want to know how strong I was, look at all these people running away. They were members of an Evil Team that used to operate in this Region. I don’t know if they ever gave themselves a name, but they were trying to take over the area, starting with the Broadcasting Center in Noctrin. I beat every single one of the team members there, and even two of their Admins. They really didn’t like me after that.”

“Whoa… what happened to them then?”

“Why did they disappear?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple. After I had gotten all my Gym Badges and set off to challenge the Pokémon League, their Leader and his personal entourage blocked my path to try and… well, to try and teach me a lesson. Of course, they all completely underestimated my and my Pokémon’s strength and bonds, and we quickly beat all of their teams. In their shock, they let me proceed, and I heard later that the law caught up to them and they were quickly dismantled, never to return.”

Abby and Elly stared at their grandmother with eyes wider than ever before. “You took down the leader of an Evil Team?! You’re the coolest, Granny! That musta been the best part of your whole journey!”

“No way, silly! The best part was beating the Champion and taking their place, right, Granny?”

“Nuh-uh! Beating an evil person is so much cooler than beating some stupid government people battles!”

“You’re some stupid government people battles!”

“Hey!!”

“Now, now, girls…” Eva pushed apart the twins, who were leaning over their grandmother’s legs, practically at each other’s throats. “While both of those were very fun experiences, the truth is, the best part of my journey was neither of those things.”

“Really?” they shouted in unison. “Well what was it then?”

She turned the pages a few more times, slowing on her pictures with the Champion and her winning team, then turned over one last leaf, revealing two pages even more cluttered with photos of the landscapes of the Region, the Pokémon she saw and caught, her team playing and fighting, and the many people she met on her trips between cities. “It was the sense of adventure of it all… going out into the wilderness, seeing everything the Region had to offer, letting me experience what was out there beyond our little hometown and the towns around it, feeling the wind in my face as I sped through nature on my bike, playing with and caring for my Pokémon… It was… magical. Sometimes, I feel like it all passed by too quickly.”

Her granddaughters faces remained painted with wonder and imagination. She longed to go on about every minute aspect of her journey, but as she looked up, she realized that their mother was waiting in the doorway, their bedtime rapidly approaching. “Oh, my! Look at how late it is! Run along with your mother now, it’s bedtime for the both of you.”

“But—!”

“No buts about it. I’ve kept you two up late enough as it is. If you don’t get enough rest, you won’t have enough energy for tomorrow.”

The two looked at each other for one more moment, a million thoughts running through their minds, then sighed in defeat and slid off the couch to follow their mother upstairs. As they passed her, she turned to Eva and mouthed “Thanks, Mom,” before ushering them away.

She leaned back in her seat, the scrapbook still turned to the fully-covered page, as Sal slid down from his perch on the sofa’s back to the cushion beside her. For once in a long while, tears were welling up in his eyes. “So all that reminiscing got to you, old friend?”

He nodded.

“Well, I don’t see why we can’t continue looking through the book; ‘bedtime’ doesn’t apply to us. Would you like that?”

Another nod, stronger this time.

And with not another word of anticipation, Eva turned to the next page and began to recount its events, her partner Pokémon watching and listening as intently as her granddaughters only moments ago.

#pokemon #pokémon #nintember #my writing

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lady-moonbroch · 5 years

Text

Mitsuhide x MC “Perilous Games”

Fandom: Ikémen Sengoku Kinktober: Day 5 || Gun play

Genre: NSFW +18 (No hint of violence at all) Word Count: 2.040 (buckle-up it’s a long one) Author’s note: Hello my dear darlings! I’m a tiny bit late for this one but it matters not, it’s here mis pieces de resistance! I just wish to apologise profoundly if this is sloppy. I’m trying to be quick since I’m unprepared and this was a last minute call (I was oblivious to gunplay kink), but I hope you enjoy it! I will see your on the 7th 🍎 and 8th day 🎩

[The challenge] ~ @alloveroliver

“Will you humour me in a game, little mouse?”

He approached you after his birthday banquet came to an end, offering a challenge.

And you should have known better. He is trouble, the danger in his eyes prominent and unmasked. Yet you answered affirmatively. His low baritone voice rang in your ears like the song of a siren, luring you into a deadly trap. His devilish smirk only confirmed that he was up to no good.

“Come to my palace tomorrow by twilight. I will be expecting you to be on time” he finished. He took your hand and left a lingering kiss on the back, his golden irises piercing right through you. Your mouth hanged open and a deep shade of red graced your cheeks, your breathing heavy and laboured. “The smallest amount of tease and you are a mess”, you scolded yourself. How are you to handle what he holds in store for you when the sun goes down tomorrow?

______________________________

The colours of dusk had painted the sky by the time you made your way to his castle the day after. You tried to mentally prepare yourself, but you knew was to no avail when facing a kitsune’s tricks. He always was so unpredictable, but even you had to admit it was one of his greatest charms. You smiled to yourself as you finally reached the front gates greeted by Kyubei. Mitsuhide’s loyal vassal lead you to his room, on your way there noticing the suspicious lack of servants in the mansion. Alerted, with your heart pounding in your ribcage you finally arrived at his door and entered. The room smelled of incense, smelled like him. The heavy scent engulfed you and snaked it’s way in your senses, making you highly aware of his imposing presence.

“Thank you Kyubei. You may leave”, he said calmy. The palms of your hand began to sweat as pressure and excitement began to build up inside of you.

He stayed seated at the floor cleaning his tanegashima. You remained standing there, entranced by his long fingers working deftly on the rifle and his long, white eyelashes obscuring his amber eyes.

“Are you so enthralled by my presence that your forgot how to speak, my witty little girl?”. He chuckled at your surprised gasp as you were snapped out of your daze. He was, indeed, a feast for sore eyes, his ethereal beauty bewitching, rendering you speechless. But you would not let him win the game, not so quickly. You feigned annoyance, your lips forming a pout for emphasis.

“You asked me to be here to play a game and I agreed. Shouldn’t we start?”, you inquired, unwilling to relent to his teasing. He cocked an eyebrow as his gaze focused on you. He placed his gun on the table and rose to his feet, sauntering your way. His statuesque figure felt even more towering as he came to a stop right in front of you, his fingers reaching up to lightly graze your bottom lip. You felt your body quiver at his touch, yet you commanded your eyes to stay trained on his, drowning in his pools of gold.

“Correct. You came here after accepting my invitation for a game. Yet you lost the game before it even began”, he explained. Your audible gulp echoed in the room and your eyes widened in shock. He bent down and spoke in a low, mellow voice right next to your ear. “You see, princess, coming here meant your defeat. And you fell right into the trap… straight into the fox’s claws”. Electricity ran down your spine as his breath tickled your skin. A trembling sigh escaped your lips and you held onto a fistful of his kimono to keep yourself standing. “Y-You…you are truly horrible…Mitsuhide”, you stammered, his smile only widened at the sound of your grumbling.

“I have done nothing…yet” he hinted. He pulled back to look into your eyes. “Facing defeat means absolute submission and obedience to me”. His hands cupped both of your cheeks, his eyes soft and gentle. “But in order to proceed, I shall need your trust as well. Can you promise me that, little one?”. His last words have left you stunned. He never looked or touched with such tenderness and it only left you craving more. You barely managed to confirm your agreement with a nod, entranced by the way he looked at you so lovingly.

His eyes lit up with desire before his lips crashed on yours with urgency and need. You tightened your grip as your knees grew weak, moaning helplessly against him. His tongue dipped inside your mouth, demanding surrender as it intertwined with yours in a battle for dominance.

Mitsuhide broke the kiss and took a step back as you both panted for air. He made quick work of your obi, throwing it at the side, leaving your kimono to hang open from your shoulders.

“Kneel and place your hands behind your back, my dear”, he ordered and you obeyed, sitting on your knees with your chin up as you marvelled at his face.

“Such a good girl”. You felt your core clenching at the sound of his deep, husky voice, your breathing quickening in sync with your heartbeat. His eyes stayed focus on yours as the pad of his index finger grazed your upper and lower lip, coaxing an unwilling mewl from you. You knew he was messing with your head, and at that moment you felt brave enough to pay him in kind. You gently took hold of his wrist and wrapped your tongue around his finger, sucking it playfully. You hummed in satisfaction when you heard him draw a sharp breath, proud of the reaction you managed to draw from him. He removed his hand from you grasp and cupped your chin to lift your face up again.

“It seems your docility was short-lived, little mouse. But tell me, where did you ever learn to do such naughty things?”. His smirk deviously at your act of provocation.

“I believe punishment is needed for this misbehaving princess” he said. He turned on his heel and took the gun from the tabletop before returning his attention back to you. You would lie if you didn’t admit you were scared at that moment, yet you knew you could trust him blindly. “I would never point a loaded gun at you, my darling. So do not fret” he assured you with a smile. He slowly traced the muzzle of his riffle across your exposed skin, beginning from your neck and gliding down your chest. He pushed your kimono aside to reveal your bare bosom and brushed the tip over your hardened nipples.

The sensation of the cold metal against your sensitive skin made it hard for you to restrain your cries of pleasure and avoid shutting your eyes. The rich fabric of your kimono slipped and pooled around your thighs, leaving you completely exposed to his gilded gaze.

Υour eyes fluttered open again, greeted by the view of his prominent erection, unable to be concealed underneath his hakama. The sight made you lick your lips unconsciously, thrilled from the effect you induced on him.

The feeling of the muzzle being dragged on your abdomen and between your legs brought you back to your senses. Mitsuhide slid the barrel further in, making sure it cause friction on your clit. Your breaths became shallow, fast and pleading whines rolled off your tongue. You chanted his name as he continue to tease your core in slow circular motions, your legs spreading wider in a desperation. He increased the pace only slightly and ground your hips on the barrel to bring yourself closer to release.

“Ahn...ngh...Mitsu-hide..” you whimpered frustrated.

Mitsuhide smirked noticing your exasperation and halted his movements. He drew his gun away gently, marvelling at the coat of your arousal smeared all over. He stared at you straight in the eye as he glided his tongue across the barrel, gather your essence. You forgot how to breath as the scene unfolded before you, so deliciously lascivious, making your heart almost jump out of your chest.

He let out throaty chuckle before his skilful hands removed his own garments, revealing his lean and solid physic to your hungry eyes. You drank at the sight of his sculpted figure, looking both sturdy yet soft under the lamplight. Spellbound eyes fell on his unveiled erection, your mouth unconsciously opening slightly. His hand reached the back of your head and took a fistful of your hair, your gaze drawn up to him.

“Open wide, little mouse” he order and you were more than happy to comply.

You gave his sizeable shaft a slow, long lick, then sucked at the tip teasing as your right hand attending to the rest of his length. You took him deeper and deeper in your mouth, bobbing your head back and forth at a gradually increasing speed. Your eyes never strayed from his face, taking mental notes of what made his stoic expression shutter, giving it’s way to one of please. His cheeks were barely tinted red, his breathing quicker than before and his eyes blow black with lust.

He gently bucked his hips against your face, his cock reaching almost the end of your throat, making you grope his rear for stability. You hummed with satisfaction when you felt his palpable throbbing inside your mouth, signalling he was getting closer to the edge. However, before you could minister to his release, he slip his cock out of your mouth in one swift motion. You looked at him while you wiped the saliva from your chin.

He knelt down before you and cupped your cheeks, pulling you towards him. Your surprised gasp was swallowed by his hungry lips crashing on yours, tongues entangled and hands exploring every inch of the body. Mitsuhide hooked his arms beneath your hips, lifting and pressing you on him before he lowered you on his hardened member. He buried himself up to the hilt, your moans mingling in harmony and then immediately pushed you down on the tatami. He drove himself inside of you hard and fast, his mouth nipping and sucking your neck, leaving red marks flourishing in it’s wake.

“Scream for me, little mouse. No one is here to hear you. Your cries are only for me to hear…”, he purred in your ear before he bend down to suck and tug at the swell of your breasts.

You indulged him, calling out for him, letting him know how his cock stretched you so exquisitely well, each thrust more divine than the one before and begging him not stop. You felt his body tense against you, his breathing more rugged and his grunts louder.

He lifted his upper body and held you tightly by the waist, plunging deeper and rougher inside your welcoming cunt. You wrapped yours legs around his waist and your hands arounds his wrists as you arched off the tatami, you impending climax shaking your core.

“Cum for me, my love..Show me you are mine!”, he moaned in a voice almost delirious from pleasure. The coil inside you snapped at his command and waves of pleasure washed over you as your core palpitated, coating his shaft with your arousal. The sound of skinslapping continued as you rode your high, Mitsuhide’s thrusts becoming sloppier as he experienced his own release, filling you with his essence. You both toppled on the floor, heaving for air, skin glistening with sweat. “How is it possible for him to look even more beautiful?”, you mused as you ran your fingers through his soft hair. Soon after you felt him move, kissing his way up ’til he reached your lips. He kissed you sweetly, slowly, relishing in the feeling of affection. He drew away and looked you in the eye, his fox-like, bewitching features laced with deviltry.

“I’m afraid, our tryst has not fully satiated my desire, little mouse”, he uttered lightly, capturing your bottom nip and tugging it roughly, coaxing a hoarse whimper from you. “I fear I must consume you whole, if I wish to satisfy my yearning for you”.

#alloverkinktober #ikemen sengoku #ikesen mistuhide #mitsuhide akechi #smut #kinktober day 5 #gunplay #claire's kinktoberfest

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writtenbybigoceans · 5 years

Text

Lost to the night

AN: I really have no idea what this is or where it came from. It’s kind of another punk!reader imagine bc i love that for some reason. It almost gets a little smutty in the middle, the smuttiest any of my writing has ever been. @honeyrosemuffins this is what I was talking to you about last weekend lol.

Synopsis: Shawn can’t escape his life, no matter where he runs. A chance meeting at a club changes this, and he realises maybe he doesn’t need to run.

He knew it wasn’t a good idea, he knew that he wasn’t making the most responsible choice, but he honestly just didn’t care enough to stop. He was twenty-one, he was going to enjoy himself for one night without thinking about how it might look.

Shawn didn’t remember getting to the club, or what it was called, or where it was but he did know it was the best place on earth. Everywhere, bodies writhed under technicolour lights in time to the thumping bass, flashing in and out of being with every flicker of blue and red and green. Their faces seemed alien too, contorted with shadows and black paint and shiny metal that caught the light. He didn’t care; He was electric. And then a familiar chord progression radiated through the room, through him, snapping him out of his dizzying trance.

He couldn’t escape, not even here. One thought echoed through his hollow body, replacing the warm buzz that had been flowing through him moments before. Get out.

He shoves through the crowd, not trying as hard as he probably should to dodge and weave between people. But he doesn’t stop to apologise or look back, not even when he’s at the edge of the dance floor. He spots a bright green exit sign glowing like a beacon just past the bar and barrels towards it, shouldering it open and tumbling out onto the street outside.

Finally, silence envelopes him like a cocoon, punctured only by the distant rumble of engines. He sucks in a deep breath, feeling the cool air brush over his red-hot skin, and lets it out in a deep sigh. Ok, ok, ok, ok, ok. He runs a hand over his face and through his hair, savouring the darkness behind his eyelids. Ok.

“You right bud?” The voice startles him and he whirls around. He’s not on the main street, he realises, but in a dimly lit beer-garden type space, lined by a low wooden fence and bench seats. And he’s not alone either. A girl is leaning against the wall beside the door he just barged out of, a lit cigarette perched between her fingers.

“Yeah, yeah all good,” he answers breathlessly. “Just needed a second to cool off.”

“Fair enough,” she answers, her dark eyes flickering over him. Shawn can’t stop himself from doing the same to her. She’s wearing heavy black boots that swallow her leg up to her knee. The sliver of her right thigh he can see is marked with sharp lines of black ink, trailing up under the hem of her dark skirt. Her lips are blood red and her eyes, Shawn thinks the breath had been knocked out of him for a moment. They’re dark as the night sky, like two black holes that beckon him forwards.

“You want one?” she asks suddenly, snapping him out of his second trance. He frowns in confusion and she raises the lit cigarette.

“Oh, ah, no. I don’t really smoke.” He shoves his hands into his pockets rocks back on his heels, watching her nod and raise the tiny cylinder to her lips to take a final puff before letting it fall to the ground and crushing it under one chunky heel.

“Good, they’re fucking disgusting. I can only ever do it after I’ve had a few drinks.” She meets his eyes again and he feels their inexplicable pull once more, like he’s a mere planet to her blazing star, unable to resist gravity. She gives him a long considering look before speaking.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like the kind of person who would normally come somewhere like here.”

“What kind of person is that?”

“I don’t know, there’s at least a minimum of three facial piercings and dragon tattoo.” Her eyes fall to the guitar on his arm, exposed by the sleeve of his shirt. “Or they’re just a little sketchy.”

“So, you’re asking what a nice guy like me is doing in a place like this?” he asks with a dry smile. She shrugs, returning the look. His next breath is long and slow as he considers his answer. Say too much and give himself away, or say nothing and lock it away?

“Maybe I’m not as good of a guy as I look,” he answers after a beat of silence. Her eyebrows flicker up in disbelief.

“Now that I find hard to believe.”

“What would it take to change your mind?” he asks, taking a step towards her. She doesn’t move except for her eyes, those eyes that keep making his heart stutter. He’d played his hand, now it was her move.

“At least buy me a drink first,” she rolls her eyes and giggles and Shawn feels himself smirk. He ignores the flicker of his heartbeat at the sound of her laugh.

“Done,” he says, moving towards the door. She grins devilishly at him as he holds it open for her, stepping past him. Almost as soon as she sets foot towards the bar she freezes, so quickly that he nearly crashes into the back of her. His hands quickly grasp her waist to stop himself and she’s spinning back to face him, her own hands landing on his chest.

“You know what, I have tequila at home and that way we don’t have to listen to the crappiest dj set on the planet,” she leans up close to his ear as she speaks to be heard over the music and as she does the scent of her perfume engulfs his senses. His hand slides around her waist as he leans closer, drinking in the feeling of her body so close to his. His nose brushes the shell of her ear, tickled by a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail.

“I think that technically counts as you buying me a drink,” he murmurs and feels her breathy chuckle against his neck.

“I’m sure you’ll repay me somehow.”

Her hand slides into his as she twists away from him, tugging him behind her. There’s no crashing and barging through people as they leave the club this time, and Shawn doesn’t even notice the song playing over the speakers. All he can focus on is the electric feeling of her hand in his.

“Nice place,” Shawn says, taking in the small living room. Behind him, Y/n shuts the door and tosses her keys into the plate on the table beside it.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a tip, my housemates think mess counts as decoration.”

“You have housemates?” he turns to look at her, taking in her appearance under the overhead lights. Her hair is green, he realises with a jolt, a deep jade green that catches in the light as she moves. She turns her onyx eyes on him, peering up through her lashes as she replies. Shawn can feel his body lean forwards, his own eyes darting from hers to her impossibly plump lips.

The cab ride here had stretched out for what felt like an eternity with her tantalisingly close to him but untouchable. And here she was again, so close but still not close enough.

“Not tonight,” she replies with a quirk of her lips. “They’ve gone away for a few days, so I have the place to myself.” She takes a slight step forward, stopping just centimetres away from him. “I really don’t like playing games.”

That’s all it takes for Shawn to sweep forward, one hand sliding around her waist, the other cupping her jaw as his lips finally meet hers. She tastes faintly of tequila and cigarettes and feels like heaven. There’s no hesitation in how he kisses her, no teasing, feather-light touches or toying, and she can’t get enough of it. Her arms wind around his neck, drawing him endlessly closer and her fingers slide through the silky curls at the nape of his neck. A shudder rolls through him and he breaks away from her lips only to mouth over her jaw and plant a row of kisses down the sensitive column of her throat. Her fingers slip down his chest, undoing the buttons there one by one, revealing tight, toned muscles with every button loosed. He shudders again when her hand slides over the bare skin of his side and he pauses his ministrations to murmur against her skin.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“First door on the right down the hallway,” she gasps as his hand slides up her leg and hitches one knee over his hip, nipping at her shoulder.

“Jump,” he commands. And for the first time in a very long time, she yields. He lifts her easily, spinning them both around to walk down the hall. He opens the door without breaking stride and lowers them both down onto the bed, his enormous body completely covering hers.

“Can this come off?” he whispers, nudging the strap of her dress down to expose her shoulder.

“Only if this does,” she replies, tugging on the front of his shirt. He chuckles against her lips, kissing her again quickly before sitting up. He rids himself off the shirt quickly, tossing it to the floor before turning back to face Y/n. The only light in the room is lamplight from the street outside that spills across the bed, illuminating the room just enough to see. He feels like the breath has been knocked out of him.

The dress is gone, revealing a set of black lacy underwear and a matching bralette and the intricate lines of black ink that curl across the skin of her thigh and sternum. That combined with the way her hair had been mussed from lying down on the bed had an indescribable effect on him.

“Wow,” he breathes. She laughs softly and rolls her eyes, shuffling over to him and climbing onto his lap.

“What are you ‘wow’-ing at when you look like that?” she whispers against his ear, ghosting her lips over the edge of the flesh and down his jaw. His eyes flutter closed as she brushes a sensitive spot just below his jawbone, leaning his head back to allow her better access. It’s then that a stray thought wanders across his mind.

“Hey, I never even asked your name,” he hums as her tongue darts out over the same spot, barely biting back a moan.

“Mmm, you didn’t.” She sits up, her eyes dodging his. “I didn’t ask yours either.”

“It’s Shawn,” he tells her. She nods slightly. Her lips remain tightly pursed. “Is no names part of the deal or something?”

“No, or, I don’t really know.” She lets out a sigh and sits back from him properly. Her hands twist in her lap. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before. I don’t have ‘a deal’.”

“Really?” he blurts out before he can stop himself and mentally smacks himself when he sees the frown twist her features. “You just seemed so confident, that’s all.”

“You know, fake it ‘til you make it,” she sighs, glancing at the window, then down at her own hands. “I’ve only ever had sex while I’ve been in a long-term relationship, so I don’t really know how to have meaningless sex. Ugh, God, why am I telling you this?” She squeezes her eyes shut and huffs out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“It’s ok,” Shawn murmurs, rubbing a hand over her thigh. He chews over his next words for a moment before uttering a sigh of his own. “I can’t remember the last time I had anything meaningful with anyone. Not even sex, just anything.”

“What do you mean?” she mumbles after a moment, opening her eyes but not meeting his. He leans back, resting both his hands behind him and chewing on his lip. The buzz and warmth of the last hour since he met her drains out of him and those thoughts that he had been trying to hard to escape roll in like thunder clouds. And he couldn’t explain what it was about her, maybe that they were both barely clothed in a darkened room, or that she had just confessed something so personal to him, but he wanted to tell her.

“I’m in a fake relationship. We do everything a couple does when we’re around people who might see, but it ends there.”

There’s a pregnant pause as his words sink in. “How does that even happen?”

“It started off real, we actually liked each other. But then other people realised how ‘beneficial’ it would be for both of us, I guess. Then we went public and everyone was super supportive of making sure everyone knew we were dating.” He picks at the edge of his fingernail with his thumb. “I don’t know when we stopped being a real thing but eventually it was like we were putting on a show all the time, even to each other. Neither of us knows how to get out of it.”

“Just break up?” she suggests tentatively.

“It’s not just a relationship, it’s a business transaction. We’re both gaining too much from it to stop.”

“A business transaction?” She frowns even more, leaning back further to look at him fully as if this is the first time she’s really seeing him. “Are you a reality tv star or something?”

“No,” he says, unable to stop the amused smile that breaks across his face. She hadn’t recognised him at all? Maybe he was further from home than he realised. “No, I’m a singer. I don’t think my life is interesting enough for reality tv.”

“A singer,” she repeats. “In a semi-fake relationship, for what, PR?” she asks and he nods stiffly. She considers for a moment, glancing down at where his hand still rests on her thigh, his swallow tattoo resting over her thick black dagger tattoo.

“Well, I don’t know if I can help you,” she says eventually, breaking the long stretch of silence and snapping Shawn out of his trance of watching her.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think I can give you anything meaningful at the same time you’re giving me something completely meaningless.”

Shawn blinks at her words, a surge of hope cresting in his chest like a wave. She was still here, still just a few centimetres away and she wasn’t going anywhere. As gently as if approaching a deer in the woods, he reaches up to cup her jaw with his tattooed hand, coaxing her eyes back to him.

“You don’t have to give me anything,” he whispers. She leans into his touch slightly, her eyelids fluttering as he draws his thumb over her bottom lip.

“You don’t have to give me anything either,” she murmurs back. His other hand slides around her hip and tugs her closer to him so her chest is flush with his. Her hands grip his arms as he does do, one hand dancing over the butterfly on his left bicep. He takes her in, her green hair, black in this light, and her impossibly dark eyes, the delicate curve of her lips barely a breath away from his. He wanted her so badly it ached. He closes the distance between them, brushing his lips lightly over the corner of hers.

“But I want to,” he murmurs against her mouth, pressing his lips to the spot at the edge of her mouth. She turns her head to capture his lips in a long, slow kiss. He almost misses her whispering her name against his ear as he lifts her with one arm and turns them over so he’s hovering over her. Her fingers hook into the band of his jeans, tugging at them in a silent urge for them to be gone. He complies, ridding himself of the last of his clothes and her with her’s until they’re both completely bared to one another. They move together, becoming one under the spilled golden lamplight.

When Shawn wakes, he’s alone. There’s no sign of Y/n and the sheets are cool beside him. His clothes are still where he tossed them last night, his jeans and shirt scattered on the floor beside the bed. Her dress is there too, black as night in the morning sunlight.

He drags a hand down over his face and rubs the lingering grogginess from his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep last night or meaning to. The last thing he remembered was flopping down beside Y/n and her laughing breathlessly as they both came down from their highs. He remembered her rolling over to look up at him, one arm tucked below her head, the other reaching out to push his curls back from where they had flopped over his face. But that’s it.

Careful of the tenderness of his head and the fuzziness in his limbs, courtesy of all the of the alcohol from last night, he pulls his pants back on. He makes his way out of the room and down the hall.

A tantalisingly delicious smell wafts towards him the closer he draws to the room, accompanied by the sound of sizzling and someone humming under their breath. As he rounds the corner, he’s greeted with Y/n standing at the stove, her back to him. Her hair is scooped up on top of her head in a messy knot, and she’s only wearing a long black t-shirt that ends just below her bum. In one hand, she’s holding a spatula that she taps to the beat of whatever she’s humming. Shawn has to stifle the soft laugh that bubbles in his throat at how cute she looks.

“Morning,” he says instead, grinning as she spins around, eyes round with surprise.

“Good morning,” she replies, a small smile lifting her lips. “I was going to bring this in to you to wake you up.”

“You need me up and gone, do you?” he jokes lightly, rounding the counter to lean back on it. She rolls her eyes and smiles at him.

“Yeah, that way I’ll have my bed back and I can get a few more hours of sleep without having to dodge the giant hogging all the space.” She flips the pancake cooking in the pan and sets the spatula down. “Do you want coffee? There’s some in the pot.”

“Where are your cups?” he asks as he nods.

“Cupboard above it.” She points and he grabs one down, pouring some of the rich black liquid into the cup and refilling hers where it sits by the stove.

“Sorry for hogging your bed,” he murmurs as he does, leaning down to press a kiss to her neck, right in the tiny sensitive spot he’d discovered last night. She almost imperceptibly softens back against him, letting his free arm wind round her front and pull her back against him.

“You’re forgiven,” she says, picking up her cup. Shawn smiles and leans forward to watch the pancake cooking. This felt strangely natural, as they’d been doing it for forever. They weren’t strangers who met in a bar last night, something else had happened between them. They were connected in some way that he couldn’t quite pinpoint, let alone tell how it would end. If it would end. All he knew is he liked having her in his arms while they cooked pancakes.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket. He’d forgotten to take it out last night and for a moment he worries about how hard he let it fall on the ground the night before. Picturing a shattered screen, he reaches back to pull it out, but not before it buzzes again.

Several messages pop-up on his thankfully unshattered screen, more than normal for 8am. He almost doesn’t read them, assuming they’re just work things, until another comes through.

It’s a photo, something small and too dark to make out in the preview. It’s the writing with it that sends a bucket of ice water through his veins.

Bae: I’m going to kill you if Andrew doesn’t get to you first.

He quickly opens the message and clicks on the photo and feels his entire body go numb. It’s slightly blurry but he can make out himself in the clothes he wore last night. In the photo he’s leaning forward, turning his head to the side to say something into the ear of a girl. Y/n. One arm is wrapped around her waist and there’s absolutely no doubt that there’s something going on between them.

“Shit,” Shawn whispers. Y/n turns, a frown on her face, and glances up at him. He doesn’t meet her eyes at first, opening another of the messages, this one from his manager.

Andrew: What the hell is wrong with you? This is damage control beyond anything you can even imagine.

Attached is a link, a link which Shawn clicks with a numb thumb, cold dread gathering in his gut. It opens on an article from a tabloid with the same photo and a bold, black and white headline splashed across the top.

Pop-sensation Shawn Mendes photographed canoodling with mystery girl in club. Does this spell the end for the favourite couple of the summer?

Y/n is staring up at him, worry creeping into her features with every passing second. Wordlessly, he holds the phone out for her to see, watching the shock and horror wash over her.

“Wait, what does this mean?” she asks, turning properly to face him. Shawn sinks back against the counter, shoving a hand into his hair.

“It means I’m in deep shit,” he sighs. This was going to be a nightmare. “You should be fine though; your face isn’t in it.”

“No, Shawn,” she says, scrolling further down the article. “I saw my ex in the club last night, that’s why I got us to leave so quickly. He was standing right where this photo was taken.”

“What are you saying? He took the photo?”

“Even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell everyone who I am.”

“Shit,” Shawn mumbles, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes. He can feel the panic slowly rising up in his chest, the inescapable crushing pressure closing in. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“For what? My asshole ex being an asshole?” she says with a dry laugh. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Her hand closes around his wrist, gently tugging his hand. “Look at me, Shawn.”

He relents, letting her pull his hand away from his face. She presses her forehead against his, her breath tickling his chin. It soothes him slightly, takes his mind of the shit-storm about to wreak havoc on his life.

“I have to go and deal with this,” he murmurs. She nods, pressing her lips into a tight line.

“I know,” she sighs softly. “Do what you have to do.”

“I wish I could stay here forever,” he confesses, voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” She sighs again, squeezing her eyes shut before opening them and letting go of his wrists. He steps back and steels himself, turning back to her room. He pulls his shirt on quickly, not really bothering to check if he looks presentable.

The room had been sunny and warm when he’d woken, now the sun has risen an inch and turned warmth into blazing over-white light that illuminated every crack and crevice of the room, exposing it to the scrutiny of the world. The safe golden space of last night is long gone, burned up in the light of day.

“I’ll see you,” he says as he passes back through the kitchen. She turns from the pan and nods slightly. Overcome with some emotion he couldn’t name, he strides forward into the kitchen right up to her. She stares up at him, her mouth popped open. He leans down, slow enough she can stop him, and brushes his lips over hers, savouring the feeling of her against him as if it might be the last time. It might be. “You gave me everything last night.”

She blinks her eyes open, meeting his again. He doesn’t know if she’ll say anything in response but she does.

“Please don’t let this be the last time I can.”

He bites down on his lip but nods, giving her a final peck and turning to leave, walking straight toward the fury of the storm awaiting him. There would be no running for an escape this time.

#shawn mendes #shawn #fic #shawn mendes imagine #angst #fluff #smut #?#lost to the night #writing

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jawsandbones · 5 years

Text

The Evening Red - Chapter Two

Rating: E

Summary: The blighted plague at your feet, and ghosts at your bedside. Those things that go bump in the night? They follow behind you. If only you had someone to protect you. A late-Victorian era re-imagining of Dragon Age Origins.

Pairing: Zevran x Female Warden

AO3 Link: Click Here

Chapter Two: Illumination

The Chantry reeks of incense. Morrigan pulls at the gloves which cover her hands, wrinkles her nose in disgust as she walks inside. She tracks the dirt of the streets onto the white marble floors, and her every step pierces the silence of this place. A small group of children are practicing hymns with a priest, while a few sisters light candles for the coming mass. She walks past the rows of empty pews, towards the confessional booths. Andraste, colored by stained glass, keeps watch of all those who pass. Morrigan pays no mind to all of it, simply keeps her eyes fixed upon her target.

She spins as she pulls the door of the booth closed behind her, adjusts her skirts briefly before she takes a seat. The voice on the other side is pleasant, warm, greets her lightly, “the Maker be with you. How may I help you?” Morrigan smiles at the sound of it, clasps her hands together in her lap. She keeps her back straight, her shoulders square, and the smile lingers on the edges of her lips. She’s not come here for any true confession, but for the voice at the other side.

“Forgive me sister for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession,” she says. She can hear it in the silence – the wondering. Asking if it’s truly… and then – the answer. A soft sigh, and through the shrouded screen which separates them, Morrigan can see a hand run itself through red hair. A shake of a head, and Morrigan once again pulls at the edges of her gloves. She never particularly strays from her dark colors. At least, this time, fine white lace is layered over her throat, her chest, circling around her wrists. A string of pearls around her neck, and a hat upon her head. Her dark hair is layered upwards, a single curl at her temple – put there on purpose.

“Again? I did tell you not to do this again.” The Orlesian accent is peppered with as much annoyance as it can muster. Which is to say, isn’t much. It comes off playful, teasing.

“Indeed, and your Maker has not yet seen fit to burst me into flame for my transgressions,” she says. The rustling of robes, and the figure at the other side is standing. She can hear the creak of the door opening, and the polite tap of shoes against the floor. Another creak, this time of her own door opening. Light from the candles, electric lights, and what remains of the day pours in behind Leliana, frames her as she stands in the entrance of the booth.

“What are you doing here?” Leliana asks, the volume of her voice lowering with each word. She looks over her shoulder, glances around the Chantry, before returning her gaze to Morrigan.

“I’d imagine your Revered Mother would not be pleased to see those shoes of yours,” she says as she raises her eyebrows, pointedly looking at the shining leather which peaks under the modest robes of a lay sister.

“Never you mind about the Revered Mother, or my shoes. Don’t change the subject,” Leliana says, stepping inside the confessional and closing the door behind her. Morrigan instinctively rises to meet her, and the two women briefly crash into each other. She puts a steadying hand on Leliana’s waist, while her hand comes to rest on Morrigan’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t come to the Chantry unless it was something important.”

“You have been avoiding your flat.” A little rub of a frown between Leliana’s brows, and she looks away thoughtfully, before giving her answer.

“I haven’t been avoiding it, I’ve been busy.” Leliana doesn’t lie, least of all to her. Her face is fresh and fair, clean of any makeup. She wears no jewelry, and the only indulgence she takes is in the shoes she wears. Her short hair is relaxed, void of the usual curls with which she styles it. A single braid exists, no doubt put there by some child. Morrigan represses the urge to unravel it, re-do it herself.

“Doing the Maker’s work,” she says, the sarcasm and eye-roll implied in the way it rolls off her tongue. Leliana gives her shoulder a small squeeze.

“It gives me a sort of peace. You might enjoy it, if you tried it.”

“I think not,” she says stiffly. Leliana chuckles, raises her other hand to her lips to stifle the laughter, as the whole of her shakes with delight. Morrigan has no choice but to sway with her and her laughter, trapped so tightly against her in the booth.

“Such a protest, each time! You act as though I ask you to storm the void itself,” she says.

“Enough of this. I sought you out to inform you we have found one.” Leliana’s eyes widen at Morrigan’s words. “He did not linger, but our fearless leader is confident he will return to us. She awaits us at the University.” Without realizing, Leliana’s hold tightens on Morrigan. Breathless excitement, and she bites her bottom lip, but even that can’t hide the grin that bursts across her face.

“Let me change and collect my things, I would very much like to meet him,” she chatters, beginning to untangle herself from Morrigan, reaching blindly behind her for the doorknob.

“I thought as much.” Leliana has to actually turn to find the doorknob, and together, they clamber out of the confessional booth. Morrigan adjusts her hat, briefly checks the pearl earrings which dangle against the edge of her jaw. She leisurely walks towards the door, as Leliana struggles not to race to the meagre quarters where she had been staying. She changes quickly – a navy blue skirt, along with a ruffled high neck blouse adorned with lacing the same color as her skirt. A scrawled note on the Revered Mother’s desk is all she does to announce her leaving.

Leliana meets Morrigan at the door of the Chantry, quickly slips her arm into Morrigan’s, keeping them closely together. “Tell me everything,” she says eagerly as they step out onto the street, begin making their way towards the University of Denerim. The streets aren’t as busy, this close to evening. A few carriages make their way through the streets, but there are mostly walkers who mind their own business. Shops will begin to close soon enough, and the lamplighters are already making their way from one to the next.

“There isn’t much to tell you, truly,” Morrigan says, “’twas a wholly unsatisfactory exchange. We met briefly, he threatened us, and then was gone. Miss Mahariel seems confident he’ll suit our purpose, but both Mr. Theirin and I have our doubts. He seems the fickle sort, not so likely to aid us.” They weave around a group walking in the opposite direction, and Leliana does not reply until they are safely out of earshot.

“Well, if Noya is certain… this is our first success in months. We’ve met no other vampire, nor have we seen any signs. We have to have a bit of faith,” she says, leaning her head close to Morrigan’s.

“’Faith’,” she says, looking at Leliana with every inch of doubt engraved in her glance. She gives Morrigan’s arm a small squeeze with her other hand.

“Yes, faith. It won’t kill you to have a little of it,” she says. “How can someone who practices magic have so little capacity to believe in that which she cannot see?”

“Magic is real. I can touch it and command it and I need no faith for it to fill me up inside,” Morrigan says. Leliana only smiles and shakes her head.

“I’ve told you before what an incredible gift I think you have.” She holds out her free hand in front of her, as though flame might suddenly be conjured there. “I’ve always dreamed of magic, since I was a little girl.”

“Don’t let the Revered Mother hear you say that,” she says. Leliana lets her hand fall. The University of Denerim stands near the edge of the city, close to the Royal Palace. Once called Fort Drakon, the military outpost was refitted for a more modern purpose. Students busy themselves on the grounds, with Leliana and Morrigan being simply two more passing through. They make their way through the twisting hallways, up through the tower, until they come to a specific classroom.

The medical theatre is laid out spectacularly – an operating table sits at the very center while the seats rise around it. In one of these seats, her head in folded arms and soundly asleep, is Noya. At the front of the classroom, sitting at the desk, the professor is marking pages. “Good evening Professor Aequitar,” Leliana says, taking her arm from Morrigan’s, moving towards the desk. Looking up from her papers, Wynne smiles, and takes the glasses from her face.

“Good evening Miss Vasseur, I’m glad to see Miss Conobar found you well,” she says. Morrigan, taking off her hat, moves up a few steps, goes to sit in one of the chairs near Noya. She places her hat on the small writing desk in front of her, and crosses her legs. “I wish I could say I had more to tell you, but we’ve had no unexpected guests of late.”

“That’s a shame,” Leliana says as she pulls up a chair near the desk. Wynne moves her sleeve slightly, to glance at the watch on her wrist.

“I expect Mr. Theirin will be joining us soon for another vigil,” she says.

“Has he stayed with her both nights?” Morrigan asks, her voice echoing in the classroom. Wynne turns the glasses in her hands, her elbows settled against the desk. She dresses simply, a plain dress meant for work. The apron is affixed against her, tied at her neck and around her waist. Stains of a darker sort paint the front of it, evidence of things no one would dare ask her about. She smiles softly, looks towards Noya.

“Of course he has.”

“A fool.” Morrigan scoffs, crosses her arms.

“I think it’s sweet,” Leliana says. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to stay the night. Admittedly, I’ve been neglecting my rest a touch and I do miss the feeling of my own bed.”

“Oh, I’ve told you before you need your proper rest,” Wynne says as she puts her glasses down, rises from the chair. She rounds the desk towards Leliana, and touches her chin, tilting her face up towards her. A fairly gentle inspection, turning her face this way and that, her lips thinning at what she sees – the dark circles underneath Leliana’s eyes, the looseness of her dress. “You’re not eating properly either.”

“You’ve caught me out,” she says, “The Revered Mother has been quite the taskmaster lately.”

“Go home, dear, eat something and rest,” Wynne says. “If he comes, I have no doubt you’ll be able to meet him later on.” Leliana, looking quite put out, turns and looks over her shoulder at Morrigan. She promptly sighs, and gathers her hat. She makes her way down to the front of the classroom, and holds out her hand towards Leliana.

“Come on then, I will see you home,” she says. Leliana can’t hide the smile as she reaches out, and takes Morrigan’s hand. As they begin to leave, Alistair slides into the classroom, breathless and cheeks red. Sweat shines on his forehead, and on his back.

“Are they leaving? Should I be leaving?” he asks, as they step around him, with Leliana giving him a polite wave. Wynne chuckles and shakes her head.

“No, it’s alright, they simply have things to do,” Wynne says. His shoulders sag with relief. He throws the jacket he had been holding in his hands onto a nearby chair, and sinks into another. He closes his eyes, leans his head back as far as it will go.

“I’m very excited for another night of disappointment,” he says, voice strained. Wynne settles back at her desk, perching the glasses on the edge of her nose. She takes up her pen, continues grading papers. In the corner of the classroom, behind her, the grandfather clock steadily ticks away, the pendulum swinging without worry. It brings Wynne a small chuckle, when Alistair begins to snore. His arms crossed, legs extended, sunk into the chair, his chin almost at his chest. Near him, Noya finally raises her head.

She works the sleep from the corner of her eyes, covers her mouth as she fails to stifle the yawn. “Good morning,” Wynne says to her. Noya rubs the back of her hand against her brow as she fights to wake completely. “It’s almost one in the morning, and almost time for me to leave.”

“Thank you Wynne,” she says, disregarding formality. She glances at Alistair before she stands, rolls her head. She puts her hands at her hips, stretches out her back with a satisfying pop. “I appreciate your staying, and letting us use your offices for this.”

“Of course. I’m as concerned about the blight as you are. There’s been another case. Again, another vagrant,” she says, “of course, the doctors attending him did not give him the proper amount of care he needed to be comfortable.”

“Is it possible for someone with the blight to be comfortable?” Noya shakes her head. “Not that I want an answer to that question. The number grows with each day, and yet they still refuse to listen to us. The blight will swallow the city and still they will say it is no true plague.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Wynne says softly as she stacks her papers. She puts her pens away in the drawer of the desk, and takes off the apron, folding it onto her chair. She moves towards the door, and her jacket. “Goodnight Miss Mahariel.” She flicks the switch of the lights, leaving only a few candles around the theatre to keep the room lit. As the door shuts, Alistair wakes with a startled snore. He looks around wildly for a moment, until his eyes settle on Noya. She’s walking around the stage of the classroom, circling around the operating table, her shoes placed upon it. Carefully, bare foot, she walks the sleep out of her.

“Oh. Wynne left? Morrigan and Leliana were here earlier,” he says as he stands. He trips at first, over one of the small desks, and leaves his jacket behind. He doesn’t pace as she does, but raises his hands above his head and works out the ache. “I might sneak down to the cafeteria and see if there’s anything left. I could eat an entire feast right about now. Do you want anything?” Noya shakes her head.

“No,” she says, and after a moment, “thank you.” He nods.

“I won’t be gone long.” There’s a strange silence in the classroom, after the door closes behind him. The shadows seem thicker, stronger, repelled by the weak flickering of candlelight. Half-hearted rain occasionally knocks against the windows, but it’s hardly more than mere mist. She stops her pacing, her hand resting against the cold metal of the table. She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and closes her eyes for only a moment. The hardwood creaks beneath her feet as she shifts her weight.

She whirls when one of the windows slams open violently. The wind sweeps past her, does away with that last defense of light. She hurries to close it, the window bouncing against the wall. It’s slick to the touch, that misty rain coating her slightly. She pushes it shut, closes the clasp to keep it so. With her hands outstretched to catch anything in her way, Noya slowly navigates towards the desk. Her hands fumble at the drawers, find a pack of matches. The flame comes alight with ease, and she bends over to light one of the candles nearby. She shakes out the match.

Her finger twists into the hook of the candle plate, and she raises it to carry it with her. She turns, takes a step, and stops instantly. Rain drips from his nose, hang from his eyelashes. He’s soaked with it, and yet, he smiles. Zevran closes the distance between them, the candle the only thing separating them. “They did take quite long to leave, hmm? I was worried the wolf might not, considering his attachment to you all these other nights,” he tells her.

“And you wanted me alone,” Noya says.

“I wanted you alone,” he says. The light flickers, sways between them. Amber eyes look at her, grey ones back at him. His skin is darkly warm, even here, slick with wet. He reaches out, pushes aside her wrist, and guides the candle back towards the desk. His touch lingers. His fingers move up her arm, to her shoulder, and a single finger follows the line of her chin. She doesn’t move, or flinch. “And here you are.”

“I’m glad you’ve returned,” she says.

“It is not every day that one seeks out a vampire,” he says, the smile spreading across his face. With it, his fangs begin to lengthen, showing her exactly what she deals with. “I had more questions for you as well. I did not want us to be interrupted.” His nails sharpen, and his hand crawls at her neck. Her gaze stays fixed upon his face. “How did a simple needle pierce me?”

“Tipped with silver,” she says.

“I see.” His hand settles at the nape of her neck, and he steps closer. “You say you studied vampires. I know the stories, the penny dreadfuls, and what they say. You truly believed one would help you in this?” The loose strands of her hair wisp against the back of his hand. Humans always feel so soft. A plush toy, with the seams so easily torn, the stuffing ripped out.

“Yes. One such as you,” she says.

“Then you are naïve,” he tells her. He leans forward, his face very close to hers. Her breath is warm, her scent sweet.

“Perhaps.” A prick, at his neck. Ah. While he remained focused on her, she had slipped her hand into her pocket. She holds the dagger steady, ready to rip through an artery.

“You know that one slice will not kill me. I only need one to kill you,” he says, the claw of his thumb pressing against her jugular.

“You are alone. I am not. If you kill me, they will find you,” she says. “For our research, we don’t need you alive. They don’t need me alive.”

“And yet, how easy it is for me to disappear.”

“No. You want to be found. Others might say you were simply confident in your power, allowing me to return with you to the hotel. I think you were waiting for something interesting to happen,” she says. “I think you were desperately hoping for it.” Zevran throws back his head and laughs.

“You say these things as if you know me.” The laughter dies, the smile fades. “And you do not know me at all.” He tilts his head, his mouth nearing her neck. “I could drain you dry where you stand.”

“Then do it, but know I will not make it easy for you.” The dagger stays clenched in her hands. The plate of food falls from Alistair’s hands. It took only a glance to see his hand around her neck, the fangs in his mouth. Alistair lunges forward, his hands digging into Zevran’s jacket, ripping him away. Alistair takes his place between them, his jaw clenched.

“Rather uncalled for,” Zevran says, as he dusts off his jacket.

“Alistair,” Noya says, putting a hand on his shoulder, the dagger back into its sheath in her pocket. In her touch, an urging, to pull him back. He doesn’t move.

“He tried to kill you,” he growls.

“I did not,” Zevran says, indignant, “I only threatened her some, and she did return the favor.” She walks in front of Alistair, her hand on his chest. A pointed glance, a shake of her head. Alistair doesn’t move, but his claws digging into his palms slowly recede. A grateful nod, and she turns back to Zevran.

“Allow us to take a single sample of your blood,” she says. “This is all we ask.”

“Right now, this is all you ask. And then it is Zevran do this, Zevran do that, Zevran let us just once,” he says, mockingly, his head moving back and forth like the pendulum of the clock, his eyes rolling.

“We can pay you,” she says.

“You think what I want is money? I have plenty of my own, I have no need of your coin,” he says. He is silent for a moment, and then bursts into laughter. “Ah, I have it. Just as you take blood from me, I want to take blood from you. Give me your home address, not this awful place, and allow me to feed upon you once.”

“No,” Alistair swears.

“Yes,” Noya says, at the exact same time. She looks at Alistair briefly before walking towards Zevran, holding out her hand. “Yes, I agree to your terms.” Zevran looks at her hand for a moment, then reaches out, and completes the shake. Immediately, he begins to unbutton his jacket, and she hurries towards the desk. The kit is locked in the last drawer. He leans against the operating table as Noya lights more candles, placing them on the table beside the kit. He rolls up his sleeve, pretends not to notice Alistair glaring at him.

With deft fingers, Noya wraps the band around his arm. She cleans the spot from where she wants to take, and lines up the needle. Another silver tipped thing, and he wonders exactly how many they had prepared. The vial begins to fill. Blackened, almost tar-like in quality. The evidence of his disease. She has her brow furrowed in concentration, bent over, drawing the needle from his skin. He leans close, whispers, “do not forget. Your address. Be a proper host and invite me to your home.”

“97 King’s Walk,” she says instantly, pulling the needle from him, wiping both it and him with a cloth. When she pulls the cloth away, the pinprick hole has already closed. Gently, she moves her fingers over it once again, marveling at the fact that the wound is simply gone. Zevran breaks her study when he rolls his sleeve back down.

“Good evening to you, Miss Mahariel. I will be seeing you soon.”

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