I was late for this sunset, just getting set up as the last bit of colour was fading away. I only shot 88 photos, so there’s not a lot of movement in this time stack, but I think the colours are interesting.
It was on a rainy Saturday night where you and Peter were cuddled against each other on his comfortable bed under the warm blankets, watching the usual old films in his small yet cozy dark room.
Your eyelashes fluttered against your own cheeks, your ears distinguishing the steady rhythm of the rain pattering against the window panes and the soft muffled voices emitting from the film. Your eyes lazily trailed from the film to the glowing streaks of water on the window glass. Peter ran his hand gently through your hair, the thick strands slipping through his fingers like silk. You tilted your head up to admire his facial features, your eyes momentarily getting deeply lost in his, with the light from the television shining on his handsome face.
“What?” Peter inquired with a sleepy grin, his drowsy lids fluttering like the majestic wings of a butterfly.
“Nothing, I’m just really glad to have you, Peter Parker.” You sighed in content, gazing at him longingly.
I went down to the point to try and get some shots of the lake steaming under the stars, and I was lucky to catch a meteor streak across the sky while I was trying to figure out the best way to illuminate the steam coming off the water. After checking out the 2016 meteor shower schedule, it looks like this was either a late Perseid meteor, or a random straggler. (The Perseids active peak ended August 26th. I shot this on September 3rd and the start of the next active shower was a moth away.)
Hey babes! I hope your day is going well, I’m actually about to start a big test so rip me. This was requested by an anon, and I hope where ever you may be, that the fluffiness brings a smile to your face. I love you all, and thank you for sticking around here. xoxo
A fluffy Peter X Reader where the reader reads a mythology book (of your choice) to Peter on a rainy night in his room and he’s just in her lap, cuddling and kissing and then they both fall asleep together.
The rain pattered on the window pane, the streaks of water glowing against the moonlight. You were sitting on Peter’s bed, your back against the headboard. He head was laying in your lap, and he was looking up at you in complete awe.
The two of you had planned to go out to the city tonight, but because of the storm, he decided that it would be best if you both just stayed in. He took you to his room and you scanned over his book shelf, your eye catching a classic book that you loved to read.
As his head was in your lap, you played with his soft, brown locks with one hand while holding the small paperback book to your eye level. You ran your fingers through his hair and moved your hand to cup his face.
“What?” He looked up at you with that smile that always made you week.
“Nothing, babe.” You leaned down towards him, and he placed his hand on the back of your neck, bringing you closer to him. He pressed a warm and tender kiss against your lips, sending off fireworks in your head. Every kiss was like the first one. It always felt new, and real. You pulled away and peered into his eyes with your glistening E/C ones. You pecked a kiss on his nose before returning your attention to the book.
“Come then, put away your sword in its sheath, and let us two go up into my bed so that, lying together in the bed of love, we may then have faith and trust in each other.” Your eyes scanned the words on the page as you read them aloud to Peter.
“Wait, what are we reading again?” He quirked his eyebrow, earning a dramatic eye roll from you.
“’The Odyssey’ by Homer.” You couldn’t hold back a smile as you shook your head at him.
“Ohhh, okay. I got it.” He nodded his head and stared up at you, waiting for you to fill the room again with you soothing voice. You continued to read, but the old script was beginning to tire you. It was lulling you to sleep, as well as your boyfriend. When you put the book down, he didn’t protest.
Peter lifted himself from your lap and you shifted yourself down, so that your head was resting against his chest. He wrapped his arm around your waist, his thumb slowly drawing up and down your side. You tilted your head towards him and trailed kisses from his jawline to his lips. He smiled against your lips as you gave him a sweet, but passionate kiss. Peter loved the way your lips perfectly fitted to his, and he reveled in your taste, deepening the kiss. You could feel every fiber in your body contract at the sensation. Somehow this boy managed to make your heart explode with the smallest things.
You pulled away, kissing him on the cheek before placing your head next to his heart. His heartbeat was steady like a drum.
He whispered against your hair. “God, I love you, F/N L/N.” Peter gently kissed the top of your head, closing his eyes.
“Mmm, I love you more, Peter Parker.” Your eyelids were heavy as your smirked against his chest. He didn’t argue against you on it. Usually, he would tell you that he loved you most, but you never let him win that battle. But tonight, he didn’t say anything and you realized he was completely passed out.
You kissed his chest and curled closer to him, letting the drowsiness drag you down into sleep.
There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.
- from “The Odyssey” by Homer
I hoped you liked this cute little one shot that was requested by an anon. I really loved writing this, fluff is literally my shit. I can’t wait to go home and finish up the next chapter of “There”! I hope you all have a lovely day, I’m so grateful for you all. xoxo
A/N:@grassysvu67 suggested I write about Barba having a nightmare about his past and his father. So here you go!
Being roused from slumber isn’t always the most pleasant of experiences. Today, however, the land of consciousness tugged at you persistently. Sitting up, you felt disorientated for a few seconds, wondering why you had woken so abruptly. Your question was answered relatively quickly by the sharp sting you felt as your husband’s flailing arm made rather strong contact with yours.
Suddenly you felt wide awake. Despite the darkness, you could tell that Rafael was in the throes of a rather terrifying nightmare. Wake him, was your first thought. So, naturally you leant over to give him a little shake. You immediately knew that this was a mistake when Rafael’s elbow connected with your face. Stars, you definitely saw stars, not something one often said in the heart of Manhattan.
Clutching your eye, you rolled off the bed, cursing like a sailor. Stumbling over to the light switch, you flipped it on, illuminating the room. Rafael was tangled in the bedsheets, sweat pouring across his face.
“Rafael!” you called loudly.
He flinched and you immediately knew this was the wrong thing to do.
“No, Papi. Lo siento,” he mumbled.
His father, that’s who he was dreaming about. His past continued to torment him. Instinctively, you knew that touching him would be the wrong way to wake him. You’d long suspected that Rafael’s father had often been physically abusive towards him in his childhood … not that Rafael ever discussed him.
“Rafi,” you called gently, “Rafi, it’s me, wake up.”
“Por favor, no quise,” he whimpered.
Hearing these words uttered in such a terrified tone, brought tears to your eyes. Please, I didn’t mean to.
Elide Lochan was locked in a cell, a chain latched firmly onto her ankles. Her shadow would bend and stretch to a dance of melancholy and insanity, dark dreams drenching her sleep. The cold would seep into her bones, every movement emitting a crack and the occasional snap. Purple crescents shaped under her eyes, her throat a rasp of what she once was.
Elide covered her ears as screeches filled the air—the rusted food tray sliding under the opposite side of the wall through a thin slat and grating against the splintered stones. Her spine remained curled as she slowly rocked into herself, the flurry of scratches scraping against her ears.
Elide slowly leaned forward, fingers reaching for the edge of the tray. Her hand wrapped around the cup of water, stale and murky. A noise of determination escaped her cracked throat as she pulled the cup to herself, her hands wobbling.
The cup spilled.
The fluid slithered through the cracks in the floor, weaving through the ground.
Elide pressed her cheek against the floor, the droplets caressing her face and nails caked with grime. She opened her mouth as wide as she could, allowing the water streaks to trickle into her mouth.
Elide laid there, loneliness wrapping around her like a blanket, laying there on the cold stones, chained, and waiting for time to drag on.
And on and on.
Her cell opened, the jarring sound rattling her into clearer conscience, and Vernon’s face peered down. Fear whipped through her.
Not again, she silently begged. A couple more seconds.
Her prayers went unanswered.
“Ready to try again?” he smirked, and jerked the chain out.
Her body dragged along the stones, and slumped against the base of the rocky stairs. She felt every crack along the ground cutting her spine and shredding her ears. The chain clattered to the floor, and a sharp kick to her side sent her to the first step at the base of the cave.
“You know what happens if you can’t make it,” he hissed, the stench of alcohol oozing from his breath.
And Vernon knew too, a belt snugly fit into his hands, his black-collared shirt already unbuttoned.
“Climb,” he ordered.
And she did.
Up and up and up.
To the unreachable light.
Elide could not breathe.
She could not think.
She could not focus.
She could only move — every whisper of movement laced with a burning sensation over her hands, knees, and feet to her very lungs.
Her eyes failed her long ago, the tiny slivers of sunlight a shrapnel scraping into her irises. Even with her lids closed, fractures of brightness invaded, too much light for a too long stay stay in the darkness — in hell.
Her hands scraped over stones, scars scratching open. So much blood had spilled and bathed over her body that she could taste the crimson, salted liquid in her tongue.
She didn’t have the energy to spit it out.
Not when her body would seize her with huge wracking spells; her throat closed up and she coughed on her own blood. Her lungs burned, her throat wheezing to a cacophony.
The climb reduced her to submit fully to her knees and hands, a wounded and shattered animal in human form with nothing but the raw emotions of enmity — except no longer did her instincts sing to live, but to relinquish in death’s calling.
Every crack in the ground furthered the descent into madness and rage. The echoing sounds in remembrance of the lash of the whip and the tearing of her clothes set her forward, almost as she’d been duly programmed to climb and climb — tortuously slowly and painfully — skimming the cracked ground with numb hands bearing running lines of red soaking her skin all the way from her ribs down to her toes.
Swabs of cotton blossomed underneath her forehead, her throat thick with saliva from panting and scratches from rasping out her mantra over and over again.
Lorcan, Lorcan, Lorcan.
Commander of the Lycan Pack.
Blood spilled out her mouth. Her hand caught inside a wedge of slab, her wrist splintering as she pitifully tried — memories slamming and wedging into every corner — tried to stop remembering, old wounds reopening.
Elide gurgled in the blood rinsing her mouth as her bone snapped.
Her cheek rested against cold stone as she heaved, greedily inhaling the musty air that no longer fuller reeked of the rotten, decaying stench of poisoned flesh.
Her hand clawed along another stone when she heard the lash of the belt at her toes.
“I loved you.”
She saw red beneath her lids as she hauled her body up, her legs shaking and arms shuddering. There was no more youthful joy with dazzling hopes of love. Reality proved the coldness severing any warmth.
“You did not give me a chance, Elide. So I will not give you a second one.”
She collapsed along the stones, a seizure wracking her body, blood spilling out of her cracked lips. Everything swam underneath her, a buzzing sound cutting across her forehead and through her ears. Her only chances were this torture of trying and failing.
Give up, a part of her said. Give up, the walls and shadows and blood and flesh and bone whispered.
So she gave up.
Gave up to heartbreak.
A part of her wanted to consent.
To submit to the darkness.
But that tiny, shredded sliver of hope still shone within her. A tiny thread of sanctuary
A dry laugh sounded behind her, a rasping voice that sent shivers across her skin.
She’d been still too long.
The whip lashed across her back.
Her body didn’t have enough energy to arch off the ground—instead she laid limp and broken and shattered. Salt wove through her mouth, grime caking her tastebuds, and salt oozing in thick waves out.
She could feel a hand working up her thigh, and the familiar, rotten stench overcoming her. She could not conjure up the scent of her once-mate anymore, emptiness and bitterness plaguing her.
“Looks like another failure,” the dark voice tsked, darkness overcoming her, shadows leaping over the dark walls collapsing over her and squeezing the last remains of breath from her lungs.
Aelin’s door banged open again, the smell of fried noodles and apple juice filling her nostrils. She pressed down the uncomfortable feeling of distaste squirming in her stomach, and noted Manon’s similar look of uneasiness. Elide’s absence had affected them both, nourishment no longer appealing; it had been the Elide, the Pack Doctor apprentice, who had made sure they afforded time to eat rather than completely dive into Pack duties.
The palace door closed, and the scent of familiarity washed over her.
“Rowan,” Aelin greeted, turning her face away, and then paused. “Or should I say personal chef now?”
A snort. “Emrys cooked.”
“So you’re the messenger boy?”
Pine-green eyes flashed. “A boy wouldn’t have had you moaning yesterday.”
Her cheeks flushed at the whisper of memory while Manon sneered at the male, pointing a warning claw at the male. Rowan stilled at the challenge emanating from the half-Lycan.
Gods, not again.
The Prince of Lycans set the plates at the foot of Aelin’s bed with a clatter, and strode to her Beta, coldness and fury radiating from the testosterone-filled body.
“Stand down,” Aelin ordered quietly, watching Manon silently tense. The last thing they all needed was an internal conflict, especially when her own pack member and the Lycan commander were missing.
Rage flickered through those pine-green eyes from his mate’s command. Rowan let out a growl building from the base of his throat, but otherwise stalked back to her bed, breathing in the scent from her blankets and pillows. The muscles at his back and shoulders rippled.
How delicate these males were, exercising self-control daily, each strand chipping away with each passing day.
Aelin reverted back to pacing around her room, ignoring her mate’s constant fussy looks and worrying tactics—and the occasional careful and well-guarded look towards Manon.
Too many plates of untouched fruits, meats, and vegetables piled up in her room, nectar tea and water lining against her walls. The amount of food Rowan had brought her started to resemble a banquet, and if the Prince of Lycans didn’t stop soon, she wouldn’t be able to walk through her own damned temporary room without swimming through a sea of plates and bowls. Walking around this room in the castle consumed her from the normalcy of living within her own controlling borders. Not to mention the other female residents in the Lycan castle lived just a hall down, driving her senses to the edge.
Manon stabbed a nail through a blood-red apple, peeling the skin off into perfectly thin curls. Each strip, no doubt, tasted bland and dry, a reflection of the past couple months turned into emptiness and dread, living in a proliferation of well-kept fear.
“How could anyone obtain Yellowleg’s poison?” Aelin stared out the window where she could only imagine the nightmare Elide was living in daylight. The rays no longer held warmth she could soak in like a security blanket, but rather held a mockery of what she could not protect even in broad daylight. Her skin felt cold, but one look from her mate had a different type of heat racing through her.
She looked away.
Manon’s teeth latched around the peel. “I don’t understand how the poison still could have affected Lorcan after he killed Essar.”
Aelin paused, a myriad of dark scenarios crossing over her mind. She rubbed her temples, a slight draft breezing in and skimming over her skin. Abruptly slamming the window shut, tension rolled over her, not even her mate’s presence able to soothe her. “It doesn’t add up in the first place. If Essar is dead, then who controlled Lorcan while he was at the castle?”
Manon let out a low hiss, one that demanded bloodshed. A calm, killer look crested her face, and her claws slid out. Her eyes cut towards Aelin. “Now that is the real question.”
Rowan cleared his throat. “I doubt it would have been Essar. She did have give her heart to Lorcan, but she knew her boundaries. By the atrocities of her actions, the whole scenario seems absurd, almost as if she’d also been on the poison to act such.”
Manon cocked her head, a predator accessing the situation and how to pin down the prey who’d slipped from their grasp one-too many times.
Rowan crossed his legs from Aelin’s bed, the gesture too simple—through the complications—for her eyes to handle. Growling, she chucked the plate of steamed broccoli and peppered carrots at her mate’s head.
The bastard merely flicked his hand, his magic neatly setting the trays on her bed.
Lunging forward, Aelin made way to tackle him, but Rowan hastily stood up, holding both palms up in the air.
Not in defeat, but in contemplation.
He frowned. “The day you came to the castle, pretending you were sick—” Rowan cast a hard look towards Aelin, who merely raised a brow “—you—” He turned towards Manon who had reduced the apple to the very core “—You said you saw Remelle in the palace. In the halls.”
Manon tossed the core in the air, and caught it within her hands without breaking the stare with the Prince of Lycans. “Yes.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s…odd.”
It was Aelin’s turn to shoot her mate a glare. “Why’s that exactly?”
“Because she should have been in my room.”
The Alpha of the Fireheart Pack cocked a hand on her hip. “Oh?” Aelin put her mate’s words far out of her mind. When Elide was safe within her pack, then she could think about Rowan’s endeavors with other females. She told herself she didn’t care anyways, not when she had a line of unmated males, and even Alphas, desiring her—but still, the comment stung deep within her.
She’d make the Prince of Lycans think twice in who he was dealing with.
She’d started to think that the whatever deity out there was not some benevolent goddess anymore.
Rowan stalked closer towards her—daring her to interrupt and shut him out. “She’s been deigning to carry out her diplomatic meetings in my room, otherwise choosing to withhold information. That day, she was supposed to fill me in about the Morath Pack. Any details we could use to legally shut them down and use to show the Council.”
Manon let out a low hiss, ignoring Rowan’s hesitance and Aelin’s vehemence. “Morath,” The Beta gutturally gutted out so viciously Rowan’s teeth bared. “Remelle asked Elide how was Morath.”
Morath—Gods, Elide. Lorcan was right—it was that breeding place after all this time.
Vernon wasn’t trying to lie low.
“Even if Elide lived in Morath—” Rowan started, but Aelin’s face paled, realization pouring through her, a vast broken dam.
“It wasn’t Essar who poisoned Lorcan.”
Manon stiffened. “It was the one who is vying for your mate.”
Aelin’s heart stuttered. “Remelle.”
Manon clicked her teeth together, and turned towards Rowan, baring her teeth. “The first time I met Remelle, I was given the orders to not harm a hair on her head. Now?”
The Prince of Lycan’s eyes matched the half-Lycan’s dark glint full of malice and ill intent. “Those orders have reversed.”
Aelin watched Manon and Rowan stride out of the door, purpose filling each of their veins. She supposed it would be fun to have a little chat with the Lycan princess—find out her exact her role with Elide’s kidnapping and her intentions with her own mate—killing two birds with one stone.
The familiar scent of fresh air, pine, and snow filled her nostrils. Rowan pushed her door open again and stood footsteps away from her, a hard look on his face.
“I know what this may seem like, but if you trust me, believe me when I said nothing transpired.”
The Alpha of the Fireheart pack stared at the rotten core Manon had tossed on her floor. Dead and putrid—what state would she find Elide in? Even worse, she dreaded the state Lorcan would find Elide in. The retribution unleashed…
Mate or mateless, both had been tied together by the ineffable feelings of hope and life, a choice both had accepted.
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Aelin said slowly, meeting her mate’s gaze. “I’m more worried about Remelle.”
She could feel the strings to her link with Manon and the waves of delight rolling through her Beta, just as a high-pitched, feminine scream pierced the air. A grin played over Aelin’s lips and she stalked to the door, sparing one last glance back.
“You coming?” she asked.
Rowan gave a slow shake of his head, and strode next to her, leaning slightly down. “When things settle down,” he said quietly. “I hope you will consider a future with me.”
The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled, and she opened her mouth, tongue tied with too many thoughts. She refused to give up her Alpha position, especially to live among royalty where she’d be nothing more than a trophy wife. “We—”
A body flew towards past their door, and crashed into the wall at the end of the hallway. Manon stalked down the hall, bloodlust written in her eyes, and crimson red dripping off her nails and onto the expensive sapphire carpets.
Remelle’s back was bent—snapped. A hand was pressed against her mouth, brimming with saliva and blood.
“A deal with Rogue Baba Yellowlegs,” Manon hissed, the rims of her dark gold eyes glazed with phantom ghosts. “Two drops of Yellowleg’s poison for the princess here for the promise of winning the queen’s crown in return to revoke Baba’s Rogue status.”
“And?” Aelin pushed.
“One drop in Essar’s breakfast tea. Under the spell, she’d been commanded to poison Lorcan’s goblet.”
Remelle’s shudder was confirmation enough.
Aelin pursed her lips. “Is Baba Yellowlegs still alive?”
Manon swung Wind Cleaver in a wide arc, and Remelle screamed, covering her eyes. “Yes! Yes she is!” When Manon’s claws slid out, the Lycan princess quickly added, “Morath,” her body trembling and convulsing.
Rowan frowned. “That’s most likely one of the quickest, successful interrogations I’ve ever seen.”
The Alpha of the Fireheart Pack smirked. “It’s why she’s my Beta.” Because the half-Lycan bred more unsatiasted ills inside of her, cultivated over the years, never receiving the closure comfort in her past. The wrath of a woman never worshipped.
Remelle screamed as the half-Lycan stalked towards her, swinging Wind Cleaver easily in one hand. The Lycan princess glanced desperately at Rowan, who merely nodded his head at Manon in expectation.
“Wait,” Aelin said, cracking her neck.
Manon looked at her impatiently, the black in her eyes dilating in anticipation.
“You get Sorscha and reinforcements to Morath as soon as possible.”
A nod from Manon, albeit unwillingly. The half-Lycan spared one last glance at the Lycan princess, who slumped against the wall in relief. And then her Beta was gone, a menace’s shadow.
To Elide, to restoration.
Aelin, Alpha of the Fireheart Pack and mate to the Prince of Lycans, stepped forward from under the doorway, and locked eyes with the Princess of Lycans.
“Remelle,” she purred. “You and I are going to have a nice, long civil chat.”
She drew Damaris from her sheath, the blade glinting against the overarching golden beams.
To the unanswered dreams and whisper of hope within them all.
Vernon rebuckled his pants, licking his lips in satisfaction. The experiments on captured wolves turned them into Ilken now guarded Morath so that not one soul would dare not survive a trip past his borders.
He’d gotten his empire, and built a kingdom out of skulls and death. He’d done the impossible without the interference of the Lycans blooded with Royalty. He’d beaten the heir to his Pack into submission.
He’d gotten it all. And so much more.
Nightmares turned into realities.
He had his secrets, his dark deeds, his gory graves, burning in his brain, a living hell, his own to hole up under lock and key.
His boots shoved the limp figure away from him, a nest of black hair lying dead against the slope of stones. Blood pooled around her, her stomach caved in, mouth open in a silent scream of terror. A perfect doll stuffed with poisoned needles and sewed with barbed words.
He had broken the Perranth spirit and heir, and carved out Morath, a devil’s realm of hell to rule absolutely.
A mirthless chuckle shuddered through him, seizing every pore. He’d brought down a Pack of light and hope, tore through every crack, and filled the gap with his own gushing red rivers of twisted wickedness.
The truth was out. That heinous acts could thrive and withhold a place in this too gray world.
He’d nudge the canvas towards the ink, and devour the white. Completely.
Vernon felt, rather than saw, a shift in the darkness—a different blackness with more volumes.
A hatchet whistled through the cave, and flew through a wide arc, nearly slicing the limp figure’s fingers, rottened and rottled.
A heavy, dark presence shattered the shapes of phantom and shadow.
Pure, undiluted rage and unfiltered feralness.
And barrenly broken.
The Alpha of the Morath Pack slowly turned around, revealing yellow-red teeth, caked with the crimson liquid of the broken body’s mortality. A nasty soul for the invading one in his land, his territory, his sanctuary.
“You missed,” he hissed in delight.
A warrior of moon’s darkness, not of the sun’s glory descended into the cave.
Deeper, deeper into hell. His hell and no one else’s. His, his, his and his own lovely-pieced heaven.
Welcome, he almost breathed, soaking in the other demon’s face. Look at this little lush.
The darkness flared out, every vein within him throbbing as if pins and needles had stitched through him.
A hysterical laughter shot through him.
A consequence that had not foreseen.
A broken girl with a broken mate.
Put together, they healed.
He should have known. Wedged them further, despite the inevitable.
His own secret darkness failed, to tell to another larger and loose dark, a spawn of wretched misery.
A wild, maniacal grin—a monster he had unknowingly forged. A living sin.
“Did I?” the twisted darkness rasped.
Vernon’s ankle collapsed, a chunk of flesh ripped and torn, blood seeping through the floor, dark ink swirling with the fading scarlet. A slice reeking of revenge felt to the depths of his marrow.
The hatchet yanked out of his ankle, and the Alpha’s knees kissed the stones. A pale hand, too twisted for true comprehension, gripped the hatchet.
The little girl who had hung onto that little thread twisted with hope.
A fading will focused on retribution, a face meaner than his own demons.
He hadn’t won.
The warrior slipped through his peripheral, the slickness of the liquids sliding over his hands too tangible.
“Tell me how you did it,” he insisted, not feebly—anything but. Foam bubbled at his lips. “Slipped through my defenses unharmed.”
His utopia. Meeting an end to greater darkness. There was no perfection, truer silencer than this. The Ilken had failed him, his fantasy had not been fulfilled, the girl had not crossed over the line. Into insanity.
The warrior stepped over his mangled ankle. A true devil in a lower hide.
More pain, but numb.
Onyx eyes peered into him, a smile promising more things than the sweet release of decaying. Hardened and unconquered. Eternal seconds of breathings for this very moment.
He repeated his words. Slurred.
Grasped at the syllables in response.
Knew the warrior opened his mouth.
Did not know the warrior had been broken and remade. Would remake the broken, shattered figure next to him, gripping the hatchet with a ferocity only the desperate could hold before fading away into dust.
The warrior knelt down next to him, and leaned close to his ear.
Opened his mouth. Said the words again—
—Death cannot conquer love.
The sickened rose within him, swirling and spiraling savagely. Vernon howled at the sounds of answer, the clipped crunching cracks chipping away. Heard them over and over again, slithering down his ear and wrapping around him, a vice like grip. Choking him from the inside.
Again and again.
The Alpha of the Morath Pack heard the beating drums of madness crescending louder and louder and louder matching the beating within his own ribcage until all fell into silence and solemness.
She knew she was blinded.
Suffering in the darkness did not mean alleviation in the light.
Too bright, too sunny—she could not see the same way again.
The male warrior had stripped his shirt into thin slices and wrapped the fabric around her eyes, shielding them from the blinding sensations of radiant rays that ripped through her orbs.
—she knew she was safe.
Secure, and sound.
Warm, and protected.
There was no words needed to fill the silence, not when a reunion of simple touching kissed away every troubled crack.
It was as if the past had washed away with the present.
A hand wove through her knotted hair and stroked her scalp, rubbing away the grime and dirt coating her roots.
“Elide,” he murmured, and Elide felt the vibrations rumbling through his chest.
Elide opened her eyes, the thread expanding and pouring through her. The warmth from that sliver span flashed through her, and she felt her insides match the other string’s song, the warrior whose arms she was in. Then—in that moment, she realized paradise was not a place, but a feeling.
How could she forget that rough-hewn face and those onyx eyes—once haunted—now glimmering with that resounding hope pulsating through her.
“I am an immortal, seen it all, met it all. But you—” The Commander of the Lycans looked at her with something akin to almost wonder in his eyes. “—You, Elide, are entirely different. You taught me ascension.” His fingers cupped her face, a gentle caress. “You taught me that life is finite and fragile.” His Adam’s apple bobbed.
Elide Lochan cried.
And her mate cried with her.
Elide felt the threads of connections flowing through her, more safety nets, more familiarities. More lives.
She could hear the sharp and feminine voice ringing through the air, and taste the death of Rogues on her tongue.
A blade whistled through the air, and she smiled.
Which only meant—the white-haired wolf stalked through the clearing, black blood and dust showering her leathers. Claws and teeth and all, she was still radiating the dominance of the powerful and unconquered, the unhinged lethalness of past and present.
A fierce, feral grin. “If you call one werewolf, you invite the pack.”
Lycans and Fireheart Pack members filtered through the clearing, some scratched, some bleeding, some scarred. Blistered hands and broken joints.
Seeing the Lycan carrying her in his arms, Manon gave him a warning glare, but a sharp nod. The white-haired warrior disappeared through the trees, the sound of wind and death weaving through the trees as more of the Ilken summoned, only to receive the hand of death.
This was not some pity party, but art—in death.
In the deserved.
“No,” she whispered, and her mate carried her to the edge of the thick, crooked trees where she could see glimpses of Sorscha and other medical care. Her chest rattled, and her throat cracked. But— “I want to be the one.”
She stared into those onyx eyes that carried her physically and mentally through the darkness, and willed them to understand.
“You want to be the one to bring Morath down,” her mate said, stroking her cheek.
Her eyes fluttered close, tiredness overwhelming her. Every part of her still hurt and throbbed, but once these passings passed—
The once Alpha of the Perranth Pack would reclaim her throne.
“Elide,” Lorcan said, solemnly. “I need to know one thing before you pass out.”
Elide Lochan blurrily stared at the shape carrying her, stroking her. Loving her.
She could feel the presence of Sorscha pressing a damp cloth against her forehead, and her mate hooking her trembling fingers through his. Flesh thoroughly marked and matched.
“Do you—” A pause “—love—”
Elide Lochan screamed, a new flare of flame flashing through her. She saw red and felt raw, as if her insides were on fire. Her bones rattled and spine seemed to contract.
To think it would end, she almost cackled.
“What the hell is going on?” Lorcan roared, gripping her hands, which had started to tremble uncontrollably.
Sorscha—sweet Sorscha—swore, a rattle of a gasp emerging from the pale column of her throat. “She’s Settling.”
Elide Lochan nestled into the darkness, submitting to this other facet of pain and fracture.
Lorcan looked down at the trembling figure in his arms, twisting and turning. Her skin sweated in large rivulets, stinging even his hands.
Suffering once again. They were dirty and dirt, but they could blossom from their own embittered seeds. Together.
He swore it. To her, to his mate, to his future.
Sorscha took a hesitant step forward. “By her conditions, I cannot guarantee that she’ll live through the process in becoming Lycan.”
He felt his darkness flare out, angry, bent on madness. Rage. “If you cannot guarantee,” he said lowly. “Then I will.”
He ignored Manon’s demands to halt and Sorscha’s protest. He sent one demand to Rowan Whitethorn, one if carried out, would pay off all of the Prince’s debts to him.
Lorcan Salvaterre whisked his mate away from the screams and tucked her thrashing body under his chin. Elide Lochan was his mate, so damned poison nor words nor ills could deprive him of.
And he would be damned if even Death could snatch that away from him.
Because death could could not conquer love. And love bled in war.
Rowan Whitethorn tossed the Alpha of the Morath Pack into a cold cell.
Dark and damp.
Aelin and Manon and the entire Fireheart Pack had clawed at the dungeon entrance, demanding justice and retribution to end the pitiful existence of the monster of a man, Vernon.
But he had a deal and a command.
And he would make sure it would be upheld.
The Prince of the Lycans locked the door and watched the gears spur shut. Click after click after click.
While Morath was in flames, the true dark core rested within the beating heart of the man who had raised an army of rogues into turned Ilken and experiment on the souls of once-purity.
It was only a matter of time before the pulsing faded away into ashes and dust.
The man clawed at the walls and howled and screamed and scratched and laughed.
Insanity and lunacy. His liar.
His bones started to rattle, blood burn, his teeth chatter, his eyes widen, his jaw unhinge, his insides boil, and his body twitch over and over into a dark and forbidden dance of nightmares and little secrets.
A swooning flame swished through him, and the little specks flecked across his head. The chunk of missing flesh at his ankle seared and sparked. The demons within him caved him, a forbidden forgiveness.
You dove under the water to find him, sitting at the bottom of the pool. He looks at you with a smile, and you just can’t help yourself. You swim towards him and grab his face gently, pulling his lips against yours for a quick kiss.
When you pull back, you shoot him a grin as you try not to laugh at his shocked expression before you go back up for air. It takes a second, but he follows you up.
“You kissed me?” Percy asks in confusion and you can see the blush under the wet droplets of water that streaked his face.
You laugh as you splash him, beginning to swim in the opposite direction when you promise, “If you catch me, I’ll do it again.”
“There’s nothing you can say to change my mind, Peter”. He pursed his lips, the golden filigree on his tunic glowing in the candlelight. The ball was beautiful; filled with beautiful people, with gorgeous costumes. The entirety of Narnia, it seemed, were dancing within these four walls. Above them, starlight glistened through the glass ceiling. “I could command you to stay” he half-smiled, gazing around the room to avoid her eyes “I could tell you how much we need you here. I could let you know how far Tellamarine is. I could tell you how much Lucy would miss you. I could tell you I love you-” (y/n) scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That’ll be the day. Now you’re just scraping the bottom of the barrel”. Peter’s face changed; she saw it in the grey of his eyes. Something she didn’t understand. Something she’d seen before but fled her understanding; water through her fingertips, spilling away from her.
‘‘I know it isn’t ideal. I’ve been blessed here - blessed to know all of you” she added, clasping her hands together in front of her “but what’s keeping me here? Who’s to say I’ll never return to Narnia? I have all the time in the world”. She didn’t realise she was shaking until she paused for breath, the lack of oxygen making her lightheaded. She had waited for years for Peter to show her some sign of affection. Any sign he felt for her, even a little. But days had grown long, and she had grown tired of wondering whether he’d ever return her favour. But he was a King - the High King, no less - and she was nobody at all. Peter tipped his head, giving a quick bow. She gave him a polite curtsy, but she saw it in his eyes: he was defeated. He strode off immediately, leaving her feeling as though she were very, very small. (y/n) wasn’t sure what she felt; and if she felt anything, she wasn’t sure what good it did her now.
The nerves tied like knots in her stomach as she left her soup to cool on the table, rain pouring from the night sky. Her ship left in the morning; and then she would leave all she had known behind for a life she could hardly picture yet.
But something in the excitement made her want to turn around, to run through the castle gates. To push open the door to his office. To never, never look back.
A hasty rap on the wooden door to her cottage broke her haze. Her visitors had come and gone; the heavens were open, pouring fountains of rain from the darkness. She had no idea who could be there. She unbolted the door, alert as she pulled open the handle with a creak.
He was soaked through. Drenched to the bone, the white of his shirt plastered to his chest. His golden hair was a dusty brown from the rain, sticking to his forehead and sending streaks of water streaming down his cheekbones. Tiny droplets caught in his lashes; dusting them in the candlelight. Her King. Her love. “Peter? What are you-” “I wasn’t lying”. She blinked, her brow creasing in confusion. The rain was thrumming against the thatch roof; her boots already starting to soak. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice slightly too high.
“I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you.”
His face tightened, a look of desperation clouding his features. He clenched his jaw; she noticed his whole body was taught, his hands balled into fists so hard that his knuckles were white. She couldn’t bring herself to speak. Couldn’t bring herself to think. He swallowed. His eyes darting around, biting his lip as he thought. “I’m…I’m sorry” he breathed, running a hand through his hair in frustration “I should never have-” He turned, taking several long strides into the rain. “Peter!” (y/n) cried out, sprinting out into the pelting shower. She ran to him, grabbing his wrist in her hand. He stopped, turning to look at her. Without a word she took her hands and ran them across his tensed jaw, pulling him down to her lips. She felt the tension in his body dissipate as he gasped against her lips, crushing her closer to him in one fluid movement.
The soup on the mantle was cold by the time she stepped through the doorway, drenched and cold and very much alive. And not going anywhere.
Summary: Told in reverse-chronological order, Enouement is the story of love and loss, telling the journey that led you to your ultimate destination: a life full of happiness and regret, mistakes and laughter- and the man who gave you it all. Bucky x Reader
Warnings: Just plain sadness.
Author’s Note: Someday, there will come a time when you all stop hating me. Now is not that time.
There was a void, somewhere between the irreparable pain of loss and the mass of anger settled in your gut. It was an emptiness, a crevice somewhere that had gone untouched for months. It was not difficult to pinpoint the source, because every time you looked at Bucky, you could feel an ache beneath your ribs.
He was standing at the bathroom sink, brushing his teeth. The sound of the running faucet was calming as you tugged off your sweatpants, tossing them toward the overstuffed hamper. You moved slowly, pulling the covers back from the bed. The bathroom door was open, Bucky’s figure barely visible as you passed by to dig through the pile of dirty clothes in search of a shirt to wear to sleep. Sighing, you crawled up onto the mattress and stuck your feet beneath the sheets, drawing the covers up to your shoulder and turning on your side so that your back was to the bathroom door.
Okay, so I’m having ACOWAR withdrawals since I finished it last week and began writing this instead of studying for calculus. I ? Love? them? So ? Much?
Cassian had taken a month to give Nesta her space. In his
dying moments, in hers, when she had
chosen to stay with him, he had bared his heart. When they had made it back to
the townhouse, he knew things were going to change. Because they had been given
a second chance, and damn the cauldron if he did not take it. But he could see
what laying her life down had taken from her. The death of her father. Her
beheading of the king. He did not even dare ponder what she may have been
thinking as he attempted to break every bone in Cassian’s body.
He had taken care of the remaining Illyrian ranks, burying
the dead, informing the families, talking everything over with the camp lords
and making sure the camps got back in motion. A month. His muscles were still
sore and bones were still mending, but none of that compared to the pain he
felt from being away from her. He couldn’t stay away.
He had flown back to the townhouse and said his hellos to
his brothers, helping Feyre and Elain in the garden. It was coming along
nicely, and he was just happy that his family seemed to be slowly coming back
to life after their brushes with death. Sometimes he had to stop to remind
himself that they had all made it, if barely. Feyre and Rhys shared a look when
he asked where Nesta had gone off to, but Elain had answered without any
detraction. He nodded, giving his high lord a searching look, but Rhys
pretended to be busy with a weed. Fine.
Cassian made his way back inside the town house and to the
foyer to find Nesta reading a book. He plastered on a grin he hoped would be
answered with a withering glare. He leaned against the doorframe, making sure
his movements were loud, but she ignored him.
“Nesta,” he said softly after a few minutes and she finally
raises her head. Although everything she had stolen from the cauldron had been
used that day on the battlefield, her eyes were still full of flames. He
wondered if she still had any magic. He also wonders if he had given her enough
time to mull everything over. His insides tighten as he remembers that included
what he had said, lying on that field. She moves her eyes down his body and
back to his eyes and he raises an eyebrow.
“Hello,” she finally says, her eyes quite not reaching his. He searches her face but the wall
she had once let down for him is back up. His chest caves an inch.
“How are you doing?” He says, trying to remain completely
still. The fact that she had even said hello was progress, he reminds himself.
She takes a steadying a breath and Cassian wonders if this was a mistake. Fuck.
“Managing,” she says, as the wall comes down. She briefly
closes her eyes and when they open, her fists are tightened, her book is closed
and the grief that is in her eyes is screaming at him. He moves for her,
kneeling in front of her, his dignity be damned.
He takes her fists and slowly covers them with his own broad
hands. Her eyes are still beseeching his, but he doesn’t know how to make the
pain go away. The memories of bloodshed never really do.
“I can’t make you forget…but Nesta, I am here for you,
whether you want to talk, or fight, or scream about how much you loathe me-“
She barks a laugh and removes her hands, covering her face with them. He begins
to pull back but then she faces him again, a cruel smile on her beautiful face.
“Cassian, you almost died,” she says softly. He begins to
nod. He had been coming to terms with that, too.
“You almost died with me,” He says briskly, his hands
twitching at his sides, the anger boiling in him as he remembers that ass of a
king touching her, knocking her down-
“I didn’t want to leave you alone,” she says, looking down
at her hands, struggling for words. He knew it was hard for her. It was hard
for him too, which is why they always argued, always sparred with their words.
But he needed to say this.
“I didn’t want to live without you,” she says before he can.
Her fierce blue-gray eyes meet his. Cold, startling, but there was warmth there
now. He almost balks at her words. He cannot bring himself to speak, but he
knows he should, but if he opens his mouth he might gape like a fish out of
water and there’s a streak of fire in him for letting a female get to him this
way, after all these years.
Then her hand reaches up to move a strand of hair out of his
face, but he leans forward and catches her hand in his. Their eyes are still
connected as he holds her hand, bracing it against his collar bone and finally the
words are on his tongue.
“I don’t want to live without you.” She opens her mouth to
reply, but closes it. He rubs his thumb along her knuckles as he moves his
forehead closer to meet hers, breathing slowly, lest she pull away. But she
watches him carefully and though he can see her eyes are wide and her nostrils
are flared, her body is relaxed. He is about to speak again when suddenly her
scent fills his nose and the entire world is flipped. He pulls back just as she
does, both of them gasping, Cassian’s wings flaring, staring at the other. One
word fills Cassian’s mind as he feels the bond between them snap in that room,
tying them together.
After the mating bond had snapped into place, Nesta and Cassian had each
backed off from each other. But that didn’t mean they stayed away. They could
often be found in the same room, doing different things. If Nesta was reading a
book, Cassian was there going over Illyrian training techniques. Nesta had
insisted on training with Azriel, lest she be in a situation like the war where
she couldn’t defend herself or Cassian, but Cassian would be there training
with Feyre. And when Feyre and Azriel couldn’t take the tension and left to
work on flying, Cassian and Nesta would brood at each other while sparring,
never speaking. He would fly her back to the townhouse and if she was hungry,
he would follow her into the kitchen and watch her eat. If he was hungry, she
would pretend to make something for Elain, who did enjoy the extra help in
the garden when the two of them were out there. If Cassian had to go back to
the Steppes, Nesta would brood in her room until she felt his presence
return. If she was in a meeting with Rhys and Mor about her new position as an
emissary to the human lands, Cassian would wait outside, pacing until she
appeared and he would fly her home. Everyone was completely fed up with it.
Rhys pushed Cassian to talk to her, talk about what the bond
entailed but his brother would only growl and threaten to push him off the
balcony. When Feyre approached her sister, she would get an equally snarled
response to mind her own business and when Nesta felt like speaking to “the
male”, she would.
One day, when Nesta and Feyre were in the same room reading,
Feyre decided to play on Nesta’s curiosity.
“You know, technically you haven’t even accepted the bond
yet.” Nesta raises her eyes to meet hers.
“What do you mean?”
“According to Rhys, the woman, or a woman I suppose, has to
offer their mate food to reciprocate the fact that she accepts the bond. It’s a
tradition or something,” she says as her sister gives her a reproachful look.
“And I thought humans were archaic,” she mutters, going back
to her text.
“I also think that our very present mortality should be
taken into account while you both squander over this,” Feyre says icily, returning to her novel. At
that, Nesta looks up, mouth tight. She knew how much Feyre had suffered. Could
not begin to imagine how much Rhys had suffered. She had seen her sister scream
and cry and beg while holding her dead mate in her arms. Nesta puts her book
down on the table and meets her sister’s gaze. She nods and makes her way
outside, where she knows Cassian is waiting at the window, watching Azriel and
Elain. She clears her throat until he turns to look at her and she waves at him
to follow her. Cassian’s eyes are clouded as they make their way to the
kitchen. Nesta pulls out a loaf of bread and sets it down on the counter in
front of them. She lifts her eyes to meet his.
“I baked this this morning. I want you to have it,” she says
abruptly. Cassian’s eyes widen considerably. He gapes at her, and then the
bread, and back to her. Her expression remains neutral as she grabs a knife
from the knife rack.
“What?” She snaps at his bewildered expression as she cuts
off a slice.
“Do you know what that means?” He exclaims, now gesturing
between her, the bread and him. Her eyebrows furrow and she snarls.
“Yes, you prick. Now will you eat it or not?” She taunts, pointing
to the slice she had cut off. He sighs, his thoughts becoming clearer, his
jittering becoming more of a twitch. He moves some hair out of his face as he
looks down and searches Nesta’s face for a hint of regret, of refuse. There is
none. Then it’s her turn to sigh, and he can see that it takes every part of
her to not pull back to protect herself, her heart, as she moves that hair
behind his rounded ear. There is love in her cold, stone blue eyes.
He slowly takes the slice of bread off the plate and puts it
in his mouth, chewing in restraint. Then he cuts off another. And another. Now
he is smiling.
“You know, Nesta, you’re not that bad of a baker,” he says,
winking. She rolls her eyes, but she can feel that bond become stronger. He
belongs to her. He grabs her waist and lets his hand roam a little further down
her backside as he finishes off the last of the loaf. Her expression softens as
he leans down and she closes her eyes, but his lips go to her ear.
“You’re mine,” he growls and she loses control. She pulls
the back of his head down to hers, fuck restraint. His hands are exploring
every curve of her body and she gasps as they burn down her ass, her thighs, up
her sides, cupping her shoulders, her breasts. He lifts her up onto the
counter, clearing it with his arms and she wraps her legs around his wide
torso. His wings broaden and he knocks over a few jars on a shelf, but to hell
with that. Cassian works around Nesta’s dress, until he finally growls, pulling
it over her head. She’s been working to get off all his clothes, until they’re
both bare. Cassian makes sure to kiss her everywhere, taking his time on her
tits, making her moan. They have no regard for anyone in this house, although
Rhys definitely eavesdropped and let everyone know they needed to leave
immediately to save their ears from the calamity.
Cassian tears her undergarments and Nesta teases him through
his. He growls as he moves his fingers between her legs, his lips still on her
upper body. She gasps as he enters and yelps when his fingers move to her clit.
“You belong to me,” she says suddenly, pulling his head up
to meet her gaze. He pushes his forehead against hers and he nods, never
breaking eye contact as he slowly inserts his cock into her. She moves forward,
biting her lip but meets his predatory gaze. His smile mimics her savage grin
as he moves his hands to her ass to pull her forward until she is on the edge
of the counter and he is all the way inside of her. Then he brings himself out
and slams himself in. Nesta breaks contact first as she leans forward to moan
into his shoulder, where she can feel every muscle pulsing as he moves in and
out. One hand remains on her backside and the other moves in between them,
working her clit. Nesta moans loudly and realizes she lost the upper hand. She snarls,
removing one hand from her mate’s hair and running it along the upper membrane
of his wing. Now it was time for Cassian to emit those noises.
He groans, moving his eyes from where they were connected to
Nesta’s. She moves to kiss him and their teeth clatter as they both fight for
dominance. Nesta moves her finger to another spot on his wing to draw circles
and Cassian loses it. He groans into her mouth and he can feel the climax
coming. Nesta widens her legs, one of Cassian’s hands in her hair, the other on
her breast. Cassian smiles at the little gasps coming out of her mouth now until
he makes one final entry with his cock and she shutters around him. She screams
his name into his shoulder and reaches for his wing and as soon as she makes a
stroke in the corner, he finishes inside of her. He moans into her shoulder and
she pulls him closer. Cassian pulls out of her, his hands both resting on her
thighs. He lifts his head and she pulls back to look at him. Her mate. Glowing,
his smile is glowing as he places a small kiss on her lips. She made him that
happy. A small smile appears on hers as he pulls away, handing her a towel. She
snickers as he grabs one for himself.
“So Azriel has the largest wingspan, huh?” She yelps as he nips
her rear with the towel and moves to bite her ear, but she pulls him down for a
kiss instead. Nesta pulls away, grabbing her clothes, ordering Cassian to
follow her to her room. He happily obliges.
Andrew comes up from unconsciousness like it’s deep water.
First, tiny streaks of light, growing to a glow. Then, all at once, sound and smell. It feels like he gasps, but he thinks it probably comes out like a sigh. He breathes in, deeply, lets it seep out slow.
“I’m angry with you,” says the voice he would know anywhere. Andrew blinks his eyes open, squinting at the glare. There’s a touch at his face – a hand, blocking the light.
“Are you?” he asks. His voice grates in his throat. “I’m not dead. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
You had always lived a secluded life. Kids were never that eager to play with you, your family didn’t pay much attention to you, so you were left alone. You had always been looked at with fear and judgement steaming from you weird nature. Ever since you were younger you were always able to tell when it was going to rain, when storms were coming, if someone was lying; you were a threat to those who didn’t understand you.
You didn’t even understand yourself. As you grew up and realized these things were not normal you drew further into yourself, living the loner life that had been projected on you earlier in life.
You were 17, had just graduated from high school, and were moving to a secluded small town in Washington that took most of what you had earned in your years of working. You moved into your own small house and felt comfort in finally having your own space where no one could judge you. This was your home.
Once you moved in you slowly began noticing little things. Things you were looking for would appear on the table in front of you. Things you were thinking of putting away would be in their right place before you could move them. You thought these little things were just you and tried not to pay much attention to it. Then, one night a couple weeks later, on your 18th birthday, you woke up in immense pain. It felt like fire was coursing through your veins. After the pain passed you drove to the hospital worried that something was happening.
“Miss. Y/N,” a nurse said, “right this way.” You sat on the sterile white bed and looked around the white room. “Your heart rate seems very high. But, other than that your vitals look normal. Pupils a little dilated. Doctor Cullen will be in shortly to see you, ok?” You sat for a few minutes alone until the Doctor came in. He stopped in his spot for a split second before walking towards you, “Miss. Y/N,” he asked. “What seems to be the problem?”
You told him the fiery pain you had felt as he checked over your chart. As giving you a once over himself he told you, “Nothing seems to be wrong. If I had to guess I’d say something you ate hit you wrong and that’s what woke you up. Go home, get some rest, and take it easy today. Maybe try and get some sleep since it’s,” he looked at his watch, “2 am. And, if you have any other problems, come back in.” You didn’t see that as he left he had a hard gaze on you.
Sleep came easy to you but you were plagued with dreams of fire, water, and streaks of green wisps. When you opened your eyes is was 8 am and you knew you were up for the day.
The first our you were up was like a blur. Now, you were standing on the outskirts of the forest. You didn’t even remember why you decided to come here. You took a step forward and started your walk in the large Washington forrest. It was peaceful and something about it, the silence and complete naturalness of it, made you feel like you were in your element. An hour into your walk you felt like something was near you.
You heard a snap from behind and turned to see a large black bear about 30 yards from you. You stayed quiet and took a slight step back. Your attempt to go unnoticed failed when you stepped on a twig that cracked under your foot. The bear’s head shot up and looked around for the source. He turned towards you and raised on his hind legs.
You had read about this before. How it was best to stay still in these cases. You stood like a statue, waiting for the bear to move on. Instead, the bear began to sniff the air. Anger overcame him as he smelt you and he began charging towards you. As he got near you you threw your hands over your face on instinct and waited for the impact. Instead, nothing came You looked up and saw a clear, green tinted, energy in front of you that kept the bear away. He lost interest quickly and walked away.
You looked at your hands and then the energy. Bringing your hands down to look at them the energy dissolved. You didn’t have time to freak out about what you had just seen because a voice rang out and made you jump. “How did you just go that?” You looked up and saw a blonde man standing where the bear had been originally. He was in front of you in a second looking at your hands. “How did you do that,” his voice was intrigued not the usual judgemental and frightened tone that most gave you.
“I…I don’t know,” you said honestly. “How did you just get here,” you examined the distance he had just travel in no time at all.
“I’m…on the track team.”
“Right, and I talk to animals,” you said sarcastically. You both relaxed as a silent understanding passed between the two of you. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you offered a hand.
He seemed hesitant to touch the thing that just projected a bear away from you, but, just as you were about to take back your hand, he shook it, “I’m Jasper Cullen.”
“God, I ask you. Is trustfulness a sin?”- No Longer Human
“I used corruption because I trusted you.”
The executive’s statement during the moonlight night of their brief alliance resonated through Dazai’s thoughts.
“A foolish choice Chuuya. Look where your unwavering trust landed you now.”
The cold rain dripped down from his face onto the floor as the unforgiving water washed away the streaks of black and crimson surrounding the fallen figure, taking with it, proof of a once beating heart.
“How stupid Chuuya,” he whispered out, struggling to keep his breathing even. “How utterly foolish.”
Disregarding the sensation of water staining his clothes, the brunet knelt down besides the other.
A wary hand reached out towards Chuuya’s face only to retract back towards Dazai’s chest.
“Even after four years…” A bitter laugh echoed through the emptiness. “You haven’t changed at all.”
Reluctant fingers brushed up against blood stained ones.
You stared out your window as the fat drops of rain hit the window pane. You were supposed to have a nice picnic in the park with Jimin but alas the weather had different plans and now you were stuck inside.
Sighing you pressed a hand against the cool glass, feeling how smooth it was, watching rain glide down leaving streaks of water in it’s trail.
“Y/n!” Jimin called, opening the door to your room, “let’s go outside!” he said excitedly.”
“Jiminie, it’s raining.” you pointed to the dark skies and huge clouds.
“So?” he paused, before grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the window and out the door. Blinking as a drop of rain fell onto your face you turned to see Jimin laughing without a care in the world.
“C’mon! Feel the rain y/n.” he called before he splashed you with his foot.
“Ya!” you shouted as the cold water hit your bare legs, before turning and splashing him back. Giggling you both danced to your own beat, loving each other’s company. Who needed a picnic on a sunny day when you can dance in the rain?
“I love you.” Jimin said, before he leaned down and softly kissed you, his hands leaving trails of warmth on your body to contrast with the coldness of the rain. You smiled kissing him back, hands tangled in his hair before you pulled away yelling for him to come and get you. He happily chased you down the block, dancing in the street when the cars stopped driving by and the rain got heavier.
There are two kinds of people in the world. People who get wet when it rains, and people who feel the rain.
Request: I’m so glad you’re back! i have a weird request: Could you write an imagine about Kit but like the reader is part of his imagination during his time in the asylum. But a good one, a comforting one… sorry if it’s confusing
a/n: this was weird yet fun
Kit sits cross legged on his firm mattress. His dark eyes scan around the roo- cell, the cell he’s trapped in. It’s dark; the only light coming from underneath the silver rusted door bouncing off the dark grey walls, sometimes the small lightbulb flickers above him.
The scratchy baby blue hospital gown scrunches at his bruised knees, leaving very little to the imagination. Fingertips card through his sand brown hair, slowly, delicately, comfortingly. Kit sighs back into the touch, looking up at the figure. “Y/N?” He asks, squinting in the darkness. “Y/N, where were you today?”
The girl frowns, bending one leg and sitting behind him. She continues to play with his hair, gazing in his charcoal orbs. “Oh Kit, I’m in your head, remember sweetheart?” She sighs, leaning into his shoulder. “Honey, why aren’t you sleeping? The guards could hear you.” She moves him so he’s facing her.
He peers down at his lap, scooting closer. Fingers travel, intertwining their hands together. He needs to touch her; feel her. Even if this is all in his mind. “Ah, I can’t sleep. Not in here.” He shakes his head. Was he tired? Extremely, yet he can not fall asleep. “I just wanna talk to you.” He mumbles.
She rolls her eyes, wrapping her legs around his waist, cupping his cheeks. Kit pouts; arms pulling her to his chest. Letting go of his face, her fingers dance across his neck to the stray strands of hair. “You know I’ll be in your dreams, we can talk there.” She grins, kissing the dimple on his cheek.
But he won’t have dreams; he’ll have nightmares. Tears pop up in his eyes and he shakes his head, his fluffy hair flying like on a rollercoaster. “I’ll have nightmares though.” He whimpers, water streaking his pink tinged cheeks. That’s all he had when sleeping, nightmares; when he actually slept. Which is two out of seven nights.
A pout forms on her lips. She leans back, brushing the pad of her thumb under the bags that hang on his eyes. “Kit, you need sleep… wanna know a secret?” She bites her lower lip; Y/C/E orbs wide. When he nods, she holds her hand up. “If you repeat something in your head, it will happen. So, say…” She touches her pointer finger to her thumb, then middle finger and so on, with every word, “Sweet. Dreams. Will. Come. Sweet. Dreams. Will. Come…” She repeats over and over.
Kit does this with her, laying back on the dirty bed. “Sweet. Dreams. Will. Come.” He mumbles under his breath; his eyelids becoming heavier and heavier with each passing second.
Smiling, she kisses his forehead, stroking his puff of hair back, tucking some behind his ear. “I’ll see you, Mr. Walker. Sweet dreams will come, my darling.” She whispers, disappearing. The things we do to stay sane…