war of humanity.

julian needs the fresh air . the last days have been stressful , to say the least , and he's been staying out of sight ⸻ even as rumors spread . people seem to think that he died , along with his sister . he knows that he should correct that , but frankly he's lacking the strength to do so . very few people know that he's alive and even less of them are aware of what happened to him . the darklighter wants to keep it that way , giving himself time to process , but it's gnawing on him . it explains why theron won't leave his side and remains perched up on his shoulder as they walk , until they find a familiar blonde .

It’s as if something inside her, calls to its kin. The same way she knew he had approached before she’d even seen him. Before she felt the crunch of the earth beneath his foot. Whatever darkness was inside her, purred to the surface and welcomed him. Her eyes are searching above. Gently flickering atop the trees, whose branches part from where they stood. It was not far from here, that she’d flown, and fallen to the earth when she’d escaped the grasp of Erebus. Where she’d stumbled for hours, with wings draped around her. Where his voice stopped her, before the arrow had. She flickered her gaze up to him, briefly for a moment. “I— it felt like my mind was poisoned.” She let out a small breath, the cold clouding against brims as she stepped forward. Her hand gently reaches for the tree, where it’s indented from the arrow he’d struck it with, that felt so long ago now. Digits curve against the splintered wood. Her brows pinched in thought for a moment. “I don’t know why I ended up here tonight..” She gently reaches over her shoulder, touching where her wings used to expel. “I just.. I woke up and I remembered. Everything.” Her voice wavered a bit, softer in the way it always had been before.

Visiting Cosimo’s establishment had been a whim, and as Robin settles at the bar, she knows she is unlikely to remain long. It is emptier than she expected, and she doesn’t sense the fury’s presence anywhere near. Still, she glances at the bartender when she approaches, and offers her a smile and a nod of acknowledgement. 

He’d left this morning. But the place smells like him. Her bedroom smells like him. Her clothes smell like him. His scent was everywhere, and even when she showered it didn’t entirely go away. She couldn’t say she was particularly fond on it. The lingering aroma of werewolf. It’s like oil and water together. She liked it better when he was human, when she could smell the faint scent of dove from his shampoo. Even that awful body axe spray was better than the full moon. She wondered if he felt the same, when it came to them. Did the house feel cold? Did it smell sterile, despite the lavender that clung to the air? Would her touch ever feel like warmth again, to him? It’s better not to think about it.

She’s still wearing the tshirt from the night before, in the kitchen and looking through the supply. She didn’t particularly like drinking from bags, she never did. It tastes similar to if you left an open glass of water in the fridge, and drank it after a few hours of it sitting stale. Or like when you ate something that had a slight freezer burnt touch to it. But it was better than going into the city, better than fighting nevernight when she spent enough of her time there, pretending to have some since of normalcy. She didn’t need to work, clearly. But she liked to. Eventually, that would probably fade. Especially now that she could walk in the sun.

The blood is poured into a glass. Thick liquid drowned by the deep red, pressed to lips and she can feel her hunger simmer. But never die. She’s standing between him and the island counter, setting the glass down, she let out a slight sigh of relief. “You’re back.” Her eyes traveled over to him, and she moved. In a blink, she was in front of him. She was — upset with him. It was new feeling, she’s been irritated — pushed to the brink— but never quite upset. But it never lasted long, hopefully this wouldn’t either. “You could have told me where you were going.”

But he was tainted now, he was no good.

Grip broke through the wood, as he went on, as his own hunger grew. Splintering wood cut through his hands, blood gushing down his forearms and he did not stop, he did not pause, did not care. The slippery liquid stained the sheets, the pillows, her skin, and his arm slipped beneath her once again and pulled her closer and closer in. He was so close now, to the edge, his vision growing blurry, changing. His lips were no longer on her, he was entirely selfish now, lost in his own mind, his own body and desire and rush and exhilaration. He felt nothing but the burning of his own flesh, the tightness in between her legs, the softness of her thighs as he gripped and thrust and went on and on and on until; ringing, blindness, pinnacle, release.

He stopped, still inside her, as the pressure built up, as it impatiently ran free and the rush took over his body and he lost all control. He came, inside her, still thrusting, groaning, wanting more, and more and more. Until all the tension in his muscles started easing away, and he pushed into her once, twice again, and his body gave in and he lost a fight to his urge to relax, to breathe.

His heart was still racing, sensitivity returned, but he could not find the will to slip out of her, to move. So he rested there, on a broken bed, with bloody hands, still inside her soft and raw and he kissed her because he wanted to, because he could, because even though she'd told him time and again 'you cannot own a person'; she belonged to him.

---

He put his boxers back on, once he'd washed up. And walked back to the messy bed, sting of guilt rushing through him at the sight of the headboard, at the creaking of the bed as he got back in. His cuts had already healed, and the blood had dried where it dripped over dark sheets. Lucas lit up the joint, the same one that waited pre-rolled in his walled. Slightly damaged and crooked.

Eyes followed her, and he leaned forward to extend the smoke as he waited for her to join him back in bed. Fragments of fear returned, sneaking up from his gut as he studied her eyes for any specks of regret.

But she'd always been hard to read.

So he loved her. Because it was easy. He did not lie about that. It was easy to love someone who made it exciting to wake up in the morning, and go to sleep at night. Someone who laughed at his jokes, even when they weren't all that good. And who got in his car in the middle of a stormy night, and spent months on the road asking for nothing in return. She became a part of him, slowly, over time, and when she was gone and he was left to his own devices and he realized she was not coming back; it felt like losing a part of himself. Like a limb had come off and he was left with phantom pains in its place. The kind that felt surreal, when he'd look to the side and find next to him a stranger. Or when he'd call other people by her name, because it was a habit, because it lived upon his tongue.

He never showed how much her absence had changed him. And how quickly he spiraled into someone unrecognizable. But it was evident. Because he no longer cared for a damn thing. There was nothing holding him tethered to anything. He was flying, aimlessly, through space and time. He no longer cared where his next meal might come from. Or that he had smoked a dozen joints before noon. He no longer cared that his shower was the sea, or that he had called in favors and slept on couches of people he'd barely known.

Only when she returned, and he saw her again at that party, only then did he come to understand how the entire time she was gone he was in a perpetual state of 'waiting'. He was waiting for her, and he was wasting time, and he should have been smarter, and he should have made something of himself, and perhaps, he should have moved on.

But none of that mattered now. Because the waiting was done. And it was worth it.

His eyes glistened in the dancing shadows of the dark room, covered with a sheer fabric of lust that rose up from his jeans to his throat to his eyes. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps it was the eyes that set way for the rest of him to wake, he did always like to look.

Even with the strength that could be sensed beneath her skin, she remained soft and gentle. And Lucas could have sworn that, for a moment, she got embarrassed by whatever thought urged her hands to cover her face; to cover a smile he'd not wanted obstructed. He'd wanted nothing obstructed. So his hands reached for her wrists, pulling them away from her features where they were met with a wide grin over his face. "You're sweet." he said, letting go before his fingers stopped at the side of her waist, and he tickled just to see if that sensation still remained now that her body was made of something new, something eternal.

He kissed her wherever he could, and his own skin burned as his heart thumped against his chest. Smile had faded, mind set on something more primal now. Gooseflesh covered his hands, and travelled down his back as she lifted up to pull down the confining fabric of his trousers. He wet his lips, tense and impatient as she inched forward, and kissed him, and teased him, and he swallowed hard when he'd felt the wetness at his tip, and when she asked a question he did not hear. His ears were buzzing, his mind spinning. The wetness turned into soft lips that travelled down, then back up, then in and then out and his mouth felt open and he held in a groan that had built up in sheer anticipation of something more.

And he had wanted more. And he was not as patient as he might have hoped. Because the waiting was done, and he had waited enough.

Lucas' eyes found the dark brims that were looking up from beneath, as she was taking him in with a rhythmic motion of her mouth and her hands, and he was entirely too weak to make her stop; so he took a moment she slowed to pull himself out, and to nudge her forward and press her against himself, hard, as he unhooked her bra, and it slid down her arms. He could feel himself tense, harder and further -- and his skin was on fire and he could not tell if he was more man or beast, ready to devour. So he pressed his lips violently against her, his arms wrapped around her, travelling over her body as if he could breathe her in, as if no part of her should be left untouched.

He was not aware of his own strength, as he split her legs open to wrap them over his waist only to crash down laying on top of her and break the wooden support beneath the bed which sounded in creaky protest. It's not that he didn't notice, it's that it did not matter. He pushed himself against her, nostrils flaring with anger that arose with realization there was still cotton, drenched between her legs. He ripped the undergarment off, shoved it to the side like it was the worst thing man had ever made. He would have thrust in, in an instant, thoughtlessly and mindlessly, had he not caught her eyes.

He paused, breathing fast and hard. There were no words adequate enough to fully convey the state of his mind, his body, the way he'd wanted to consume her, to ravage her. But he pushed it all down, for a moment of pause. A moment where he just looked at her again, where he moved slowly. His hands patient, as they travelled between her legs. He pressed his fingers against her wetness, staying slow and gentle, when all he'd wanted was to be a beast; his mind was still human, still in tune enough to allow her a second of respite, to allow her to settle beneath his weight and relax into the wrinkled sheets.

When he could feel her over his fingers, and her back arched, and her hips started helping him along. He stopped, his tip warm between her, rested at the tight pleading entrance.

She guided him into her, letting him feel every inch, until he's buried between her legs and the quiet gasps of his name sat on the tip of a selfish tongue.

the sobs that break from her lips pull at his heartstrings . there are not a whole lot of things that move him , he has lived through so much that there is nothing left to get used to , but cosimo would always be weak for his family . not in a way that would make him less lethal to the world ⸻ but they call to a humanity otherwise easy to ignore . mismatched eyes search her face when she pulls back to look at him , his hands moving to cup her face . he refused to believe that isabella was gone , but he never thought that they would reunite like this . it's impossible to be smug about being right , too concerned about his little sister to allow his nature to surface . the daemon may sound like a babbling mess , but he listens , trying to make sense of the fragments she shares with him .

The more she tried to recall the memories, the more she felt sick. Like pieces of herself were still trapped beneath the clutch of something else. She let out a small exhale, shaking her head. “You can’t— you can’t go down there..” Her voice a notch lower. “There’s something different— it’s not— it’s not just Erebus. I-I don’t know what it is, but it’s not the same.” She’s not even sure she’ll ever get her memories back. If it’ll take a decade, a century, or if they were gone forever. But all she knew, was once you went down— coming out was a different story.

She’s sitting on the couch. It’s warmer in here than it was outside. There’s a mug of something hot in her hands and she glimpses over at the other. She’s freshly changed. The shower got rid of the dirt and she scrubbed and scrubbed until the darkness felt like it’d gone with it— for now. “Were..” her voice hesitated as eyes met with the others and softened. “Were we close..?” Her tone a notch lower. “Could you tell me about.. it?”

couldn't  recall  the  last  time  he'd  been  this  exhausted.  with  his  shirt wrapped around  his  neck  as  some  kind  of  a  towel  for  the  sweat  that  he  felt  like  wouldn't  have  been  dripping  as  much  as  it  was  if  kairos  hadn't  been  going  to  shit,  though  the  way  everything  had  been  grating  right  at  the  edge  of  his  senses  and  putting  him  on  edge  was  absolutely  because  of  the  full  moon.  eli  was  trying  to  use  the  sound  of  the  water  lapping  against  the  shore  as  a  background  noise  to  help  ease  the  irritation  of  the  feeling  of  the  sand  too  gritty  against  his  feet,  smelling  the  other  first.  then  the  words,  forcing  the  pause  as  he'd  been  fine  to  walk  past  the  vampyr  without  a  word.  ‟  people  walk  the  beach  all  of  the  time,  ”  eli  answers,  trying  to  keep  the  gruffness  out  of  his  voice.  he'd  seen  people  wandering  during  the  day,  twilight,  dead  of  the  night  but  maybe  she  meant  something  else.  ‟  i  didn't  notice,  don't  worry  about  it.  ”  

And she seemed willing to let him. Because even as she fought against herself to speak the words out, and he stopped breathing long enough in fear he might not hear them, she had said them anyway. And it did not matter that he had always wanted her more, that he had said it a million times before, all that mattered was that she had met him now; somewhere halfway between truth and a dream.

And it was enough.

He was still cautious, for some reason he could not quite understand, when she kissed him slowly. As if afraid he might somehow shatter a fragile illusion, do something wrong. And he kissed her until their lips naturally parted, when he pulled slightly away. "I --" his brows furrowed, and he leaned back in, quick kiss against the corner of her lip. "I should take you out." he said, and they have been out before, countless times, countless cities and drive-throughs and beaches and roads. But never like this. Never -- "Somewhere nice." he'd saved enough, and with the pack taking care of him now, like a family, a real family; opportunities for work were lining up. And he took them, whenever he could. To keep busy, to think less. "Tomorrow?" smile on his lips was gentle, and hopeful, and still so cautious. As if one wrong word would change her mind.

Instinctively, he'd pulled her closer against himself. And he wanted to kiss her again, but it was difficult to close his eyes to something he was still trying to process as real. She was so beautiful, and so familiar, and he wanted to look.

But Lucas kissed a lot of people. Though she thought he was the same in the aspect of sex and relationships as she was, given as many of the nights that they spent in his car, were alone. As many times as they slept together, in the literal sense. As many times as he was close, but never quite beyond arms reach— and that was her own fault— they never crossed those lines. He could count the freckles on her face, be close enough to remember them, and she’d only ever kissed him— or thought about letting him kiss her— when she was already a vampyr. And she’s not sure when that part of her changed, if it was when she became this, or if it was because little by little. And in the same breath, she realized, he was too important to even think about jeopardizing hurting him. It was another reason she’d stayed away for two years. Things only changed, when he did. When he kissed her in that club, when he was so— mad at her— the only thing he could do was let it all pour out. And this time, she’d let him.

So when brims as trailing down her jaw, across her shoulder. When fabric is discarded like the last thing in the world to think about, her breath faltered. A soft sigh escaped her, and she feels her heart stammer with nerves she’d only felt once before. The club was so quick. Full of heat. They barely even had time to look at each other, other than feel it. There were unanswered feelings and questions then. Now was different. It was slow, and purposeful. And he saw her. And she didn’t know how to react to that— being seen, like this. From him. She’d never been nervous. Not in her entire life. And that didn’t mean she was very brave, because she could argue that she wasn’t that either. But there was something in her that wasn’t switched on, like it was for everybody else. But her hands were in his hair, gentle in a way she had never been before. They palmed down his chest that had been bare the moment they were in her room. She nods a little, her eyes fluttering shut and her mouth patting between breaths as his lips carefully tended against her skin. If he wanted to take her out, then she would learn the rules. She would learn how to treat him, when he felt a certain way. She would learn to recognize the signals, even if it was hard. She wouldn’t be afraid of generational curses. And she would try— harder than she ever tried for anything before— not to hurt him. “A date?” The words are a confirmation. A softness of reassurance she never needed before. Not from him.

His mouth trailed down, half open kisses against the valley between her chest and down the slope of her stomach causing her back to instinctively arch against the touch. “Fuck,” it’s shivered as her hands gently clutched against the sheets of the pillow beneath her, elbow dip bending against her features as an attempt to hide the bashfulness that crept against cheeks. She had to look away, squirming beneath the truth of the matter— that she’s never wanted anyone like this before. That she’s never felt as needy, or as hungry as she did when she was under him.

Just the two of them. She nodded at that, unsure of what to really say when it came down to the details of her relationship with Yanis. Mentor, friend? There was a bond there she couldn’t and would not be able to explain with words, but she knew it was there. She knew when he was gone. She knew when his thoughts pulled her back to this place, pulled her back from her own destruction too. Sire bonds weren’t to be treaded with. At least not lightly. So, she just nods. “He’s not here now.” He’d left, for whatever reason. Maybe it was a test, to see how she’d fair without him for awhile. He was fond of little challenges like that. She wasn’t. But that hadn’t meant they weren’t useful in their own rights, either. Maybe it’s why she hadn’t entirely dismissed the lessons learned, either. “The werecat is still here, so it’s not Paris.” She mentioned a little too indifferent, but it was just a fact. He’d said he be back, he’d didn’t say when. Tomorrow, a century, it was all the same to them.

But at the mention of pizza, Day nodded again, the corners of her mouth twitched a little. “It feels like.. I didn’t think two years was enough to forget what the sun felt like, without it burning. I’d never really cared to be in the heat, before everything. Lucas liked the beaches.” Her tongue pushes against her cheek at the mention of his name. His scent was still all over her. It’s as if a werewolf ransacked this place. — or just her.

“I hate the sand.”

cosimo never thought it possible to feel such relief and anger at once . sensing isabella's energy for the first time in years made him feel hopeful , but his all too familiar fury replaced that feeling when he was informed about her lack of memories . he has seen this film before ⸻ bouts of madness made it hard for his twin to recognize her own family at times , but experience does not make anything better . if anything , it only makes it worse . mismatched eyes find his sister when she descends the staircase and he cannot help himself . he closes the distance and pulls her into his arms , the embrace almost a little too rough , betraying his inner turmoil . ❛ i am not sure that is true . ❜ he murmurs , the words slightly muffled by her blonde hair . from what he has been told , the daemon remembers very little , if anything at all . ❛ but i have every intention to fix that . ❜

Her breath staggered and she shakes her head as she pulled back just enough to look at him. To look at him, to try to fill empty shells where she thought the puzzles might go. But her head rings, as if trying to peel through the brokenness hurts. Like they’d tasted divinity, and didn’t want to let it go. No, they wanted it back. Whatever they were, whatever that void was— it knew she was gone. She could feel the emptiness. She could feel them looking for her. Their bird who lost its cage.

whatever is going on , it has nothing to do with his arrow . it lodges into the three behind her , leaving her unharmed ⸻ though it feels fucking ironic to describe it like that . the blonde looks anything but unharmed . hazel eyes take in the clothes that barely even cover her anymore , the redness of her eyes , the wings that shield her . . . the sight is enough to make him stop in his tracks , eyes narrowing while she speaks . her words are alarming , but there is more to it . her voice . he knows her voice . she well may be another illusion , another trick the mind plays . the daemon has been gone for years and it never truly surprised him . leaving kairos seemed to be one of her favorite things to do at the time . ❛ isabella ? ❜

The cold licked at her skin. The dirt clings to her bruised knees; and tears stick strands of blonde to her cheeks. She tries to breathe, but he’s closer now and she nods. Her gaze is reflected down into the broken twigs, and leaves crunched beneath what smelt like recent rain. It was cold— that’s probably why it was so— fucking cold. She hadn’t even realized she’d been shivering. She’d grown used to it. The lack of warmth. The lack of— anything. Pulling her wings back, they twitched as she let out a quiet sob of pain. They felt heavy. Too heavy. And she can hear the shadows whisper, under their breath— You can’t carry this. Rip them off. Come home, broken butterflies can’t fly anyways. She pushes it away, shuddering out a breath of a hiss, and a small pitiful sound escaped between brims when she closed them, and they drooped behind her like limp limbs.