Used To Write For The Sakuverse

Novellas

The Past Is Close Behind; Xanthus x Reader

A Tragedy In Five Acts; Asirel x Reader

Short Stories

Alex x Reader

You're So Hysterical; Part II

Don't Look At Me

Love Is A Lie

Two Weeks

Modus Operandi

Andrew Marston x Reader

Encomium

The Morning Light

Burn Bright

Ace of Hearts

Migraine (nsfw)

Injustice

New To This (nsfw)

Midas; Part II

Confiteor

Dream A Little Dream Of Me (nsfw)

A Familiar Face

Asirel Cain x Reader

People Pleasing's Never Good For Your Health

Bound (nsfw)

Trust Me

I Don't Forgive You

Respite

In All My Dreams I Drown

Aqua Regia

I Hurt You / You Hurt Me

Primal

Dontis x Reader

Safe Haven

I Know You Need Love (nsfw)

Caught and Trapped

Afterglow

Check Mate

Safeword

Selfish

Smile For The Camera

Elias x Reader

Starshine (nsfw)

Cup of Coffee (nsfw)

Movie Night (nsfw)

I've Got Your Coffin

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

Isaac Masterlist

Jonah x Reader

Bi-ased

Pick Me Up

Hello World

Kayson x Reader

Under The Surface

Expectations

Stress Relief

Relax (nsfw)

Strange Dreams

Matias x Reader

These Hands

London's Drowning

Xanthus Claiborne x Reader

Spare Me The Pain Of Loss

The Red River

Prelude In C-Sharp Minor

Just In Case (nsfw)

Sweet Love (nsfw)

Life Eternal

Love Lost

My Design

Whatever Souls Are Made Of

A Debt Repaid; continued

Glue

When The Summer Dies

My Love?; Part II

Zaros Atha'lin x Reader

Black Daffodils

Hear The Bluebells

Wilted Petals

Sunflower (nsfw)

I Mean What I Say

Public Eye

Tables Turned; Part II

Mind Over Matter

Dance In The Dark

Other

The Mysteries of Isis (Isis x Reader)

Missing Sources (Isis x Reader)

Black Death (James x Reader)

Unconsciously you began to cout. In. One. Two. Three. Flour. Hold. One. Two. Three. Four. Out. One. Two. Three. Four. In—

You never would have thought that the breathing exercises your instructor had familiarized you with years ago had become such an integral part of calming you down. Breathing was never something so natural, so simple. You closed your eyes, focusing on it properly, feeling the way your lungs expanded as you sucked in a breath, visualizing the numbers in your mind’s eye — or perhaps it felt more like a wave, rising and falling in time with the air in your lungs — before you exhaled, making sure to relax as much as you could before inhaling again. 

It was an endless game, really. And as you continued to focus on this little detail of your life — how the air flowed in and out of you — you began tracing patterns on the soft pillow in your hands, feeling the fabric of it between your fingers, allowing your mind to drift somewhere that was not quite your imagination but did not feel entirely rooted in the present either. 

You were slowly unwinding, slowly becoming more at ease again. There was a peacefulness in the quiet, a comfort in the familiarity and privacy of your room that made you feel like you were allowed this moment of respite. This moment to calm down, collect yourself, and shape yourself back into the form you needed to uphold in front of a crowd — or in private, really. 

And then there was a knock on your door and you felt annoyance shoot through you like a flash of lightning. 

You were not quite ready to face the world again, and holding a conversation with whoever it was that dared to disturb you right then felt like asking too much of you. Perhaps they would leave. You doubted anyone had seen you walk in—

“I know you’re in there, Earis,” came the voice from the other side of the door, and before you even knew what you were doing you had leaped off the bed — the pillow discarded carelessly — and yanked open the door to come face to face with Zaros. 

You kept your hands busy — one clutching the doorframe, the other on the handle — to refrain from jabbing a finger into his chest as you attempted a calm tone despite the blinding rage simmering in you again, “What do you want?”

“My, is that a way to treat your noble competitor?” he teased, and you were sure the door was about to splinter. His smug face looked so punchable right about now and having him on the ground, nursing a split lip sounded like a tempting sight to see. 

But you were better than that, you knew. 

With a scoff, you tried to push the door close again, but Zaros was surprisingly quick. He stopped you, placing a palm against it and leaning into the doorway. “Do you want me to break your wrist?” you seethed, finding it harder to contain your fury at his boldness, at his audacity. 

You wanted your privacy, you wanted some peace and quiet and a moment to yourself without your adversary in the room with you, trying to poke at you for a reaction. 

“I’m sure that would count as sabotage,” he said, slipping past you. “But then again, you’re not above cheating, as we both know.”

That was it. 

You grabbed him, balling your fists into the rich green fabric over his chest and pulling until he stumbled, his face mere inches from yours. You could see he was surprised, his hands shooting out to grab at your wrists to steady himself but Zaros had known you too long — he knew you, and there was not a hint of fear in his expression, only a hint of something slily victorious. How he loved to get under your skin. 

“Listen here you Leech,” you snapped, nearly growling in his face. The way he could rile you up was unfathomable. You needed him gone, out of the castle, out of Serulla, out of your life. He knew exactly which buttons to push, he knew exactly how to unravel you, make you act out even in front of a crowd, and that was a weakness no future ruler could tolerate. “I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re wrong. I didn’t cheat. I didn’t cheat!”

He scoffed, trying to push your hands away, but you held firm. “I know she told you about the results. Why do you insist on lying to me? You can’t be so naive to think that we’re contestants on common ground. You’re the favorite, it’s so obvious it’s sickening.” 

“You’re sickening!” You pushed him towards the door. “This is your mess! None of this would have happened if you hadn’t contested and you can’t tell me that you’re — what? — suddenly so patriotic that you want ‘the best for Serulla’ when you’ve never cared about this Kingdom in the first place. Get out. Get out of my sight and choke on your wine!”

Zaros broke into a bitter smile, finally succeeding in yanking himself out of your grasp. “This is exactly why you’d be a terrible heir,” he spat. “Look at how easily you lose your cool. Do you think the stress will lessen once you ascend?” 

“At least I can get through the night without drowning in alcohol,” you said, pouring every ounce of your self-restraint into sounding calm. 

His eyes flashed with contempt at that, but you did not wait to hear what Zaros would spit next, instead opening the door to your bedroom — calmly — and pushing him out with a single firm shove. Zaros stumbled, but he caught himself on the opposite side of the hallway. He pushed himself up, his hands falling away from the wall of stone to brush loose strands of hair out of his face. 

You saw him open his mouth — baring his teeth like a cornered animal. 

“No, it’s not fair,” you wailed, emerging from the pillow to use it to swat the hands away halfheartedly that had settled on your shoulders. “It’s not— not fair!” 

Xanthus winced, a look of pain flashing across his face he did not feel the need to hide. Your face was buried in your hands, the pillow lying beside him as his hands hovered in the air between you, unsure if he should touch, unsure if his touch was welcome. 

“My—” love. “My dear,” he said instead, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. “Take some deep breaths. It’s all going to be alright. We can figure this out together, yes? I promise you’re not alone in this.”

You only shook your head, continuing to cry. Your shoulders shook from the force of your sobs, the broken gasps escaping you tearing on his heart. Tentatively, Xanthus reached out, lightly placing his hands over yours. To his relief, you let him, allowing him to guide them away from your face. 

“Look at me, please,” he requested, his voice nothing more than a whisper. You wiped your eyes, raising your head to look at him. “There you are,” he said, a small smile crossing his face. You felt his fingers intertwined with yours. “It’s going to be alright now, I promise.”

“You don’t know that,” you said stubbornly, suddenly feeling very drained. 

A wave of exhaustion seemed to overtake you, all the anger and doubt and despair slipping away to leave nothing but an aching sadness behind, and bone-deep exhaustion. You were tired of all of this, and it was a mystery to you how Xanthus did not seem to care about the logistics of your situation at all. 

“How do you do this?” you asked. There was no accusation in your voice. You were genuinely curious. “You say you love me. Do you truly believe it?”

“I do,” he said with no hesitation. “It’s as easy as breathing, loving you. Even if our meeting was fate, and our connection transcends the norm with our very souls being connected, I could imagine no universe where I didn’t love you. You are everything to me,” he said, raising your hand to his lips and placing a lingering kiss against it. “The bond is only an extra.” 

You shook your head. “No, without it, we wouldn’t have— this wouldn’t have happened. We wouldn’t have met again and had this— this interest in one another.”

“My love, I fall in love with you anew every day,” he said, willing you to understand. “The depth of my devotion to you goes deeper than fate, or whatever the bond would have allowed for. Can’t you feel how completely I love you? Can’t you see how lost I am without you?”

“I— Xanthus, that’s not the issue,” you said, looking down at him. 

He was kneeling on the floor before you, your hands still held firmly between both of his. His gaze was searching yours, trying to understand what had made you so upset, trying to find a way to comfort you and soothe the doubts swirling around your head. 

“What is it then?”

“I just— why do you love me? How do you love me and how do you know it’s fully you? I mean— I mean where is our free will in all of this? And what if it was the bond, only the bond I mean, that brought us together? Do you think you’d love me if there was no bond? Do you—?” 

He remained calm, despite his heart hammering in his chest, trying to crawl its way out of his throat. He shut the book softly, carefully playing it on the coffee table next to him, making sure that his hands did not shake. Motioning to the couch opposite him, he waited for you to sit. 

You approached hesitatingly, biting your bottom lip and fiddling with your hands. Your nerves made you feel nauseous, a primal need to run, to hide away until the world faded into something distant nearly too strong to ignore. Still, your feet carried you to the couch, and you sat down slowly, avoiding Xantus’ searching gaze. 

Neither of you said anything. Sitting in front of him, feeling his gaze on you was nearly too much to bear. Your hand reached for one of the pillows, clutching it to your chest tightly as you sat there, waiting. It brought you little comfort.

“Say that again,” he spoke slowly, voice carefully blank. You wanted to look at him, search for an emotion in his eyes but you knew that as soon as you did, it would turn out to be impossible to keep the storm raging inside you in check. 

You swallowed, fiddling with a loose strand of the pillow. “I— I said—” you began, staring down at the soft gray. “I said I don’t know if I love you anymore.”

This time you were close enough to hear his sharp intake of breath. Your grip tightened on the pillow, willing the conversation to be over so you could disappear again, slip away into solitude so you could think, back away from this whole mess of powers beyond your control and ancient magic that refused to make sense. 

“That is a lie,” Xanthus said flatly. 

Stunned, you raised your head, forgetting the turmoil inside you for a moment as you looked at him with wide eyes. Your eyes met for the first time since you entered the room, but they were not the same gentle ones you had looked at first thing in the morning, now his eyes were hard, cold. You could see a sliver of pain in them, barely concealed panic at the edge of this impassive facade. 

“You’re lying. Why are you lying to me?” He did not sound angry, merely disappointed.

His tone was carefully lacking the emotions you had seen in his eyes. But his words cut deeper than you had expected, and as the initial shock wore off, you found a new feeling lodging in your chest, settling beside the fear, desperation, and sadness: anger.

“I’m not,” you said, fists clenching against the pillow. “I said what I’m feeling. I don’t know if I love you anymore. It’s the truth.”

Xanthus scoffed, turning away from you sharply to look out the window instead. His hands were clasped in his lap, fingers squeezing so tight his knuckles turned white. His gaze remained trained on the tree right before the window, its leaves rustling in the wind that had picked up.

He opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Wetting his lips, he said softly, “You don’t know what you’re feeling.” 

It was a simple observation that cut to the very heart of your doubts. It was the quintessence of the struggle you had gone through continuously since meeting Isis. The dismissive comment he had made was right, and that was the problem. You did not know what you were feeling. And how could you? 

The bond was a complicated thing. Were your feelings truly your own? What was this connection, what were these feelings you had for Xanthus? Was it love? Was it truly? How did you feel about him before the bond had been awakened? Did you feel a pull towards him even then? Would you have stayed with him? Would you have fallen in love with him?

Was this fate? And if it was — if this magic bound you together — could you ever truly love him? Was it your love you were giving him, and did it even matter when he did not fall in love with you for you, but because the universe willed it into existence — willed your relationship and planted these feelings in both of you like seeds in a garden that had no choice but to flourish?

The questions were clawing at you, making you doubt your every move, every feeling, every moment shared between you and Xanthus. You could not do this anymore, living this lie. 

“And you do?” you snapped, your desperation turning to anger at how unbothered he seemed with all of this, how readily he accepted the bond. “Tell me, look me in the eye, and tell me that you know exactly how you feel when neither of us— no one can explain this bond between us! You can’t know this thing between us is real. You can’t— you—”

You felt him shake against you, his breath coming in short little puffs that made you lift your chin from his chest to look into his eyes. “I’m alright,” you said, raising a hand to cup his cheeks, willing your feeling of love to flood through your side of the bond to put him at ease. “We’re all fine. It’s over. It’s alright.”

Well, that was not really true. 

You remembered someone lying on the ground, shot by Audric. Xanthus did not seem to care about them, and Dontis had merely spared them a glance before rushing to untie you. Thoughts of them — wherever Audric’s nameless last victim was — did not linger in your mind as Xanthus placed a soft kiss on your forehead. His eyes were filled with unshed tears, and you were having trouble keeping yours at bay as well. 

It felt almost too good to be true. After that waking hell all of you had endured, to be back in Dontis’ mansion, to have Xanthus in your arms, unharmed. The relief was too great, and you swayed, holding onto Xanthus as your knees buckled. He held you up with no issue, his arms tightening around you.

“You are safe now, my love,” he murmured into the crook of your neck. “You are safe. Nothing will hurt you again, nothing ever again, my love.”

A loud thump made you both jump. Xantus’ arms tightened around you instinctively, and both your heads whipped around to look behind you, in the direction of the couch. 

A weak ‘sorry’ came from the ground in front of it, Dontis having crumbled to the ground. His head was leaned back, resting against the cushions as he took deep breaths, the relief of escaping the tumultuous affair alive finally catching up to him as well. 

“I’m fine, please continue,” he said, “don’t worry about me. I just— I just need a moment.”

You shared a look with Xanthus before slowly untangling yourself from him. Together, you approached Dontis, coming to keep him company on the ground. Xanthus was seated next to him, one arm wrapped around his waist to have him lean into his side. Dontis chuckled appreciatively, resting his head on top of Xanthus’. You leaned your head on his shoulder, your fingers intertwining with Xanthus’.

Before you could think too much about your words, there came the sound of a chair dragging across the ground, panicked footsteps all but running towards you. “Blood?” Isaac asked incredulously, his eyes wide as he followed you with bated breath. “What do you mean, blood? Where? Are you hurt? What happened? Talk to me, are you alright? Do you need— what do you need?”

“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” you said, putting your forearms under the running water in the sink. “It’s the rose bushes. Nothing serious, really. My gloves were a little short and when I cut them, the thorns were more stubborn than I anticipated. It’s not deep at all, look. It won’t even scar.”

Isaac hovered beside you, looking down at your arm. You were right, it was a scratch, really. A few droplets of blood had filled the cut, but it was hardly bleeding anymore. You wouldn’t even need bandages. But as he looked at your skin a sudden feeling of utter helplessness overcame him. His knees buckled, and he had to grip the edge of the sink tightly as a wave of dizziness hit him. 

His aversion to blood was a hindrance to his work on the rare occasions he had to deal with it — somehow the sight of it was enough to unsteady him — but seeing it on you, seeing you hurt, even as trivially as you were now, was nearly too much for him. 

“You should,” he began, swallowing audibly as his eyes remained on the traces the thorns had left, “you should clean this with disinfectant. Let me— let me get it.” He took a step forward, freezing in the doorway while he clung to the wood. For a moment he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to push away the lightheadedness that had overwhelmed him. 

“Isaac? Are you alright?” you asked in concern. The water of the tab stopped running, and he heard shuffling for a moment before you stepped up to him, your hands on his shoulders. “You know the disinfectant is under the sink, yes?”

He did know that, but it was somehow hard to think with the sight of your blood still in his mind. “I’ll get it,” he said, voice oddly strangled, but as he turned towards the sink again you stepped into his way. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” he said, slipping around you to kneel before the sink. “And I’m fine. There’s no need to be worried about me when you’re the one who’s bleeding.”

“I’m not badly hurt, Isaac. Relax,” you said, placing your hands on his shoulders. “I’m fine, promise. I mean sure, I’m a little offended that the rose bushes were that aggressive considering I only wanted to help, but my wounded pride aside, this really is nothing to worry about.” 

He sighed, shaking his head slightly to fight off the sudden lightheadedness that rushed back to him as he stood, looking at your arms again. “Stick to tulips next time,” he said, “or basil.”

You rolled your eyes, hissing as Isaac began wiping down your arms. “Right, but you like roses,” you said. “And I like them too, and the garden always smells amazing because of them and when we open the bedroom window their scent rushes in and it's my favorite thing in the morning. This is a small price to pay for this slice of bliss.”

Isaac Rhoades -- Heavy In Your Arms, Florence + The Machine

I think Isaac would view his love as a heavy love ("My love has concrete feet / My love's an iron ball"). He views himself that way, considering the emotional baggage he brings into the relationship. Also, musically these somber but strangely soft tones together with the vulnerability of the lyrics create an ensemble that reminds me of Isaac's character.

Alex -- Gold, Sir Sly

Perhaps my characterisation of Alex is a bit off here, given the way his series ended. However, his ambition is an integral part of his character in my eyes. His self-worth is tied to his accomplishments, which is why I settled on this angsty-melancholic song. "Pocket full of gold and I hope you find / I hope you find your dream / And darling, never settle, settle, settle / Chasing down the devil, devil / Chasing down the gods and I hope you find / I hope you find your dream // I got a million ways of losing / But nothing in my life worth proving / Chasing, all my time is wasted" is fitting for his character in this regard, comprising how his ambition both destroys him and is simultaneously what gives him, in his own eyes, meaning while also leaving him unfulfilled.

Zaros Atha'lin -- Bridges, ALIKA

I think this works on two levels. First of all Zaros' political ideas quite literally being a policy of bridges, to bring Serulla together and reduce the cliff between the nobles and the people. "Now I see myself / Building up a world of bridges" feels like his whole policy.

Second, I think the longing in this song, together with both the vulnerability it expresses both in the lyrics ("Realized that all the lies I've told myself have died / Bring me to the place / Where I belong / Filled with all the memories and dreams I have ignored // I remember all the things that I went through / All the lies and blurry lines and city lights I knew / Now I'm strong enough to see what lays inside / And I can feel it all") and in the instrumental, as well as the overall power it gains especially around the 2:41-mark reflect both his ambition and the conflicting emotions he has in regards to the Earis.

Dontis -- Man a Express, Mellow Mood

I just think he would like Reggae. This song I believe is about living life to the fullest and to embrace all the experiences it brings. It feels like a message that aligns with Dontis' personality and his views in general. "And yuh laugh and yuh cry and yuh smile ever more" especially is a line that reflects this, considering that Dontis has suffered greatly in his past but remains kind and positive throughout his long life.

Asirel Cain -- The Mephistopheles of Los Angeles, Marilyn Manson

Thought of this as a sort of title-track to my Asirel novella.

This is largely based on the ominous and empowering vibe of the song. But I also think that the motif of Mephistopheles is fitting for Asirel. "Lazarus has got no dirt on me / And I'll rise every danger // I was fated, faithful, fatal" I think characterises Asirel's tremendous power and the person it has inadvertently turned him into.

Alternatively Blood Sport by Sleep Token is also very Asirel-coded to me.

Elias -- Are You Ready?, Maneskin

This is very based on the vibes of this song. The deep notes during the first chorus ("Ride a benzo, get your bands up" 0:41-048) sound dangerous while the high notes during the second chorus (1:34-1:53) have something wistful about them. The combination suits both Elias role as Warden's son and heir-apparent for the Wraiths as well as his more vulnerable side, his trauma and the fact that this was a life that was thrust upon him and which at least part of him fundamentally resents.

Rowan -- Je Veux, ZAZ

The lighthearted, feel-good vibe of this song similarly states to live life according to ones wishes and not mind the opinions and expectations of others expressed in the lyrics. "Je veux d'l'amour, d'la joie, de la bonne humeur / C'n'est pas votre argent qui f'ra mon bonheur" feels like something that suits Rowan both in the way he views life and how he wants to live it.

Cevyk -- Call Me, Blondie

[insert joke about summoning a demon here]

I think this song has something unhinged about it, and that makes me think of Cevyk. "Call me my love / Call me, call me any, anytime" feels like something he'd say to Iqsus just to mess with them.

Niall -- What Difference Does It Make?, The Smiths

The whole song sounds melancholic to me, plagued by some distant ache that still hurts even though it has scarred over. "So what difference does it make? / It makes none" is the resignation that can be found in Niall at the beginning of his series. "But I'm still fond of you" is the paradox he finds himself in regarding SB and their relationship, both as being someone who hurt him in the past as well as the object of his affections in the present.

Xanthus Claiborne -- Prelude, Op. 28: No. 4 in E Minor, Frédéric Chopin

Xanthus, out of all the characters, is the only one I think suits a classical piece. He has an emotional complexity to him that I feel is best expressed without words. I think the mixture of quiet sadness, longing, despair and resignation this piece goes through as it progresses tells the story of Xanthus life fittingly.

The stack of paper on your desk had steadily grown over the last two weeks — ever since the gentleman with the dead brother and missing wife had walked in, requesting your services — and the stress of making no headway and spinning in circles had begun creeping up on both you and Isaac. The air had been laden with tension for a while now, and it seemed his simple dismissal was suddenly the spark that brought the walls around you down.

“And how would you know that?” you snapped, slamming the papers on your desk. You turned to glare at him, annoyance getting the better of you. “This could very well be something. The brother-in-law never liked him, so what if—?”

“It’s a waste of time,” he said briskly, not looking up from where he was scribbling furiously on one of the pages. “Listen to me for once. You don’t have the experience I have, so just do as I say and we’ll wrap this up quicker.”

You gaped at him for a moment. Finally, he raised his head to look at you, surprised by the sudden silence. 

“What?” Isaac asked, his eyebrows furrowing at your stunned expression. 

It felt like a storm cloud rolled over you. Your gaze darkened, your anger spiked and for a moment the thought that this truly wasn’t such a big deal, that he did have more experience than you and his many years of working in this field had to amount in his rarely deceiving instincts all vanished at the height of your frustration. 

“You’re not always right, you know!” you said, “just because you’ve been doing this longer than I have doesn’t mean that you know everything.”

“Pickle!” he yelled, slamming his hand on the desk as he rose to his feet. “Stop being difficult!”

His voice cut through the air sharply, and although his voice did not echo, you felt it ring in your ears long after the silence had swallowed the room once more. There was a rising tide somewhere inside you, making your ears ring with his enraged scream. Isaac still stood behind his desk, but you could not make out more than his silhouette. The office was blurry, and it took you a moment to realize that it was not reality slowly melting away, but your own eyes that had filled with tears.

Distantly, you thought you heard something that vaguely resembled your name. It was hard to make out, and you felt strangely detached from yourself, your body. It all felt distant, like you were suspended in midair or submerged in the weightlessness of water. 

The chair under you did not feel like more than a distant echo. Something so far away could not hold you up. No, you were about to fall. You were going to fall any moment now, and once you did, there was nothing that could break it anymore. You would fall forever, for eternity in this strange space of weightless infinity.

Your hands moved sluggishly, fingers curling around the first thing they grasped, but it was surprisingly pliable. Not your desk, not the armrest. It moved, guiding your arms to some other place, taking your body with it until you were leaning sideways, resting against something. Your grip tightened, fingers grasping what you slowly realized to be fabric. 

You felt something against the top of your head, a brief pressure. You tried to focus on it, tried to grasp at the feeling of the things around you, and the longer you did, the more you started to actually feel them. They got closer, no longer distant. 

There was a gentle but tight pressure around you. Arms, you realized, holding you tightly. You were leaning against something warm, solid, and as you pressed your cheek against it more — to make sure it would not give, would not disappear once you pressed against it — you could make out a faint beating. It was a little too fast to be soothing. 

“Hey,” a voice said, your brain putting the pieces together in a sudden flash of enlightenment. Isaac. Yes, you were in Isaac’s arms. “Are you with me again? It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

You hummed, too exhausted for words. You still felt a little shaky, a little too fragile to escape Isaac’s grounding embrace, but thankfully he did not seem to be pulling away. 

Warnings: heavily implied sexual content

“Red! Red!” you cried, gripping the sheets so tightly a distant part of your mind worried they would tear. 

Isaac stilled immediately, raising his head from between your shaking thighs to search your gaze. His grip softened, his thumbs soothingly caressing your skin. “Are you alright?” he asked, shifting to kneel beside you. He reached out a hand to brush your tears away, the other gently cupping your cheek as he looked at you. “Too much?”

You nodded weakly, still trying to catch your breath. Your body was still twitching, faintly shaking from being worked so thoroughly by Isaac. “‘M fine,” you gasped, wishing to reassure him. His forehead was creased, eyebrows drawn together in concern as he looked at you, no doubt wondering if he had overdone it. That would be a conversation for later. “Was— was good, ‘saac. Just can’t— can’t take any more.”

“Of course,” he said, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “It’s alright. I’ll run a bath. What do you need?”

“Please,” you sighed, trying to relax. A bath sounded nice, and it would certainly help the strain on your muscles. You closed your eyes, the fog in your mind gradually lifting as you took stock of your body. You were exhausted, the pull of sleep all but impossible to resist. The bed dipped.

“Can you walk?” Isaac asked, his hands already resting on your upper arm. “I’ve got you, I’ll help you. Can you sit up?” 

You groaned, weighing your exhaustion against the prospect of a warm bath. Isaac did not give you much of a choice however, already helping you sit up and making your head spin. You gripped his arm to steady yourself, groaning again. “Slow down,” you said, “I’m a bit— a bit dizzy.”

“Sorry,” he apologized, keeping an arm around you as you felt him shifting around. Tentatively you opened your eyes, pleased to find the world no longer tilting. “Here,” he said, raising a glass to your lips. “Juice, my heart. It’ll make you feel better, trust me.” 

You sipped it slowly, humming in gratitude as Isaac set the glass back on the bedside table. 

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” you said, rising unsteadily to your feet. The warmth of the water really was a balm for your aching body as you sank into the tub. With Isaac behind you, and his arms securely wrapped around you while his hands carefully worked to clean you, massaging soaps into your skin, the temptation to fall asleep was too great to resist.

It was short lived, however. Soft lips pressed against the side of your head, the arms around you tightened, squeezing you gently. “Love, the water is getting cold,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to your temple. 

Begrudgingly, you sat up, allowing Isaac to slip out of the water. He wrapped himself in a towel, retrieving a second one before holding out his hands to help you up. As soon as you were dry — only your hair still a little damp — you collapsed back into bed, waving away Isaac’s offer for food to instead pat the mattress beside you and curling into his side as soon as he laid down. 

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around you again, holding you tight. “I’m sorry if I was too rough, or too eager,” he said, brushing your hair back and looking down at your tired expression. 

This was not the right time to talk, he could tell. But he needed to get the words out, they were weighing his heart with guilt — misplaced, the logical part of his brain supplied. That’s why you had a safeword, that’s why it was there, but still, he felt uneasy about the fact that you actually had to use it. 

“What is, darling?” you asked in confusion, marking the page and setting aside the book. You rubbed your eyes gently, soothing the slight ache from a day of reading. Isis did not mind, preoccupied with her own reading — something about a bond, but it was vampire business and you did not want to pry too much — so you had spent the day in amenable silence only occasionally interrupted by the soft rustling of paper. 

“The ‘brief history’ you are reading,” she said, her voice carrying a melancholy note. “The sources for the time are very limited, and you can only base so much on papyri found in Alexandria. It was far from my favorite city during that time.”

You pursed your lips, glancing at the thick monograph beside you. “I think it’s rather well researched,” you said, “given the limited sources available. The author paints a very concise picture, it’s clear she knows what she’s talking about.” 

“Yes. Sadly the fraction of the reality that has remained, and which she is forced to reassemble, creates a picture far removed from the truth. It’s quite tragic,” she took a sip of her tea, humming as the sweet taste of the added honey hit her tongue. She smirked, “I thought about becoming a historian, simply to pass the time and clear up some misconceptions, but I quickly realized that I could never be. I cannot prove my knowledge.”

You hummed, sinking against the cushions of the sofa. Absentmindedly, you thumbed through the pages of the book. The question struck you suddenly if it was worth reading at all. It was not true, after all. But you had no way of knowing what was and what wasn’t. You could ask Isis, of course, but listening to her explain the south-eastern provinces of the Roman Empire would certainly lead to a whole other picture than the one your esteemed historian painted on the pages of the book she had dedicated years of her life to. Was the past worth studying at all, if everything that remained of it was a mere shard of a shattered mirror — and the reassembled pieces hardly resembled the original? 

You sighed, putting the book aside. Enough of this for today, this reflection was making you melancholy. 

“Have you tried historical fiction?” you asked, leaning forward to snatch a chocolate cookie from the plate on the coffee table between you. Isaac had returned with a box filled with them, something about a thank-you gift from her latest star-crossed lovers. “You could write without the need of proof. It’s fiction, after all, and not a scientific article. Or” — you made an aborted gesture towards your monograph.

Isis hummed. “I have. Some have even turned into classics.” She laughed at your genuine surprise. “I’ve had many pen names, dear. But tell me, are you upset that the past is unknowable? I know my accounts only offer one perspective, but you’ll find me to be a very special source with excellent memory.”

“Is this your way of urging me to ask you questions about your past?” you tease. “Because I’m interested in you beyond the insight you may or may not give in to the questions scholars have been debating for decades.”

“Well,” she said, setting down her tea, “maybe I just want your undivided attention.” 

You clicked your tongue. “As if you don’t have that already.”

“You’ve been rather busy with your book today, dear.” 

“Jealous?” you asked, meaning to be teasing. As you leaned forward to grab another cookie, Isis’ hand shot out, fingers gently taking hold of your chin.

“What if I am?” she asked, a tinge of something darker colouring her voice. Possessiveness. “After all, I was left gazing at your lovely figure for a good half an hour after finishing my own reading with little more than passing acknowledgements from your side. And I have been” — she leaned closer, inhaling your scent for a moment before licking her lips — “rather starved for a kiss.”

Your pulse quickened at her words, eyes trained on hers. “Well, we can’t have that,” you said, voice thick. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you going hungry for me, dearest.”

Isis did not lunge forward, she was too elegant for that. Her movements were precise, quick, her lips on yours before you could fully react, her fingers tangling in your hair before you could fully wrap your arms around her. And if you heard the coffee table scrape against the hardwood floor — the tee thankfully not spilling onto the rich, purple tablecloth — it could not be because Isis was desperate to kiss you, feel you, taste you. No, it must have been your frail equilibrium.

“Are you satiated?” you murmured breathlessly as she broke the kiss, shooting a displeased look at the coffee table.