#devilsbled

It wasn’t a light indulgence. He stopped counting how much change he lost for every pack he bought. There was no doubt that if it wasn’t the coffee keeping him awake, it was the taste of smoke and nicotine. A deep inhale, embers smoldering within the darkness, and he held his breath.

The inn that housed them turned was turned into a temporary infirmary. Hradi and Mekhi were given their own rooms while Nezumi insisted that he would be fine finding a place to sleep somewhere in the surrounding forest. They needed as many beds as they could have, and the little comfort that they could spare should be given to those with actual healing abilities. Not a half-breed who was tagging along, barely good for handing over tools and singing away souls of those who had passed away.

The plague that swept through the village was nothing like Nezumi had seen before, and his songs, much to his heartache, were more needed than Hradi’s remedies and spells. Every day, they lost a soul. Every day, Nezumi could see the dark circles under Hradi’s eyes deepen. He promised that he slept enough; he claimed that he was fine. He held himself upright and composed when he was treating the patients, but Nezumi could spot the little cracks in his armour.

Nezumi had never seen him like this, never witnessed him falter and break. It tore him apart when Hradi’s shoulders slumped under the weight of guilt and sorrow that shouldn’t have been his to bear. He wished that he knew how to help, how to take away his pain.

It was the third night, and instead of patrolling the rooms, Nezumi wandered towards Hradi’s door. He had been gathering the courage to knock since they arrived, longing to be by Hradi’s side. He had feared that he wouldn’t know what to say, or wouldn’t be enough, and that fear rendered him selfish. His failure shouldn’t stand in the way of friendship.

It was the intent that counted—the thought—or something like that. Mekhi said so.

Arietta had trouble following his words, but it sure sounded like he knew what he was talking about! Her doll-like stare was broken only when she started to get a little uncomfortable under the weight of it all. Her nails dug into the large stuffed animal she always had on her and she pressed her nose into it. 

But, then, one thing from him that she completely understood: love! Arietta also had someone who she loved!

“You have to be strong to protect the people you love. Arie--I want to be strong enough to protect everyone.” All of her friends and all of the God-Generals, too. Even Sync. Even though he was mean.

Seduction Starters || ask meme ( HAND ) kissing mine’s hand.

Aramis’ lips against his skin, soft and warm.

Nezumi shivered and held his breath.

The sight wasn’t right. Aramis shouldn’t be the one pressing kisses against Nezumi’s hands—the hands of a monster. Hands that killed and hurt. Hands that caused pain and spilled blood. Aramis shouldn’t be the one bowing his head in any way. Not to Nezumi. Not to anyone.

The sensation crawled up Nezumi’s arm against his will, causing little trembles along his spine. Warmth pooled in his chest and dipped into his abdomen.

Aramis’ pale golden hair shifted as he lowered his head, holding Nezumi’s hand. He brought it to his lips, and Nezumi could do nothing but helplessly watch the moment unfold.

A kiss. A gentle peck that connected with Nezumi’s palm. One small touch.

It left him starstruck, unable to respond.

You shouldn’t. Aramis. Stop. You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t—! It doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel like I deserve this.

A gesture like this, it held the flavour of gratitude. Nezumi couldn’t stand it.

Although his body enjoyed it, his mind fought the creeping pleasure that originated from the kiss.

“ . . . Aramis,” Nezumi’s voice came quiet, like a plea. He held Aramis’ name on his lips as a gospel sang secretly in the heart of a temple. “Don’t . . . not like this,” he whispered, brushing a thumb over Aramis’ cheek.

Hypnotised, Nezumi lifted Aramis’ chin. His eyes followed where his mouth couldn’t, down to Aramis’ lips where he longed to press his own. To feel the softness of a kiss, just for a moment. Just once.

There lay the dreams of a lone night, a night when Nezumi lay in the wilderness, staring at the stars. A night when he thought about Aramis’ smile and how sweet it would be if he had the courage to taste it.

He blinked, slowly, lost in a fantasy that was so close within reach and yet so far away. His lips burned with yearning, and his heart beat against his ribs, ready to be released. A desire that consumed him; a hunger that scared him . . . for Nezumi knew that one kiss would be enough to open the gates of emotion that he had sealed for their safety.

Despite telling himself to stop, over and over again, he shifted closer, unconscirously drawn towards those lips; towards that one moment of redemption.

Manhandling symbol starter

♚ - put a hand on my muse’s knee while sitting next to them, to discourage them from standing up

A day like any other. A conversation that they had many times before. Nezumi liked to fill Aramis in on the events of his and Mekhi’s travels. Light moments that he found funny or adventurous; stories behind the little gifts that he brought. A book or seeds for Aramis to grow. Pressed flowers in between pages of a journal. There was nothing spectacular or memorable on those times that they sat on Aramis’ bed and Nezumi spilt all the tea about Mekhi’s antics.

And yet—there was an instance when Aramis would laugh or smile, and his entire face would light up. Watching him felt like watching the sunrise, and Nezumi’s heart jumped into his throat, suffocating him. The pulse in his veins was drumming in his ears, and the air in his lungs was choking him. Aramis looked at him with those beautiful knowing eyes, and all Nezumi could think of was the burn of flames digging into his skin.

He tensed.

Aramis must have felt it; he must have noticed something was amiss or have read Nezumi’s reaction because just as Nezumi was about to stand up, a palm gently laid itself on his knee.

He stared at it, then made the mistake of looking up into Aramis’ face. The expression pierced through him and jumbled his thoughts.

He didn’t understand it; didn’t recognise the softness in Aramis’ eyes. Was he asking him something? Was it a plea? What was it? Why? Could Aramis see through him in those moments of sharing?

Nezumi swallowed, and the tension vanished from his body. He dropped his gaze at the pale hand sitting so tenderly on his knee, almost expecting the touch to hurt. It didn’t. He reached out and brushed his fingers over Aramis’ skin, gentle and fearful.

“Sometimes . . . I don’t understand you,” Nezumi whispered and scooped Aramis’ hand into his own, lacing their fingers. His body trembled, and his brows furrowed. This was a good touch, a kind hand, a warm body. He held Aramis’ hand tighter and exhaled.

@devilsbled

It isn’t an uncommon sight for Nezumi to find himself roaming the corridors of the temple and its adjoined buildings. He walks without a goal or a purpose, walks because he cannot sleep and knows that if he allowed his feet to take him to the garden, he might wander into the forest and never return. The hallways keep him grounded, keep him where he wants to be instead of where his ever-fickle soul wishes to take him. Deep down, he knows why he stays. Deep down, his heart has sunk its roots into the cold stone of the walls.

Nezumi’s aimless journey comes to a halt when he realizes that it may not have been as purposeless as he has thought. He’s standing by the door to Aramis’ room and his gaze drops to the crack at the bottom where he can see the light of a candle flickering—a sign of Aramis being awake and an irresistible bait for Nezumi’s desire for company.

He hovers by the door, telling himself that he shouldn’t come in while knowing all the same that it isn’t Mekhi or anyone else that he wishes to see. He hasn’t walked the halls without a goal, he senses it in his heart that all he has done was take the longest route possible towards this particular door.

‘You wanted to end up here . . . Why not go in?’ He tells himself, holds a breath and slips in without knocking.

Aramis is at his desk, peering over papers and books. There is a smile on his lips when he sees Nezumi as if he isn’t surprised at all to see him materialize in his room without an invitation. That smile. It makes Nezumi’s heart stop and wish that the rest of his existence could happen in that single moment.

But there is also a question in Aramis’ eyes and the awkward silence forces Nezumi to speak: “I saw the light . . .” he pauses and glances around. There is Aramis’ bed, still neatly made, his clothes and the closet, his books and a pitch of water and some cups. Everything is in order and everything screams Aramis’. His essence is in every nook of the room, in every crevice and everything about the space makes Nezumi want to sit down and breathe in. Relax. Close his eyes and feel the warmth.

Nezumi licks his lips and looks at the floor. A moment of hesitation before his lips part again and he asks: “ . . . can I stay?”

The answer comes immediately and Nezumi’s shoulders sag with visible relief. A gentle smile flickers across his expression before he warily moves further into the room. His eyes never leave Aramis’ form, almost like he is expecting Aramis to pounce at him at any given moment. But it isn’t Aramis who is the monster there, who has to hold himself back, and Nezumi knows. He watches because that is the only way he can keep Aramis safe—to hold himself back.

His fingers slide over the polished table, the wood feels warm under the touch.

ask meme || @devilsbled

Nezumi scrutinized his arm, following the direction where Aramis’ eyes were aiming. He was, indeed, bleeding. Such an astute observation. Nezumi wouldn’t have noticed as fast as Aramis did which made sense because he wasn’t a medic and he didn’t have an eye for such detail.

It was also his body so perhaps one would argue that he should have felt it but with the little scraps and small aches that were all over him, it was hard to pinpoint one particular place that was bleeding and hurting the most.

Aramis concern and worry were quickly filling the air around them, like the sweet fog that wished to cradle him and soothe his worries. Nezumi stepped back and waved his good arm to disperse it.

“—my injury is irrelevant,” he stated and reached for a pouch at his side. He untied it and showed its content to Aramis. “I found them. The herbs that you were looking for.”

The herbs that Aramis was praising to heavens for having wonderful healing abilities. The same ones that happened to grow high in the mountain area south of the temple.

Aramis had said that it was Mekhi who sometimes risked scaling the rocky wall and Nezumi felt a strong sense of self-worth tugging at his heart. He wanted to prove that he, too, could bring these herbs to Aramis.

Which, in turn, perfectly explained the bleeding arm, sprained ankle and various other little scratches and bruises hidden underneath his ragged clothes. Nezumi would rather ignore these facts in favour of keeping his secrets to himself. He would die of shame if he had to admit that his foot had slipped and he plummeted down into near death, only to be saved by thick shrubbery.

Stargate: Atlantis — Home { Sentence Starters } @devilsbled

Nezumi stares without an answer, his heart hammering in his chest as the question takes him off guard. There is hardly a time when he doesn’t have a witty comment ready on his tongue, or a sharp insult between his lips. With Aramis though, things are always different. Aramis always catches him unprepared.

Would it be bad? Nezumi finds himself reeling over what to say. How should he respond while being both truthful and guarded? What should he say to keep his heart protected and his vow of honesty fulfilled? He wants to speak the truth. He always wants to speak the truth.

He remembers the first time he saw Aramis—kind and gentle; so full of light it blinded Nezumi’s eyes. He felt something in his chest ache at the sight of him, a longing as painful as it was beautiful. His skin itched and his arms burned. He wished to reach out, to lay his hands on Aramis’ body. Just to know if someone so ethereal could be real. He yearned to . . . Touch? Tear? No. He would never want to hurt him. Never.

But he knew no other touch than that of violence. ( Perhaps Mekhi could aid him? He had advice for so many things, surely, he would know what to do now. )

But Mekhi couldn’t be trusted to take things seriously and Nezumi wasn’t ready to reveal his soul. And so he circled Aramis like a hungry wolf, unsure how to behave around him.

Now—Aramis is asking him to stay. Is he not? Would it be so bad? Is that what he wants to know? Whether Nezumi thinks that being in his company brings him misery?

Nezumi licks his lips, glancing out of the window. He has vowed to himself that he would always tell the truth because that is the best thing he can offer. Truth is the best and only thing he has. And so he speaks: “ . . . Being here, walking these corridors, is unbearable for me. It is by no fault but my own that I turn any four walls into a prison. It’s only right. I don’t belong here, I never will. Luxury and comfort weren’t made for creatures like myself.”

His eyes harden into steel as he slides his gaze from the window to the wall and then towards Aramis—Aramis who is the epitome of all that is pure in the world. Every waking moment that Nezumi spends near him is wrong and corrupting.