[Yami no Matsuei/The Prisoner (2010)] "The Black Hour" (PG-13)
Author's Note: Written for Any, any m/f,
Red...I feel my soul on fire!
Black...My world if she's not there!
Red...The color of desire!
Black...The color of despair!
(Les Miserables) Unrequited Kazutaka Muraki/Helen Curtis (M2). Written for a cross-fandom pairing one half of which I've been playing in a RPG.
Three AM. The black hour at the middle of the night. The true witching hour, when the darkness hung at its thickest and the house lay utterly still.
Most nights, Muraki lay asleep by this time, in the small and snug house on the edge of the forest, which he now shared with two lovely ladies, one who had become the keeper of his soul, the other who was as a daughter to him. But another had become the keeper of his heart, something that he did not give away so easily, a woman who had accepted him for what he was and who had won his confidence, something not easy for anyone to win.
And yet, when he had offered her his heart and the promise of the rest of his being with it, she had, albeit politely and gently, turned down the offer. He understood and accepted that much: they had different standards and different needs. But he could not help the pain that went with it.
In the room he had used as his bedroom, he sat under the dim light of a reading lamp on its lowest setting, a glass of red wine on the table at his elbow, untouched, though his hand lay on the arm of the chair, close beside it. She had done him a kindness while he was recovering from a blow from a being far more dangerous and cruel and dark than he had ever been. He had looked forward to the nights they could have spent together, entwined in each others arms and he had hoped to give her the child of her flesh that she wanted and he wished to father, hopes that had warmed his heart and soul gone frigid from past crimes and sorrows.
Instead, he sat here, cold and alone with these dark thoughts that swirled in his mind and heart, desires unfulfilled, hope diminished to a pilot light in his soul. The temptation to turn back to the darkness of his crimes lurked in the furthest shadows of his heart and mind. But if there was one way in which she had done him well, she had helped him to find the strength to resist these whispering shadows by not allowing them to linger.
He reached for the glass and raised it to his lips, taking a sip from it: perhaps now he could pass through the darkness and see the dawn. Perhaps a new love awaited him...
Red...I feel my soul on fire!
Black...My world if she's not there!
Red...The color of desire!
Black...The color of despair!
(Les Miserables) Unrequited Kazutaka Muraki/Helen Curtis (M2). Written for a cross-fandom pairing one half of which I've been playing in a RPG.
Three AM. The black hour at the middle of the night. The true witching hour, when the darkness hung at its thickest and the house lay utterly still.
Most nights, Muraki lay asleep by this time, in the small and snug house on the edge of the forest, which he now shared with two lovely ladies, one who had become the keeper of his soul, the other who was as a daughter to him. But another had become the keeper of his heart, something that he did not give away so easily, a woman who had accepted him for what he was and who had won his confidence, something not easy for anyone to win.
And yet, when he had offered her his heart and the promise of the rest of his being with it, she had, albeit politely and gently, turned down the offer. He understood and accepted that much: they had different standards and different needs. But he could not help the pain that went with it.
In the room he had used as his bedroom, he sat under the dim light of a reading lamp on its lowest setting, a glass of red wine on the table at his elbow, untouched, though his hand lay on the arm of the chair, close beside it. She had done him a kindness while he was recovering from a blow from a being far more dangerous and cruel and dark than he had ever been. He had looked forward to the nights they could have spent together, entwined in each others arms and he had hoped to give her the child of her flesh that she wanted and he wished to father, hopes that had warmed his heart and soul gone frigid from past crimes and sorrows.
Instead, he sat here, cold and alone with these dark thoughts that swirled in his mind and heart, desires unfulfilled, hope diminished to a pilot light in his soul. The temptation to turn back to the darkness of his crimes lurked in the furthest shadows of his heart and mind. But if there was one way in which she had done him well, she had helped him to find the strength to resist these whispering shadows by not allowing them to linger.
He reached for the glass and raised it to his lips, taking a sip from it: perhaps now he could pass through the darkness and see the dawn. Perhaps a new love awaited him...