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Title: waiting and dreaming on
fandom: Exalted
square: plushie/furry kink
word count: 805
summary: He can take care of Clair better than anyone. Reva Sachin misses his wife, and knows that he's the best-suited to protect her from everything.
content notes: no standard notes apply: obsessive relationships.
There is no one that Reva Sachin hates in the world more than Aravind Amiti. He's always disliked his wife's Circlemate from the moment he met her, the dislike more than mutual, and now that Clair is asleep, again, and has been for a decade and one, he has no reason to speak with her. No reason except his dreaming, lost wife, who Amiti has stolen from him and locked up inside glass and white-gold, artifice and sorcery: I can take care of her better than you, the other says without words, and he knows that isn't true.
He can take care of Clair better than anyone, even that scheming, sanctimonious, false-compassionate bitch, and he swears to himself as he presses his fingertips against the glass: so close, but no closer, and still so far away, though he isn't supposed to be here at all, and he can feel the power coursing through the lock, more sorcery than he has ever learned or would ever learn, Adamant Circle bent to this one purpose. Protection, Amiti tells him smirking, safety, sanctuary: protection his ass, Clair does not need protection from him, he is her husband and would never hurt her. From other things, from everything else, yes, from even the rest of the world, he can at least agree with Amiti on that, but the least of all him. He would wrap himself around her and never let her go, let himself shatter rather than let the world hurt her in any way, break the world a thousand times over rather then let her come to any harm.
Through the window he can see Clair asleep, surrounded by the plush dolls and stuffed toys, more of Amiti's works, and he wants to tear them apart, stitch by stitch, take scissors to them and cut them up until there's nothing left except tattered cloth and stuffing, all Amiti's dubious, cruel magic broken and scattered across the floor. That, at least, because he can't do the same to the actual woman, though he knows she'd like to do the same thing to him. But he can give Clair all the dolls and plush toys her heart desires, if she wants them, sew them with more love than Amiti could ever understand even if he can't sew them as well, make them as pretty, can't remember most of the creatures that don't exist any more.
He can keep her safe, do more for her than simply lock her in a glass room, glass cage: glass is so easy to break, after all, and if that's the best Amiti can do, then she doesn't deserve to keep Clair. There's power in symbols, and glass is a symbol, no matter how unbreakable that it is forged, harder than diamond, harder than adamantine. She doesn't deserve to keep her anyway, and if he could break the glass and take his wife with him, he would, but all he can do is watch her breathe, watch her dream, and wait for her to wake, to return to him after so long.
On the floor nearby, as if left there, he finds a doll, one of Amiti's plush, hand-sewn creations, dropped nearby: he nearly kicks it, before he sees the sewn green hair and dreamy smile. Clair, in doll form, as unchanging as the real girl, because Clair hasn't aged a day since he met her, all those centuries ago: he picks it up, attunes his Essence to it and slips it into Elsewhere, to hide it until he leaves, not caring at all that Amiti will probably want it back, and that if she catches him with it, she'll stab him until he returns it, simply because he can't die so easily.
A doll, a token, no more, but it's all he has of Clair, dreaming and lost and unreachable, sealed behind glass and gold: he puts the doll on his bed, in the spot where Clair used to sleep until she lay down to dream and didn't get up again and Amiti took her from him. He believes in the power of symbols, of smaller magic than the ability to reshape and shatter Creation, the power that Amiti wields: he rests the doll in Clair's place, wraps it in silk and lace to keep it warm, sleeps beside it at night, curled up with it on the nights that he misses Clair the most, breathing in the distant scent of her hair, the faint, delicate fragrance of moonflowers and moonlight; though plush is nothing compared to real skin and flesh, Amiti always cared for details. Rituals, to enact certainty, thaumaturgy fueled by his Essence and belief.
Someday, Clair will wake: someday, she will return to him, and never leave him again, no matter how dreams and Amiti try to keep them apart.
fandom: Exalted
square: plushie/furry kink
word count: 805
summary: He can take care of Clair better than anyone. Reva Sachin misses his wife, and knows that he's the best-suited to protect her from everything.
content notes: no standard notes apply: obsessive relationships.
There is no one that Reva Sachin hates in the world more than Aravind Amiti. He's always disliked his wife's Circlemate from the moment he met her, the dislike more than mutual, and now that Clair is asleep, again, and has been for a decade and one, he has no reason to speak with her. No reason except his dreaming, lost wife, who Amiti has stolen from him and locked up inside glass and white-gold, artifice and sorcery: I can take care of her better than you, the other says without words, and he knows that isn't true.
He can take care of Clair better than anyone, even that scheming, sanctimonious, false-compassionate bitch, and he swears to himself as he presses his fingertips against the glass: so close, but no closer, and still so far away, though he isn't supposed to be here at all, and he can feel the power coursing through the lock, more sorcery than he has ever learned or would ever learn, Adamant Circle bent to this one purpose. Protection, Amiti tells him smirking, safety, sanctuary: protection his ass, Clair does not need protection from him, he is her husband and would never hurt her. From other things, from everything else, yes, from even the rest of the world, he can at least agree with Amiti on that, but the least of all him. He would wrap himself around her and never let her go, let himself shatter rather than let the world hurt her in any way, break the world a thousand times over rather then let her come to any harm.
Through the window he can see Clair asleep, surrounded by the plush dolls and stuffed toys, more of Amiti's works, and he wants to tear them apart, stitch by stitch, take scissors to them and cut them up until there's nothing left except tattered cloth and stuffing, all Amiti's dubious, cruel magic broken and scattered across the floor. That, at least, because he can't do the same to the actual woman, though he knows she'd like to do the same thing to him. But he can give Clair all the dolls and plush toys her heart desires, if she wants them, sew them with more love than Amiti could ever understand even if he can't sew them as well, make them as pretty, can't remember most of the creatures that don't exist any more.
He can keep her safe, do more for her than simply lock her in a glass room, glass cage: glass is so easy to break, after all, and if that's the best Amiti can do, then she doesn't deserve to keep Clair. There's power in symbols, and glass is a symbol, no matter how unbreakable that it is forged, harder than diamond, harder than adamantine. She doesn't deserve to keep her anyway, and if he could break the glass and take his wife with him, he would, but all he can do is watch her breathe, watch her dream, and wait for her to wake, to return to him after so long.
On the floor nearby, as if left there, he finds a doll, one of Amiti's plush, hand-sewn creations, dropped nearby: he nearly kicks it, before he sees the sewn green hair and dreamy smile. Clair, in doll form, as unchanging as the real girl, because Clair hasn't aged a day since he met her, all those centuries ago: he picks it up, attunes his Essence to it and slips it into Elsewhere, to hide it until he leaves, not caring at all that Amiti will probably want it back, and that if she catches him with it, she'll stab him until he returns it, simply because he can't die so easily.
A doll, a token, no more, but it's all he has of Clair, dreaming and lost and unreachable, sealed behind glass and gold: he puts the doll on his bed, in the spot where Clair used to sleep until she lay down to dream and didn't get up again and Amiti took her from him. He believes in the power of symbols, of smaller magic than the ability to reshape and shatter Creation, the power that Amiti wields: he rests the doll in Clair's place, wraps it in silk and lace to keep it warm, sleeps beside it at night, curled up with it on the nights that he misses Clair the most, breathing in the distant scent of her hair, the faint, delicate fragrance of moonflowers and moonlight; though plush is nothing compared to real skin and flesh, Amiti always cared for details. Rituals, to enact certainty, thaumaturgy fueled by his Essence and belief.
Someday, Clair will wake: someday, she will return to him, and never leave him again, no matter how dreams and Amiti try to keep them apart.
