Can't think of anything else you need to know beforehand
Shrug if you got questions just come ask
--
Imagine person A of your OTP has willingly or unwillingly found a way of traveling back in time. They do not take their physical body with them, but can see and hear almost as if they were a ghost. They find person B, only years younger as a child. They begin following person B during a specifically painful experience they went through in their childhood, and watch it as it happens. Because they aren’t physically there, they can’t stop it or comfort person B regardless of how badly they wish they could. They’re just forced to watch as it happens, whispering silent words of comfort to person B.
--
You press your lips to John's, lost in those mesmerizing silvery eyes, and then you're tumbling to the bed and you're making sounds into the demon like you've never made before.
You both break raggedly, just long enough to divest each other of your shirts, and then you're kissing again, experienced hands and honeyed heat all rutting and pleasure and then John has that devilish tail of his slithering up your pantleg, and he palms over your crotch and ohh-
You blink awake to a ravenous incubus twitching on your windowsill, and roll over with a groan, boner pressing into the mattress in a way that almost earns a moan. "Are you feeding me these, or am I just hitting puberty again?"
He makes one of those familiar growly purring sounds, and slinks off the windowsill. God, he reminds you so much of a cat it isn't even funny anymore.
"I don't give dreams, I just play with feelings. And I can't play with yours, you're my-" He cuts off and tenses a little, and you know exactly what he was about to say. You hate being called his master, even if it's technically true. "Sorry."
"Nah, doesn't even matter. Wanna y'know- do your thing?"
He slithers onto the bed, and it's undeniably sexy in a way the word 'slither' can't even begin to describe. "Yessss." He perches over your hips with his barely-there weight, teasing your erection as he does, and his tail twitches in the air over his shoulder. Silver glints in the moonlight, his eyes slitted and luminous, and you feel a shudder run through your body as he leans down to claim his kiss.
You plunge into his mind with a shudder and a gasp, and this is not supposed to happen, what the hell is going on??
You can feel him trying to push you out as you're lead through the shadowy confines of his mind, but you're plugging into his memories now, and whether it's an accident or not, it's near impossible to stop midway through. You're tugged along a darkened pathway, and then you're headfirst into a memory, and you barely have time to breathe. Sharing has never happened like this before, and as soon as you're out and you can talk again, you have a fuckton of questions to ask.
•••
"Mama, where are we going?"
It's John, you'd recognize that hair and those eyes anywhere, and his little hand is encased in the much bigger grip of his mother.
She's gorgeous, all pale skin and shining hair, but she carries a dangerous edge of ice beneath her exterior.
He looks to be maybe six, and intimidated as anything by the grandeur around him- and by his mother.
"We're going to wake up your демон, Джонатан."
He stumbles, startled, and you dive to catch him, but he drops through your hands to the floor, sprawled embarrassingly. "Huh-?" You can't touch him, what the hell? You're a dragon, usually that on it's own is enough to give you the ability to physically affect memories. But in this one... You're a ghost.
"Stand," his mother commands. She's imperious and regal like you haven't seen since you met the troll gypsy queen, and John scrambles back to his feet, eager to please.
He still looks afraid. "I thought I had to be a teenager to do it!"
"Fourteen," she corrects, striding on without so much as a glance backward. "And you are the son of the high priestess. As such, more is expected of you."
There seems to be an echo in their voices, and it takes a moment for you to realize that you're hearing both their actual voices and the meaning behind the words simultaneously. They're speaking Russian, John's native language, but you're understanding it like they're English.
They slow before towering black doors, carved with incredible attention to detail, and you watch in fascination as they swing silently open before John's mother at a simple touch.
The room beyond is simultaneously comfortable and over-the-top fancy. Dark red crushed velvet throw pillows, to match the carpet, and a massive fireplace at the side of the room. There's an oak four-poster, curtains tied back to the bedposts, and it's made neatly.
You jump when a tall, dark man strides forward from the corner, and oh man, the power rolling off him is staggering. He's /strong/, and you have to take a couple steps away to collect yourself again.
"миледи," he murmurs, inclining his head. Miledei. My lady. His chestnut hair just brushes his shoulders, and you can see the silvery sheen of his green eyes as he studies John. "It is an honor to serve."
You remember John explaining the matriarchal culture he'd started life in, but it's still odd to see a grown man bowing and scraping before a woman. Any woman, high priestess of something or not. Dragons are the complete opposite, and it's culture shock for sure.
"You recall your duties, and I'm commanding you to carry them out. Serve as unto Her." She doesn't wait for an acknowledgement, but seats herself in one of the plush chairs by the fireplace, reclining easily with her back to her son.
"Up on the bed, John. Lean back on the pillows, and close your eyes."
He obeys with the gentle eagerness of a child, and covers his face with his hands.
You take the opportunity to study your surroundings more closely, and float-walk to the fireside to observe John's mother.
She's settled herself in the chair and conjured a fire, an ability you've learned is prevalent among demons as well as dragons, and she's staring intently at the flames as the sounds of rustling come from behind.
You don't know much about her, considering you'd only even discovered he /had/ a mother about a month ago, and this isn't very enlightening.
She doesn't seem to care much about her son, though, judging by the way she's hardly looked at him since you'd accidentally come upon them, and you think maybe you understand why he doesn't mention her.
The rest of the memory destroys that theory, though, and god you wish you'd never entered it.
John whimpers behind you, and you turn to see the man pressing him back to the pillows, working the little boy's shirt up over his head. You flashstep without thinking, lean forward, swipe at his arm, and... Nothing. He doesn't spin around, doesn't turn to see who the hell grabbed him, doesn't skid sideways from the force of the blow.
He pulls John's shirt over his head, and you curse violently, trying to pull John away, to push off the Incubus, to separate them at all, but you can't. You're not physically there. You're a spirit, a vision- an intruder.
John's mother speaks up, finally, and you reach for John, ignoring the way he's trembling before this stranger, curled up into the pillows on the bed. "Restrain him."
"How many times is the ceremony to be performed, миледи?"
"шесть."
Six. There's a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach; John whimpers again when the stranger pulls his arms and legs away from his torso and runs fingers over his chest. He's tracing a rune, you recognize, in his own blood, and a shudder goes over the little form on the bed before he stills.
Svefnthorn- sleep.
The scene blackens from the edges, curling in on you like a photo being burned, and the last thing you see is John's arm, hanging over the man's shoulder as he carries him out.
