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star-puff · 4 years ago

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after the world has fallen (where do we lie?)

tendou satori x reader

warnings: apocalypse!au

word count: 3.8k

spinoff: before the world fell (you were there.)

to the anon that requested tendou + apocalypse for my one(shot) with love event, this one’s for you

You meet on a day where the sky burns yellow.

It isn’t the rich gold of dawn, nor is it any further from the washes of orange, reds, and pinks of dusk so fondly remembered from the past. Sulfur-colored clouds hang above you, an overcast so bleak you feel it in every movement, every breath, where the taste of ash still lingers on the tongue.

You stifle a cough, shielding your eyes as a dust cloud whirls past, carrying bits of torn newspaper and scraps of abandoned items from before the Fall. Tightening the cloth mask around your mouth, you adjust the straps of your backpack, faltering for just a moment. Everything stills.

You count the seconds in your head, one, two…

Something shifts behind you, and your hand shoots to the gun holstered at your side, its barrel pointed and ready to shoot at the face of your enemy in an instant. Three.

Only, you find yourself with a gun pointed at you as well. The man in front of you grins, his safety slowly clicking off. “And who might you be?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

He hums, relaxed. “My answer depends on who you are, actually, and I’m guessing it’s the same for you. Looks like we’re at an impasse.”

Your grip tightens. You don’t know if he has people hiding in the shadows, how many guns are actually pointed at you at this moment. There could be snipers watching from the rooftops, backup hiding behind tall pieces of rubble, comrades he could call using a stealthily hidden comm in his ear.

Just finished with a covert mission, you’re exhausted and alone, and your allies are far and unaware. There isn’t another choice left. It’s better than dying in silence.

“You’ve just entered Crow territory,” you say, your voice as confident as you can make it. Distantly, you try to calculate how long it would take for help to arrive if your emergency flare was fired. “What business do you have with us?”

The man raises a brow, tilting his head. “And if I don’t tell you? It’s top secret information I hold, you know.”

You take a step closer, the gun still trained on his head. “You know exactly what will happen. Either you tell me now or you tell us later in interrogation—I can’t guarantee you’ll go unharmed if you choose the latter.”

He grins again. “Fierce words for a girl all on her own.”

You can’t tell if the words are meant to be provocative or genuine, but you can’t seem to shake off the tension roiling in your skin. He raises his hands slowly, his gun returned neatly into his holster.

“I’d prefer to not have my kneecaps blown out, at least not today. I’m Tendou Satori.”

Your eyes narrow, a faint memory of a name on a folder flashing through your mind. It’s nothing more than a blur, the details lost in a flurry of other profiles that seemed more important at the time. But there is one thing that you remember, the words bolded on top of the page.

“What’s an Eagle doing showing up in enemy territory? Did you want your head blown off instead?”

“Former Eagle.”

Your gun barrel falters. What?

Tendou moves to roll up his sleeve, a mangled burn sitting where an eagle is supposed to fly, the kanji inked below too distorted to be legible anymore. You can’t breathe.

“I’ve defected—I’ve come to join the Crows.”

“I don’t know, Suga.”

Sugawara pours you a cup of warm tea, the last packet brewed before restock in two days. “What’s there to not know?”

“The Eagle!” you stress, exasperated. “Should we even be letting him in? It might be a trick.”

“Well, you tell me. You’re the one that found him,” he jokes, pulling out a chair across the table.

You don’t even know how he can joke about this. Thoughts keep swirling in your mind, how you’ve just made a mistake, how this single action could result in everything going very, very wrong.

Sugawara watches you mull over cooling tea, inquisitive. After what seems like your thousandth sigh, he speaks again. “How did your recon mission go? Any new information on the Iron Wall?”

Pursing your lips, you take a sip. “It’s not much, but I did manage to find out some things about their leadership change. I’ll tell the details at the meeting tomorrow, once I’ve gotten my report together.”

He nods, pouring himself his own cup. “About the Eagle,” he says, after a long silence. “He’s only just arrived yesterday. He may not have given us a reason to trust him, but it’s not like he’s given us a reason to doubt him either. Be on your guard, but get to know him before you make your judgement. You know as well as I do that we need all the help we can get.”

A steady tap, tap, tap, of your fingers against the table sounds in the room. Hinata leans in closer, eyes bright and curious. “So, what are we going to do?”

Daichi scans the map on the table, the markers planted where the enemy lies. Freshly promoted to general, Sawamura Daichi handles responsibilities like steel-plated gold, every decision made conscious of the soft underbelly of inexperience that lies within. He calculates each position with intense thought, his brows furrowing the longer he looks at the map; even to you, fine lines on the map seem to blur together, like they were looking at land that wasn’t separated by name and claim alone. You scoff internally at the thought.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

They’ve been in this meeting for hours too long, nothing but empty words being thrown across the table.

“Shiratorizawa just merged with the last independents between our territories,” Sugawara mulls, replacing the only blue markers left on the table with purple. “It’ll be a bloodbath if we don’t plan carefully.”

It’ll be a bloodbath regardless, you want to say, but you keep your mouth shut, lips twisting into a frown. You take a peek at Tendou across from you, only to quickly divert your eyes when he glances up to catch your gaze.

"Anything you could tell us?" Daichi asks, pinning Tendou down with his stare. Your finger stills.

The tension in the room thickens, tamped down hostility ready to be unleashed at even a hint of a misstep. It’s been less than a month since you’d brought him back to base, and with the growing disputes with enemies from all sides of your borders, easy hospitality isn’t something you can afford. The marring of his Shiratorizawa brand is the only thing allowing him an inkling of trust, the only thing letting him step foot inside this room.

Karasuno may be wary, but most of all, you’re desperate.

Tendou smiles with ease as he leans back in his chair. “Of course, General. It’s why I’m here, after all.”

Reaching beside him, he pulls out a manila folder, the same one you had given him, noticeably thicker than it had been a week prior. It slides across the table, Daichi catching the folder mid-glide with ease.

“Half the information on here is wrong,” Tendou begins, matter-of-fact. “Not that there’s much on there to begin with—I’ve never seen an entire profiling with so little information in my life, not even when I was with the Eagles.”

Daichi flips to the first page, revealing a profile with a picture of a green-haired man attached. His eyes are stern, lips pressed into a frown. A flash of a forlorn shadow crosses Tendou’s face as he looks at the photo, too quick to be seen by anyone but you.

Oh.

“Let’s start with Ushiwaka, shall we?”

The briefing continues, Tendou going through each high-ranking member and revealing their information, fixing any red herrings that were collected through recon. According to him, Ushijima’s strengths aren’t only limited to close combat; this correction only serves to worsen the mood of the room.

Daichi is going to have a field day lecturing Intelligence for falling for enemy tricks, but you’re sure Kiyoko will manage to reason with him before half the department starts hiding in bathroom stalls and barracks to escape his wrath. You silently set aside time in the day to go looking for Yachi after the inevitable scolding, who normally bolts first and is found last.

Many corrections later, Daichi looks at the last page in the folder before snapping it shut. “Thank you, you’ve been a great help to us.”

Tendou hums, cheshire’s grin curving his lips. “I know!”

Daichi nods once more, collecting the files and making his way to leave. “Oh,” he remembers, stopping for a moment. He turns to look at you, and you hear what you’ve been dreading for the past hour. “Collect the members of Intelligence and meet back here in ten. Meeting dismissed.”

You nod stiffly, muttering a quiet "Yes, General.” Holding your breath, you wait as everyone files out the room one by one, pitying looks sent your way.

After what seems like forever, the door slides shut on the last person. You groan into your hands, palms pressed tight against your eyes to fight a growing migraine. Expectancy does not negate dread, apparently.

A whistle. "Damn, was that my fault?"

You jump, only to slump when you see Tendou, still watching from his seat. "I thought you left," you say wryly. His amused stare goes wholly unappreciated.

"Ah, have you discovered my secret talent then? Blending into the shadows, oooohhh." He wiggles his fingers at you, like casting a spell. You stare at him, unamused.

"One day," Tendou sighs. "One day."

Rolling your eyes, you move to stand, chair scraping against the floor. He watches you with the same relaxed expression he wears every day on his face, and you hesitate slightly. You imagine running the words over your tongue, trying to figure out the best way to say them. Maybe I don't need to—

"Something on your mind?"

Oh, to hell with it.

"You know you can always talk to me, right?"

Tendou raises a brow, smiling. "I am right now, did you forget?"

"No, I mean—" You huff sharply. "I know it must be hard to switch sides. All of a sudden you're fighting against your former friends, and it's not like we've all made the transition easier than it could have been, so if you ever want to talk about," you gesture wildly, "things, just know that I'm always willing to listen."

A beat passes, then two. Nice going.

"Okay, that's all I wanted to say." The words blur together in a flurry. "I'm gonna go now. Bye."

"Hey wait!" Tendou says, shooting out of his seat. metal on metal scrapes against the floor, stopping you in your tracks. He looks just as surprised by his outburst as you are. "Thank you, really. I'll remember that."

You nod slowly, a relieved smile lighting your features. "Of course, who would I even be if I let someone I brought in deal with all their demons alone?"

"I'm blaming you."

Tendou gasps, scandalized. "Me? What did I do?"

“Don't act like you don't know!" You point a finger at him, then to the bags of flour and sugar sitting on the counter. “You’re the one that suggested baking Daichi a cake for his birthday. We could have just gotten him a plant or something.”

“The general deserves the very best from us, don’t you know?”

You give him an exasperated look. “Do you even know how to bake a cake?”

His hand flies to his chest, offended. “Of course I do! Who do you even think I am?”

“Tendou Satori, the source of my daily headaches.”

He grabs the bag of flour, opening the top and pointing it towards you threateningly. “Don’t forget the power I hold in my hands.”

Truthfully, you’re blaming Sugawara for dragging you into this mess. It would have been fine if Tendou had embarked on this challenge alone—it would have been amusing, even. But Sugawara insisted on someone helping him out for such a ‘big project,’ that it needed to be a ‘team effort.’ You would have called bullshit on that, but he’d ushered you into the kitchen and locked you inside before you had a chance to protest.

“It’ll be fun,” he had said, winking at you. “Who knows, this could be your chance! I see how you look at each other—you’ll thank me for this later. You’re welcome in advance.”

And now here you were, many incorrigible noises later, looking cluelessly at measuring cups. You still don’t know what Sugawara means.

Clueless to your predicament, Tendou is already done with the dry mixture, moving on to cracking the eggs. He slides a cutting board over to you, along with a bar of chocolate. You’re not even sure where these came from, considering the massive price of luxury goods like this, however little of it there is left, but you’ve learned not to question Tanaka and Noya’s methods of attaining certain...items. What resulted in that curiosity is certainly a memory you won’t ever forget.

“Chop,” Tendou prompts, handing you a knife. “It’ll make it easier for me to melt it down after I’m done with the batter.”

You scrunch your brow, frowning. Still, you do as he says. “What type of cake are we making anyway? I thought it was just going to be a sponge cake.”

He tsks at you, shaking his head. “Such a simple thing for the birthday of the one and only general? First a plant, now the minimal effort, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were doing this,” he looks around suspiciously, “on purpose.”

All he gets is another roll of the eyes, as well as a chocolate-shaving covered knife pointed at him. “Don’t forget the power I hold in my hands.”

Tendou holds up his hands in surrender.

The tasks are completed in silence, a quiet tap tap of the knife against the cutting board and the metal of his whisk hitting the glass bowl sounding in tandem with one another. You’re the first to speak again, chocolate fully chopped and put into an empty bowl. “Now what?”

Tendou, having just poured the batter into circular pans, gets out a pot and pours in heavy cream. “Now,” he says, turning on the heat, “we make a ganache.”

You take a seat across the counter, watching him mix the heated cream into the bowl of chocolate, letting it melt into one another. He moves with ease, humming as he does so. “I wanted to be a chocolatier, you know,” he explains, noticing your stare. “Move to Paris, get a degree, study at one of those fancy five-star Michelin restaurants, wear one of those cool tall hats. Maybe even open up a shop of my own.”

Tendou laughs at the memory, his shoulders lighter, eyes lacking the shadow that permeates through the mask of his smiles. He looks happy, you realize. The first time he’s ever looked truly happy.

Your heart aches with a tenderness that's nearly palpable, thinking of the boy who remembers a past where the future was bright, who looks at pictures of old comrades and friends with nostalgia for a time that won’t return.

“Here,” Tendou calls, gesturing for you to come over once the frosting has fully formed. “Have a taste.”

You hop down your stool, noticing something as you get closer and closer to him. “Tendou, you have something there,” you say, motioning to your cheek.

“Hm?” His thumb rubs at his cheek.

“Ah, no, the other side. A little down—no, now a little up—down again—here let me just—”

Before you can think again, you lean in, swiping away the frosting with a finger and placing it in your mouth. Your eyes widen as sweetness bursts in your mouth “It’s good!” you exclaim, and then you realize.

Tendou stares at you, his face closer than you remember it. You feel his breathing, his chest rising and falling as his gaze darts from your eyes to your lips and back again.

You let out a soft exhale. “Oh.”

A hand comes up to cup your cheek, his body now pressed against yours. “Can I?” he asks, his other hand coming to rest on the small of your back. Should I?

Palms rest on his chest, your fingers curling as you try to think. You try to imagine the consequences of this, how this would just be another distraction from your job as a Crow, how this would just be another dangerous thing added to the risks you signed up for, how this is just pure impulsivity acted on emotion.

You scan his face, his eyes, his lips. The tender way his thumb rests on the side of your face. The heat of his body on yours. You’ve thought through the potential downfalls of saying yes, how everything could come down crashing and burning one way or the other.

You find that in this moment, inches away from him, you can’t bring yourself to care.

With a small nod, you close the distance, lips meeting with a taste sweet as chocolate on your tongue.

Consequences be damned, you repeat in your head as the kiss turns heated, small gasps of air where you can fit them, hands moving from his chest to his hair as your fingers thread through his locks, frosting long forgotten on the counter.

Consequences be damned.

You jolt awake, a siren wailing in the distance as it covers the sky in a film of muted red. The clouds are dense like they usually are—you haven’t seen a single star for years, and you wonder if it’s a sign that even the celestials and heavenly bodies have turned away from the horror that mankind has become.

“It’s from Shiratorizawa,” the man beside you says, his back facing you as he looks outside the window. “Reports said they were in a dispute with the Blue Castle recently, a rebel faction left over from their forcible mergence.”

His voice takes on a guarded edge when he talks of his former syndicate, either plastering on his playfully teasing masks in professional endeavors or preventing the topic from being explored too deep whenever he’s alone with you. There must be something underneath, regret for not staying with his friends until the end, bonds broken to follow what he believes is right, you just know it.

Sheets rustle as you sit up, scooting closer to him. A finger comes up to touch his back, tracing letters onto his bare skin.

Y-o-u o-k-a-y?

True to his habits, he takes the hand brushing his skin and traces his own shapes into your palm.

You wish he’d be more open with you about that part of his past, especially after you’ve shared everything with him, but you know Tendou would tell you everything in his own time. Patience and waiting is a part of love, after all. Still, you touch your lips to his fingertips whispering to him. “Satori, you know you can tell me anything right?”

It’s a soft reminder, a plea.

The waxiness of the burn on his forearm shines in the moonlight. The motto reads Ir—s—t—le F—rce, an eagle with ruined wings. Tendou turns, half his face covered in shadows. “I know.”

The world is in flames.

Everything is covered in soot, dirt, and blood. You blink away the sting of smoke in your eyes, the smog suffocating your airways. Orange flickers in your peripherals lighting the dark, explosions heard from miles away as yet another sector gets bombed. Alarms blare where they are not smashed to pieces, wailing red and bright and cruel.

“Go!” Daichi shouts, firing only a few blind rounds before he’s forced back behind the wall. “I’ll cover for you!”

Your legs tremble as you stand from your previous crouch, fumbling for the extra magazine an enemy had dropped moments before. “General,” you plead. “There has to be another way. I’ll stay and fight with you, please—”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “You’ll just die with me.” Daichi places a hand on your shoulder, determination in his eyes. “Find the others, whoever is left. Suga, Hinata, Tendou, get whoever you can find and escape.”

“Daichi—”

“This is my last order as General,” he says, his back facing you. “Live.”

With shaky breaths and a resolute nod, you run. Through the destroyed corridors of what remains of the Karasuno base, you sprint as far as your feet can take you, lungs burning, contained sobs threatening to burst at any moment.

You scour for any sign of life with each step taken, a head of orange peeping out from behind rubble, a single whisper of Sugawara’s soothing tones as he tends to the wounded. By the time you enter the area where the entrance used to be, you’re gasping for air, defeat sending your knees buckling to the ground. You’ve searched everywhere they could be, the training grounds, the underground bunkers, anywhere else that hadn’t been demolished or rendered inaccessible by the explosion.

There’s still leftover ringing in your ears, the buzz in your mind getting louder the longer you stay in this place. You inhale once, twice—

The safety of a gun clicks from behind you. A hand around your gun as well, you turn slowly. You stop breathing.

Behind the barrel pointed at you is Tendou, finger on the trigger, an easy smile on his face. The eagle pin attached to his jacket gleams in the firelight.

"No."

It's not true, it can't be. You don't want it to be. You're hoping he'll lower his gun, playing this entire thing off as some sick, badly-timed joke, help you up and even continue searching for survivors. The world has never done what you'd wished for.

"I'm afraid so."

Hurt can’t even begin to explain the way your heart breaks, the way it splinters and cracks like glass. A million thoughts rush through you, the urge to scream and shout and shoot the damn bullet straight through his traitorous skull, but you can only whisper one thing. “Was it all a lie?”

Your dreams to be a chocolatier, the way your hands fidgeted when you thought a joke of yours went too far and you tried to apologize, the words and shapes you traced into my skin, did it mean nothing to you?

“Not all of it,” Tendou says, his smile forlorn. You wonder if you’ll be yet another bird burned out of his skin. “I liked you the most.”

Karasuno were crows. They were a group of crows, a murder, a murder, a massacre, he betrayed and massacred them all. You remember the stories he told, his jokes, his laugh, his smile—you realize that they’re nothing but distorted ink on mutilated flesh.

“I didn’t want it to end this way.”

You laugh, bitter, too tired for any tears left. Your barrel comes up to meet him, unwavering. The betrayal you feel is nothing compared to rage. “Neither did I.”

A gunshot resounds.

#tendou x reader #haikyuu imagines #hq imagines #tendou satori #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#hq #tendou x y/n #tendou x you #haikyuu fanfiction #hq fanfic #hq x reader #meg writes

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kettlequills · 3 years ago

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ok so this was inspired by this post made by @argisthebulwark - check her blog out! - about dovahkiin soulmates that could feel each other's pain. naturally i ran with the concept of dragonborn soulmates. feat. my ldb laataazin/miraak.

Laataazin has always felt trapped. Before they are Laat-aaz, even, when they are a nameless prisoner, hands-bound, another to be executed through a simple whim of fate. No memories then in the buzzing darkness of their mind, but a feeling of fear, confusion, brief-dawning wonderment on the heels of hot green rage in the drumming space of their chest that was theirs-and-not-theirs. Breath hurting, unused lungs and trembling hands that will not grip round the hilt of the sword Hadvar tries to press into their hands like they know it ought. Like they know scars on their bodies – body, for there is only one Dragonborn, only one.

How dare, their mind rages, how dare the gods try to discard me.

These thoughts, these hungers, these fears, are surely Laataazin’s alone, clear as Masser’s moonlight in the dark sky.

They have known imprisonment, in the cold, whispering bowels of Dragonsreach dungeons, where Mephala murmurs maliciously in every iron bar and chiselled stone, hissing breaths dampening, soft and light as cobwebs falling upon a sleeper’s eye, sanity, safety, sight. Trying to tempt, twist, torment total truth from the prisoner-that-would-be-Laataazin, named Dovahkiin and wrestling the ashes of Mirmulnir into restless ebb. Oil-and-ink in Laat’s nose, and a will that is theirs-and-not-theirs, resistant, defiant, no more daedra than dragonfire, sings firm around Mephala’s words, like the thrum of earthbones a song that refuses to be a bound-and-fooled-slave again.

Don’t complain so much, says the thoughts-that-are-Laataazin, they’ll let you out.

Their dragon-soul, for it must be theirs, is loud, angry, knows their head. It refuses to be quieted, grumbles and snaps at the rolls and reams of papery scrolls the Greybeards set down in front of them, snarling answers in a mother-tongue Laataazin has never known, with the air of distant, impatient distraction, like wings brushing across planes. Laataazin is not much of a reader, puzzles through relearning letters in dusty texts that take bored moments to recall when their body slumps softening into slow sleep. They wake with understanding and vague, boundless frustration, dragon-words in dragon-soul that mutter about Stupid fools and their vapid teachings, you will never learn with these chains on your wings.

Laataazin meditates for endless hours on frigid snowcaps with Paarthurnax’s breath steaming the snow and still thinks of smashing skulls and bloodied steel, still thinks of broken wills and shattered spirits.

It is, they tell Paarthurnax, a losing battle. There is something in them that wants out, and it will stop at nothing, nothing, to claw itself free from the trap locked shut around its howling muzzle.

Mortality is a losing battle, Paarthurnax reminds them. It is their nature to beat against the bars of inevitability, and turn their faces from the grind of time.

Hypocritical lizard, the soul-that-must-be-Laataazin’s mutters, and Laataazin chooses not to share this or the smile it provokes.

Laataazin goes about their divine-driven hunting of twin-souled dragons, who speak to them in a language they know, who challenge them to fights they win, who know them and are stranger to them in a way that only the careless and god-flung may be. They do not want to kill the dragons that are like themselves, who look at the sky and see a glorious road untravelled rather than the distant god-realm for no mortal to cross.

Your soft heart will do us harm, their soul reminds them. Do not spare what hungers to hurt.

Delphine tells them that they are not bloodthirsty enough, that they accept the surrender of too many, and create surrender still where there is not even that. That there is no point sparing monsters, and that Laataazin has a duty, a destiny, a fate.

Laataazin tells Delphine and their soul both that they have chosen a different path. But Akatosh does not make the same mistake twice, and this time, there is no give in the leash of fate wrapped tightly around the neck of the Last Dragonborn.

Ushered by inevitability, they go to face Alduin, and within them their soul rants and raves for its freedom. Fate! Fate! The gods laugh at us.

In Sovngarde, they feel empty, empty. It is a dead place for dead souls, and there is no place for living ties in bodies that breathe and fates that twine. Laataazin’s chest feels cold and dim, unwarmed by so total an omnipresence they had thought it part of themselves. It is not, they know now. There is… something, someone, else.

Gormlaith’s golden hair shines like septims when she smiles at Laataazin, all bared teeth. I knew you would come around, she says, and Laataazin wonders which of them she is talking to, Alduin-that-is-Akatosh, or Laataazin-that-is-trapped. Like standing in a boxful of mirrors, making eye-contact with a thousand versions of an image, an icon, a legend, borne through the ages to consume itself.

It is done. Alduin returns to himself, and fate twirls the key to the shackles of its Last prisoner. Tsun drags their weeping body from the gate and casts it into the realm of air and sunlight, wordless in the face of their inappropriate grief. When Laataazin returns, staggering and coughing out their lungs onto the windswept emptiness of the snow-throat beneath the watching dragon-eyes, feeling slams back into them with all the force of a tidal wave. Pure, blistering rage, fanned so hot it can only be the most animal of panic.

Where did you go? demands the thing-that-is-not-Laataazin. Why couldn’t I feel you?

Laataazin presses their hand to their chest and feels relief, relief, vast enough to swallow the sun.

I thought I had lost you, the prisoner thinks.

Come to me, longs the other.

What force on Tamriel could resist a plea like that? To Solstheim it is and kneeling in the hot ash Laataazin feels the sky all around them open up and his presence close in like breath on their neck.

You are so much louder here, Laataazin tells him, their steps still wobbly from the boat.

You walk on my land now, Miraak replies, and what a wonder to know his name, to touch with travel-sore body land his own has walked, see with dust-stung eyes what his has seen. I grow ever nearer to you.

You did not need to enslave these people, Laataazin thinks at the Tree Stone, watching empty-eyed cultists and blankened reavers work on towering edifices of stone. The mumbling figures remind them of Sovngarde, that terrible emptiness where once a gnawing pain sat. I am here.

I did not think you would come. Miraak’s admission is grudging, a little bitter. But as Laataazin walks through the stone doors of the temple, they hear the clatter of tools dropping, and the shouts of startled reavers.

Laat grins, feels it mark their face wide and feral. Put your best panties on then, for I shall see you soon.

Do not keep me waiting any longer. His pain is audible in the bones that house their heart, his impatience like whips licking the soles of their feet, his eagerness like teeth to their neck. Laataazin opens the Book, and there he is.

“You are shorter than I expected,” is what the soul-of-their-soul tells them, towering over them, crowned in blue and gold like fearless god and dripping ink like blood.

“And you are as obnoxious as I predicted,” Laataazin says, but already they are approaching him, and he does not move away but flinches when their hands meet his chest.

They bear together his pain from centuries of untouched isolation, the nerves awakened by another that burn like needles and dragon-fire, and they bear together the pleasure too, found in smoothing gauntleted hands over thick robes, found in solidity, presence.

I would touch you like this everywhere you could bear it, then more, Laataazin thinks, and their hands come away inkstained when they lift them to cup the golden mask, which tilts, as if its wearer has flinched again at the thought whispered into the ear of his mind like a promise.

The prince that Laataazin favours most is not cunning Mephala who whispers to them in Whiterun, nor Hermeaus Mora, who believes himself masterful gardener of all, but ruby-red Sanguine, who with a gift of a loving if unconventional wife found in a night of revelry wins anew with each feathered kiss their loyalty. It is therefore Miraak who tears himself from this indulgence of touch first, and takes a few steps back. The words of fate are a well-settled cloak employing the ruthless machine of purpose.

“And so the First meets the Last at the summit of Apocrypha,” Miraak says, ringing, proud. “Tell me, did you enjoy the dregs of my destiny?”

“If you had not turned from your fate to kill Alduin, I would not have awoken,” Laataazin replies, dryly, “so to some extent, yes. To other extents, fuck you.”

“That same fate decrees you must die for me to win my freedom.” Miraak’s mask is expressionless, but Laataazin does not need it – they can feel through the glass of body-barriers the surge and roil of the infection of wounds thousands of years untreated, the bitterness, the fear. It has beat within their heart from the very first moment of their waking in Helgen, as their grief, their loss, burns like wildfires in his.

“Freedom?” says one prisoner to another. “What freedom is this? Aren’t you tired of being what they ask of you? Haven’t you paid the price?”

“Do you not feel how the world has warped around you since you awoke?” Miraak’s hand is tightening on his sword hilt, but he does not draw. “You cannot die, you do not sleep, you are not real, or you alone exist – there can only be one Dragonborn.”

“We will both be free,” Laataazin asserts.

“Time, and reality, would not survive us both,” Miraak says, but Laataazin knows their dragon-soul, and knows he is hungry, hungry, and tired of cages.

Boldly, Laataazin reaches out. Miraak takes their hand, masked eyes searching, like he is a man on open water clinging to the uncertain shelter of driftwood.

“That is Akatosh’s problem,” says Laataazin, “I choose to have you.”

#hi syd let me know if you want me to take this down #inkwrites #laataazin #miraak #laataazin/miraak #this is kinda disgustingly fluffy #and self-indulgent #skyrim #tes

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vaire-gwir · 4 years ago

Text

I’ve run out of my words

Post-mountain incident, Jaskier is a heart broken mess. The last thing he needs is an unexpected visit from Geralt.

I have accepted that it’s never going to be the same amount of words as I Find you all Unwoven, cause I re-wrote this three times and it just doesn’t happen.

Again, I was sad, that’s my excuse. English is not my first language, hope it doesn’t terribly suck!

***

It hurt a great deal when Jaskier sold his lute. He was attached to it for more than just sentimental reasons. Sometimes he felt like his life truly started the day he got that lute.

He was used to pain by now though, pain was just another thing creeping under the surface, it came and went in waves like the ocean, sometimes threatening to overwhelm him with memories and sometimes resting among the broken pieces of his heart, hissing like a snake waiting to strike.

It was always there, he just perceived it in different ways: some days it was like being on the edge of an empty abyss of nothingness, about to fall but never really tipping over, just going through the motion. Other times, there were the long nights when sleep refused to visit him and he'd get this urge under his skin, to move, to do something, anything to not feel trapped in his own flesh, caged by his own mind.

He tried to fight insomnia with the ink, but he proved a terrible fighter. He couldn't write anything anymore. When he tried to play, his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, and he'd get even the simplest of melody wrong, resulting in endless frustration that kept him up until dawn.

As much as he tried to outrun his ghost, he always ended up running right into it, and if he managed to keep his waking hours relatively Geralt-free, the dreams were always there. His journals paid the price of waking up for the hundredth time, after a nightmare that leaves him choking and incapable to stop the tears from falling down his cheeks.

He thought he'd feel relieved after watching it crackle and burn to ashes, as if destroying the evidence of his time with the Witcher could also destroy the heartache that came with it, but it doesn't work like that. Nothing he ever does stops him from being hollow.

Jaskier walks around the Academy like a shadow, trying to keep himself busy between lessons or at least trying to keep Geralt out of his thoughts. This simple task proved to be more complicated than he anticipated. He doesn't want to be here, he's not made for teaching and his students get on his nerves all the time. To be fair, most things get on his nerves since the mountain incident, but he doesn't have many options.

Sure, he could go home to his family, beg their forgiveness and implore his father to allow him back into court. That sounded as promising as jumping off a bridge.

Compared to that, even the room Madame M. offered him at the brothel looked like a golden palace. At least he had some talent for sex, he managed to convince even a Witcher to sleep with him, that hadn't been easy.

Jaskier stirs his mind in a safer direction, cause thinking about those nights will not do him any good. He still blames and curses himself for coming up with that stupid arrangement, cause why not Geralt, I'm here all the time, and I'm obviously very willing, besides you don't have to pay me, looks like a win-win situation to me. Looks like you're a special kind of idiot, Jaskier, that's what you are. Why did Geralt even accept anyway?

Jaskier blinks the memories away and focuses on trying to have lunch, cause that's what sane, normal people do. He's still struggling with normal though.

His plan flew out of the window when someone started to sing. Jaskier froze in his spot when he recognized the song. He wrote that. He should be pleased to hear it, but it's not pride he feels when he glances in the direction of the curly-haired boy in green velvet.

He will never play or sing another song again, and people will forget him sooner than Geralt did. The folks in this tavern don't know him, they don't know he wrote those lyrics to distract himself the first night Geralt didn't come back from a hunt and he feared for him every second of that dreadful night.

He spent hours cursing the Gods for making him so useless and prayed to them in the same breath, begging for their mercy. He felt stupid later, when Geralt showed up at dawn saying it took him longer than expected to break a curse. Jaskier told the Witcher how scared he had been and Geralt dismissed him as the fool he was.

He's scared of being forgotten, of being meaningless and unimportant. No one is going to remember Jaskier, the bard that traveled the continent with the White Wolf and shared his adventures.

He left Jaskier on top of that mountain, he's just Julian now, just a teacher, just another idiot that got his heart broken. Geralt left him like everyone else. That's what people do, they just leave and move on with their lives. So why couldn't he move on too?

There's a small shift in the air, and while he tries to regain control of his thoughts, for some unknown reason, destiny, the universe, life or the Gods, make him turn his head toward the entrance.

There is no mistaking the white hair he sees, or the dark armour. Jaskier knows he has to leave before Geralt sees him. The sole idea of Geralt being here is enough to leave him shaking.

What are the chances of meeting the Witcher outside Oxenfurt? There were no contracts in town, why was fate trying his best to mess with his life today, was the song not enough? He feels like his head is swimming and he knows he doesn't have time to panic cause his heart beats so loudly he fears Geralt will spot it in a second.

He puts some coins in the maid's hand and stumbles out of the place.

He can't face him. Not today. Probably not ever, cause he can't imagine he'll ever be ready to face the one that broke his heart without holding any anger or resentment towards him. Why must he feel like this, Geralt never cared for him, so why is he still drowning in his feelings for the idiot?

Jaskier is a poet, he should know a thing or two about heartache. He should also know that he's out of luck today.

"Why did you follow me, Witcher?" Jaskier feels his presence a few paces behind him, still so painfully familiar to him even after all these months.

"How did you know..." There's a puzzled expression on Geralt's face. Jaskier knows he's not prepared for this.

It takes him a second to realize that no matter how angry he is at the Witcher, how deep his sorrow runs and how broken his heart is, a small part of him is almost glad to see him. It's the same small part that decided to talk to a stranger and follow him on a dangerous journey, the one that figured out first that what he was feeling was more than a crush, and that accepted every scrap of affection Geralt showed him like he was being handed the world on a silver plate.

Geralt is exactly how he remembers him, and his betrayer heart jumps in his chest when their eyes meet.

"I saw you at the tavern. I spent so long searching for your face in every crowd I started to think I was seeing things, but apparently I was right this time." I love you, I'd recognize your steps everywhere, the cracking of the leather in your gloves and the click of the metal of that buckle in your armor you always forget to fix after a hunt, I know them as if they were my own. I love you, and you broke my heart. That's what he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat, they're no use now.

"I... You were not singing." Jaskier knows it's not surprise he sees on Geralt's face when he answers "I don't do that anymore." but he can't figure out what it is.

It hurt when he realized he couldn't bring himself to sing or play anymore, it left him feeling even emptier than before, cause he always thought he'd have his music to console him, to defend him from the things life was throwing at him, to build a wall around himself and protect whatever was left of him. How wrong he was.

"Why not?" Jaskier wishes he could explain that when they parted on top of the mountain, when he forced himself to say "See you around Geralt" knowing he'll never see him again, when he tried to process those heavy words that rolled off the Witcher's tongue, his love for music, for poetry, for life, rolled off too and hid somewhere he couldn't reach anymore. But Geralt never cared for his music.

"Don't act like you care. I'm not the same person I was ten months ago. Besides, you hate my singing, you can barely stand my voice, what difference does it make to you?" Keeping his tone even and preventing his voice from breaking is hard, harder than any performance he ever had to do. Ten months ago feel like a lifetime away now, it doesn't even seem real. The ache in his chest is always there to remind him that it is.

"That's not true." Jaskier sees how he clenches his hands as if those words meant a great effort for him. The Gods know how many times he looked into Geralt's eyes after singing, desperately seeking his approval and finding only a mild annoyance, like this was just another thing he had to endure.

"It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling. There's a word for that, in case you didn't know, and it's called disappointment. Now, why did you follow me out here? I don't think it was to tell me you suddenly like my voice cause we both know you don't and honestly, bit late for that, don't you think?" Jaskier wants to be annoyed, he should be furious for what Geralt did to him, for leaving him like he meant nothing, but these days being mad is a lot of effort. He doesn't have it in him anymore, it's easier to let go of the anger. It doesn't make him feel less empty or less broken anyway.

"I just thought...we could maybe....talk?" Jaskier laughs bitterly.

"Really Geralt? That's rich coming from you. Now you want to talk? You know what, no. No, you don't get to come here and tell me you want to talk after I spent ten gods forsaken months trying to forget you. Don't you fucking dare. Not like this. Now if there's something I can help you with, do say so. If not, spare us both this conversation, I'm not sure I'm in the mood to have my heart broken again." Jaskier is not even sure there is something left to break.

He'll never admit it but deep down he knows there's no forgetting Geralt. And he curses that small part of him that wants to listen to him, to let him talk and explain, cause he knows that he'd go back to traveling with the Witcher right this second if he so much as says he'd take him back. Stupid, stupid Jaskier. A Witcher apologizing, as if.

"I'll leave you to your things then. Goodbye, Jaskier." Saying goodbye, even knowing that it's for the best, doesn't make it any less painful.

"You were right." Geralt looks at him in a way he has never seen before, for a second he thinks it's hurt that he sees flickering in those golden eyes, but it lasts a second. He should know Geralt doesn't care about him enough to be hurt by something he says or does.

"You spent so much time trying to convince me to leave you alone and stop following you around and I never fucking listened. I realized you were right. Cause you, you got what you wanted, life, destiny, whatever, you had your sorceress and I'm finally off your hands. But what about me? That is why I wish...I wish I would have listened to you. Left. Before it was too late. Before having my heart broken."

His voice breaks at the end, he feels the tears stinging his eyes and he turns to walk away before Geralt notices it. Pain comes in waves, and today he's drowning.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fic #the witcher fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher fandom #the witcher fic #geralt/jaskier #sad jaskier #heartbroken jaskier #fanfiction #quarantine writing

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junkworldusa · 4 years ago

Text

Raudive Voices

(process post for TV comic)

i’ve been really into william burroughs the past month & haven’t had a chance to make much art until now. i decided when i had free time my first project would be a cut-up comic: i would divide pre-written dialogue into small sections and pull random images to go with each section. then i would faithfully copy these down & translate them into the form of a comic. in other words, the dialogue would be transcribed exactly as written, while the images that went along with it would be random (first sign of cowardice; if i was going all-in i should have mixed up the dialogue too).

burroughs described reading poetry with the TV on in the background and making notes of what he was reading when certain images were on screen. that’s the vibe i wanted, hence the TV frame (also a coward’s move-- ANYTHING can be on TV, no narrative framing necessary!). i wish i had had the randomness of TV but the internet sufficed.

[ask me about my collection of portentous jeopardy answers]

first i wrote a draft of dialogue to get a sense of the pacing. i printed it out, chopped it up into 20 "panels" and glued these to index cards (i ended up adding 7 more panels throughout the process). these were flipped over, labeled 1 through 20, & set aside.

i spent a day compiling screencaps of movies, commercials, TV shows, cartoons, news segments, etc. i tried not to think too hard about what these were in-context, but i did choose a couple movies for their thematic relevance (zero dark thirty, dr. strangelove, the day the earth stood still.) i printed the ones i liked best, cut them up, & numbered the backs. there ended up being 65 of these.

[ambien ad i liked but didn’t end up using]

the next day i laid out the 20 index cards & the 65 images face-down & pulled up two random number generators: one set to 1-20 and one 1-65. i began generating pairs and matching the corresponding images to their cards. i kept everything face-down the whole time b/c it felt fun and dramatic to get to flip them all at the end.

finally i began flipping over the cards & their images in sequential order, one card at a time. if a card had multiple images, i flipped the one that was generated first & only looked at more if i felt unsatisfied. this meant there was some kiana selection involved, as most dialogue cards had at least 2 images to choose from, but over half of the images in the comic are the first ones flipped (including some of my favorites). i fiddled around w/ pacing for a while, adding 7 new panels & generating images for them with a similar method. then it was time 2 make the comic

[what my desk looked like. the pencils are in blue so they’re barely visible, but they were finished at this point.]

i was really satisfied with the results of this experiment. there are strange & interesting juxtapositions of word & image that i couldn’t reach just by sitting around and brainstorming.

“Thousands of people dreamed about 9/11″ generated Neo waking up from the Matrix (welcome to the Desert of the Real). “I’ve always been an obsessive guy” returned Ripley holding jones the cat close to her chest. “Lots of demonic influence out there” generated an alien spaceship: a significant number of christians think aliens are demons sent here to deceive us, including my mom. some pairs i was unsure or dismissive of at first but soon grew on me, like the simpsons at thanksgiving dinner praying as the atomic bomb hits.

even after the exciting part was over & the significantly harder work of “making” the comic began, i was still finding new meanings/patterns (for example the successive trio of Ash/Neo/Max Renn only dawned on me once i started inking-- all men, all covered in fluid [milk/amniotic/blood], all interfacing with machinery). at one point photoshop crashed and made glitch art-- that’s cut-up too.

if this process seems anathema to stuff i’ve written about comics in the past, that’s because it is. its also (obviously) stylistically different from brush and ink cartoon dogs. reason:

that being said, the inking took forever (5 days) at which point my enthusiasm had considerably waned (“FUCK IT, WE’LL DO IT LIVE!”) so i dont think i’ll work like this again. but i’m happy with the end product-- cold, eerie. america seen through multiple screens. or should i say...through a scanner darkly????? *shot*

thanks for reading!

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santipietroepaolo · 4 years ago

Note

Hello there, may I ask prompt 25 for Angelica/Nadia and/or 80 for Aureliano/Spadino? ❤️

(Angst, post-finale) Sorry I made this so sad 😭 I hope you don’t mind!

[Read on Ao3]

25. "Come cuddle" + 80. "I didn't drive all this way just to say hey."

Flavio’s sweet brown eyes were so dug out and hollow, Angelica felt like she could see age settle in real time over his boyish features. “Stay at my place,” he had said – or rather, rasped out, his voice as quiet as the waves– and Angelica had dragged her shaking hand on his shoulder in wordless thanks. The hotel, the silence there, the bed Nadia had shared with Aureliano: no way they could go back there – not that day– maybe not ever.

Nadia had offered no resistance. She’d let herself be pulled away from that beach, vacant and unsteady, like a helmless ship, her sails empty of breath. With her arms tied around her Angelica would not have been able to tell if she was really helping her along, or just getting dragged limply in her wake. She had no place to go herself. Home wasn’t home and her Queendom was ash.

Flavio drove off as silently as he’d driven in, leaving half of their men behind as protection. Off to keep fighting a war, their war, one Angelica had no strength left in her body to stand for.

As far as she was concerned, they had already lost everything.

The request had come wordless, in the form of a pull, a beggar tug of Nadia’s hand dragging Angelica into the small unmade bed with her. Hold me. Angelica had no comfort left to give but she wrapped herself around the other woman nonetheless. She didn’t flinch at the nails sinking into her back, nor at the screams Nadia drowned against her chest for most of that scorching summer day. Maybe if she squeezed her tight enough, they could melt together, just like that. Idols of wax just begging to disappear.

Nadia wailed into her, and Angelica thought of the statues of the Virgin, of their glass tears shining in the dim-lit nooks of secret arches, of tall church halls and the walls of her People’s houses. She had cried so much herself that her tears burned trenches down her face, acid melting down her mask, her flimsy facade of strength. Tears for herself, for her father, for Nadia, for Alberto, for Aureliano, for her daughter, for her daughter, for her daughter.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, is this how hollow you felt?

“I lied to him,” Nadia whispered, hours later when she became too tired to cry, “I told him I loved him.”

“You did love him,” Angelica whispered back.

She was brushing back Nadia’s hair, soothing down her feverish forehead, damp from pain and the effort of grief. Aureliano’s ring was still between them, lodged on Nadia’sindex finger, warmed up by her boiling skin and trembling lips– much warmer than its owner. Angelica felt just like that chunk of silver: livened only by that woman’s touch.

Nadia shook her head.

“I do. But not the way he thought – not the way I should have.”

She looked up at Angelica as if she had answers, as if she could, in any way, help.

“Angè, he just looked so sad.”

Her poor eyes. Angelica did not need to imagine how much they burned – she felt it on herself.

“You did your best,” Angelica swore to her, “Na’, we all did. We all did.”

That much was true – except it hadn’t been enough. That, Angelica did not say. She just welcomed Nadia back against her and tried not to linger on the part of herself that weakly wondered how Alberto was doing, in that moment – where he was – how hollow he felt. She and Nadia had that bed, that ring, each other. Alberto had spat on all of that. What did that leave him with?

She spared a prayer for him too.

***

Everything on that shore was different, but the sea was always the same.

“Ciao, Aurelià. It’s been a minute.”

Spadino stood facing the waves, at the same spot he always did – the same spot he had stood on that distant dawn, too. One hand in his pocket, the other ferrying the cigarette to and from his mouth. There used to be sand under his feet there, but nowadays, it was all concrete.

“I’m not here long. Came by to help out the girls – same as usual. You know how it is.”

He blew out the smoke, slow. Making it last. The time for one cigarette – that was what Spadino always allowed himself, in that place. Only one, because he knew that if he stayed there any longer, there was a good chance he’d never be able to leave.

“It’s Cinaglia’s turn, today,” he started up again, dusting off his ash to the wind, “I know, ‘already’? What can I say, I haven't been standing around. I may be biting off more than I can chew, with this one, though. I’ll grant you that. But the more I wait, the harder he gets to reach – and his time has been way past due for a while, now. Don’t you think?”

Spadino took in another drag, wincing at the bitter taste. Christ, that cigarette was bad. Luckily it was the last of the pack he had left from Poland – the one that had come offered with the very handy, long-distance rifle he had bought there. A real bargain, but judging by the state of the seller’s teeth, Spadino was lucky the bonus gift hadn’t been more generous.

“Anyway. I didn’t drive all this way just to say ‘hey’ and talk shop. I’ve got something for you.”

He had long traded his old flashy hoodies for much more anonymous suits, these days, but those weren’t nearly as roomy as far as pocket space went. Spadino shoved the cigarette in his mouth to free his hands and fished the gift from his inner lapel.

Well, it wasn’t really a gift, so much as a return. Spadino unfolded the beanie, carefully, dragging his hand across the well-worn surface with a fond smile.

“I got it from Angè on my first homecoming – Zaccardelli’s turn, if you recall. Though I should give it back. Don’t worry, I’ve gotten plenty of use out of it – threadbare, this thing is.”

Spadino pulled in a deep drag from the cigarette and pressed the beanie to his lips, for old time’s sake. There was no trace left of Aureliano’s smell – not even the ghost of it. The smoke had nothing to do with that fact: the smell had been light to begin with, and it had faded from the fabric long ago, even before Spadino shoved the beanie to the back of the drawer where it had remained buried. He’d been way too greedy with it way back then – breathed it all in and kissed it all off, because he was young and foolish and thought of it as an infinite resource, just like Aureliano’s presence in his life.

There was a handrail, now, approximately where the shoreline used to be. Spadino knelt in front of it and draped the beanie over the top of a short metal pole. A gust of wind would surely blow it off in no time – send it flying to the sea below. That was sort of the point.

“Badali turned this place into ground zero,” Spadino murmured, “but it’s still yours. It should have something of you.”

On his knees, quietly, he let himself lean forward, and pressed his forehead against the surface of the beanie. He closed his eyes. The waves were quiet, and the metal cold underneath the fabric. That didn’t fully break the immersion: Aureliano’s forehead had been freezing the last time Spadino had kissed it, too.

“His turn will come,” Alberto whispered, “I promise. All in due time.”

Opening his eyes again, he straightened himself back up. He meant to pull in another drag, but when he did, the incandescent tip burned the skin between his fingers, tearing an annoyed hiss from him. There was no cigarette left on the filter. Spadino flicked the whole stubby thing away.

“Looks like time’s up,” he sighed.

He looked at the beanie again, then at the sea. The waves were lazy, just like they had been that day, when the dusk was grey and the sand still there – sated, from having just swallowed him.

The tattoo at the back of Spadino’s head had healed over for a while, now, but whenever he was about to leave that place, it always itched. He scratched absent-mindedly at one of the wings that framed the eight-ball design, half-hidden under a fuzz of hair. When Nadia had told him about Aureliano’s liking for that sketch, all that time ago, the decision to get it on himself had felt as natural as breathing.

As soon as Cinaglia was dead, if Angelica could stomach to look Spadino's way for more than two seconds, maybe she could help him clean up his haircut, like she used to do. Uncover the signature lines of ink – let everyone know who was back in town.

“I’ll bring our friend Amedeo your regards,” Numero Otto promised, before turning his back on the sea, “Ciao, Aurelià. Until next time.”

#suburra #suburra netflix #suburra spoilers #suburra season 3 #spadino anacleti #angelica sale #nadia gravone #spadeliano #nadielica #suburra fic #angst #death cw #miscarriage cw #post ending #by me #ye olde grief fic #i'm really sorry this is how it turned out aaaa thank you for sending in the prompts!!

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beccarooni · 4 years ago

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Finding Asgard - The Drive Home

A.N: some of u may remember a while ago i had an au/fill in the blanks type thing about the asgardians settling on earth called finding asgard? well i wrote a little bit for it and thought it might be nice to upload so heres this! im always down to talk about it so pls feel free to hmu about the wider worldbuilding if ur curious

***

The drive from Tolsberg was silent. And for that, Thor was grateful.

There'd been too much noise lately. The roar of the forge in the stars still echoed in his ears, the clashing of weapons and the boom of his thunder scorching the Wakandan fields still rattled around his skull and burnt the inside of him raw and red. And then it had been talking, so much talking - everyone had wanted to know where he'd been, what he'd done, how he'd survived and what he'd do next now that it was all over. Now that Thanos had won, and the stones were nothing more than ash, joining millions of lives in oblivion. So many questions, and not enough answers on his part.

His people had arrived in Tolsberg about a day ago. Rescued by a stray surviving branch of the Nova Corps, and delivered to earth under the watchful guidance of Brunnhilde and Korg. Nothing had been set up yet, at least, nothing concrete. There were talks scheduled, plans anticipated and theorised but Thor was so tired of talking.

Arrangements had been made for those who could to host the Asgardians in their homes. Humans made space for those adrift, and with the circumstances being what they were, there were a lot of empty spaces left to be filled. Thor had seen to it that his people had a place to stay that night; he wouldn't have them huddled on the remnants of a spaceship docked out in the cold ocean. They would be inside - warm, fed, and rested.

As such Thor was the last to be assigned a place for the night, and he'd been beckoned into the beaten down truck of one Jansen Finstead, an elder of the Tolsberg village. He was tall, with leathery skin and a thick, white beard, peppered with enough grey that Thor assumed it had once been black, a long time ago. Thor had been told that Jansen was a fisherman by trade, and so lived a little ways out from the rest of the village. Liked his solitude, apparently, which was one of the few things Jansen had told Thor about himself.

Jansen didn't like to talk, and Thor got the sense that it wasn't a product of the time they lived in. What little conversation the man tried to make seemed forced, being less of a conversation and more of a jumble of randomly selected facts about himself that were just personal enough to feel like an attempt at friendliness, but were vague enough to keep Thor from asking further. Jansen was a fisherman, he lived in a small bungalow, he liked a band called ABBA and he was fond of a cheeseboard, every now and then.

It wasn't unpleasant, but the strained flexing of an unfamiliar muscle was something that Thor realized rather quickly that he was sensitive to. Maybe it was the effects of a lifetime in the royal spotlight, carefully choosing his own words and phrases - balancing the combination of charm and sincerity that would woo a court full of strangers to hang off of his every word. Thor knew what it was like to need to earn an audience, to have a purpose to his words and an aim to a conversation. Social missteps stood out to him, and living the life of isolation he did, Jansen made a lot of them.

Thor relieved him of his burden after five minutes of painful conversation with the small reassurance that he really didn't want to talk right now. Jansen seemed grateful for that, and they settled into the quiet sound of wheels against concrete, and the occasional creaking noise that came from the ancient engine of the truck.

It was nice. Soothing, almost. The gentle rocking of the truck's movement and the steady line of the horizon drawn against the night sky, like a trail of black ink against deep blue paper - for the first time in quite a while his life felt still. The stars were above him, his feet touched the ground, and there was no place for him to be except here.

The quest for the stones, as fruitless as it had been, was over. Thor didn't know what it meant for things to be over. Usually, over was a full stop, the sharp edge of a sword followed by the taste of iron catching in your throat. Or the smell of burning wildgrass, and the chalky feeling of something that wasn't quite ash between your fingertips. Over meant the halls of Valhalla or the darkness of something else. It meant mourning or victory or the twisted combination of both but it didn't occur to him that over could mean this.

He'd heard Bruce talk about something called liminal spaces, once. Areas of passing through, like an empty shopping mall, or an airport at dawn when everyone is still blinking sleep out of their eyes and shuffling to their destination. Over felt like that, now. Not the end of everything, but the end of something. The horizon was still there, painted against the sky. Things had been ripped from everyone, roots had been torn from the earth but the soil was still there.

He'd like to call it hope.

He didn't know if he had the energy for hope anymore.

Jansen pulled up into his driveway, and Thor got out of the car.

#oc fic #thor fic #endgame timeskip fic #endgame fic #au #my fic #fic extract #thor #new asgard fic

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evelynsfics · 4 years ago

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Of curiosity and knowledge.

Ayame stumbles upon Felix in the library, the countless, unique books lining the walls catch her attention quite quickly.

Ayame walked down the old, stone hallways. The walls felt cold, yet safe beneath her fingertips. A gentle breeze wrapped her in it's gentle embrace, the pale moonlight illuminated the crumbling floors as she walked around aimlessly.

The only sound to echo was her humming, a melody ancient and lost to sand and sea alike. A crown stained by crimson and ash, a kingdom far beyond wandering ghosts and unfathomable wonder.

Her footsteps barely made any noise, the hushed yet sweet scent of caramel followed her as if it was her own shadow, mimicking her movements like a mirror soon to fall shattered.

In her heart she knew the drums of war always accompanied the soft melody, yet here, standing pale and alone, it felt peaceful.

The dim, golden candlelight coming from the library caught her eye, she stopped humming as she poked her head through the heavy, wooden doorway.

There, she saw Felix, slumped over his desk, scrolls of old, yellowed paper and books big and small, in languages new and old, forgotten to time's hand lay scattered. A few raven quills had fallen to the floor by his feet, spilling small droplets of ink onto the wooden floor.

His hands messily ran through his dark hair, a small sigh of frustration escaped his lips as he closed his eyes.

"Hey, is everything alright?" Ayame spoke, shattering the silence like delicate ice. A few more seconds and a spiderweb of cracks would have already formed around her.

Felix's eyes snapped open at the sound of her voice, surprise filled his pale green irises as he turned to look at her.

"Oh, it's you." she heard relief flood his voice, his eyes softened once they locked with hers.

A thought crossed her mind, but before she could say it aloud, she stopped. Bitting her tongue, she forced herself to let go of the lingering doubt that haunted her darkest of nightmares.

Like a lightless dawn, she slightly furrowed her eyebrows, looking down at his desk, the mess she saw sparked a dying ember of curiosity.

"What's wrong? You seem stressed." her voice was laced heavy with concern, he stared at her for a moment, thinking of what to say.

She knew the answer, yet she wanted to hear it from him.

"Like I've told you in the past, magic takes a toll on people. The price one pays is far too expensive to carry alone." she saw a woeful blight peak behind his eyes, recognising her own within his.

Felix, in a way, reminded her of herself. And she hated seeing him like this, exhausted and sad. Ayame slightly opened her mouth to say something, but soon closed it again.

She heard the crack of angry thunder as the dark clouds gave way to the pouring rain. The droplets fell one after another, like breathless tears they brushed against one another, hitting the ground and turning to thousand of glistening gems before vanishing, remaining as only a memory.

The silence that followed felt like more than an eternity, yet it only lasted a few minutes.

A slim, worn out book with elegant writing on the front drew Ayame's attention. She looked at the bookcase with wonder and curiosity morphing together behind her gaze. She realised it was some kind of diary and quickly lost interest in it.

"What are you doing up so late anyway?" Felix's tired voice pushed her out of her thoughts, she made a "huh?" noise before realising she must've lost track of time while exploring all the secret passages.

"I couldn't sleep. Usually I stay up all night so I'm used to it by now." It wasn't exactly a lie, yet she didn't reveal the whole truth. Parts of it, buried alongside her own memories.

Another book, now heavy and dusty filled her vision. This one was different though, within it, a strange magic lay sealed.

Felix noticed her staring at the bookshelf, her cold, hard stare returning to cling upon her pale features. He traced her gaze with his own, and once his eyes fell upon the book that caused her such a reaction, he realised why she seemed so guarded all of a sudden.

"That's a grimoire," he said, walking over and picking it up. He tunrned it over in his hand, looking at the carved symbols on the back cover.

"Oh, I see." she blinked, looking away. The magic in that book called out to her, their tricks failing as her name sounded distorted from the thousands of voiceless whispers.

"Do you even know what's in there?" Her teasing tone returned, drowning out the worry that fell heavy upon her heart as Felix blushed at her words, averting his eyes and avoiding hers, too embarrassed to admit that he only had a sneaking suspicion.

"I'm just kidding, unless?" she said the last part quietly, barely above a whisper, confusing Felix beyond all seven Hells.

Her smug smile disappeared in seconds as her brown eyes fell upon another one of Felix's magical books.

"ooh, what about this one? Or this? Or-" she gasped slightly, pointing at a few books before stopping on a dull plum, leather notebook. "This."

Felix explained each book's purpose, Ayame just nodded and pointed to another one each time.

Soon, Felix had forgotten all about the growing pile of burnt letters from his father, the harmless green embers burnt out and snuffed themselves to nothing but ash. The endless stack of spells yet to be deciphered didn't seem as impossibly tall anymore.

And so, they both stayed up till the morning's first rays, when the sun shyly peaked behind the horizon, bringing with it serene, ethereal colors that spilled into the sky like a beautiful painting.

They talked about the tomes and old diaries that decorated the shelves, reading some of Felix's favourite novels and stories. Old, feverish poetry of mages long dead yet still present within the words they wrote in fascinating tongues.

That night, the bond they shared bloomed into a pure, delicate flower, it's shining petals made of hardship and compassion. A strong feeling of something more than friendship blossomed within its core, rooted deep within the way they both drew even, rhythmic breaths as they fell asleep next to each other, huddled close under a soft, comfy blanket.

The chirping of birds woke them, bright sunlight crept from the windows, filling the room with a calm, tranquil light.

Felix slowly opened his eyes, looking down to the sleeping woman next to him. She looked so peaceful, curled up to his side.

He thought about getting up to pick up all the melted candles all around them from reading all throughout the dead of night, but when she snuggled closer, he blushed a deep color. Then, a soft smile graced his lips as he closed his eyes again.

Five more minutes wouldn't hurt.

#Fictif last legacy #Last Legacy #Fictif #Nix hydra #Nyx hydra #Felix last legacy #Felix escellun #Wow I love this man #I miss him #Can we have an update please? I'll give you 20

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chestnut-b · 5 years ago

Text

Himawari - Chapter 3

“You’ve never thought of killing Naruto? Of having your revenge?”

“What makes you think I haven't?”

Chapter 3 of a Kimetsu no Yaiba-verse AU

Kakashi sat in his room and looked gravely at the mess of scrolls and papers before him. It was just past midnight on a cloudy evening, and the only light available was from a paper lamp that was just a bit weaker than he would have liked. Beside him, Uhei snored softly with only an occasional twitch of the nose, clearly exhausted from sprinting through the countryside.

He looked over the latest report.

“I brought Dango-chan along with me up North this time. The trace we found was pretty fresh. She estimates it couldn’t be older than a few months. Unfortunately, there aren’t any locals left for us to question, so we don’t have any clues about his latest form. We may have bought ourselves a bit more time, but judging from his trajectory, I can’t say it looks promising. Don’t slack off too much. I’ll be sending Dango-chan back, rendezvous with her when you can.”

This was bad news as much as it was not-so-terrible news, Kakashi mused.

He dipped a brush into some fresh ink, and marked a cross onto the map before him. With one efficient stroke, a line soon connected this latest cross to an older marking in the South-west direction. Kakashi surveyed the work before him; a serpentine constellation of lines, crosses and notations collected on Orochimaru’s whereabouts over the generations across the country.

Jiraiya was right. Having just taken over a new host, Orochimaru would be unable to switch bodies for a while. Past records told them he needed time to recover his strength after each possession, but the overall trend was undeniably disturbing. The periods between were getting shorter and shorter; the collateral damage growing in devastation with each iteration. Did he require less recovery time now, or was he just getting desperate?

Kakashi grimaced. Too little information. There had only been a handful of sightings of the great demon himself over the generations, and even then only a few reports existed from people who had lived to tell of their encounters, one of whom was Jiraiya. His own Father, as great of a warrior he was, had not survived his.

He looked over the map once more, taking in Orochimaru’s journey and his inevitable destination.

Really, they had a few years at best.

The Pillar let out a small sigh, allowing his thoughts to drift to the pair he knew were sleeping just across the courtyard from him.

-------------------------------------

“You’ve never thought of killing Naruto? Of having your revenge?”

It was a question born out of curiosity. He really just wanted to get to know Iruka a little better.

Then came his answer.

“What makes you think I haven't?”

If there was any brevity in the air before this, it was nowhere to be found now.

An amber-brown gaze was fixed on him, and for the first time he found himself unable to read Iruka. Between them now was only the crackle of a flame, and they waited to see who would break their silence first.

Well, he’d started this inquiry, Kakashi thought. Time to see where it would take them.

“Seeing how well you get along, it’s a bit surprising…that’s all.”

It was sincere, without a hint of sarcasm.

Sensing this, Iruka broke eye contact and dipped his head, staring at his own reflection in the cup of tea still in his hands, his expression somber. Kakashi refused to press choosing instead to observe silently; the subtle signs of exhaustion, usually camouflaged by a smile and good humor. Iruka never let it show in front of Naruto or his students, but if the other evening was anything to go by, he mustn't have had a decent night's sleep in a while now.

“Sarutobi-sama can be unexpectedly cruel sometimes, you know.” Iruka whispered. His lips turned in a wry smile.

If Minato-sensei and Jiraiya had been any indication, Kakashi thought he might have had some kind of clue, but he held his tongue. Hopefully, they’d be able to joke about it later.

“Kakashi-san, how do you think we came to find out about Naruto’s immunity to sunlight?”

Ah. This was something that had bothered him for a while, and certainly not something he’d expected to find out so soon, not from Iruka, anyway.

When Kakashi had delivered his sensei’s newborn child to Jiraiya, it had been a few hours before dawn. It was the last time he ever saw Naruto before coming here. Meeting him out in the open with Iruka that first day was something completely unexpected.

“Am I even allowed to hear this?”

“It was left to my discretion. I think...it will be good for you to know.”

To Iruka’s discretion?

Add another entry onto the pile of mysteries that was Umino Iruka.

“You’ll have my silence, I swear it.”

Iruka put down his cup before finally lifting his head to meet his gaze again. There was a kind of condemned relief in his expression, Kakashi found. Almost like he’d been waiting for the day he could speak of whatever it was that haunted him.

-------------------------------------

Iruka found some comfort in the thought that Kakashi would be the one to hear his confession.

He had come to like the man. Behind the cool, bored exterior was not just a genuine ability to care, but a sense of humor and a smile (though he couldn’t see most of it, but he could definitely feel it) that Iruka found strangely refreshing.

Would he be able to see Iruka in the same way once this was said and done?

As unlikely as it was, it would be nice if he could.

Iruka took in another breath to steady himself.

Slowly, the memories he had tried to lock away came bubbling to the surface.

“It was just over a year after I lost my parents to the Kyuubi.” He started. “Sarutobi offered to take me in, and I only agreed on the condition he’d teach me the skills I needed to defeat the fox. Stupid, I know.” He sighed. Iruka remembered the days of endless reading, pouring over texts and scrolls till his head spinned. The physical training was just as punishing. Sarutobi was a harsh taskmaster, but Iruka had gotten what he’d asked for.

“I’d just started living in his estate when he introduced us.” He paused, and his smile turned just a bit sadder.

He also lost his parents, the same night you did, Iruka.

“Naruto was so small. I’d babysit him after training in the evenings. It was the only time I ever saw him.” Only Iruka would have been able to tell of a time when Naruto’s inability to be understood came from not having even learned words yet.

“But the wounds, they never healed. I was still so angry.” The fists in his lap clenched involuntarily. “When I came of age, I demanded to know how I could kill the fox once and for all, and I needed to know where I could find it. It was what we’d agreed on.”

He’d been standing in the rock garden that afternoon, and Iruka recalled the look on Sarutobi’s face as he sat in the shadow of the study.

Even through the veil of pipe smoke; it was a picture of concern and unmistakable disappointment.

All that training, even the time with a child like Naruto hadn’t been enough to quell the hurt that had been building inside.

“Sarutobi’s a man of his word though. He fully intended to give me the answers I wanted. So he called the attendants to bring Naruto, it was the first time I ever saw him in the day.”

Naruto was still asleep, and was placed before Sarutobi. But soon there was a yawn, and he started shifting and eventually awoke to unfamiliar surroundings. Iruka remembered staring at the scene in growing horror, the realisation slowly dawning upon him.

“If you would take what it is you seek, Iruka, you know what you must do. This was all he said.” Iruka repeated, feeling his throat tighten.

Kakashi hadn’t said a word since he started, and Iruka wished in the back of his mind that he had. Anything to take him out of the flow of this painful recollection, he would have welcomed. But there were no words, just a softened gaze without judgement, and somehow that made it hurt all the more.

“This was all I’d lived for after my parents died. Although thinking back, it was so pathetic. Sarutobi had never lied to me, he had no reason to then either. So I waited.”

If he’s a demon. All I would have to do is wait right here.

There wasn’t a single rational thought going through his head at the time. In his mind he saw his parent’s broken bodies, smelled the blood in the air that night. Even the groggy smile on Naruto’s face when he saw Iruka wasn’t enough to snap him out of his delirium.

Then he got on his feet, slow and unsteady as newly awoken toddlers did.

“Ruukaa!”

Those had been one of his first words too.

“He started walking towards me...and I just stood there.” He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, spreading across his face. Shame. Shame.

Every step Naruto took closer to the boundary of shade and light pounded like thunder in his ears. Between them both, a sinister parody of Yin and Yang.

“Then he fell. I wasn’t in time to stop him completely.”

Naruto reached out his small arms towards him, and tripped on his next step. If time was crawling before then, it stopped for him now. The last thing Iruka remembered seeing was the light hitting tiny hands, and a surprised yelp. Iruka’s body had moved on its own then. But he was too late. He knew it. He felt Naruto’s body against his as he crashed back into the study.

What would he see when he finally opened his eyes? He remembered once, a demon tied to a tree, slowly disintegrating into blackened, glowing ash as the first rays of dawn hit him.

But the body against him was still solid, and that gave him the courage to pry his eyes open.

“But Naruto was still there. He was whole. His arms were completely untouched.” Iruka felt the tears of shame and relief flow freely, and rubbed them away with the back of his hand. Crying in front of a Hashira, as if the shame he felt wasn’t enough.

Naruto was smiling at him, his eyes so wide Iruka saw his own reflection in them. Something in him shattered then, and he embraced Naruto, crying. The toddler merely patted his head with his tiny hands.

Behind them, Sarutobi looked on, dumbfounded. His pipe dropped and forgotten on the floor.

“That was how we realised Naruto could live under the sun.”

Yes, even if it was only because, for a moment, Iruka had been willing to let Naruto get hurt, for a sin that wasn’t even his.

-------------------------------------

Kakashi could have been mad, perhaps he should have been.

His sensei’s child, the baby he had to fight so hard to save on that massacre of a night, could have died for a boy’s revenge if it weren’t for a strange twist of fate.

He’d been granted the chance to live normally in the light of day, something his clan never had the ability to do, and Iruka was the reason for that, even if the circumstances were less than ideal.

Could he bring himself to be angry at Iruka?

The youth was a wreck before him, even if he was doing his best to hide it.

Kakashi certainly didn’t expect this, going into the afternoon. But he’d gotten what he’d asked for, and then some.

He didn’t get a chance to ponder for long before Iruka spoke again.

“You have a visitor, Kakashi-san. By the sounds of it, it’s an important message. I’ll get out of your way.” He bowed, before taking his sword and rising. As he broke the seal on the door and parted the shoji, a familiar bark reached his ears. It was Uhei, Kakashi realised.

“Thank you for the tea.”

He didn’t even give Kakashi the chance to respond before he disappeared into the hallway.

-------------------------------------

Dinner that night was an awkward affair. At the school they ate communally, the offerings of the day depending on what the older students could scavenge from the surrounding forests. Survival training was a daily affair here, after all. Staples like rice and salt they received from headquarters, anything else was up to them to procure.

It was a simple meal of rice, bamboo shoots, pickled plum and mackerel, fished from the river a distance away.

Kakashi had rejected any attempts to seat him as an ‘honored guest’ the day he arrived, and because he’d been placed under Iruka’s care, they normally sat together with the other Instructors. Tonight, Iruka was nowhere to be found.

“Oi Naruto, what’s up with your brother?” Across Kakashi sat Izumo today, one of the guards and assistant Instructors. He’d turned around to nudge Naruto in the back. The boy, who’d just snuck Lee his bamboo shoots, merely turned to Kakashi and sent a nasty glare his way.

Oh dear.

“He said he wasn’t feeling well. I’m bringing him dinner later.”

“Again? You sure you aren’t giving Iruka a hard time? It’s been happening more often lately.” This time it was the other guard, Kotetsu who interjected. Naruto looked utterly indignant, his glare towards Kakashi only intensifying.

“Ask baka-Kakashi over there! He was just fine during class today!”

“Naruto you idiot! Show the Hashira some respect.” Mizuki hissed from his seat. Naruto stuck out his tongue at him before turning around to continue his dinner. Watching the exchange, Lee looked a little greener than usual.

“My apologies, Hatake-dono. The kids here forget their manners sometimes. Naruto in particular overreacts when Iruka’s involved” Izumo sighed. Kakashi shook his head and waved it off. He had to admit ticking Naruto off was just a bit enjoyable, but really, he couldn’t blame the kid.

Naruto had good reason to be upset at him.

-------------------------------------

Kakashi’s terrible habit of letting his curiosity get the better of him seemed to have gotten worse since he arrived here.

That was probably why he found himself crouched upon one of the wooden beams that stretched across the ceiling, his presence carefully masked, above a sleeping Naruto and his guardian. Iruka looked exhausted, but slept without the tremors that disturbed him the previous evening. Naruto was curled up close, facing him, almost as if he was the one on guard that night.

In hindsight, the conversation in the afternoon was undeniably revealing, but also produced more unanswered questions than Kakashi was comfortable with.

He also wasn’t usually this impulsive, but this was home ground. There would be little risk in getting at least one of those questions answered here tonight.

With blade in hand, he descended.

No, he wasn’t expecting his blade to sink into flesh, but he didn’t quite expect what happened in the next instant either.

As soon as he’d leapt from the beam, Naruto was snatched from his futon by an obviously very awake Iruka, who rolled them both right past a curtained partition, before being seemingly swallowed by a wall just behind it.

A misdirection seal, here?

Kakashi felt a presence materialise above him.

He only had time to free his blade from the stabbed futon under him before turning his body to block the weapon and the subsequent mass that descended upon him. The ring of metal meeting metal pierced the air. Having found focus, Kakashi’s eye was met with a gaze that was only unfamiliar in its intensity and the sheer annoyance it radiated. Though, if he looked carefully, he could find some barely hidden amusement mixed in there too.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Hatake-dono?”

He couldn’t quite see the smirk that was definitely on his lips, but his eyes had a tendency to reveal too much.

“Oh, just thought I’d drop in and see how you were doing, Iruka-sensei. You didn’t show up at dinner.”

Kakashi smiled, how thoughtful he was.

A small shift reminded Kakashi of his current position. His back was pressed against Iruka’s futon, with its owner currently straddling his waist as he put more of his body weight onto the blade threatening to bite into Kakashi’s throat. It was not the slayer katana he would have expected, no, Iruka’s still lay in its sheath by his hip. Instead, gripped in his hands was a kunai, longer and deadlier looking than the ones usually kept hidden in clothing. A fascinating choice of weapon for someone who was supposed to be a swordsman.

Kakashi would have commented on it sooner, but instead he took a moment to take in the view. Feathers from the ripped futon had been released into the air from their commotion, and some were still continuing their sleepy descent. Combined with the pale light and his intense glare, it gave Iruka an otherworldly look.

Kakashi found himself thinking that with the addition of some wings, he’d make for a fine tengu. Although, his face was much too dignified to play the part. He chuckled at the thought.

“Something amusing, Kakashi-san?”

“I was just thinking you looked a little annoyed, Iruka-sensei.”

“What would I have to be annoyed about? “

Interrupted sleep, spent seals that needed resetting, a ripped bed and blanket, having to fetch Naruto back from wherever he was hidden.

He could think of a few more things.

But for now, he found that he didn’t mind at all being the main object of Iruka’s irritation.

“Nice kunai you have there.” The force against his blade increased by just a nudge, an offer for a closer look.

“Our blades weren’t created to be used against humans.”

A teacher even outside the classroom.

“A gift from Sarutobi?”

“The best blade-,”

“-is the one you have on you” Kakashi finished. How many times had he heard Minato recite that line, but there was no denying the truth in it. After all, who knows how many slayers had died for want of a blade, even one as small as a kunai.

Iruka looked satisfied enough with his answer though. A small smile had slipped through the cracks.

The killing intent in the air had died down, and Kakashi thought it a good time to get some answers. He looked Iruka straight in the eyes, intending to start with the most important one:

“Have I incurred your anger, sensei?”

It came out softer and more apologetic than he’d intended.

That was enough for Iruka to falter, his eyes widening in surprise. The kunai was swiftly withdrawn, and in that moment he seemed to gain an acute awareness of his current position. It took mere seconds before his face was ablaze, right to the tips of his ears, making the scar across his face stand out more than usual. The warmth against Kakashi’s body soon disappeared, and before he could stop him, Iruka had his forehead and palms pressed against the wooden floor beside him.

“Forgive me, Kakashi-san. I forgot my station.”

“Iruka.”

Silence.

“Iruka-sensei, I won’t repeat myself. Raise your head.��

He did as he was instructed, but refused to meet his eye. Kakashi sat up on the futon across him, reached out, and placed a hand on the teacher’s shoulder.

“Our conversation this afternoon has obviously caused you a lot of grief, sensei. It wasn’t my intention. I apologise.”

Iruka merely shook his head in response.

“Please. Don’t.” He pleaded under his breath. “If anyone has cause for anger, it’s you.”

“Sarutobi-sama told me you were the one who saved Naruto that night. If it wasn’t for my stupidity, Naruto-,”

“Naruto wouldn’t be living the life he does now. Like a normal child, with friends, family - you. He’d be kept in the dark, alone and not even knowing why, when he could actually live under the sun with everyone else.”

Iruka was finally looking at him now, albeit dumbstruck. Like he couldn’t believe his ears.

“Iruka, we’ve all made mistakes, but Naruto’s alive, and it will be our job to make sure he stays that way.” Yes, Iruka’s and his, most likely. He wasn’t sure if the other Hashira would be so keen on the idea.

This time, Iruka didn’t argue with him, which he was grateful for. It had been a long, exhausting day. Instead, he favoured Kakashi with a look of considerable relief, and just a glint of hope to have found a comrade who considered Naruto worth protecting, despite the truth of his existence.

“By the way, Iruka-sensei, where’s Naruto?”

“Ah.” He froze. It took a whole three seconds before he took to his feet and started for the door leading to the back yard.

“Kakashi-san, it would probably be best if you weren’t here when we return. Naruto was spewing some awful things about you when he delivered dinner. I’d hate to get him riled up this late.” It was quiet, teasing, but noticeably lighter than it had been all day. He was about to set off when Kakashi interrupted.

“See you later?”

“For tea? Only if you’re making it. It was good.”

“All right. I’ll help you with your beddings too.”

“I’d expect no less. Have a good night, Kakashi-san.”

With that he disappeared beyond the wall and into the night.

Kakashi stood to leave, but not before looking up at the spot where Iruka had descended from. He’d had to squint; engraved into the wood was the faintest misdirection seal he’d ever seen.

If Iruka doesn’t stop with the surprises, I’m going to have to keep bothering him.

He sighed. But somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice was telling him it might not be so bad.

-------------------------------------

End of Chapter 3

Author’s Notes:

Wow, a long one after a long break! Hope you guys enjoyed it! It took a while to figure out what direction I wanted this to go in, but it was a very fun chapter to write. It’s going to be a surprisingly slow burn, this one.

The art is of an awkward Iruka babysitting young Naruto.

This chapter is also on AO3 if you’d prefer to read it there sometime. Any comments at all will be most appreciated and devoured with thanks. : )

#kakairu #iruka #iruka umino #umino iruka #naruto #kakashi

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littledrummeraussie · 5 years ago

Text

my sweet escape.

Word count: 3400+ Author’s Note: I fell in a hole and I couldn’t get out. Haven’t written anything in a long while. Then Ashton happened. So now I’m just enjoying the ride.

masterlist.

Mornings like this didn’t happen often. They were few and far between, and usually lasted only 3 days – if we were lucky. There was always scheduling, messages back and forth, phone calls, notes left on bedside tables, if one of us had to leave sooner than we intended.

And yet – we ended up in the same place every single time he arrived in New York City.

My eyes were still closed when I’ve felt Ashton start stirring behind me, pushing his chest against my back, sneaking a long arm around me to pull me closer. He mumbled something as he pushed his face into my neck, then taking a deep breath as he nuzzled my hair. Moments like this made me wish these were our regular mornings.

”You were saying?” I whispered, not wanting to break the silence that engulfed us in the perfect little bubble that was our hotel room.

”Feels nice,” he hummed with a content little sigh. ”Smells nice, too.”

I slowly opened my eyes, blinking against the light that filtered through the gap between the still drawn curtains. Time didn’t exist when we were like this, tangled up and close to each other; at least, that’s what we’ve pretended.

My eyes found the hand that was resting on my waist, the knuckles slightly bruised from drumming every night. The moon tattoos were half-hidden by the sheets, the red inking a nice contrast against the white bedding. I’ve followed the shape of his arm, the curve of his shoulder as I’ve slowly turned around, eyes landing on the hollow of his neck for a moment, then shifting to the brown curls falling over his forehead.

The last time we were here Ashton still had red hair, the color slowly fading to pink. We’ve spent the better part of the night cooped up in the bathroom, the red dye slowly working its magic as we’ve sat on the tiled floor crossed-leg, knees bumping together, fingers tracing patterns on arms and palms. It was the longest 45 minutes of our lives, and Ash gave up on drying his hair afterwards, the water running down his neck painting the pillows different shades of red and pink. He paid a few extra dollars for the ruined pillows when he have left.

I’ve wrapped a stray curl around my finger, brushing it behind his ear. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, eyelashes fluttering as he once again nuzzled closer, making it clear that he intends to stay like this for as long as he can. My fingers slid into his hair at the nape of his neck, stroking the tangled curls, and wondered if he will really go through with his plan, and next time it will be the black locks I will be tugging at when we spend the night together.

”You’re staring,” he said, opening one hazel eye.

”You’re beautiful,” I smiled back, tracing my finger down his jaw. He scrunched up his face, dimples appearing as he huffed at me.

”You always say that.”

”It’s always true.”

Ashton shook his head, but couldn’t help the smile on his face. He sneaked his arms around me, moving both us and the sheets around until we were pressed up close in our blanket cocoon. His forehead and nose were pressed against mine, lips hovering an inch above my lips, barely brushing them together.

The moment was broken by a faint buzzing coming from the small livingroom, soon to be followed by a quiet tune. Ashton sighed deeply, burying his face in my neck. The alarms set on our phones meant that we had only one hour left.

”I really don’t wanna go,” he said, pushing himself up, and rolling off of me.

”I guess you can’t make the others stay a little bit longer,” I half-asked, half-said as I wrapped the sheet around myself.

”We have already delayed the departure,” Ashton shrugged next to me.”They would understand, but we’re on a tight schedule. We really have to leave if we want to make it to Boston.”

”Tell me about schedules,” I sighed, sitting up next to him and reaching for his discarded shirt on the floor.

Ash watched me shaking the black shirt out, pulling it over my head, tugging at the sleeves and the hem until the fabric and his scent wrapped around me like a hug. Goodbyes and see-you-soons were the worst parts of it all – reality came back crashing down on us, dissolving the illusion we have built around us from dusk till dawn.

Long distance lovers? Friends with benefits? Simply fuck buddies? Even we didn’t know what we were. It started a few years ago, we’ve got to know each other because of a friend of a friend, and ended up in a hotel room for two days straight. We didn’t give much thought to it, we just liked each other enough to want to spend some time together. But it turned out to be much more than that. In those few hours, when we’ve shut the world out and switched off our phones, we felt like we could be really us.

The first time was followed by a second and a third, and after that it wasn’t even a question anymore to meet up whenever he came to New York. We’ve worked around our schedules, his shows, performances and interviews, booked into a hotel room, and spent as much time together as we could. Sometimes it was just a few hours. Other times he could manage a few days without one of the guys banging on the door to remind him of a flight they have to catch. Sometimes it was only passion – skin on skin, lips and teeth and nails, breathless laughs and sweaty bodies. Sometimes it was junk food and cuddles on the couch, sharing stories, being honest, letting go and crying, or just simply catching up on some much needed sleep.

Time passed, but no matter what we did, or where we were in our lives, we always ended up in a hotel room, sharing concerns, fears and kisses. It was our getaway, an escape from life, people and the constant buzzing of Ashton’s phone. The guys learned not to bother him in those hours – they let their drummer take some time off, as long as he arrived at the time and place they’ve agreed upon. He was never late; which also meant he could never stay long enough.

Ashton still watched me as I’ve got out of bed, stepped to the window, and pulled the curtains back to look outside. I could see the tour bus not far away, with a few fans lingering around the hotel’s front, hoping they could catch their favourites for a few minutes. The band usually stayed on their bus during the tour, but they made an exception when they came to the City – nobody knew the real reason. Ashton and I always made sure to come and go at different times – long before the other arrived, or hours after they’ve left. We didn’t need the fans to connect us to each other. Wasn’t that the reason why Ash liked our little meetings? No strings attached, no questions asked by the fans, and the more time he could focus on his music with the guys.

I’ve turned around just in time to watch him get out of bed, rummaging through his bag for clean clothes, collecting the ones lying on the floor and packing them away. He eyed the shirt I was wearing, and I knew he was calculating his options – take it back or leave it? My stomach flipped: how many more shirts will he leave in hotel rooms? How many other girls were out there, waiting for his name to pop up on their phone screen, waiting to be his getaways for the night?

”Hey, are you okay?” he asked, taking a few steps towards me, and closing the distance between us. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt.

”Do I need to give this back?” I asked him in return, playing with the hem of the shirt, wrinkling it between my fingers.

”Of course not. Why?” he tried to stop my hand, but I pulled away.

”I don’t know… so you have enough to leave around with all your other girlfriends,” I’ve shrugged, casting a gaze over my shoulder to look at the fans still waiting outside the hotel.

”What the fuck are you talking about?” he frowned, grabbing my elbow to bring my attention back to him. ”Hey, Y/N!”

”It’s okay,” I gave him a forced smile, casting my eyes away once again. ”I– I would understand. I know I can’t expect you to have only me around. I mean, your life is crazy enough, and I– it’s okay if there are other girls. We’ve never talked about being exclusive, and you have every right to fool around with other girlfriends wherever you go.”

”You’re not making any sense,” Ashton shook his head while letting go of me. ”Why are you like this? Did something happen?”

When I’ve failed to answer, he huffed out some curse words, ran his fingers through his hair, and turned around. He was getting desperate and anxious, I could see it in the way his shoulders tensed up, how he was walking the length of the carpet back and forth. He finally turned back when he reached the other side of the room, fingers laced together behind his neck, eyes searching the ceiling. He let out a deep breath, held his arms out, then dropped them at his side.

”I can’t do this,” he looked at me. ”I’m leaving in 40, and I– whatever.”

Ashton looked defeated, when I didn’t try to speak up. He furiously grabbed the first shirt from his bag, and left to the bathroom to get ready. I hated seeing him like this; I hated that I made him feel like this. Was I even right? Or did I just make it all up in my head? I’ve never seen him hurt like this before, like I’ve questioned the most basic trait that made him him. That made him Ashton.

I slowly stepped towards the bathroom, listening to the running water. The door was ajar, so I pushed it open inch by inch. He was just finising up washing his face, and reaching for the comb resting on the shelf when our eyes met in the mirror. His hazel eyes were full of hurt and questions, and it took everything in me not to look away once again. He deserved an explanation – and if I couldn’t do it eye-to-eye, the least he deserved was this way; maybe the mirror made it easier to come clean about what was going on. He didn’t ask any questions, even though I knew he wanted to. He just looked away again, when I continued to stand there silently.

”Did you know…” I’ve started quietly, then cleared my throat, and continued a little louder. ”Did you know that I’m always counting the days in between our meetings? How many days have gone by, how much do I have to sleep before I see you again…”

He was leaning against the sink, still not looking at me, but clearly listening to what I wanted to say. My eyes were searching him, his posture, the way his muscles flexed, the dark inks paiting his skin. Did he know how special he was? How much he deserved? How much I loved him, and how that was breaking my heart?

”Every time you leave… every time you walk out of that door,” I leaned against the doorframe, casting my gaze down at the tiles. ”Every time you walk out of that door, I fear it’s the last time I’ll see you. That by the next time you come back to New York, you will have someone waiting for you back at home. Not just a… not just a friend, or whatever I am to you. But a real girlfriend. That between the now and the then you will meet someone who will be able to give you everything, and much, much more than I ever could. That you will find someone else to share your throughts and secrets with. That I will never be able to spend a few hours just with you to have a good cry, or to talk about the things that are bothering us…”

”Would that be so terrible?” Ashton asked finally, lifting his head to look back at me from the mirror. ”Finding someone? Both of us moving on, and finding people in our lives we care about?”

”I don’t want to lose what I have with you,” I met his gaze in the mirror. ”I don’t want to lose you. But every time we say goodbye, I fear it’s the last time. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not just now.”

”You know, you could have been more honest with me,” he sighed, tapping the side of the sink with his fingers. ”I’ve thought that’s what we did with each other. Could have told me sooner.”

”I’m being honest now,” I shrugged one shoulder, trying to pretend that I didn’t know how much I’ve screwed this up.

Ashton sighed again, dipping his head for a moment, then turned around, and leaned back against the sink. We were silently watching each other, both barefoot, the few steps between us like miles. Then Ashton pushed himself away from the sink, coming closer until his toes brushed against mine. He towered over me, so I had to look up, up, up, till I could look into his eyes.

”Did you know that I’m also counting the days whenever I know we are coming here?” he finally asked, leaning a little bit closer, only stopping when our hips touched. ”That I’m willing to do all kinds of stupid things for the guys just so I get to spend a few more hours with you?”

He slowly moved a hand to my elbow, running his fingers down my arm until he touched my fingers, then interlocked them. I lightly squeezed his hand in return, waiting for him to continue.

”You’re afraid of losing me – but I’m just as afraid of losing you. How could I expect you to wait for me? I’m gone for months, there is no fixed date when I can say that I’ll be here. You have every right to leave my sorry ass behind, and find yourself a guy who is actually around.”

”Ash–”

”Please, just… just let me finish,” he sighed again. ”You’ve told me that you’re scared I will find someone else, but did you ever wonder why I’ve never really had a real girlfriend in the last few years? It’s because I didn’t need one – it’s because I had you. I knew you like me enough, but I wasn’t sure you would want to be a part of the crazy life I have. That you would be up to dealing with all the fans and people following you as well, asking questions about you. I’ve kept you a secret, because I’ve thought that’s what you wanted. I wanted to ask you so many times to be officially mine, but… it just never felt right. There was always something going on that kept me from doing it.”

His eyes were searching me as he once again leaned closer, resting his forehead against mine. My hands sneaked around him, resting on his hips, as Ashton’s moved up my arms, cupping my face in his large hands. We were so, so close. It was intimate. It was terrifying.

”There are three things in this life that I can’t live without, that I love more than anything else in this world,” he whispered, never taking his eyes off of me. ”My family. My band. And you. You kept me going so many times. You kept me sane when things were starting to get crazy. You might think you didn’t do anything, but you being here with me – it’s everything to me. Listening to me, keeping my secrets, letting me be who I really am. Giving me the option to get away, to have a place where I can escape and just breath. You are that to me.”

”Am I late with making this up to you?” I asked him, bringing my hands up to his face to mirror him.

”You could never be,” he shook his head, a barely there smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

I’ve pushed myself up a little on my tiptoes, and brushed my lips against his. It only took a second for Ashton to press his lips fully against mine and kiss me with all the passion, all the love and hurt he felt in that moment. He nudged his tongue against my lips, running it along mine, making it harder to breath. I felt dizzy, lost in his touch, his hands on my face, his body pressed against mine, his kiss deep and passionate. When he finally pulled away from me, we were both gasping for air.

”Move in with me,” whispered Ashton breathlessly. ”Come to LA and move in with me. I can’t leave you like this – not again, not anymore. Let’s stop pretending that we are okay with spending only a few days together, and start being honest. I know you want us to be together. And this way I can make sure you will never think about other girls wearing my shirts,” he added with cheeky smile, while tugging at the hem of the shirt I was wearing.

”I’m so stupid,” I said, burying my face in his neck.

”Yes, you are,” he agreed.

”Fuck you,” I muttered against his chest, for which he grabbed my hips and pulled me closer.

”I much prefer doing that to you,” he kissed my temple, his lips and teeth lingering against my ear, giving me little nibbles and kisses.

We were running out of time, yet we stood in the bathroom door, tangled up in a hug and hundreds of kisses. Then the moment came, and we needed to pull away from each other. Ashton finished up getting ready, packing away everything from the hotel room he left around in the previous days. He set down next to me on the bed as he tied the laces on his shoes, giving a squeez to my knee when he was done. Then he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a shiny silver key.

”Are you sure about this?” I asked him, as he put the key in my open palm, and closed both of our hands around it.

”I’m sure about you,” he kissed my lips, and then my hands. ”If you feel like this is too much, or too soon, you can take all the time you need to think it through. But if you feel like you want this as much as I do, then you can just pack your life up in here, and move in. I wouldn’t mind coming back from tour to my favourite girlfriend.”

”You know it’s not that easy,” I smiled at him, reaching for his hand, holding onto it. ”But I want to give us this chance.”

”I would really love that,” Ashton smiled back at me, barely fighting off his toothy grin.

There was a loud bang on the door the same time as Ashton’s alarm went off. It was followed by two more bangs, the guys taking turns in reminding him that it was time to leave for the next stop of their tour. Ashton grabbed my hips and pushed me down on the bed, giving me one last kiss as he hovered above me.

”You know I’m just a phone call away. Or a message. Or a Snapchat,” he chuckled, rubbing his nose against mine.

”So am I,” I smiled back at him, tugging on his leather jacket. ”Go, get them, drummer boy! I already miss you.”

”I might just buy you a plane ticket to come after me,” he kissed my forehead, my nose, my lips. ”We could go grab some coffee or some lunch. You know, do boring coupley things. Act like normal people.”

”Sounds weird. I don’t know how to do that,” I pushed myself up on the bed as he grabbed his bag and hoisted it up on his shoulder.

”Yeah, neither do I,” he added with a smile, and squeezed my hand one last time. ”But we could work it out together.”

#ashton irwin x reader #ashton irwin fanfiction #fiction time #ashton irwin #afic: my sweet escape

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love-fireflysong · 5 years ago

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Day 18: Photo

Fandom: Until Dawn Character(s): Chris Hartley, Josh Washington, Ashley Brown Words: 1962 Rating: Teen (language bitches!) Author’s Notes: *Nickelback’s ‘Photograph’ plays in the background* Still alive over here! And it’s not angst this time! Amazing, I know. Big reason this one is so late is because after spending 3 days thinking about what to do for this, I still had nothing. And then I inspiration came to me in the shower so here we are: the follow-up to Deals and Arguments that probably no one wanted! Because lets be honest, if Ash is the one who writes ‘Ashley Hartley’ in her books, then Chris absolutely scribbled a heart with their initials by accident once. And that’s all it takes for Josh...

For almost as long as Chris had known him, Josh had always been obsessed with the idea. He wants to say that it started when they were in fifth grade, when their teacher, Ms. Franks, announced to the class that since she was pregnant, that she was going to be taking a leave of absence just before the end of the school year. Someone, he couldn’t recall who, had asked if they had a name for the baby picked out, but he could recall the response as though it had happened only yesterday.

“It’s still a little too early for names, but if they’re gonna be a girl, we’re thinking of naming her after a mutual best friend of ours.”

Ever since then, Josh had been all over the idea. Every dare, every piece of blackmail, every ‘dying’ wish was the same: “Name your kid Josh.” When he was younger, Chris would laugh and shove Josh away with a roll of his eyes. It was funny back when he was like ten or eleven, or hell, even when he was thirteen! He was gonna be a super cool app developer, he wasn’t gonna have time for marriage, much less kids. All of his time was gonna be spent developing super awesome games and apps that were gonna save the world! Or something.

While his mind didn’t exactly change the moment he met Ashley the summer after he turned thirteen, he is ashamed to admit it was pretty dang close. Josh introduced Ash to him in their favorite fast food diner, and declared the three of them to be best friends, til death do us part, yada yada yada. At the end of July, the three of them were inseparable, and by the beginning of school that September, he was gone. Donezo baby! Head-over-fucking-heels for the little braces wearing, red-head that read Sherlock Holmes and Shakespeare for fun.

And unsurprisingly, Josh never let up on his demand. Nope, he did not! In fact, he got even worse about it.

He needed to borrow a pencil for math? Name your kid after me.

Can he spot him a couple of bucks for ice cream? Only if you name your kid Josh.

When did the Battle of the Alamo take place? 1846. But I’ll tell you the right answer if you swear to name your first-born after me.

While extremely exhausting to try and avoid, Chris was able to do so easily. He just started asking the kid who sat behind him in class for pencils, borrowed money from Ash instead, and he’d rather fail history then name his kid after Josh. Thankfully, after his first bombed history exam, Ash made all three of them do their homework together constantly, so the last one became a moot point. Barely.

Eventually, Josh tapered off on the demand, but not until after the start of the next school year. Most people probably would have stopped a few weeks in, but most people weren’t Josh Washington. When he wanted something, the guy stuck to his guns and didn’t give it up for nothing. Not that he stopped entirely of course, Josh still brings it up during dares and shit but it becomes immensely more manageable. He notices that he doesn’t ask it of Ash during these game, but when he considers the completely mortified look she gets on her face when ever he gets asked, Chris figures that its probably for the best.

(The fact that he not only stops that day Chris walked back into Ash’s bedroom and she’s as red as her hair while shoving something into her desk drawer, but that’s also when the mortification starts, he doesn’t clue into until years later.)

So when Josh walks up to him during their first period together with the absolute shittiest of shit-eating grins on his face, Chris is on red high alert.

“Oh no. What did you do?”

The laugh Josh gives is low and dark, and if Chris’s hackles weren’t raised earlier, they sure as fucking-hell are now. “Oh no, Cochise. It’s not what I’ve done, it’s what you’ve done.” With that, Josh proceeds to just slam a binder onto Chris’s desk, and he looks to see that he recognizes it easily.

“Okay...? I don’t see what my math notes have to do with anything.”

Another laugh, this one somehow darker and eviler then the first. Oh boy, those alarms going off in his head aren’t getting any quieter. “Oh, it has absolutely everything to do with you.” Before Chris can even respond, Josh is already flipping through the pages, past older pieces of loose-leaf that ripped from the binder coils that he hadn’t bothered to repair and and the newer notes with their edges still intact, and stops at the most recent. At first Chris doesn’t see anything, it’s all his notes about logarithms that he had taken the previous day, blue ink scratchy and messy all across the page, and then he does. And he absolutely blanches at the sight and hurriedly slams the binder shut, putting his face in his arms as he covers his head, actually whimpering as he refuses to look at Josh.

He doesn’t have to look to see the triumphant grin on Josh’s face, he can already imagine it pretty clearly.

“Oh fuck me.”

The worst part is that he didn’t even know it was there in the first place, he never would have lent his notes out otherwise. Josh had been missing more and more school recently, claiming that he was having killer headaches and they were making him sick, so Chris had done what friends do for each other and lent him his notes. What he didn’t realize was that at some point when he had been taking notes down, he had drawn a little heart in the margins with the initials CH+AB inside. Something he never would have done if Josh had been there with him, but he hadn’t been, so Chris had zoned out thinking about meeting up with Ash after school to bring Josh his homework.

He was so dead.

“What do you want?” Though muffled through his arms, he cringed at how small and weak his voice came out.

God, he could hear the stupid grin in Josh’s voice when he answered. “You know exactly what I want, Cochise. What I’ve always wanted.”

Chris didn’t remove his head from his arms on the desk, but he did turn it enough to narrow his eyes at Josh. “Are you fucking serious dude? Really? You’re still on about that shit?”

“I will never stop. You know this to be true.”

“I am not naming my stupid kid after you! I mean, maybe I won’t ever have kids. I’m certainly not gonna if I have to name them Josh!”

Josh rolled his eyes, but the wide grin never left his face. “You don’t have to name all of them after me. Just one.” Somehow, Chris watched the grin get even wider as a thought came to him. “Maybe two, if they’re twins. Can you imagine? The twins, Joshua and Joshlynn, it’ll be great!”

“Okay, now I’m definitely never having kids.”

Josh gave a short bark of laughter. "Please, like that’s ever gonna happen. You wanna know why, Cochise? Cause if Ash is gonna want kids, then you’re gonna want kids.”

He couldn’t help it. He really, truly couldn’t help it. The image of little kids with bright red hair and glasses flashed through his mind unbidden, and he groaned loudly and put his face back into his arms to hide how red his face had gotten.

“Anything else, dude. Make me do anything else. I will strip and run through the entire school naked if you want, just don’t make me promise you this stupid shit.” God, if only he hadn’t drawn that stupid heart on his stupid notes, then none of this would be happening right now! He sat up in his seat at the revelation. “Wait. I can just rewrite the page and burn this one.”

“Oh, Chris Chris Chris.” They way Josh shakes his head in disappointment sends around a million different alarm bells ringing. “Do you really think that little of me? I took like a million pictures my dude. This shit is saved forever. I can send this to Ash whenever the fuck I want. I can post this on whatever social media I feel like and it will live on the internet forever, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Oh. Right. Shit. “I can’t believe that you can literally blackmail me with anything right now, and this is the hill you’re dying on.”

“So are we in agreement then?”

“I cannot believe I’m saying this, but yes. Fine. I will name my stupid kid after your stupid ass.”

“Oh please. Your kid may be stupid, but there is no way that any kid of Ashley’s is gonna be.”

“...I hate you so much right now.”

--------------------------------------------------

Chris hadn’t meant to respond the way he did when he found the old notebook he had bought for Ash years ago. He really hadn’t. He had just been excited to find out that she had kept the stupid thing after all these years, he hadn’t even been joking when he told her that he had spent ages in the store looking for it. (”It has to be perfect, Mom! I can’t just buy her any stupid old journal, she loves these things! I mean, what if she hates it?”) So he had opened it and started flipping through the pages, laughing with her at all the stupid misspellings and bad grammar that her thirteen year-old self had written.

And then he reached the last page.

Things had really been out of his hands at that point. Something about seeing her writing her name down as ‘Ashley Hartley’ had just ignited something in him. The images of her walking down an aisle, of them with matching rings on their fingers, of kids running underfoot, was too much for him to handle. So Chris had kissed her. Kissed her like he was never gonna be able to do it again. Them falling onto her bed had been an accident, though a happy one, as they both didn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss.

Finally, he had pulled away and her giggle when she moved to fix his glasses had taken his breath away. It had quickly returned when his eyesight improved enough to really take in the image of Ash flushed pink with her red hair spread out under her on the bed, and he was suddenly reminded that she was going to be living with him soon! That this was a sight he was going to be waking up to every morning at the end of the month, and he had never wanted anything so bad in his life.

“So,” his voice is rougher than usual when he speaks and he can feel her shiver under him at it. He makes a note for future reference. “Ashley Hartley, huh?”

He watches her bite her lip, and it takes everything in him to not kiss her again. Two years in, and he’s still amazed that he’s allowed to kiss her whenever he wants, that she encourages it even! “Be honest with me,” she starts off and Chris has never been told to do something so easy in his life, “what do you think of the name Joshlynn?”

He stares at her for just a moment, just letting her words sink in, and then falls forward to smother himself in her hair, his shoulders shaking he’s laughing so hard. Of course. Of fucking course he did.

“So he got you too, I see.”

#pride month prompt challenge #my writing #until dawn #chris hartley #josh washington #ashley brown #chrashley #im laughing that this is only like 20 words shorter then d&a #how the hell did i manage to make these almost the same length?#and theres so many damn italics in this god #this is gonna take forever to format on ao3 #what was i thinking?#does this have anything to do with photos?#not really #but considering that rainbow had almost nothing to do with rainbows #thats okay #probably should have used this for dare instead #oops

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fyrewrites · 4 years ago

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The Magus’s Apprentice

Unfinished Ars Magica drabble

The small village on the outskirts of the faerie forest was, more or less, a peaceful place. The echoes of past large-scale cosmic wars resonated throughout the place, and to the Gifted ones, these echoes were harmful.

So it was that a child of eight, previously thought to be as UnGifted as any other, awoke screaming, crying out to the world to make it stop.

This young girl’s name was Amande, and she was in great pain.

Her parents, a farmer and his wife, had no idea how to help their daughter, so, against everyone’s best judgement, they called upon the old wizard in the tower. The tower was in the faerie forest, however the feeling of a new Gifted one was powerful enough to cut through even the worst of the faerie magic.

So the wizard came swiftly.

The fate of the girl was debated at length; the wizard wished to take the girl and teach her how to use her Gift, but the parents were afraid of that. What if she destroyed the village? The wizard let their fears vanish as he spoke a while about the dangers of an untrained maga, which would surely end in the village being destroyed sooner or later, whereas if she went with the wizard, no harm would be done, save for her absence.

In the end, the family conceded to the wizard’s wish, and Amande was no longer Amande, but an apprentice.

Amande cried out in pain, a pain which lessened as the wizard led her away from her home. She soon realized that she didn't even know the name of her new master, nor anything else about him, save that he was a wizard. As she opened her mouth to ask one of the questions she wanted answered, the wizard said, “Don't speak.”

They continued on in silence. When they reached the tower, Amande gasped. It was better than she had thought! She had thought it was a crumbling structure constantly under siege by the faeries, when in fact it was a sturdy, if worn structure, built of stone. Carved into the blue arched door was a strange symbol, which looked like two keys crossed. Amande had never seen that design before.

The wizard tapped on the door with his fist, as if he were knocking. The door unlocked itself and opened, much to the amazement of Amande. Did all wizards have the power to do that?

She walked inside. The door closed behind her, and as the wizard looked at them, the candles lit themselves.

“Welcome to my tower,” the wizard said. “My name is Elanirvidius, and I am your master now. May I know your name?”

“Amande,” the girl said immediately. “Are you really going to teach me magic? Am I going to be a wizard?” Her face was lit with childlike wonder.

“I am not a wizard, and neither will you be,” Elanirvidius said. “I am a magus, and you will also be one. And, yes, I will teach you magic.”

Amande let out an excited shriek. “When can I learn? Can I start now? How long do I have to wait?”

“First, I must Open your magic,” Elanirvidius said, sitting down in a chair. A little table immediately walked to him, bearing a glass filled with water and a well-thumbed book that had many bookmarks stuck in it. “That, I am afraid, takes some time.”

“So I won't learn magic now?” Amande’s bright expression faded.

“You will learn soon,” the magus said, then sipped the glass of water. “Please sit; you cannot be comfortable standing while I am not.”

Obediently, Amande sat on the softest chair she had ever sat on. It was better than standing, just as Elanirvidius had said. She asked, “How long do I wait?”

“It is late summer now,” Elanirvidius said quietly. “When autumn leaves turn red, you will be able to learn magic.”

“So…” she thought. “When the harvest comes?”

“Yes, I believe that is the time. Would you like me to show you the tower? An apprentice who does not know her and her master’s house is not much of an apprentice, after all.”

The tower possessed four floors. The first was the library and entry. The second was the laboratory, which was filled with all manner of strange projects that Elanirvidius kept Amande well away from. The third housed Elanirvidius’s room, a guest room, and the restroom, which appeared very magical indeed, as there was a basin there that filled itself with water, warm or cold, upon request, as well as a chamberpot that emptied itself. The fourth floor housed an observatory, as well as a smaller library that contained Elanirvidius’s personal notes and observations on many things, mostly the sky.

It was this magical tower that Amande now called home.

For the first season of her apprenticeship, Elanirvidius taught her how to read and write the language of magic. By the time her magic was Opened, she could read an entire spellbook, and could write a scroll.

On the day the autumn leaves turned red, Elanirvidius brought Amande up to the observatory, and asked her to look through the nearest of the three telescopes, and tell him what she saw.

She looked, and gasped. “It's magic!”

“It is time,” Elanirvidius said, “for you to learn magic.”

Amande studied the page Elanirvidius was showing her. It was written in the magic writing, which Amande knew fluently now. She read the words, then tried to understand them.

Search deep within yourself. It is there, waiting. It is your Gift. Welcome it, ask it to become part of you. Then, use it. Use The Gift to create light. If at first you don't succeed, try until you do. There is a light that shines in the darkness, and that light is you, Gifted one.

Amande followed the words’ instructions, and with the guidance of her master Elanirvidius, she created a floating orb of light that rested in her hands. She flung it up, and it rose, then fell down again, slowly and gently, to rest in her hands once more.

“Well done,” Elanirvidius said. “And your sigil is apparent also: gravity.”

That night, while Amande lay awake in bed conjuring lights, Elanirvidius dipped his pen, an emerald feather, into some black ink and wrote. He made special note of his apprentice’s sigil. Very few magi possessed a sigil that involved gravity, and those that had were known as great magi. Almost all of them had become archmagi, if that was a term that was applicable.

He finished writing, then rolled up the paper into a scroll and sealed it with purple wax inscribed with the mark of his House, two keys crossed.

He sent out the scroll, which was an official request for apprenticeship, then read Sigils: G to L, searching for gravity. He desired to know what exactly that sigil meant.

Dawn had just graced the village with its light, and the parents of Amande were woken by a loud tapping on their window. The cause was a bird carrying a letter in its talons.

They opened the window, read the letter, and rejoiced. Amande was well into her first year with the wizard, who she termed Magus Elanirvidius, and she had already learned very much. She had requested that the “magus” allow her parents to visit his tower so that they could check in with their daughter. He allowed this and welcomed them at any time.

So, the parents were quick to make their way to the tower of Elanirvidius.

“You came!” Amande said excitedly. “Do you like it? Do you? It's really nice here! And I can do magic now!” She conjured an orb of light, now second nature to her, and bounced it around as if it were a ball.

Her parents nodded. They were still quite shocked by how the door had opened as if by… magic. Now, too, their daughter was doing magic, and Elanirvidius had not shown himself yet. Where was he?

Amande created more orbs of light, throwing them around haphazardly. They all came back to her, no matter how far she tossed them. She aimed one, threw, then gasped as an ink vial spilled all over a paper. Oh no!

She rushed over and tried to fix it, but ended getting herself covered in ink. There was only one thing to do: tell her master.

She'd never been in her master's room since he'd given her the tour months ago. No room was forbidden to her, of course, but she had never felt the need to enter this room. Now she was.

Amande opened the door and called, “Elanirvidius, I spilled ink on a paper.”

Elanirvidius was not there.

Where in the world could he have gone?

Amande checked everywhere in the tower, finding no trace of her elusive master. She returned to the library, then decided she would show her parents around. She did so with enthusiasm, but they were not so enthusiastic. She hoped that would change once Elanirvidius cane back.

Elanirvidius returned to the tower. He had met with one of the officials of his House, and they had dealt with the matter of Amande’s apprenticeship. It was decided that she was his apprentice, and so he would instruct her for fifteen years and take her to matters of importance, among other things.

He entered his tower to find two UnGifted people within—Amande had let her parents come. He observed the scene, his eyes coming to rest on the spilled ink vial, which had ruined a spell, One Key To Open Them All. Luckily, he had composed that just yesterday, so he recalled its formula very well. However, it was still ruined.

“Amande,” Elanirvidius said, “I believe I forbid throwing lights after last week’s incident.”

Last week, Amande had accidentally thrown a light orb through the ajar door to the laboratory, interrupting the ritual Elanirvidius was conducting. He had punished her accordingly, giving her a tricky reading assignment. Hidden within the pages of her book had been a quiz on formulaic magic, specifically pertaining to the orbs of light.

Clearly, she had not learned her lesson.

Amande apologized, but the matter of the spilled ink could not be resolved with words. Nor would a punishment work. So, Elanirvidius said, “Your actions have ruined my latest spell.”

He took the offending parchment and burned it in his hands. The ashes were swept away by a broom that sat in the corner.

“Leave,” he told Amande’s parents. They did so. With them gone, Elanirvidius continued. “Now, follow me. I have an important task for you.”

Her task was to assist in sorting the laboratory—the non dangerous part.

#my writing #fantasy #original #ars magica #wizards #magic

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kettlequills · 3 years ago

Text

that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

#inkwrites #minors dni #my fic that world will cease to be #not safe for minors #tw possessiveness #tw jealousy #tw blood #laataazin #mind control #skyrim #tes #miraak #fic

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