#(the same leg that was ‘stuck’ on the bucket this morning)

[what-even-is-sleep]

Lucid Dreams:

I dreamt I was standing unsteadily on top of a bucket and underneath was a large and angry snake. A crowd of friendly people and children stood nearby, definitely in danger if the snake escaped. Two people were helping me balance. The one on the left with a sturdy arm for me to grip, the one on the right dizzy on their feet—just enough to make me have to work to balance still. The one on the left had only two long fingers per hand, and each hand was burned blue and black.

[kismetologyy]

Uhhh

So🧍‍♂️

I'm back after centuries of decomposing and I've gotten a new idea

And you guessed it

It's about Legend

I don't have much to say

I've been busy with school and all, and it's been months since I wrote, so this could be really bad

So let's just start

Prompt:

The Chain & You are staying at Lon Lon Ranch for a few days to rest. But you got sick on the way here. Mistakes were made, comfort ensued.

Notes:

Nb!reader | Grumpy Leg | just some cute comfy fluff

Also mentions of puke and other icky stuff

Not proofread btw (and never will be cuz I ain't readin all that again)

The sun was high up in the sky, the warm rays of light setting everything into a calm environment. Malon was cooking up some delicious lunch while the Links were outside doing some farm work, enjoying the sun and the refreshing wind of the late morning.

It was a peaceful day for all of the Chain, for once.

Well, for almost everyone.

You were stuck in the living room, wrapped tightly in a blanket, accompanied by an old musty bucket at your feet.

You had gotten sick just before your arrival, puking right at Legend's feet, which for the record, made him avoid you even more now.

You had only felt that sick once just now, and Legend was unfortunate enough to be right in front of you.

"I'm not risking to have more of their dinner remains on my shoes!"

As Legend phrased it to the others, refusing to get close to you in a 5 meter radius until you were perfectly up and running again.

You felt better now, but he was still as stubborn as a mule. It was incredible to watch.

Warriors was one of the first to be done with his work, as usual. So he decided to give you some company until lunch was ready.

You had only noticed him after the couch gave in slightly under his weight.

"How's it going? Feeling better?"

Wars tries to shoot up a conversation as he's stripping his armor off for the day. You still don't get why he's wearing it while working on a ranch, with no monsters ever in sight.

You gave a meekly "yeah" as your response, which didn't make his mood any better.

Just as the conversation was about to turn awkward, Twilight and Time had walked in to join the waiting progress, conversing casually before heading over to check on me.

"Ya' good, kid?"

Twilight asked as he leaned over the back of the couch to talk face-to-face, still with his usual country boy accent.

After saying the same reply over and over again to everyone entering in the living room, it was lunch time.

Legend had arrived late, only walking in as the infamous pumpkin soup was being served. But no one bat an eye, since everyone could trust him to be the responsible one out of the younger bunch.

All went quiet after everyone greeted Legend at the table, with only very few of Legend's responses served to his travel companions.

All 10 9 of them were all over you. Even if you told them you were doing fine, they would see it as the apocalypse.

The ranch finally started to settle down, each having their free time to spend with either other members, or being on their own on the ranch on in town.

The sky was quick to turn dark, with a clear night sky as the first stars were appearing just now. You could only sit and watch out of the window as the moon shone over this era of Hyrule. It was fascinating how every era looked uniquely different from each other, but the sky always stayed the same, unaffected by the wars and disasters that stuck Hyrule over the centuries.

Aftera short walk on the ranch and being called inside again by Malon to 'rest', you sat back down on the couch, the couch already remembering the spot on the cushions where you had sat all day.

You had planned to sleep on the couch and maybe get some more alone time rather than share a room.

It was great staying with the Chain, really. But sometimes, enough is enough.

The couch moved as someone put their weight on it. You look over, and right next to you was Legend, staring forward like a statue.

It left you puzzled as to why he sat there so suddenly. Maybe he was the one person who knew you weren't sick anymore? It would only make sense, it's Legend after all.

"... alright?"

You could barely make out what we're the first words he said, but you understood his message.

"Yeah. I'm better."

You thought that was it with the daily interactions between you two, but he didn't move, nor did he say anything else.

It wasn't hard for you to read people, and you could certainly sense that something was up...

You both sit there in an awkward silence, listening to the chirps from various bugs outside. But the silence was quite comfortable.

"Sorry.."

Came a mutter from the hero, which was the last thing you'd expect to hear, and from him of all people. Was he apologizing for something for once? But it did feel like he really meant it, which made you feel somewhat better about ruining his boots a few hours ago.

Nonetheless, you were stunned as you tried to come up with a good answer.

"It's nothing. You dont have to apologize." Was the only thing you would come up with, which only set him back to his unapologetic state.

After yet another session of unbreakable silence, Legend grabbed the unoccupied blanket that was draped over his side of the couch. He got comfortable and laid down, probably not in the mood to sleep with the others either, which wasn't uncommon.

...

"Do you mind?"

He eventually breaks the silence, cause you were sitting too close to him, so he was unable to get his legs up properly.

"Right, sorry."

Was your only response as you moved to the end of the couch. With a soft sigh, Legend got comfortable and closed his eyes to finally rest.

Now your space was taken up, and neither of you wanted to get up and sleep in the same room as the other Links.

So now you tried to think of a solution, eventually laying on your side and trying to squeeze onto the couch with him, facing away from each other to avoid any uncomfortable situation.

You could feel him stir a little to make space, but he clearly wasn't happy about sharing.

The space was too cramped for you to sleep comfortably, but you didn't want to move, even if you had no choice.

So against your will, you got up from the couch and immediately laid down again, now spread out on the carpet right by Legend's feet with a blanket and pillow taken with you to the floor to sleep with.

It wasn't even a minute before someone broke the silence.

"Get up."

The hero that had taken up the couch was now up again, not at all pleased to see you sleeping on the floor like a peasant.

"I'm fine."

You wanted to stay stubborn and let him sleep. But you could only watch as Legend got up from his spot and grabbed your wrists, pulling you frim the carpet right to your feet and almost giving you another nausea attack.

You wanted to protest, but he didn't bother to give you a chance to speak.

"Don't you dare do that when there's clearly space. Ya hear me?"

You could only nod as he plopped you down, obeying him without second thought as you lay down for the third time in one night.

"But I don't want you to sleep on the floor."

It's like you read his mind, since he stopped right in his tracks as he was about to settle down at your feet.

"I can handle it."

"So can I."

"No, you–"

"You know I can."

After a quick round of back and forth, you convinced him to not sleep on the old ragged carpet of the living room. But what now?

You could almost see the gears turning in is head. But he eventually came up with something, which was by far, the dumbest thing he's ever done, and something that he will probably regret forever.

"Move over."

He tried to make this quick and easy, and you only followed his command as he pushed you a hit to squeeze in behind you, now between you and the couch.

Being the nice person you are, you gave him some of your blanket, and he surprisingly accepted.

It was an awkward situation, with Legend pressed against your back in dead silence, squeezed together to avoid falling onto the well-aged carpet in the middle of the night.

At first I was hard to even keep your eyes closed, but exhaustion slowly took over as your eyes started to droop.

But something ripped you out of your peace that made your heart speed up.

The veteran had draped his arm over you, holding you close as you could feel his breath on the back of your neck. It was heavy and calm, which meant sleep probably took him earlier than you.

But you knew he was a light sleeper, so without any resistance, you held onto his arm before exhaustion finally took you into a deep sleep.

♤————————

You thought you had rested well, but turns out it was still way too early, since the sun wasn't even up yet.

And you weren't the first to notice, since Legend's arm was gone from your hold, but he was still there, probably trying to keep some distance between your bodies.

You couldn't resist the temptation anymore, imagining his drowsy eyes and his hair all over the place. You shifted your body carefully, slowly turning over to face him.

He was already observing you from the moment he was awake, but there was another awkward stare between you two.

And man.

He looked even better than you imagined.

Everything about him looked more appealing than ever. Or maybe you didn't notice until getting so close to him.

...

"Morning."

You attempt to break the silence of the early morning, wanting to stay on good terms with him.

"Morning."

He replied the same way. He never was much of a talker in the morning, and you didn't mind it.

It felt strange comforting to lay there with him. It warms your heart at just how nice he could be.

But you didn't expect him to do such a bold move.

He was now huddled up to you again, this time with his face buried in your chest. You could see his blush reaching all the way up to his long pointy ears, and my god was he cute.

The comforting space you created only got better as he seemed to relax against you, with your hand now placed on his back to keep him there.

"Hey?"

You tried to get his attention, which succeeded as he looked up at you, his face still flushed a reddish color.

"Is it okay if I rant a little?"

Legend agreed without much interest, bringing you forth to start rambling mindlessly to him. It was almost therapeutic having someone to talk to. And it seemed like he really didn't mind, just wanting to hold onto you.

It's kind of funny, how the one hero that is always so tense is cuddling with you at this moment.

Both of you lay there in silence for a long time, almost falling asleep again from the little comfort bubble you've created.

Legend's face was burried in your chest as you traced some nonsensical patterns on his back.

But then both of you started hearing the creaking footsteps coming from the guests room, where the other heroes are situated.

Before you could even say something to alert Legend, he sprung up from the couch, almost tumbling over you as he got up.

He was up just in time, as Time and Warriors entered the living room area.

"Morning. Where were you two even? I didn't see you at all."

Warriors mentioned as he walked over, just being curious.

"I slept on the floor while [Name] was on the couch."

Legend lied right in his face, but you could understand that he didn't want to be seen cuddling with anyone.

"Protecting the ladies, are we?"

Warriors started teasing again, which immediately broke out into a bickering fight.

But Time was watching this conversation with a big smirk before stopping them from causing any accidents.

Time had come to the kitchen at night to get some water. And on the way there, he spotted the two of you huddled up together.

But your secret is safe with him.

It's not as bad as I thought it would be, and that's wonderful👍

Now that the children have been fed, I must dissapear for another 3 months.

Peace✌️

—♡

[adore-laur]

BULLSEYE: PART ONE

— a lonely small-town boy meets a demure city girl (this series is unfinished)

| The Boy | 

Morning fog drifts throughout Lurgashall, West Sussex. Doves faintly coo in the dense forest. The sound of the rushing river nearby gives life to the rural landscape. The pathway is hugged by trees on both sides, weeping willows and broadleaf evergreens bending over the gravel as if to greet passersby. The sky is a silky shade of periwinkle, and the sun gently grapples to peek out from behind a sheet of looming stratus clouds. Squirrels and hares race through the thicket to rustle and stir up insects. The crickets will soon chirp and wake up the rest of the sleeping nature around them. 

Distant footsteps crunch rock fragments with each stride, the approaching noise startling the birds as they scatter away to their homes nestled in the slim branches above. A boy whom the townsfolk know as Harry is the product of the sound. His intriguing and mysterious presence always makes itself known, even to placid wildlife. Unless he's with his father, of course. In those moments, he's a silent shadow in the background of the older man's domineering limelight. 

As the steps grow louder, creatures turn their heads to observe the boy's blue, melancholy aura that walks the timeworn path every dawn. He holds a metal bucket filled to the brim with fresh water from the stream. It's heavy, but no challenge for his strong arms. He ventures down the winding trail, disrupting the pebbles with each clunky trudge of his steel-toed boots. Atop his head is a cowboy-esque hat made of straw, and his freshly showered hair, damp and curly, makes an appearance underneath as it dries with assistance from the crisp breeze. His long legs are clad in light-wash jeans, and his upper half is covered with a cream-colored button-up. He leaves it open over a trusty white tank top, the fabric sticking to his perspiring chest. Humidity is starting to make its presence known, and he wishes autumn would arrive faster. He despises summer for his own repressive reasons. 

Harry is not a cowboy by any means. He's what people would instead consider a rancher. His father had once told him that there was a significant difference. A rancher doesn't wrangle cattle or compete in barrel racing. They don't herd sheep or wear chaps. Nor do they own a lasso or race horses for profit. No, Harry takes care of the horses. He nurtures them by feeding, grooming, and riding them across the village fields. He speaks to them when he locks the stable up at night, telling them about the newest baby born in tiny Lurgashall or the fawn he saw grazing in the pasture. 

He works at his father's ranch. It provides services such as horseback riding and equestrian lessons. His father handles the latter, having grown up in the village his entire life and acquiring decades of experience. On the other hand, Harry helps with the guided horse tours by visiting the picturesque countryside a few times daily with a group of locals or tourists. They travel paths overrun with blossoming flowers and satiny grass matted down by hoof prints. Farthest out on the tour, they stop at beautifully eroded rock formations on the hill and soak in the expanse of the sky.

It never gets old, yet the boy still feels stuck. He's caught up in a constant cycle of living the same day repeatedly, always ending with desolation crawling into his lonely heart that so desperately wants to be loved. It doesn't help that he doesn't have many friends, not that it's such a horrible thing. However, living in a place with a whopping population of six hundred people leaves him relatively isolated. He doesn't mind, though. He's grown used to going home to his cabin in the woods and having the entire place to do as he pleases. He can play his records as loud as he wants. He can get drunk off cheap whiskey and dance around his living room, thinking about all the things he should have said and done in the past. He can fall asleep under his quilted blanket and dream of flying through the sky, his fingers sweeping through the soft grass of the foreign fields he wishes to visit one day. 

When Harry does manage to hang around other people, it's usually at the singular pub in Lurgashall. It's small, with a rustic, sixteenth-century interior and matching decor that comforts him. He walks there from his cabin or the stables, either way taking less than ten minutes, and admires the scenic view of the whole journey. 

Whenever he steps through the doorway, he comes alive. Talking to strangers and locals, listening to their stories, with endless questions bubbling up inside him. He sometimes rides his horse there and ties it to the porch fence, then excuses himself from the pub for a moment to feed them a carrot that he always keeps in his satchel. Hogging the jukebox by playing Dolly Parton back-to-back until a drunk man yells at him to pick something else. Harry will often go behind the bar and help serve drinks to the patrons, charming them with his infectious smile, never forgetting to undo a couple of extra buttons on his shirt to attract anyone interested. Someone usually is, but he never acts on their flirtatious exertions. Harry prefers going back to his cabin alone, with rosy cheeks and a dizzy head. His father calls him a dry-as-dust introvert because of how much time he spends in solitude. So be it, the boy thinks. He's doing perfectly fine on his own. 

Harry's favorite thing to do at the pub is partake in a game of darts. He claims he could be a professional one day and travel the world, knocking down any competition far and wide with ease. He'll play by himself for hours straight, with complete focus and a light buzz coursing through his blood from the beer or whiskey he drinks. The local ladies will watch while whistling and cheering him on. It feeds his narcissism nicely. Then he'll stumble home and crash on his bed, getting no more than four hours of sleep before dragging his feet to work the following morning with a headache and a feeling of existential dread about the stand-still life that his father gave him. Needless to say, the boy has some unresolved daddy issues. 

That's not to say Harry isn't fond of where he lives and works. He loves horses and showing people the beauty of his hometown. He doesn't mind waking up at dawn to sit with the horses after completing his duties. He'll bring his sketchbook and pencils and draw potential ideas for tattoos. 

Oh, don't even get him started on tattoos. His father hates them, so Harry gets dozens out of pure spite. His arms are covered with ink inspired by his own drawings. He will often tattoo himself with his gun and supplies in a drawer at his cabin since the nearest tattoo parlor is an entire town away. He honestly can't get enough. The feeling of the needle piercing his flesh brings him a painfully addictive pleasure he hasn't found anywhere else. 

It's six in the morning when Harry walks into the main stable. He hears the familiar sound of hooves clopping against the wooden planks. This is where he can stop thinking about everything that is wrong in his life. This is where he goes to get away from his father's disapproving demeanor. This is where he can reminisce about his mother, his angel in the sky, guiding him toward better days. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

It takes just under an hour to drive from Portsmouth to Lurgashall. There's green everywhere, a pleasant change from the gray city. Boundless fields and forests seclude the cozy, spaced-out cottages and farmhouses along the road. It's technically not even a road; it's simply a gravel path looping throughout the village. 

Cramped in a car with three other people, it's becoming hard to breathe with the muggy air wafting in because someone insisted on rolling the windows down. It's almost comical to think about how city girls could survive staying here for a week after being conditioned to traffic and bumping into people on concrete streets. 

The girl, whom suburbanites know as Shyla, has friends who insisted they travel to the countryside to temporarily flee their swarmed hometown of Portsmouth. They quite literally threw a dart on a map of England to determine the destination. Lo and behold, it hit the microscopic region of Lurgashall. 

Eight square miles. Six hundred residents. She's absolutely dreading it. 

Shyla was left out of the trip planning. She also wasn't given the option to ride shotgun in the car. Now, she's on the way to go horseback riding at a ranch when her friends know she's never ridden one before and has absolutely no desire to. The guided horseback tour is private for the four girls. Shyla is thankful for that since she doesn't want strangers laughing at her inability to steer a horse properly. Needless to say, the girl doesn't have a great support system. 

See, Shyla is lonely even when she's around her friends. They ignore her and leave her out of conversations. They only hang out with her when they need something out of it—a designated driver, money, or someone to tease. Shyla is fed up, to be honest, but she's too terrified of confrontation. She doesn't want to lose the only people she has left. 

Once the ranch comes into view, Shyla feels her heart sink with an anchor of anxiousness. From the backseat window, she admires the rolling hills that expand as far as the eye can see. Behind the ranch is a fenced pasture connected to the stables. Horses are tied up, chewing on hay and stomping their hooves, causing dust to swirl in the stale air. 

Gravel crunches under the car's wheels as they slow down. No parking spots are marked, so they park in front of the wraparound porch. The ranch building is cute, with its horseshoe hanging above the front door and the crooked wooden sign that reads Styles Stables. 

Shyla thinks maybe this won't be so bad after all. The exterior atmosphere of the place seems inviting enough. She wonders how the business stays afloat in such a small town, especially since there are currently no other cars. The owner will be in for a surprise when a group of girls from the city asks to ride their horses. Her friends can be obnoxious sometimes, so she prays they won't embarrass her and make anyone's job more difficult. 

They all clamber out of the car and stumble toward the front door on legs that haven't been used for a while. Shyla strays behind, trying to get fresh air into her lungs. Plummeting apprehension has suddenly hit her. 

The door is already open, revealing a naturally lit room. Shyla is the last one to step inside, and she's taken aback by the overpowering smell of sawdust and leather. It's a spacious area with creaky wooden floors decorated with only a rustic bench and a shabby front desk. There are two men behind it. One has silver hair that shines from the sunlight pouring through the window. The other has curly brown hair. Their backs are turned, and they seem to be poring over a stack of papers. 

One of Shyla's friends rings the silver service bell to get their attention. The silver-haired man slowly turns around with a stoic expression and studies each person. He seems intimidating right off the bat. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers at the other person behind the counter. The boy flinches slightly and silently hurries out the back door. Without a word, the older man slides four waivers toward them. They paid beforehand, and Shyla assumes they must not have anyone else riding today since he didn't ask for their names. 

Her three friends sit on the bench to fill them out, leaving Shyla to remain standing and write on the splintered surface of the desk. After they finish, they give the papers to the man. Shyla gets negative vibes from him. It's no wonder no one comes here; the owner is the most off-putting person she's ever met. 

Then he speaks. A low, gruff voice thunders when he says, "Harry, my son, will be your guide today. Go out the back door, and he'll situate everyone with a horse based on experience. Let me know if he's cranky. I'll make sure to give him a stern talking-to." 

They all nod and head to the stables. They're met with posts lining a fence that several horses, all varying colors and sizes, are tied to with rope. Shyla's eyes start watering from the dryness outside—or maybe from fear. 

The boy, whom Shyla now knows as Harry, carries saddles out and begins setting them on a few select horses. She has an unobstructed view of him now, so she takes in his outfit, consisting of a beige button-up with a brown leather jacket over it and jeans with a hole just below each of his knees. His hair is almost parted down the middle, with some loose curls hanging over his forehead, and there's faint stubble growing above his lips and along his jaw. 

Once the horses have saddles on, Shyla watches Harry lead a tall, sleek black horse in front of the girls. Shyla guesses it's the one he'll be riding since it doesn't have a saddle on, and it looks daunting. He ties it to the entrance gate leading to the trail, then brings another horse out. He's silent the entire time, and Shyla thinks he might actually be cranky. She's not a snitch, though. 

Harry stops in front of the girls after the four horses are tied to the fence. He clears his throat, then asks, "Has anyone here never ridden a horse before?" 

Shyla glances over to her friends and quickly realizes she's the only one who hasn't. With a hesitant raise of her arm, she indicates her inexperience. The boy locks eyes with her and nods before untying a copper-colored horse. He walks it over to Shyla while adjusting its saddle. 

"This is Quake," he explains, patting the horse's neck. "We use him for beginners. Are you comfortable mounting him by yourself?" 

"Um, I've never gotten on a horse before, so I might need some help." 

"Sure. Start by putting your left foot in the stirrup." Shyla steps into the stirrup and waits for further instruction. "Then push down on it to lift your leg up and over his body." 

He's watching her every movement. Shyla swallows her parched throat. She does what he says and hoists her leg to stretch uncomfortably over Quake's wide body, then sets her feet in both stirrups and holds onto the saddle's horn. She peeks over at her friends to see if they'll be proud of her, but they're all too distracted taking pictures on their phones. She tries not to let it bother her. 

"Do your feet feel loose at all?" Harry asks, placing the reins in her grasp. 

"They feel a bit loose, yeah. I also feel like they're too low. Sorry, I'm short." She doesn't know why she's apologizing. She just feels bad for being a beginner and wasting everyone's time. Her friends are obviously bored while waiting for her. 

"All right, let me fix those for you." He grabs the left stirrup and pulls the strap to tighten and lift it, his fingers grazing Shyla's ankle. She almost shivers at the touch. He goes over to fix the other one and gives her a questioning thumbs-up. She hastily nods to confirm they're better. 

"What's your name?" he mumbles as he adjusts Quake's bridle. 

She almost forgets it but manages a quiet murmur of "Shyla." 

"Shyla. Pretty name." Harry puts his hands on his hips. "So, if you want to steer right or left, just turn the reins in that direction. The hand you write with holds the reins, but you can use two if you're more comfortable that way. If you want to slow down or stop, gently pull the reins back. Quake is a good horse, so there shouldn't be any problems. Going downhill, you want to lean back. Going uphill is when you'll lean forward. If Quake stops moving, just lightly kick his side. Let's see... always sit up straight, but keep your body relaxed. There's no need to worry about trotting or accidental running since he's our most easy-going horse. He doesn't get spooked much." He exhales, his eyes squinting from the sun. "That's it, I think. Any questions?" 

Shyla shifts in the saddle, overwhelmed by all the rules. "No, I should be fine. Thank you." 

"No problem." He raises his thumb over his shoulder. "Quake will just stand still for right now, so I'll get everyone else set up." 

Once everyone is on their designated horses, Harry unties his horse and gracefully mounts it. He then takes his leather jacket off and hangs it over the fence post, skillfully turning his horse around to lead the front of the line. 

"Okay," he says, looking at everyone. "Since Shyla hasn't done this before, I'll have her ride behind me. Sound good?" 

The girls all nod their heads. Harry opens the rusty gate and gets his horse to start walking by clicking his tongue, causing the other horses to follow suit. Shyla sees him twist back to check on her, and she smiles softly to show she's good. He just bows his head and stares straight ahead again. 

Shyla doesn't remember what she was ever anxious about. 

—— 

| The Boy | 

Harry has concluded that the girl behind him is catastrophically pretty. He finds himself looking back at her every so often to make sure she's all right, and each time he does, she grants him an innocent smile paired with eyes the color of chestnuts. 

Harry has also concluded that her friends are absolute shit. They won't stop gabbing about city gossip with their whiny voices. He thanks his lucky stars that they're not behind him; otherwise, he would be seconds away from getting his horse to kick them off. The girl who's not annoying, whom Harry now knows as Shyla, is reserved and respectful. Whenever he subtly steals a glance at her, she's admiring the nature around her and petting Quake's neck with a delicate hand. 

When they finally reach the rock formations, everyone gets off their horses to stretch their legs and appreciate the view. This is Harry's favorite part. He likes to watch groups be impressed with how beautiful little Lurgashall can be. 

He observes Shyla with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Her wide eyes scan over the rocks and endless greenery around her. For some reason, it makes his mouth twitch with a ghost of a smile. 

Five minutes pass before they begin their trip back to the stables. Shyla, who has been otherwise quiet, suddenly speaks up, much to Harry's surprise. Her friends are too busy talking about where to get dinner to join in. 

"How long have you been doing this?" she asks. 

Harry turns his head toward her momentarily before turning back and taking a deep, calming breath. He's awful at small talk unless he has alcohol in his system. He keeps his backstory vague and says, "Around a decade. I started as a guide when I was sixteen. My father built the ranch long before I was born, so I kind of had no choice but to follow in his footsteps." 

It's true he didn't have a choice, but there's a more personal side to it that he can't talk about without either crying or getting angry. It's about his mother, and any fleeting thought of her begs for tears to fall. If he starts crying on a horse in front of a pretty girl, he's officially hit rock bottom. 

"Is it just you and him working at the ranch?" Shyla questions further.

His shoulders stiffen. "Only us," he curtly replies. Shyla must notice his discomfort because she becomes silent the rest of the way back. 

Eventually, they arrive at the stables. Harry smoothly dismounts his horse and walks over to help Shyla off Quake first. He reaches his hand out, and she firmly grips it while swinging her leg over and hopping onto the ground. His thumb lightly strokes the back of her hand before he lets go. If she feels it, she doesn't let it show. 

As Shyla dusts off her pants, Harry glimpses at her friends, who are getting off their horses and taking more pictures of themselves. Irritation simmers inside of him. They could pretend to care about her, at least. 

He shakes the thought from his head and coughs gingerly into his fist before mumbling, "Have a nice day, Shyla," and bidding farewell with a two-finger salute. 

Again, he's awful at making conversation. He gets nervous, especially when mesmerizing brown eyes give him a tenderhearted look he hasn't seen since his mother left him. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

Shyla and her friends have decided to go out for cocktails tonight. Much to everyone's disappointment, there's only one pub in Lurgashall to choose from, but it'll have to do. They drove aimlessly after horseback riding since the checkout time for the inn they are staying at isn't until tomorrow morning. The girls are terrible at planning, so they have no other option but to sleep in the car tonight. It's going to be hell. 

It's ten o'clock when they walk through the threshold. Shyla's view is instantly bombarded with people chatting, dancing, and drinking in every corner of the confined space. Her friends are already heading toward the bar to order drinks. Shyla lingers behind and soaks in the lively environment. Friendly smiles fleetingly greet her. Bony limbs accidentally elbow her. Boisterous laughs invitingly lure her in. 

As her curious eyes scan the room, she quickly spots a familiar face. Harry, the boy from the ranch, is in the far corner, standing next to a retro jukebox. He's wearing his brown leather jacket from earlier with no shirt underneath, and several tattoos can be seen in the dim lighting of the pub. He nurses what looks like a glass of whiskey or bourbon in his hand as he slowly sways to the song playing. He's mouthing the lyrics with his head tilted back. Shyla recognizes the song as "You're the Only One" by Dolly Parton. She flits her gaze away so he doesn't catch her gawking. 

The mix of conversations around her on top of Dolly's smooth-as-butter voice creates an ambiance that eases her anxiety. Clinking glasses and the sudden outburst of laughter make her want to participate in the drunken bubbles. Walking over to the bar, Shyla finds an open stool to sit on when Harry suddenly slides behind the counter with a beaming smile and dilated pupils. She stares at him for a while, trying to understand how quickly he noticed her. Now, his tattooed torso is right in front of her, and she thinks he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen. 

"Hi!" Harry cheerfully greets her, blowing a curly strand of hair away from his face. Shyla can immediately sense that he's a bit tipsy. 

"Hey," she says awkwardly. "Um, do you work here?" 

"I don't work here," he slurs with a smug raise of eyebrows. "But I can make you anything your heart desires." 

Oh, so tipsy Harry is an entirely different person.

"Could I please get a lime margarita?" she asks, his intense eye contact making her flush. 

He winks as he grabs a glass from under the counter. "Coming right up, Miss Shyla." 

She's shocked he remembers her name as she watches him run a lime wedge along the rim of the glass and skillfully coat it in salt. After that, he pours the liquid ingredients into a mixer filled with ice and then shakes it like a professional bartender. His stomach muscles flex as he does so, and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek in concentration. Shyla wonders how he's so good at making drinks if he doesn't work here. 

Once he pours the concoction into her glass, he kisses the lime wedge and garnishes the rim. After lifting it in the air, he slides it toward her. Who is this man? He can't be the same one she met earlier today. 

"Thanks," Shyla mumbles meekly. She takes a sip and puckers her lips at the sour taste. 

Harry's palms cradle his cheeks, his elbows resting on the counter. He has a cute smile on his face as he watches her expression. He looks like a kid in a candy store, his dimples deep enough to build a dreamland in them. 

"I'm tipsy," he admits, his mouth barely moving. "Apologies if it's not my best work." He stands up straight with a slight sway. "Hey, do you know how to play darts? I can teach you. Not to brag, but I'm pretty decent." 

Shyla peeks at the dart board in the corner of the pub. She's never played before, and her friends probably don't care that she's not with them, so she nods, grabs her drink, and heads over. Harry shuffles around the counter to walk beside her. He smells like pine trees, with a hint of something floral. 

They reach the board, and Harry leans against it with his ankles crossed. He takes a dart and points it at her. "So," he says, "the simplest version we can play is 301. Easy rules. We each start with 301 points, yeah? The goal is to reach zero; to do that, we have to try to land the dart on high numbers to get there before each other. We subtract the scores each round, and whoever gets there first wins. However, if you go past zero, you bust out and have to reset your score to what it was when you started your last turn." 

Shyla's sure she'll be terrible at it, but at least it'll be something fun to do while her friends get hammered without her. She takes a gulp from her margarita to get some liquid courage churning, then sets her glass on a nearby stool and grabs a dart, the only pink one in a bundle of red and blue ones. She stands a decent distance away from the board. 

"Is there a certain way to throw it?" she wonders aloud, spinning the dart between her fingers. 

Harry tuts. "I'm not supposed to help you since we're competing, but yes, there is. Here, let me show you." He stands behind her, his bare chest resting against her back. His cologne and presence dangerously invade all of her senses. 

"See the white line in front of you?" he says, his warm breath heating her ear. "It's called the oche. You can't step over it, or you'll be disqualified. Your feet need to be hip-width apart behind it, okay?" Shyla spreads her feet to the appropriate length. "Keep your feet at that width, and then turn sideways to face the board," he adds. She does as Harry says. He continues, "Place every finger except your pinky on the barrel of the dart. Toward the front of it." Shyla attempts to mimic his direction. "Ah, ah, ah. Not too firmly. Try not to curl your fingers. Keep them long and open." 

She readjusts her fingers on the dart, then turns her head to meet Harry's eyes. He licks his lips and nods. "Good girl. Now raise the dart to eye level with your elbow at a ninety-degree angle." Shyla feels him lightly grip her wrist to raise it as he bends her elbow. "Just like that." 

Fuck. Her skin is on fire, surely. 

"Now tilt the end upwards a bit," he murmurs, his thumb stroking her elbow, "but don't let the tip drop too far down. Then aim it right at the bullseye. Is this your first time throwing a dart?" 

Shyla swallows. "Yes. Sorry if I end up putting a hole in the wall." 

Harry hums a low chuckle. "Trust me, you won't. So, what you'll do now is use your dominant eye to aim. You held the reins at the ranch with your right hand, so I'm assuming you're right-handed?" 

He remembered. Is that the bare minimum? Shyla can't think straight when she can feel every single one of his breaths against her neck. She manages to squeak out an affirmation. 

"Okay. Keep your right eye open and close the other one. Then pull your hand back and keep your shoulders motionless as you throw it." Harry's hands place themselves on her shoulders. She tenses but relaxes instantly when he gives them an assuring squeeze. "Place weight on your foot closest to the board when you throw, but don't lean or sway. Stay as still as possible." 

"All right," Shyla whispers. "Then I just throw it forward, right?" 

"Snap your wrist forward, not downward, as you release it. And always remember to follow through with the motion." 

He removes his hands from her shoulders and tucks in the tag from the neckline of her shirt. Has that been out the entire day? How embarrassing. 

Shyla clears her throat and gets ready to aim. She closes her left eye and keeps her shoulders still, like Harry said. She then lightly pushes her foot closest to the board and snaps her wrist to release the dart. 

Not quite a bullseye, but pretty damn close. In Shyla's peripheral, she sees Harry whistle by sticking his pointer and middle finger in his mouth. He removes them and claps slowly but not mockingly; he looks thoroughly impressed. Shyla curtsies and takes a sip of her drink. 

It's Harry's turn, so he takes a red dart and stands behind the line. Before he gets any further, Shyla can't help but ask, "How do you play when you're tipsy? Won't your hand-eye coordination get messed up?" 

Closing one eye, he pokes his tongue out in concentration and gracefully releases the dart. It hits the bullseye. He glances at her and smiles lopsidedly. "Practice makes perfect, darling." 

She's stunned by his perfect aim as he removes the two darts and then writes down both scores on the nearby chalkboard. When he faces her, he spreads his arms out and arrogantly shrugs. 

"You're good," Shyla compliments, breathing out a laugh and clapping. 

"All in a day's work," he replies, gesturing his hands like he's dusting them off. 

Shyla is about to grab another dart when Harry suddenly gasps. "You're Still the One" by Shania Twain starts playing from the jukebox. She really enjoys the song, too. She's not tipsy enough to dance around like everyone else, but when Harry holds his hand out for her to take, she can't refuse. 

"What about our dart game?" she asks, taking his warm and calloused hand. He twirls her and brings her into his chest, beginning to sway them to the romantic song. One hand in hers, the other gravitating to her waist. 

"Nothing else matters when Shania comes on. You'll have to stop by again so we can finish." 

"Already trying to get me to come back, huh? I'm only here for a week, so you better make it worth it." 

She hopes that came across as flirty. The margarita in her bloodstream is doing wonders for her boldness. 

Harry's eyebrows dip sadly. "You're only here for a week?" 

Shyla's unoccupied fingers graze along his abdomen. His skin is soft but somehow firm. "I'm from Portsmouth, which is about an hour southwest. I'm here on a girl's trip." 

"Oh, a trip with your shitty friends?" He says it monotonously as he looks over at them. They're taking shots and talking way too loudly. "Sounds absolutely riveting." 

Shyla's mouth clamps shut. Had he really noticed that they mistreated her? Is it obvious? 

"I mean, it's been fine so far. They're just a little more outgoing than me." 

"Bullshit. They treat you like rubbish, and I've known you for less than a day." 

Shyla is quiet because she knows he's right. If she can see it, why can't anyone else? She's in this boy's arms, touching his skin, and she feels more comfortable with him than the girls she's been friends with for years. Is that wrong? Or is this a feeling she shouldn't fight? 

Shyla stares into his glassy eyes and then down at his lips. Something is magnetizing about him. He pulls her in and makes her feel seen.

"Do you want to come back to my place?" Harry asks, just loud enough to hear over the music and chatter. "I have a jacuzzi, or we could listen to records and dance some more." 

"I would really like that," Shyla says, releasing herself from his proximity. "Um, let me go tell my friends." 

"Screw them." He catches her hand before she can leave, pulling her back. "Just come with me. They're too plastered to notice you'll be gone." 

Shyla thinks they wouldn't notice even if they weren't plastered. "Okay," she says, playing with his fingers. "Are there taxis here? Maybe an Uber?" 

Harry laughs, his nose wrinkling as his hand rests on his stomach. "I'm afraid taxis in Lurgashall are nonexistent." He gently picks an eyelash off Shyla's cheek. "Listen, it's a ten-minute walk to my cabin. We can get to know each other on the way there." 

She doesn't have to contemplate. "Let's go." 

—— 

| The Boy & The Girl | 

On the journey to his cabin, Harry sobers quite quickly. Shyla had a few sips of her margarita, so there was only a faint buzz coursing through her veins. They talked about what it was like growing up in their respective hometowns and their favorite music artists. He's a Dolly Parton fan, and she's obsessed with Blondie. 

They reach the corner of the main path, his arm slung around her shoulder. When the cabin comes into view, Shyla's breath hitches. It's a black A-frame structure with a wooden balcony. The jacuzzi Harry mentioned is surrounded by potted plants. The place is completely secluded in the forest, with no other houses visible for miles. 

Harry guides her up the stairs and to the front door, opening it for her. He reaches for the light switch, and the room lightens as they enter. To their left, there's a kitchen—a cozy and compact area with a small island and a counter along the wall. A tilted window panel is angled over the sink, providing a glimpse of the pine trees outside. 

His living room is opposite the kitchen. It has a leather couch, a rustic fireplace, and rugs scattered across the floor. Along the wall is a bookshelf packed with all sorts of titles. On the other wall, there are shelves filled with records, and under them is a vintage record player. The wallpaper is old-fashioned, with picture frames holding minimalistic paintings of roses, daisies, and orchards. 

A rickety staircase leads to a loft area, where his bedroom is. It fits a queen-sized bed and a square wooden bathtub next to it. String lights hang along the log rafters and railing, creating an inviting and intimate ambiance. 

Harry begins removing bags off the counter in the kitchen while Shyla admires his space. "Sorry for the mess," he mumbles, putting groceries in the fridge. "I wasn't expecting anyone tonight." 

"It's okay. You have such a beautiful home." Shyla hopes she's not intruding when she asks, "Is it just you that lives here?" 

"Just me. And my horse on occasion." Harry is suddenly nervous. It's been so long since someone has been at his house. Does she think it's odd that he lives in a cabin alone in the woods? Does she think he's a loser for having a bookshelf stuffed with romance novels? 

"I would kill to live here," Shyla says, disproving his insecurities. "Living by yourself sounds so nice. I have to live in a congested apartment with one of my friends you saw today." 

"Hmm," he hums while slowly walking toward her. "That's a shame." 

"It's fine. Once I get my degree, I'm going to find somewhere to live on my own." 

He stops in his tracks. This girl keeps surprising him. "Yeah? What do you study?" he asks as he changes his course and strides over to his record player. 

She joins him and replies, "Psychology. I want to be a school counselor." 

"Shit, you're quite clever, then. Have you been trying to psychoanalyze me all night?" 

"From what I can tell, you're a very composed person. At least on the outside." She begins sifting through his records. There's ABBA, Supertramp, Stevie Nicks, and Pat Benatar. He's an old soul.

Harry stays silent at her assumption as he takes a black record out of its sleeve and carefully sets it on the turntable. He moves the needle to a specific spot, and a crackling song eventually filters through: "My Girl (My Love)" by Dolly Parton. It's her slowed-down version of the original song by The Temptations. 

Leaning his hip against the table, he watches Shyla take out a Stevie Nicks record. She gazes up at him and gently smiles before setting it down and closing the distance between them. Her hands innocently grasp the lapels of his leather jacket. His skin looks so smooth under the subdued lighting of the cabin, and the black ink on his chest and stomach stands out. 

Shyla begins taking his jacket off, raising her eyebrows to silently ask if she can continue. He nods, so she removes it and lets it fall to the floor. Then she drapes her arms around his bare shoulders. Harry hesitantly places his hands on her waist, swaying them to the steady music. He can't remember the last time he touched someone like this. 

He has always felt like a bullseye. Everyone tries to hit him straight in the heart and win his affection, but they miss him every time. No one has gotten close. No one has wanted to get to know the real him. 

Except for Shyla. 

She hit him in the bullseye when his green eyes met her brown ones. She pierced his lonely heart, and now he's terrified because he knows he'll mess it up. He's forgotten how to love another person and keep a flickering spark from dying. He takes the road less traveled and refuses love before he can get hurt. 

Yet he craves it like a greedy beast. Every night, he becomes jealous when he goes to the pub and watches couples dance. He becomes wretched when he tipsily listens to love songs and wishes he had someone to sing with. He becomes desperate when he falls asleep, and he dreams of being held by someone. 

The opposing path is right in front of him, but he's scared. He should run away before it grows into something he can't control, right? That's what he's used to. But as they sway, Harry obliterates those thoughts and focuses on the present. This sweet, gorgeous girl is in his arms, and she's real. 

When the song ends, Shyla steps away and moves toward the sketch papers she noticed while dancing. She admires the unique designs; flowers, suns, moons, and minimalistic landscapes of oceans and desert views fill the pages. 

"Did you draw these?" she quietly asks as her fingertips trace the graphite. 

Harry clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. He's slightly embarrassed since no one has seen them besides himself. "Kind of. Well, yes, actually. I have a lot of tattoos, as you can see. I drew most of the ones on my skin myself." 

"These are incredible," she says, facing him. "You're so talented. What's your favorite tattoo?" 

This is what he means. She's the only one who tries to dig past the hardened shell around his heart. 

Harry spreads his left arm out and doesn't hesitate to point to a specific one above the inside of his elbow. Shyla leans in closer to read the small lettering. 

Mirror in the sky, what is love? 

"I got it for my mother," he explains, his throat tight. "She's not with us anymore. She passed away eight years ago. Anyway, she would always play "Landslide" on her guitar when I was a kid." 

He hasn't opened up about that in years. What is this girl doing to him? 

Her fingers delicately touch the ink. Harry watches her softened eyes graze over the other tattoos on his arm. "I'm so sorry," she whispers with a sympathetic frown. "I lost both of my parents, so I understand how difficult it is." 

She rarely talks about her parents. Why is it so easy with him? 

"Shyla," Harry breathes, grabbing her wrists in comfort. "God, I'm sorry. That's awful." 

"It's okay. I was only four when it happened, so I don't remember much. But growing up with no parents was strange. I still feel lost a lot of the time." 

"Yeah, I get that. We don't have to talk about it anymore. Kind of a mood killer." 

Shyla laughs and nods. "I agree." She pauses and says, "Hey, I think I'll take you up on that jacuzzi offer you mentioned earlier." 

"You read my mind," he says before letting go of her wrists and walking toward the patio door leading to the balcony. 

When they step outside, the nighttime chill makes them shiver. Harry turns the string lights on above the circular jacuzzi tub and then presses the button to turn the water heater and jets on. The moon and twinkling stars above make the forest visible, with the leaves rustling in the wind. She's glad she dressed warmly. 

Oh no. She just remembered that she doesn't have her swimsuit. It's in her luggage in the trunk of her friend's car. 

"Harry?" Shyla says timidly. 

"Yeah?" 

"Um, I don't have my swimsuit with me." 

He twists around and blinks once while checking the water temperature. "Oh. Well, that's a problem." 

"I could walk back to the pub and grab it out of my suitcase," Shyla suggests. She really doesn't want to say goodnight to him yet. 

"No, no. It's late, and you don't know your way around. I could give you a pair of boxers to wear. Is that weird? Sorry, I shouldn't—" 

"No, that would work! If you're okay with it, of course." 

"I'll be right back." Harry shuffles back indoors, and Shyla dips her fingers in the hot, bubbling water of the jacuzzi. This night has not gone as planned, but she's not complaining. 

Moments later, Harry comes back with a folded pair of gray boxers. He shyly hands them to her before they both turn their backs to change. He first removes his shoes and jeans, then puts on a pair of white swim trunks he grabbed from his dresser. He usually sits in the jacuzzi completely naked, but that's neither here nor there. 

Once he's changed, he doesn't turn around in case she isn't done yet. 

Shyla puts his boxers on and decides to keep wearing her shirt. She regrets not wearing a bra tonight. She'll have to cross her arms over her chest the entire time. 

"Okay, I'm all set," she says, shifting her hair to one side. 

When Harry slowly turns around, his breathing instantly falters. She's in his boxers. It seems wrong, but so right. 

He gestures for her to get in the tub first. Seeing her curves and exposed legs makes his blood rush. Once she's in, he gets in and sits across from her. He submerges his entire body in the water except for his head as Shyla brings her knees to her chest and thinks of something to break the awkward tension. 

"Thank you for tonight," she says eventually. "And for making me a drink and teaching me how to play darts. And how to ride a horse." 

Harry rests his arms against the edge of the jacuzzi. "My pleasure. I hope I didn't mansplain darts to you. I just love playing and got excited when I got to teach someone." 

"No, it was fun. I'm totally going to get a bullseye next time we play." 

"Good luck," he murmurs with a smirk as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "So, you're planning on coming to the pub again tomorrow?" 

"My friends will probably want to since they seemed to be having a wonderful time." Shyla rolls her eyes at the thought. "I'm sure they wouldn't care if I went alone, either." 

Harry opens his eyes and studies her face. He can't help but wonder why she's friends with such horrid people. They should appreciate her grace and kindness, not ignore her and act like she's a burden. 

It's quiet for a few seconds before Harry sits beside her. The silence that ensues is unbearable as he brushes his arm against hers. 

Then, without warning, his pinky grazes the back of her hand under the water. It's the lightest touch, but it sets her skin ablaze. His eyes are burning holes in the side of her face. Flipping her palm so it faces up, she awaits his next move. Her heart nearly gives out when his fingers slowly walk across her palm. His thumb strays and begins stroking the crease, stretching directly underneath her own fingers. 

Enough of the tension. 

Shyla straddles Harry's right thigh and holds the sides of his neck. He stares at her, hunger and smug desire in his eyes, like he wants her to initiate something.

"Is this okay?" she asks. Harry isn't saying anything, so she wants to be sure. 

"Can I ask you two things?" Harry replies, his voice low and steady. Shyla is confused, but she nods anyway. "First question: Is this okay?" His hands rest on her ass. She nods again, more eagerly. "Good. Second question: Do you want to ride my thigh?" 

Oh. Shyla was not expecting that. When she feels Harry lift his thigh to apply a slight pressure to her core, it feels heavenly. 

"I've never done it before, but I want to try," she whispers as she grinds against the defined muscle. 

Harry groans at her movement and pushes his hands on her ass to keep her grinding against him. Shyla rocks back and forth, the relief making her whimper into his neck. He keeps his thigh propped up as he runs his hands across the expanse of her back. 

"That's it," he murmurs. "Just like that." 

"It feels so fucking good," she says. Her swearing causes Harry to let out a low rumble and nip at her jaw. She doesn't even know what she's doing to him. 

"Atta girl," he praises, barely brushing his lips against hers. "Use it. Make me a mess." 

Shyla realizes they haven't kissed yet. His lips look soft and inviting, and they're right there, so she tests the waters and gently, almost hesitantly, suckles on his bottom lip. Harry smirks into it, causing their lips to part. 

She shakily exhales as she continues grinding against his thigh. "Kiss me."

He laughs at her impatience, then envelops his lips with hers. He kisses her deeply and moans, the sound getting caught in his throat. Shyla slows her motions down since she's close. 

Harry's tongue parts her mouth, and he inhales when she starts sucking on it. She switches to gliding her tongue under his. A fueled desire to be closer makes their teeth clash and their hands roam near dangerous places. He lifts her and sets her over his other thigh, never breaking the kiss. A fleeting glance at her face tells him she's confused by the change, so he separates their mouth contact and squeezes her hip to get her attention. 

"I tattooed something on my thigh a couple of days ago," he says, his chest heaving. "It's still sensitive. I want you to ride it." 

Shyla doesn't waste any time as she grinds down, continuing her mission to orgasm strictly using his thigh. She can't see the tattoo he mentioned due to the cloudy water, but the thought alone makes the pressure bloom in her stomach. Harry's jaw goes slack as she rides the sensitive skin with fresh ink on it. The friction is borderline painful, but he loves it. It hurts better than any needle piercing his flesh. 

"Good girl, Shy," he whispers. His cock is throbbing at this point, straining uncomfortably under his shorts. "Gonna make me come just from watching you." 

The nickname and one last skim over his thigh have Shyla stilling and pouring her moans into Harry's ear. She feels like she's floating outside of her body as she orgasms. 

Harry, on the other hand, isn't done yet. He situates her body so that it's facing a jacuzzi jet. His arm circles around her stomach as she straddles backward on his slick thigh, the pulsating jet directly in line with her core. Shyla cries out from the sensation, her head lulling against his shoulder. Harry rubs soothing circles onto her clit through the boxers as the jet stimulates everywhere else. She can't help but grind against his thigh again as another orgasm begins to build. 

"Again," he encourages against her cheek. "One more for me." 

The double stimulation and his dirty talk quickly coax another orgasm out of her. Shyla's body crumbles when she releases for the second time, Harry's hands rubbing up and down her trembling thighs. 

"You did so good," he says, pulling her away from the jet. He turns her around, and she wraps her legs around his waist. 

Shyla clings to his warm body, slumping her head against his neck and breathing heavily from the adrenaline. Harry holds her and soaks in the physical intimacy he's been craving for so long. His cock is still aching, but he just wants to hold her right now. Feel her skin melt with his. Her heartbeat. Anything other than loneliness. 

After a while, Shyla removes herself from his arms and stands up on shaky legs. She steps out of the jacuzzi and looks at the sky. 

"You're leaving?" Harry asks with a hint of insecurity. 

"I should get back. My friends will be wondering where I am." 

"Ah, okay. Wait here. I'll get some towels." 

Harry hops out of the jacuzzi, his bulge on full display, and then goes inside. Water drips all over the floor as he jogs upstairs to his loft, palming at his cock to get some relief. He bites on his fist to stifle his moans as he swiftly grabs two bathroom towels he keeps by his dresser. 

Shyla's cum is on his thighs. She came twice on each of his thighs and soaked all the way through the boxers she had on. Even when he got out of the water, the result of it stayed on his skin. On his new tattoo, no less. The mental picture is unbelievably raunchy. 

When he steps back outside, he sees Shyla squeezing her shirt out. Her nipples are pebbled underneath, and he nearly passes out from the explicit sight of her casually standing before him. He snaps away from his immature fantasy and hands her a towel. She dries herself off, a weird silence lingering in the air. Harry hates it. How did they go from being intimate to not knowing what to say? Will she ask to stay the night? Or will she leave him lonely like everyone else? 

He turns around when Shyla begins to remove the boxers. He nibbles on his swollen bottom lip, dries himself off, and puts his leather jacket back on. He decides to just keep his swim shorts on so he doesn't have to face the shameful reality of how she made his cock the hardest it's been in years. 

Shyla inhales sharply, making Harry turn back around. "I'm going to leave," she says, buttoning her denim shorts. "My friends are probably blackout drunk, and I need to drive them before they stupidly do it themselves." 

He nods understandingly. She's right, but that doesn't mean he wants to say goodnight to her yet. "Will you let me walk you back to the pub?" he softly asks. 

Shyla smiles and gestures for him to lead the way. He puts his shoes back on while she does the same. They then head down the stairs, with Harry grabbing a lantern on the way so they can see. 

In the limited light, Shyla catches a glimpse of the tattoo on his thigh. It looks like the head of a tiger, and she notices the leg hair surrounding it is still coated with her arousal. It must not have washed off in the jacuzzi. Something fervent stirs in her stomach when she realizes he didn't even wash it off when he went back inside. 

They walk to the pub silently, and Shyla is irked by the awkwardness. Did she do this whole thing wrong? She checks her phone and sees that it's almost one a.m. 

She's about to shake every doubtful thought from her mind, but when they finally arrive at the pub, the car she rode in is gone without a trace. 

That's just cruel. 

Shyla takes deep breaths while swallowing her anger. It manifests as prickly heat spreading across her skin like wildfire. The inn they were going to stay at tomorrow is close by, so she could just see if she could acquire a last-minute room. It's not a big deal, right? 

Harry is furious. Who does that? He can't believe anyone would do something so disrespectful to such a kind girl. It doesn't matter if they're drunk; it's selfish and reprehensible in his eyes. 

"Stay at my place," he says abruptly, his jaw clenching. 

Shyla looks at him and shivers from the breeze. "I can't. Listen, I had a great time, but I need to figure this shit out with my friends and make sure they're okay. I'll find directions to the inn and get a room for the night." 

"Shy, I'm not letting you walk alone when there's a pub full of drunks nearby." 

That damn nickname makes her weak. 

"I carry pepper spray in my pocket. Go home and get some rest." 

Harry sets the lantern down before stressfully raking his hand through his hair. "I won't get any rest if I don't know you're safe," he says. 

"Do you have your phone with you?" Shyla asks. "I'll give you my number." 

"I-I don't use one," he mutters, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. 

"You really should have a phone, Harry." Her posture perks up. "Wait, the pub has to have one, right? Go in there, and I'll call it when I get to the inn. Does that sound good?" 

Harry sighs and peers at the door. "Yeah, sure. But I'm gathering a search party if I don't hear from you in twenty minutes." 

"Don't worry. I know self-defense." 

"Good, but please be safe," he says anxiously.

"I will." Shyla begins walking down the gravel path. "I'll call the pub. Promise." 

Harry helplessly watches her leave. He should say something—maybe convince her to stay with him, kiss her, walk her to his cabin, and hold her under the covers. But he's an idiot who screws things up every time. 

When Shyla calls the pub seventeen minutes later, Harry answers and gets his heart broken. She tells him that her aunt is picking her up tomorrow to go back to Portsmouth because she got into a nasty argument with her drunk friends over the phone on her way to the inn. 

She hangs up before he can say anything, and he can't help but feel like he just lost her. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

Shyla's aunt arrives at eight in the morning. Despite all the yelling over the phone, her friends were decent enough to drop her luggage off at the inn, where she managed to get a room. 

They were smart enough to have one of them be the designated driver at the pub. As much as Shyla is beyond livid, she's relieved they're all in one piece. But she can't forgive them for leaving her without knowing where she was. 

Then there's Harry. God, she feels sick to her stomach about what happened. She hung up on him because she was frustrated. Not at him, but at her friends who had been assholes, telling her she should've told them she met someone and went home with them. Well, she technically did go home with someone, but she thinks it's common decency for friends to tell friends when they're taking the car with her belongings in it to who knows where. 

Shyla was going to wait until she calmed down to call the pub, but it would have taken too long. Harry would have gone looking for her by then, so she spoke to him in a high-strung tone and told him she was going home. She was so focused on finding someone to pick her up that she didn't get to ask him about seeing each other again.

She has no way of contacting him now unless she calls the pub again or the ranch he works at. What would she say? Would he even want to talk to her? It doesn't matter since she doesn't plan to return to Lurgashall. Her friends are still staying there for the rest of the week, and with the tiny population, she'd be bound to run into them. 

Shyla looks out the car window as the city of Portsmouth slowly fades into view. She's back where she's comfortable and ready to stay with her aunt for a few days until she finds another apartment. 

Everything will be fine. She'll forget about her friends and about Harry. It was just one night. She has always been replaceable. 

—— 

| The Boy | 

Why can't he just say what he means? Why did he let her walk away so easily? Why won't she leave his mind? 

Sitting in the bathtub in his loft, Harry numbly stares at the ceiling as the water's warmth consumes him. Rose bath salt tints the water pink, and petals from his mother's favorite flower float on the surface. He purchases a bouquet from the general store every week since it's the only physical memory he has left of her. His father got rid of everything else. 

On the table across from his bed, a record player echoes Dolly Parton's Jolene album throughout the cabin. "Lonely Comin' Down" plays, and Harry almost laughs at how the lyrics perfectly fit his forlorn mood. 

He didn't get much sleep last night after the phone call, maybe three hours interrupted by tossing and turning. He had jerked off in the bathroom, feeling unbelievably ashamed of himself. He then drowned his sorrows with whiskey until his heart became heavy enough to knock him unconscious. He woke up the following morning with a migraine and drank some more whiskey for breakfast. His soul sank when he saw the Stevie Nicks vinyl Shyla picked out still on the table. 

She won't leave his mind. Her presence lingers everywhere. 

He wallows during his bath and thinks of everything he should've said and done differently. He's drunk with blurry vision from either the alcohol or tears. He doesn't know or care. All he wants is to feel her again. Try to love her. He's known her for less than twenty-four hours, yet it feels like a lifetime. He felt it at the ranch, the pub, and the jacuzzi. She pulls something out of him that hasn't seen the light of day in so long—nervousness, desire, and sensuality. Idyllic emotions that are otherwise scarce in his life. 

He has never fallen this fast before—never at all—until now. It was inevitable that he'd be an idiot and not fight for her. He let her slip through his fingers without a kiss goodbye, and now she's miles away, probably cursing his name. 

Swallowing the aching lump in his throat, Harry lets the petals in the water mend his damaged soul as tears of loneliness drip down his face. 

—— 

[captainsimagines]

pretty woman, this is me trying || four

Summary: Bucky Barnes does not like to be touched. He’s completely ready to live a distant life and give up when the time is right. Until Stark hires him his own personal pretty woman. Over time, Bucky Barnes begins to learn how to touch again. How to feel again. How to love himself again.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female SexWorker!Reader

Trope(s): Holiday Fanfic ; Slow-Burn ; Friends to Lovers

Based on the Song(s): sweet nothing by Taylor Swift and Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls

(4/14)

Mini-Series 

Warnings: references to past sexual abuse; the beginning of soft touches; strong language

Word Count: 2,200+

~

     Eating a breakfast burrito with a hot coffee in the middle of snowy Central Park was definitely something on your unwritten bucket list. Something that was too odd, too specific, to actually put onto paper.

But this.

This was the gentle gift of life.

You figured the super soldier beside you was thinking the same. Bundled in multiple layers and with a large coffee tucked near his chest, Bucky Barnes stared up at the sky. Soaking up whatever beams of sunlight bursting through the clouds. It wasn’t actively snowing, but the coldness was evident by the red of his nose.

There were barely any people around. Just the typical joggers and healthy commuters. You could hear the sirens from one direction and music blasting from the other. Typical New York morning.

Except, today, you had a companion.

Two, actually. Bucky named him Axel, named after the Father of Peace. They were practically inseparable yesterday, and Bucky did not hesitate to adopt the elder German shepherd.  He stuck his nose deeper into the doggy blanket, especially grateful for the sweater that kept his hips warm. Bucky hadn’t batted one eye when the shelter worker had told him Axel had arthritis in his hips. He had paid for the medication, stopped by the pet store, and purchased everything known to man that accompanied a pet.

Blankets, sweaters, a bed, food bowls, treats and food, even a damn raincoat.

You would have swooned if you could have stopped laughing from how serious Bucky was being. And good for him—having a pet made a human healthier. Less lonely.

Maybe adopting wasn’t such a tedious thing.

Bucky Barnes was now your companion. He officially accepted you yesterday, saying that you two could truly help each other. You, the money. Him, getting used to touch again. The experiment with the dogs was one thing, but he had plans to step it up a level. By the end of your time together, you figure you’ll be able to hold his hand.

“So,” you started, dusting your fingers of invisible crumbs. “You’ve accepted my services. We’re acquaintances now. Lay out the rules, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky smiled gently, looking down at the top of Axel’s head as he did so. “I want to start with the feeling. Like, soft touches.”

You hummed, pulling your gloves back on. Looking around the park, you debated risking hypothermia for the next part. Tugging off your boots and socks, you made sure Bucky was watching as you extended both feet off the blanket, running them through the tips of the grass. The tendrils tickled and the frozen dew pricked, but it was necessary.

“See? Do this. Imagine the grass hair to be tiny, little hands. Grabbing at your tiny, little toes.”

Bucky snorted quietly, but listened to your directions. He took his sweet time as you stomped and rolled your ankles, warming yourself the best you could. He stretched a long leg into the grass, spreading his toes and testing the waters.

“Do the hands feel nice?”

��The hands feel nice.”

Axel moaned softly, rolling over onto his back. You stared at the dog in amusement, then at Bucky, whose eyes glimmered at the dog just the same.

“Can my toe touch your toe?”

If he was uncomfortable with that question, he didn’t show it. Instead, it looked like he was trying to hold in the loudest laugh. How else were you supposed to phrase that question? But making the soldier laugh, well, that had to be a major plus.

“We can try.”

You nodded, scooting closer on the blanket. Bucky leaned his shoulders away on instinct, but he caught himself. You didn’t want to make him too uncomfortable, but he did need to learn to remind himself that danger was not present. That danger can be avoidable during sweet moments.

You moved your leg over, watching his right foot remain perfectly still. Closer, giving him time to back out if need be, until your feet left but a gap. Bucky released a heavy breath, shutting his eyes for a moment.

“You know, I got my dad’s feet. Man didn’t give me much of an allowance or words of wisdom growing up, but he did bless me with these goddamn toes.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped open, and he practically broke his neck turning to face you. His lips twitched, involuntarily splitting into a grin, before he burst out laughing. You didn’t touch him yet. You were too mesmerized by the sound and length of his neck to continue your quest.

“You have nice toes,” he commented, wiping at his beard.

“With nail polish, yes. See me without it and you’ll be singing a different tune.”

Slowly, you tipped your foot and rested your pinkie toe against his. Bucky sucked in a breath, staring, paralyzed.

“Good?”

Bucky grimaced quickly. “Sort of.”

You moved your foot, wiggling your toes. “You can ask me questions too, you know?”

“Have I not asked you questions?”

“Eh. But I know you’re wondering why I do this. They all do.”

Bucky frowned again, scrunching his nose a little. “I wasn’t wondering why you did it. You said you do it by choice. I’m not going to question that. I guess… I want to know what attracted you to it.”

There was some difference in the questions, but it was still the same question. It was considerate of him to phrase it nicely, however. “I left my hometown behind. I came here to New York like a twenty-year old idiot and thought, ‘Working retail or fast food is going to pay my rent’.”

You wanted a new place to live, a new place to exist. Was it so bad to want something so extreme? It wasn’t so bad the first few months. But as the bills started piling up and the lonelier you got, you had to seek alternative routes.

“I met a woman named Lainey. She lived a few doors down from me and we always got coffee at the same time each morning. She told me about the escort business, how this website was truthful and all that. So I tried it.”

Bucky handed you back your socks. You slipped them back on, continuing your story. “My first client didn’t ask for sex. I just went with him to an office party. The second canceled after I had already bought a dress for this huge banquet ball. But the third…”

Bucky froze as he, too, tugged on his socks.

“He didn’t tell me he wanted sex. We went on a date, and then he asked me for it. I said no, but he offered me two thousand dollars. I needed that money, Bucky.”

You swallowed hard as you zipped up your boots. “So I did it. And I cried the entire time. After that, Lainey told me that I have to make sure they explicitly say what they want in their messages. That the private messages were a contract. Since then, I haven’t slept with anyone I didn’t want to.”

“Lainey sounds like a pistol.”

You chuckled. “Yeah. She was.”

“Was?”

You shrugged, suddenly sad. “She never told anyone she had cancer.”

Axel whimpered softly, kicking his leg gently on your stomach. You grinned down at him, rubbing your gloved hand across his fur. “Lainey loved dogs. I was going to take in her dog after she died, but I ran into her mother as she was cleaning out Lainey’s apartment. That woman needed the dog more than me.”

“I’m sorry about Lainey.”

You were sorry about Lainey, too. How long has it been since you spoke about her? Since someone besides Lainey entered your apartment?

“I’ve come to love this job. I’ve learned to navigate it. I don’t recommend it unless someone genuinely has questions, but they never do. They always bring it up like it’s a joke.”

“Was Lainey your best friend?”

“In the city? I suppose.”

“You would think, in a world full of aliens and superheroes, we would have found the cure for cancer by now.”

You snorted out a laugh, turning to face him. But he was looking down at his own hand, mere inches from yours. Pinkies just a small distance away.

“How did it feel discovering the cure for smallpox?” You moved your pinkie just a little, getting closer.

“Considering they founded the vaccine in 1796, I wouldn’t know.” His pinkie inched closer, too.

“I meant polio, then.”

His finger paused, and Bucky’s shoulder crumbled. He pulled back, sighing deeply. “Polio vaccine came out in 1955. Don’t really remember, but I know Hydra shot me up with it.”

You had a sudden urge to twist your own neck. Even though you had no idea that would trigger a memory,  you had to assume that mentioning things like that would get some reaction out of him. Is it entirely your fault? No. It’s Hydra’s. But could you have been a little more considerate with your words or knowledge of history? Maybe next time.

So you tried, “Did it leave a dime-sized mark on your arm? Because for me, I have no mark at all.”

Bucky adjusted his jaw, following your lead. “I think I do. I haven’t really checked.”

“Can I be frank?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Because it may be a little out of line and totally ridiculous to say, but I think you should hear it.”

Bucky cleared his throat, laying a gloved hand over Axel’s paw.

“I need your permission before I put my foot in my mouth.”

“I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

You grumbled, fighting with yourself. You just had an internal battle with yourself for saying something, accidentally, out of line and here you were, about to do it again. But it had the potential of being a positive thing. A thing that could change the outlook of one horrible memory.

“That polio mark… I am not defending Hydra or making them seem like good people. It doesn’t have anything to do with them, really. But all the torture you endured, all the evil… They, at least, gave you something good. It’s not a defense for them, but for you. So, think about it like this. For just a moment, in the year 1955, something good happened to you.”

“It doesn’t erase the bad.”

“No. It doesn’t. It’s just a little bit mixed in there. Existing. Hiding.”

Bucky raised his eyes, meeting yours. “I’m not giving them that credit.”

You nodded. “Then don’t attach it to them. You were vaccinated against something bad, and that’s good. Period.”

“And you might have been broke in New York, but it led you to finding Lainey. Period.”

You smiled, teeth and all, thinking that Lainey would have liked Bucky. Would have probably stolen him from you. For a good reason, too.

Sticking out a gloved hand, you raised your pinkie finger. Waiting for Bucky as he did the same.

“Tell me, Bucky Barnes. Tell me what you want me to touch, and I’ll do it. Anything, as long as it won’t get me arrested.”

With a half-assed, impassive look, Bucky motioned for you to go on.

“Tell me what you want to touch, too.”

The soft breath that left his lungs swirled in the air as he exhaled, two strands from his hair bun escaping. He tucked one behind his ear, still keeping that one hand raised.

“I want,” he started, swallowing lightly. “I want to be able to hold someone’s hand. To pinky-promise. To hug them goodbye. I want to be able to see someone without clothing again, to not freak out when they scrape a knee. I want to be able to pass a plate to someone, to feel their warmth, to high-five. I want to own my body again. And I want people to know that I own myself.”

Something inside of you twisted painfully, deep in your stomach. His words felt like a reverse catapult, cannons slicing through your organs before they landed. When you first laid with someone for money, there was this awful feeling of neglect to yourself. To your own wellbeing. A feeling of raw, horrid guilt. Because you hadn’t chosen to do it fully. You hadn’t given yourself freely and completely. Half of you accepted it, while the other half writhed and begged you to stop.

After some time, you came to own these moments. To make them your own, pleasurable, chosen. You had decided the when, and the where, and the who. You owned it all.

Knowing that Bucky Barnes never had a choice… That feeling of raw, horrid guilt came rushing back—not attached to you, of course—but as an extension. As empathy. As understanding.

“I give you permission, Bucky Barnes,” you said, tucking your legs underneath yourself and facing him directly. “To touch me however you like. Whenever you like. To learn how to live again. And I promise, if I do not want to be touched, I will tell you.”

He watched your raised pinky curl, a question in his eyes.

“Cross one thing off that list,” you told him. “Accept my promise.”

So Bucky straightened his once crumbling shoulders, and wrapped his gloved pinky around your own.

~

[omniblades-and-stars]

Aumellio/Korak 37 because I am desperate to learn about the vibe between these two

I am repenting for my recent crimes by bringing you this which may be the only piece of anything I've ever written that actually counts as domestic fluff I think.

Aumellio made Korak laugh and brought him out of his shell a little bit. I hope that shows here.

From this ask meme here.

Favorite Song

A folksy tune floated into kitchen from the open bathroom door. It was followed shortly by Aumellio belting the lyrics as though he were onstage giving a world-class performance before an audience of adoring fans, and as though he could hold a tune in a bucket. Aumellio's one adoring fan smiled and adjusted his headlamp before examining the pipes underneath the kitchen sink to find out why there was water pooled on the floor when he woke up that morning.

Korak tapped his feet together as he fiddled with this fastening andthat fitting. He had turned his translator off, as he frequently did when Aumellio didn't realize he had an audience in a different room who was listening to him make a fool of himself, because Korak enjoyed hearing his turian partner's mother tongue in these little moments. It was so different from his own, but comforting in a way. Besides, he already knew all of the words to the song because it was Aumellio's favorite.

Korak heard the sound of the shower turning off as he tapped the u-bend with his pipe wrench, only for it to come clean out of the fastener. After wiping flecks of water from his eyes, he sighed and activated his translator again so he could understand if Aumellio started talking.

The connecting pipe was cut to short, so when there was a but too much water blasting into it all at once, it popped slightly out of the connection, allowing water to spray out of it.

He should have known better than to run the dishwasher and the washing machine at the same time. The runoff all dumped into the outgoingpipes for the sink, which was not up to code, thank you very much.

But such was life when you lived by simple means. Still, this apartment was better than the last one. At least there weren't bugs or holes in the wall from shotgun slugs. And it was far and away better than any place he'd lived on Omega, for the simple fact that it was not Omega.

A box in an alley was an improvement over that.

"You know, it'll get stuck like that if you don't stop making that face," Aumellio teased at just about the time he gently nudged Korak's leg with his two-toed foot.

Korak lifted his head with a smile, "'Fraid this is how I always look."

"Like you're planning to go back in time to kick the ass of whatever poor sod it was who worked on the plumbing here last?" Aumellio teased. His feet soon disappeared from view, and Korak heard a series of cabinets being opened while his boyfriend looked for some food. "Kor, I seem to remember that we agreed you were going to call the property management people and have them come fix it."

"And wait all day to be able to use our kitchen water again?" Korak asked, incensed. He felt around blindly in his canvas tool bag, pulling out a spare piece of PVC pipe he could graft to the pre-existing one. "Besides, I'll d-"

"Do it right. I know. But if they find out we were messing with theguts of their apartment, we might not get our deposit back."

Korak laughed, a deep rumbling sound, "If you were seeing what I am down here, you'd know that they wouldn't notice even if I just slapped it back together with tape." A ridiculous notion, a man had to take pride in his work. And whoever had done this seemed entirely devoid of it. Korak scooched out from under the sink just enough to catch Aumellio leaning against the kitchen table, watching him while eating from an overfilled bowl of cereal. "Do me a favor and get the heat gun from the chest in the closet?"

Aumellio took a big bite of the colorful cereal, a mischievous glint gathered in his eyes that matched the forest green shade of his family tattoos. After taking his dearest sweet time to savor it, he finally answered, "Oh, I would love to, but you forgot the secret turian sleeper agent activation phrase." Aumellio tilted his spoon back and forth like a metronome as though enough time had passed for him to grow impatient.

Korak heaved a great, dramatic sigh, "Mel, do me a favor and get the heat gun from the tool chest in the closet? Please?"

"Ah hah! You do have manners!" Aumellio exclaimed and set his bowl aside on the table. He stretched his arms high above his head, yawning greatly as he did so. "I needed to finish getting ready for work anyways," he said sleepily. "I'll return shortly with your heat gun. Don't get into trouble while I'm gone."

"Only so much trouble I can cause with my head stuck under a sink." Korak shook his head before lining the spare bit of pipe up next to the old one and marking where he needed to cut it. "If you don't hurry, your cereal's going to go soggy!" he hollered playfully from within his miniature little cavern.

"Maybe I like it like that!" came Mel's response from somewhere in the back of the apartment. Korak knew that for a lie. No one liked soggy cereal.

While he waited, Korak cut the pipe down to size. It was an easy enough thing to do with the right tool, which he had. He probably could have gotten the heat gun for himself, he realized about the time he heard Aumellio humming in the hall closet. Eh, worth waiting for the turian to take his sweet time finding it, even though his tools were very well organized. Of course, Aumellio hardly knew a wrench from a hammer, but a heat gun wasn't exactly one of the universe's grand mysteries.

"Your knight in shining business casual returns from his noble quest," Aumellio crowed and crouched to hand the sort-of gun-shaped tool to Korak. He clapped his hands on his knees, "Welp, I'm off to work. Try not to be too imposing at the hardware store ... I assume you’ll be going and I'll return home to a fully functioning kitchen with a lifetime guarantee on it."

"I keep telling you, my face just looks like this. I didn't scare that kid on purpose." Aumellio began to rise before Korak tugged on his hand. "I think you're forgetting something, Mel."

"Oh right, where are my manners?" Aumellio smiled and leaned down awkwardly to plant a kiss on Korak's lips. The headlamp bumped into the hard plates making up his forehead with a muted clink.

Korak chuckled again with a shake of his head. "Not that I'm complaining, but I really meant your breakfast," he said and tilted his head toward the table where Aumellio's bowl sat cold and abandoned.

Aumellio huffed a laugh and managed to pull himself back up to standing with help from the counter tops. "I'll eat and run!"

Before Korak could advise against Aumellio trying to eat a bowl of cereal while commuting to work, the turian was off to the races and out of the door.

Korak was quite convinced he would get a pleading text message in just a few moments, begging him to please bring a clean shirt down to the office.

Ah well. Korak shrugged, in the meantime he might as well finish fixing the sink well enough that they could at least run water through it. He hummed a tune and tapped his toes together while he worked.

It was his favorite song, too, after all.

[gaymasonjar]

Will You Meet Me In The Middle?

Preview of Chapter 9: I Won’t Give Up

 It was a warm, early October morning. Alex was sitting on the cabin’s front porch, brushing long strokes of black paint on a new metal mailbox. The silence was interrupted occasionally when he dipped the paintbrush into the paint can and tapped off the excess. The mailbox was traditional in shape. A bag of instant cement and a new post was nearby.

 The screen door creaked as it was pushed open by Michael. Two mugs of coffee occupied his hands. They were the same mugs they had made in San Diego. The alien sat by Alex and waited patiently for him to set down the paintbrush before offering the coffee.

 “Thank you”, he muttered before taking a sip.

 “Still unclear if the black is you trying to tell me you’re returning to your emo phase or not.”

 “No”, Alex snorted and motioned to the bag of small paint tubes. “I’m just creating a background.”

 “For?”

 “I thought we could maybe add our handprints.”

 Michael laughed in surprise, “Way to be very obvious.”

 “Only the ones who already know would get it.”

 Leaning over, Michael placed a kiss on Alex’s jaw, “You’re cute. I’m in.”

 “We’ll do it once the paint dries. But you could help me get the post set.”

 “Manual labor. Less cute.”

 Alex rolled his eyes but stood up while drinking more of the coffee. Michael followed Alex down to the end of their driveway after picking up the post, cement bag, and shovel. There were a few random cacti at the edge of the road. Because the cabin was fairly remote, it had never had a mailbox, to begin with.

 “You expecting to get alot of mail while we’re here”, Michael commented.

 “I did submit our change of address already”, Alex shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

 “Oh, yeah?” He stuck the shovel into the ground near the base of the post to dig it out.

 “I was already informing them of then the name change anyway.”

 Michael stomped on the shovel a bit harder to get it deeper into the soil. Alex watched him take no time at all to dig the perfect hole. Alex held the post in place with one hand as Michael went about pouring the cement. He used a bucket of water to active the cement. Alex hummed contently the entire time, keeping his eyes on Michael.

 “So, I was thinking”, the alien began. “How do you feel about renovations or maybe a rebuild?”

 “On the cabin?”

 “Well, yea. It’s falling apart a little bit”

 The brunette teased his bottom lip between his teeth in thought. “I don’t see why not. If building a home together means literally building it together, I’m okay with that. I know the cabin is small.”

 “Yea, of course. But really, I just want to make it more accessible for you.”

 “It’s not so bad.”

 “Alex the floorboards are so uneven that even I trip walking through the living room and I’m not the one with a metal leg. And don’t get me started on that tiny bathroom. Not even a single handicap bar to grab onto.”

 “Hey”, he grabbed Michael’s shoulder gently. “It’s your home too. Whatever you wanna do. Honestly, as long as I’m with you, I’m happy.”

 He turned his head to place a kiss on his hand. “We’ll do it together. This cement needs time to harden anyway.”

 “What- you wanna start now?”

 “Got anything else planned for today?”

 Alex pursed his lips. Deep Sky was giving him alot of time off between surviving severe radiation poisoning, getting married, and moving. He nodded in agreement. Michael dusted his hands off while walking his husband back towards the house. He grabbed a pad and paper, sketching a rough blueprint of their house.

 “It’s not very large…kinda crowded”, Michael stated. “But we’ve got plenty of property- we could expand.”

 Alex felt his brows shoot up, “How big are we talking, Guerin?”

 “Maybe like an office and spare rooms for guests. Someplace where you can work on your music too. I can keep the underground room for my lab.”

 “That would be nicer than having all my stuff in the living room.”

 “Okay…I think we start with blueprints. But maybe I should call Isobel”, Michael muttered. “She’s way better at this stuff than I am- the interior decorating part. I can handle the building aspect.”

 “We could do that. I know you miss seeing her.”

 “I’ll call her later”, Michael sighed as he felt Isobel poke at their psychic connection since he was thinking about her.

 They headed into the house to get started. Michael started with the existing blueprint first so he knew where the gas, water, and power lines were. Alex mostly watched him work. Michael’s mind was incredibly gifted. The new blueprints were extremely detailed. The existing cabin was going to be torn down. It reminded Alex of the time they tore apart that tool shed back in Roswell.

 “We should bring your Air Stream here”, Alex suggested. “That way we have a place to sleep while we build.”

 “That’s not a bad idea.”

 Alex wrapped his arms around Michael who was seated, resting his chin on his head. “Then we can get dinner with your sister and ask her for some help.”

 Michael grabbed Alex’s arm gently and rubbed his thumb against it. His eyes were focused on the blueprints. The new house would have three levels, including the underground basement. It would be bigger than Alex's old house by the time it would be finished. Plenty of room to grow.

Read more on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45325099/chapters/115431916

[c-r-ash-crash]

Keep The Faith Chapter 29: A Warning

He was making good progress, despite how out of shape he was.  He’d left the morning after receiving the map from the strange trader.  Hade had pointed out that the trip would probably take a couple.  She had also insisted he take a rudimentary chestplate with him.

He’d accepted begrudgingly, not wanting to make her more worried than she already was.  It was lighter than he expected, to the point where he barely even noticed it anymore.  If he had to, he could probably get used to fighting in this.  Or running.  It would have been useful when-

He forcefully cut himself off.  He wasn’t going to spend anymore time thinking about that.  His nightmares had been enough.  The scar over his chest throbbed in time to his heartbeat.

He still remembered how the metal had felt as it pushed through his skin and muscle and lodged itself into his heart.  He remembered the way he had felt every painful, stuttering beat of his heart as it tried to keep him alive despite the knife lodged in his chest.

It was the same as when the vampires had stuck their needles into his veins and sucked him dry, day after day, hour after hour.  His heart had stuttered then too, trying futility to keep him alive.  The same feeling haunted him whenever his heart skipped a beat and-

“No,” he growled.  “No.  You’re not going to remember that today.  You’re just on a walk, on your way to explore a cool old mansion.  It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining and no one is going to hurt you.”

He forced himself to take a breath.  It managed to calm him a little bit.  His thoughts slowed enough for him to remember some of the breathing exercises Zolile had taught him.  His fingers tapped at the hilt of his sword, and he forced them to still.  He was safe out here.  He didn’t need his sword.

It really was a beautiful day out.  By now, his journey had taken him away from the rest of the populated areas and into undeveloped plains.  Large oaks dotted the ground here and there, and small ponds would spring up occasionally.  They didn’t seem to spawn from any kind of river or creek, but he supposed different dimensions had different rules.

The sky was a brilliant blue and utterly cloudless.  The sun made the grass seem like it was glowing a soft emerald.  Occasionally a wild cow or sheep would drift past, lowing softly and munching on the grass.  One sheep even drifted close enough to allow him to run a hand through its fur.

“Baaa.”  It butted the side of his leg gently.  

“Hey, little guy.”  Joey continued rubbing at the lamb’s head.  “You’re friendly.”  He stood there for a few minutes, twisting his fingers through the sheep’s soft wool.  Eventually, it got bored and wandered away.  Joey continued on, his spirits considerably lighter.

Around midday, he stopped for lunch, discarding his sword and chestplate.  He’d found a beautiful little spot, hidden at the edge of a pond by a clump of trees.  He swirled his feet in the water and pulled a sandwich out of his inventory.  He’d been slowly getting used to keeping things in there, but food still made him wary.  He kept expecting it to spoil.  It hadn’t so far, though.

He took a cautious bite, but it was still as fresh as when he had made it that morning.  A few weeks ago, Lizzie had dropped off nearly two bucketfuls of salmon, ostensibly as a thank you for gathering the quartz she needed.  The gleeful smile on her face suggested a salmon killing spree, however.  Joey had been too afraid to ask.

He’d slowly been trying to make his way through all the fish.  He’d donated one of the buckets to Hade and her family, but it was slow going when it came to his own portion.  He’d managed to eat half the bucket already, but that was after he’d given some of the salmon away to his people.

Eventually, the sun reached its zenith and Joey tugged his shoes back on.  He was strapping his scabbard back around his waist, when he heard a soft meow coming from the foliage.

He paused, and bent down to examine the clumps of bushes around the tree stumps.  Eventually, he spotted two yellow eyes looking at him forlornly.  “Hey, buddy,” he cooed.  

“Mrrow.”

“Are you stuck?”  The cat whined pitifully.  “Alright, buddy.  Just one second.  I’ll have you out of there in no time.”

Slowly, Joey reached his hand out, letting the cat sniff it.  Once he was sure the cat was comfortable, he reached his other hand in and slowly pulled the cat loose from the branches.

“There you go, buddy.”  Gently, he set the cat back on the ground.  It was tiny, barely the size of his hand, with soft black fur.  It rubbed its head against his ankle, wrapping around his legs.  

“I’m glad you’re out of there too,” Joey said with a hint of a laugh.

“Ah, there you are, Killian,” someone said.

Joey whirled around to see an older woman standing on the bank of the pond, right where he had been a few moments ago.  She had a large protruding nose and gnarled hands.  She was dressed in a long, purple dress and there was a basket of laundry in her hands.

“Oh, hello, dearie,” she said, taking notice of Joey.

“Hello,” he said with a small wave.

Killian, the cat, tottered over to the woman and began rubbing against her as she kneeled down.  She began swirling her clothes in the water.  Killian meowed up at her insistently.  The woman hummed in interest.  

“My, my.  Is that so?”  Then, she turned to Joey.  “Killian says you helped him get free from the bushes.”

Joey opened his mouth to comment on the fact that she could apparently talk to the cat, but thought better of it at the last minute.  The old woman seemed to read his mind, however.  “Oh, of course Killian talks to me, dearie.  He’s my familiar.”

“You’re familiar?”

“Well, I’m a witch.  Hasn’t your village taught you about all that?  Then again, your kind normally avoids me.  So perhaps your village hasn’t really taught you much of anything.”

“Ah.  I’m…not exactly from a normal server.”

“I see.  Tell me, dearie, what’s your name?”

“Joey.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Joey.  It’s not often I meet a player so willing to help an old witch like me out.  And especially one that’s willing to help my familiar.  Why don’t you stay for a little while, dearie?  I’d love to get to know you.”

“Um, sure.  Why not?  Do you need help with anything?”  He gestured vaguely to the basket of laundry.

“Well aren’t you a dear?” the woman said.  “You can help me hang all this up to dry.”

Joey spotted the clothes line she had strung up between two of the branches, and he began clipping the wet clothes onto it.  “So, how old is Killian?”

“Oh, silly.  He’s a familiar, remember?  He’s nearly as old as I am.”

“Oh.  Well, he looks pretty good for his age.”

She laughed softly.  “That’s because familiars reflect the state of their spellcasters soul.  Even as I get older, I’m always young at heart.  They really didn’t teach you much on your old server, did they, dearie?”

“No, they really didn’t.”

The two of them lapsed into comfortable silence after that.  Occasionally, Killian would rub against Joey’s legs and he would reach down to rub the cat’s head.

“What’s on your mind dearie?” the woman said after a while, startling Joey.  “I can see something’s troubling you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he assured her quickly.  “I’m alright.”

“Oh, come now.  Don’t you pull that with me.  I’m older than I look, you know.  Tell me what’s got you worried, dear.”

“I…” He paused, thinking of the best way to phrase it.  “I guess I’m just thinking about some old friends.”

“I see.  What exactly was it that you were thinking about these old friends?”

“I, um, I just miss them a lot.  I lost them pretty recently.  It…it wasn’t quick.  Or pleasant.  I guess this is really the first chance I’ve actually had time to deal with the fallout.  I just - I guess it’s just the first time that I’ve wanted to turn to them to tell them some joke or story about my day and…and they weren’t there.”  He swallowed down tears.  The woman waited patiently for him to continue.  Eventually, he found his voice again.  

“I guess there was a part of me that kind of always assumed they would be there.  I didn’t necessarily take them for granted.  But…I think I just kind of always thought that even if they were never part of my life, I’d always remember the way we laughed together.  And I still remember that.  I really do.  But at the same time, I keep reaching for that laughter, and it feels like it’s just…out of reach, you know?  And that feeling of having all the good they did slipping through my fingers, of never being able to save them…It just opens that wound all over again and I have to realize that I-I can never save them.  I had my chance and now it’s gone.  And I’m never getting it back.”

The woman hummed in understanding.  Then, she set the now empty basket in his arms and began to fold the dry laundry.  

“Hold this, for me, please.”  The two worked in silence for a moment.  Then, the old woman seemed to find what she wanted to say.  “That all sounds horrible, Joey.  I’m truly sorry that someone as young as you has had to experience such tragedy.  But that’s not what’s truly bothering you, is it?”

He began to refute her, but her expression brokered no argument.  He paused and considered it for a moment.  Finally he said, “I had the chance to save them.  I had that chance and I didn’t.  But more than that…they were only there because of me.  And you know, maybe some of their deaths weren’t my fault.  I didn’t know, or I was tricked…but so many of their deaths were my fault.  And even the ones that might not have been, well it sure as hell feels like they were my fault.  And I’m not a good person.  I know that.  I know that.  And I’ve known it for a while.  But I guess this is the first time I’ve ever had to actually live with it.  This is the first time I’ve had to acknowledge that fact without a constant threat looming over my head.  I’m a bad person, and I still have to live with myself.  And…I don’t think I like it.”

“Oh, dearie,” the woman said with a soft, sympathetic smile.  “Bad people don’t stop to help old women do their laundry.”

Joey froze.  He opened his mouth, intending to say something.  But nothing came out.  He gaped like that a few more times before his voice finally returned.

“Really?”  He hated how desperate he sounded.  He hated how much hope there was in it.  Because if he wasn’t a bad guy, then-then he couldn’t…he just couldn’t.  Before he knew it, the old woman had wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a tight hug.

His shoulders were shaking.  But he refused to cry.  He wouldn’t cry.  He’d already done enough crying.  He pointedly ignored how the old woman’s sleeve grew wet beneath him.

“Why don’t you go sit down, dearie?  I can finish up easily enough.”  She took the basket from his arms and led Joey to the edge of the pond, and he sat down numbly.  Killian came up to his side and began rubbing against him, demanding attention.  Joey rubbed the top of his head, and Killian crawled into his lap.  The cat then promptly made himself a loaf.  Joey found himself smiling softly at that.

Eventually, the woman finished hanging up her laundry and she came to sit beside him.  She offered him a smile, but there was something darker behind her eyes.

“What is it?” Joey asked wearily.

“I am a woman of many powers,” she began.  “I have lived a long life, and seen many things.  And when I look at you Joey, I see many, many things, both past and future.  I know your soul, and all that has shaped it.”  

She paused, letting Joey take in that information.  Part of him wanted to accuse her of lying, but there was an understanding behind her expression that he couldn’t deny.  “Ok,” he said.  

She continued.  “I can also see what will shape your soul.  And you are a good person, Joey.  You are a good person who has been forced to run headlong into tragedy with no warning beforehand and no idea of what you would have to become.  And now, I have the chance to offer you that kind of warning.  But I cannot blame you if you do not choose to take it.  The decision is yours, dear.  And whatever you decide, you will find a way to live with it.”

Joey twisted his fingers through Killian’s fur.  Did he want to know?  What good would come from knowing?  He’d known for a long time that his future would never be kind.  Would it be worth it to know exactly how the world planned to screw him over this time?  Then, his thoughts drifted towards Hade and Amal and all his people.  His future would never be kind.  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t protect others’s futures.

“Let’s hear it.”

The woman nodded.  Around them, the air cooled, the temperature dropping nearly ten degrees.  Her eyes began to glow, and clouds gathered overhead.

“Joey Graceffa, unwitting champion,” she began to recite.  “Your future is not kind.  You will know great pain and suffering.  Your trials are not yet over.  No matter how fast or how far you run, you will never escape your fate until you stand and face it.  Sickness comes for the Lost Empire, Joey Graceffa.  Infection and rot and evil is coming for you and your people.  It will sink into the land and water and the very spirit of the Lost Empire until there is not one person safe from your folly.  Even you will not be safe.  Of all those infected by the creeping rot and corruption, you will suffer the worst.  You will watch as your nation is plunged into war, and you will have to know that it is your fault.  You must make your decision, Joey Graceffa.  Will you finally stand and face who you are meant to be, or will you continue to be a coward.  Your trial is fast approaching, and you must make your decision!”

The woman began to exit out of her trance, but Joey had already leapt to his feet, his hand on his sword.  She watched as he fled the words of the prophecy, terrified of their meaning.  “May the gods protect you, child,” she murmured.  Then, she returned her attention to Killian and her laundry.

[stardewremixed]

Sebastian x Farmer (easily blushing) strolling through snowy valley hand-in-hand

Request by @silverlitskies (sorry for the awful delay)

....

Sebastian could play on a thousand stages in a hundred different countries. Play the same chord. Hear the same screams of adoring fans. He could travel the world. See legends. Play with legends. Be a legend. 

He could flip his bangs with just the right head twist. The kind to make fans sigh and swoon. He could pose at just the right unnatural angle but a position oddly appealing to the masses.  Flash a kilowatt smile. He might never admit it. But he had practiced in a mirror. He would not be shown up by Sam. That man had serious golden retriever energy and could make anyone laugh. 

Maybe instead he could offer a simpering pout. Puckering his lips. Signing a scribble of his signature on the photo. Selling it for a a hundred gold a pop. No two hundred. The thousand teenage girls clamoring his name, embarrassingly enthusiastically, declaring their love for him. Him? The scrawny, lanky, pierced, basement-dwelling, programming genius who also happened to have a natural talent for songwriting and could’ve ruined his brain with all the weed he smoked back in college. They didn’t care.  

A year ago, maybe nine months ago, he could have done just that. He could've signed with a fancy label as the next musical sensation. Bringing Sam along for the ride. 

Sebastian kicked a loose stone on the path out of his way. Ah... who am I kidding? Sam would drag him along for the ride. And Sebastian would've protested, but he would've loved it for a time. But not nearly as much as something... or rather someone... else.

None of the screams of the fans could compare to the Farmer screaming their head off because of a spider in the dish cabinet. Begging for help. He smirked. He could never understand how this person chose the farming life and could handle slimes in a mine, but couldn’t handle a teeny tiny eight-legged creature. None of the fame and stage lights and noise could compare to a quiet morning alone sipping coffee at the dining table together. None of the signatures on idol photos could compare to signing his name on a birthday card for the one he loved. None of the red-faced declarations of desire could compare to the bashful first kiss shared with the Farmer under a snowy sky just like this one. 

Sebastian knew all the their favorite songs. The way they perked up when he played the perfect chord on the piano. The way they idly hummed the tune later while bent over a metal milk bucket, or collecting fresh warm eggs in the hen house, or pulling carrots in the field. He knew his music brought joy to the Farmer's life. An adoring crowd couldn’t compare to the way their smile could melt the frost on the coldest of days when he walked into a room. That is... he sighed pleasantly, perfection. 

He squeezed their hand as they continued to walk along the path in near silence. It didn't matter if it was dark. He knew their cheeks turned pink, like they always did when he showed affection. Even if no one was around. 

They were returning from the mountain, another dinner with his family. Another evening of Maru trying to one-up him on leetspeak and technobabble. Another night of his mom's probing asking not so subtle questions about when she might become a grandmother. Another shared meal where all he could talk about with his stepdad was frogs. 

And the Farmer put up with it all, their cheeks turning red anytime they were the center of attention. How could their blush be the cutest and hottest thing ever at the same time? They put up with it all, kissed him on the cheek once outside out of view, and suggested the long way home so they could enjoy more time in his company, on a quiet winter night. 

As they trudged through ankle deep snow, Sebastian realized something in that moment. Something he had never dared to dream of before when everything was out there and he was stuck in his own head. And he thanked his lucky stars that he didn't miss what was in front of his face. For someone to love his music as much as him, so totally different from him, in nearly every way, and yet so in tune with his heart, in harmony with his soul... for that someone to choose him, was nothing short of a miracle for the boy living in his parents' basement, coding in the dark, catching smokes and frogs in his wooded backyard. Stuck going no where and suddenly realizing no where was where he wanted to be... right with this little blushing beauty... holding their hand and never letting go.

[baronessblixen]

A prompt if I may ask for one, how sick does Scully have to get before she will admit she is sick? Cancer arc hurt/comfort please

I hope this enough hurt/comfort! There's definitely cancer arc angst. Wc: 1340. Tagging @today-in-fic and @xffictober2021

Fictober Day 2: Whispered Words

She's been on her feet all day, slicing and dicing, trying to keep up with Mulder. Same old, same old. Except it's not. Her muscles protest as she changes out of her scrubs. Her legs barely lift, and she stumbles, catching herself just in time against the lockers. She looks around, her cheeks flaming red, but she's all alone. She sits down to tie her shoes and when she leans forward, the slight headache she's been ignoring all day, presses against her forehead, reminding her of the unspeakable.

Mulder is waiting for her, roaming the halls restlessly like a caged animal.

"There you are," he says when he sees her, and she forces a smile. "Any anomalies?" He asks, cracking a sunflower seed. The sound is loud in her ears, and she startles.

"No," she says, "nothing abnormal." Mulder makes a disappointed noise. She can't blame him; they're stuck in this case, every lead a dead end.

"Let's go back to the office. There must be something we're missing." She tries to keep up with Mulder's long, athletic strides and finds that she can't. She should have kept on her sneakers. The heels squish her toes, make her slow and sluggish. Mulder stops to open a door and Scully, breathless, averts her face so that he doesn't notice. When his fingers come into contact with her back, right where they always do, at the tip of her tattoo, tears shoot into her eyes. Her glazed skin cracks and she winces.

Mulder, oblivious to her internal turmoil, removes his hand but the pain remains. Ahead of her, his form turns blurry. Every step is agony, like she's walking on coals. The heat spreads thickly, gathers in her stomach.

"Scully? Are you okay?"

How many 'I'm fine's’ are too much, she wonders as she stares at him, leaning against the wall. She's breathless, can't take in enough air. Her stomach revolts against everything and she prays silently like she never has before to please, please not be sick right here, right now.

"Hey." Mulder is by her side, crouching down to be eye-level with her. She doesn't want to look at him. She wants to tell him that she's fine. She wants to be okay.

"I'm- I don't-," she breaks up, sobs; she doesn't want to cry but her tears fall anyway. If she doesn't say it, if she doesn't admit she's sick, then she won't be, right?

"It's okay," Mulder says and touches her arm. "Do you- can you walk on your own? Do you need an ambulance? I'm gonna call-"

"Mulder, no." She puts her hand on his where it lays on her arm. "I just want to go home. Just... home."

He helps her out of the building and into the car. They're taking baby steps. One foot in front of the other as if she's just learned how to do it. Mulder is quiet next to her but his thoughts are screaming, piercing through her mind.

"What about work?" She asks once they start driving. Her tongue feels three times its normal size and it's a struggle to get the words out.

"Work can wait. It's not that important."

Any other day she would protest. Any other day she'd tell him she was better already. Today, though, she stays silent, accepts the fate her body has inflicted on her.

She leans her head against the cold glass window, watches the scenery pass by. It makes her nauseous. They drive past roadkill; a small fox, its life over before it's really begun. Scully closes her eyes against the pain, against the unfairness of it all.

She doesn't remember falling asleep but when she opens her eyes again, they're at her apartment building and she's in Mulder's arms.

"What are you doing?" She asks, her voice thick with sleep.

"Didn't have the heart to wake you," he says, his words in her hair, like new fallen snow. "How are you feeling?"

"Sick," she says, too exhausted to lie.

"We're almost there. Can you stand? I need to unlock the door." As if she were his grandmother's porcelain, he puts her down and opens the door.

"I can walk," she says quickly before Mulder can pick her up again. He follows her like a guard dog, watching her every move. She walks straight to her bedroom and collapses on the bed.

"Do you want me to call your mother?"

"What for?" She mumbles, feeling Mulder remove her shoes.

He doesn't answer right away but he's still there because she feels his hand on her ankle.

"Mulder?" She asks.

"To help you... get changed, eat something. Do you want me to call her?"

"No. I'm fine." As long as she doesn't open her eyes again. She will manage. Her clothes are loose enough to sleep in; she's done so before.

"Tell me if anything is uncomfortable." She hears Mulder's voice, but it doesn't register. The sound of a zipper tears through the silence and as cold air hits her legs, she realizes it's her own. Mulder is removing her pants. She should say something, stop him. But she can't. The words won't come. She shivers and Mulder mumbles an apology, quickly finding her pajamas.

"I won't look," he swears with a gentle smile that distracts her for just a moment. He opens her blouse, one button at a time. "Bra on or off?" He asks, glancing at her face. Only someone who's never worn a bra would ask that question.

"Off," she manages to say. Mulder nods, keeps his eyes on her face and takes her bra off. How often has she dreamed about Mulder undressing her? How many fantasies has she had? None have ever been like this. Not a single one. She’d scream if she had the strength.

He helps her into an oversized t-shirt that she's certain used to be his. Neither comments on it.

"Lie down," he says. "I'll get you your meds." Scully listens to him moving around in her kitchen and swearing once or twice. She can't move. Her eyes keep falling shut, too heavy to stay open. She fights it, fights everything. Somewhere in her apartment, Mulder is talking. She hears snippets, deducts that he must be talking to her mother. 'Tired' is one word, 'worried' and 'stubborn' are uttered as well.

"I'll take care of, Mrs. Scully. I won��t leave her alone," Mulder says close to her bedroom. Fresh tears threaten to fall. This is everything she didn't want. Nothing was supposed to change. She's a medical doctor and she should know better. This is only the beginning.

"I'll call you if anything changes. Bye." Mulder walks back into the bedroom and sets a cup of tea and crackers on her nightstand. He leaves again, returns with a small bucket, a towel, and another blanket.

"I hope you're not crying cause the tea tastes bad." She touches her cheek, unaware that she's started crying. "Do you need anything else? Do we need to call your doctor?"

We. Not her, we. She merely shakes her head no, not trusting her voice.

"I won't leave. Anything you need, just tell me. Okay? Anything at all." He touches her forehead, his fingertips gentle against her skin.

"Try to get some rest, hm?"

"Where are you going?" She asks him.

"The living- I can stay here if you want." She's too tired to fight it. She knows in half an hour, an hour tops, her limbs will feel as if they're freezing. She will shiver and there will be nothing that can keep her warm. Except... tonight, she wants to take. This disease is taking from her every day, chipping away at her life every passing moment. Tonight she'll, too, be outlandishly demanding.

"Stay," she whispers. "Please stay."

In the next few hours, she falls in and out of sleep, eats, drinks and gets sick. Repeatedly. Mulder is right there with her, never once leaving her side. In the morning, when she feels better, they don’t mention it. They never do.

[restapesta]

20. "kinda love fucking being married"

Mickey smiles when he sees him.

It doesn't matter that the clock on his phone shows 2:12 AM or that it's pitch black in their apartment, the only light being the white-ish one of their kitchen, just barely illuminating the space. It doesn't even matter they have work in the morning and that it's definitely not the time to be up.

None of that matters when Ian's down on the floor, leaning against the fridge carelessly, head and back pressed flat against the metal as he eats from a huge pint of Ben and Jerry's, a big-ass spoon in his hand.

Mickey smiles at the image. He can't help but think it's adorable.

"You having a threesome without me?" He asks quietly once he's close enough. Ian stills, eyes wide as they connect with Mickey's as if he's been caught committing a crime. "Not cool, man. Not cool."

"Mick," Ian says around a spoonful of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. It's their mutual favorite—they'd only bought it that day on their trip to Costco. "It's two am. Why are you up?"

"Why are you up?"

Mickey isn't even tired. It doesn't matter he only fell asleep at eleven pm with the chickens, Ian draped across him like a blanket. It's as if he'd taken a short nap—three-ish hours, average—and he was wide awake now.

And seeing Ian with a blush on his cheeks because he had snuck out of bed to sneakily get a midnight snack does things to Mickey's insides. Things he never wants to admit to. They're like butterflies, but better—mostly because he's not nervous, just fuckin' happy.

"Think we can make this a foursome?" He asks as he settles down onto the floor, right next to Ian, so close that their arms are touching and their thighs are pressed together. He enjoys the warmth radiating off of his husband; enjoys the way there's heat crawling up his neck, something not even the ice cream can cool down.

As if reading his mind, Ian hands the bucket over to Mickey. It feels cool between his palms, but Mickey doesn't focus on it. He focuses, instead, on his husband leaning over—not getting up, too lazy for it—to open their utensil drawer. He pulls out another big spoon, a wide grin on his face. He proceeds to wiggle his eyebrows at Mickey as he turns around, then slightly frowns when he sees Mickey's already stuck his previously used spoon into his mouth.

It's almost as if he's offended. Mickey stops himself from scoffing.

"Come on, it's not like I never had my tongue in your mouth."

Ian's eyes glint as he settles back next to him, shrugging as if realizing Mickey had a point. He digs the spoon into the melting ice cream as soon as it's within reach.

"Why are you even up at this time?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I had a craving."

Mickey feigns a gasp, not able to pass up in the joke. He can't help it—he's in a mood. He suppresses a smile as he asks, "You pregnant?"

It makes Ian snort and they look at each other as they laugh into the empty space, even the chuckles hushed because, well, it was two am.

"Yeah, Mick," Ian whispers, biting his lower lip to stop a smile from breaking out across his face. It doesn't work, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "You finally managed to knock me up."

Mickey tsks. "Hey, no kink-shaming!"

Ian nudges Mickey's arm with his elbow. "Like you never made fun of my daddy kink."

"You're daddy kink is funny."

"Oh, and your breeding kink isn't?"

"Shut up," Mickey giggles like a high-school girl, as if he were high on helium.

There was something about this moment, sitting in his home with his husband on the kitchen floor at two in the morning, eating ice cream like there was no tomorrow, that made his insides churn pleasantly.

Mickey leans his head on Ian's shoulder. Their legs were already intertwined, but now they're so tangled that Mickey can't even guess which one's his own and which one's Ian's. Or maybe he can, their height difference making his chest swell satisfyingly.

He tilts his chin up slightly so he could look at Ian, his fucking husband, who's happily stuffing cold-as-fuck ice cream into his mouth without even flinching. No brain freeze, yet Mickey's own is fuzzy.

"I fucking love being married to you." He admits, the serendipity of this night making him vulnerable and open in all the best ways.

Ian smiles at that, discarding both the spoon and the pint next to himself, looking Mickey straight in the eye. It takes a few moments while he does it, and Mickey watches his every moment. From the curve of his jaw as he twists to the bobbing of his throat as he locks gazes with him again.

He presses a kiss in between his eyebrows like a doofus, and Mickey feels the coldness of Ian's lips on his forehead.

"I fucking love being married to you, too."

Ian's lips are numb from the cold when Mickey goes up to kiss them, but they warm up fairly soon, the friction of his own perfect for it. He wraps an arm around Ian's neck, the other trailing a finger across the smooth skin of his cheekbone. They're nothing but lazy kisses that will eventually lull them to sleep, but still.

The ice cream's melting beside them. It will be nothing but yucky warm goo by the time they wake up in the morning, perhaps tired and grumpy from the lack of sleep and their late-night endeavor.

Mickey can't bring himself to care as he holds Ian close, a smile on both their lips as they make out in the dark, asses numbing on the chilly floor.

It's bliss, Mickey thinks.

Bliss.

[fandomficsnstuff]

Across Time -13

Summary: Infiltrating the Ministry of Magic for the locket was hard enough, but what will you do when the time turner you were wearing starts to spin as you’re apparating out of there in a panic? Letting go of your friend’s hand to stop it turning, you land on soft grass, hitting your head on something hard and knocking out. When you come to, you’re in a cabin with an old man, eyes crystal blue as he takes care of you, speaking a language you’d never heard before, he introduces himself as Ragnar after you’ve cast a spell to understand his language. You travel to a small town with him, everyone is dressed as though you’re in the ninth century and you're greeted by four men, all of them sharing the clear blue eyes of the man you had been travelling with, all with the same colored hair, all except for one of these men. Raven black hair and the most blue eyes you’ve ever seen, even the whites of his eyes are blue. Ragnar introduces you to Ivar, the raven haired cripple who is one of his sons. As you travel to England in hope of finding a way back, you realise that this was not your England, not the one you grew up in. Defeated, you return to Kattegat with Ivar but soon he figures out, as Ragnar did, that you are not quite all you seem. How will you get home, if ever? A broken time turner, stuck in a time before your own, how can you fix the time turner and get back to your friends before it’s too late?

(Warnings: some mentions of a dark subject, aka: what happened to Astrid)

Battle braids: https://www.pinterest.dk/pin/107875353565519889/

Credit for the moodboard goes to the amazing @quantumlocked310 as always<3

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You yawned as a silent protest while Ivar had you follow him, he had practically dragged you out of bed and gotten you to follow him outside into the cold morning air. Your eyes were half open as you yawned again, Ivar rolling his eyes at your tired state, scoffing lightly “what if I had been someone who wanted to kill you, hm? You need to be more awake” Ivar scolded softly and you rolled your eyes “when I’m sleeping? Ivar, I will hex you into the next decade” you muttered annoyed, Ivar grinning at your comment as though he had succeeded in something he had set out to do. Ivar led you to what you guessed was the smith, pulling up a stool and sitting down on it to give his legs a break, pointing to some round stone with a handle, a smirk on his lips. “You need to learn how to sharpen that thing” Ivar said and gestured to the sword you hadn’t even put on, your hands gripping the sheathed sword, eyes trailing down to it before going back to Ivar, glaring at him with all your might. “You woke me up at the arse-crack of dawn-”

“I never knew you to use such language-”

“To sharpen my already sharp sword?.... I’m going to murder you, Ivar” you growled, Ivar still smirking as he shrugged lightly “but first, you will learn” he stated and you rolled your eyes, got out your sword and threw the sheath at him, luckily he caught it, so it wouldn’t fall to the muddy ground. “What do I do?” you asked with eyes closed for a split second, sleep still being just around the corner so you forced your eyes open again, blinking rapidly to try and stay awake, which greatly amused Ivar. “First, you will need to whet the stone. Try turning that handle while pouring water on the stone” Ivar instructed and you sighed before handing him the sword and doing as told, scooping small amounts of water up from a bucket with one hand and turning the handle with the other. Once Ivar nodded you stopped turning the stone wheel and grabbed your sword, glancing at Ivar who softly shook his head with a smirk “no, tilt it, the edge will need to lie against the stone- yes like that” Ivar guided and you tilted your sword accordingly, turning the handle while holding the sword in place, Ivar nodding softly “it will do” he stated and you stopped what you were doing and glared at him, about to say something when a voice spoke up first “why do you have her working that alone, Ivar?” Hvitserk words made you glare even harder at Ivar, who shrugged with an amused and arrogant grin. Hvitserk scoffed at his brother and then walked closer, took your sword and gave you a nod towards the handle, showing you how to angle your sword as you turned the handle, making sure the entire side of the blade was sharpened and not just one side, and when he was satisfied, he lifted the sword off of the turning stone and gestured to you. “Here, try” he said softly, the two of you switching places and you turned the sword to the other side, laying it on the turning stone as Hvitserk began to turn the handle, guiding you on how to best sharpen this side as well. Ivar glared at the sight before him; you sharpening your sword with Hvitserk leaning in close to you to watch the process while turning the stone wheel, he abhorred how close Hvitserk stood to you, his face next to yours as you both watched your sword, occasionally he would quietly interstruct you, but other than that there was clearly a comfortable silence between you two.

“(Y/N), when we are training, your hair gets in the way, that cannot happen in battle” Ivar stated and your eyes turned to look at him, a sense of pride bubbling in his chest, now he had your attention, and not his brother. “It’s annoying, yeah, and it’s gotten pretty long, but I don’t have any hair ties with me though” you muttered and Ivar couldn’t help but smirk “you could braid your hair? I am sure it will suit you well” Ivar said calmly and his smirk grew even more when you smiled softly at him. You walked towards Ivar, putting your sword back in it’s sheath and sighed as you smiled once again at Ivar “alright, is there anything in particular you have in mind?” you asked and Ivar shrugged calmly, about to open his mouth to speak when his brother beat him to it “I can braid it for you” he spoke casually and you turned to face him, much to Ivar’s annoyance. “Really? Thank you! Can we start now then?” you asked and Hvitserk nodded, making you grin “alright! Come on!” you called over your shoulder as you headed for your small hut, suddenly more awake, Hvitserk about to follow when Ivar called out for him. “What do you think you are doing, bother?” Ivar asked in a calm voice, yet from the look in his eyes, Hvitserk could very possibly be the second brother he killed. But Hvitserk just smirked and patted Ivar’s shoulder briefly “I am helping out our dear (Y/N), ‘brother’” Hvitserk said with a smirk and then turned and jogged after you, catching up with you, a grin on his lips.

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You grimaced as your head was tugged back when Hvitserk tugged on your hair, you just knew Hvitserk found it funny, you could practically feel him grin behind you as he continued to braid your hair. “Bloody hell, you don’t have to rip my hair off” you muttered as there was another harsh tug and you heard Hvitserek scoff behind you “why do you think Hel is bloody?” Hvitserk asked and you shrugged lightly “I uh, I don’t really believe in it, I guess it’s just an expression I picked up, I don’t really mean anything by it” you explained and Hvitserk hummed quietly “when you say it, do you mean our Hel or the christian Hell, since you are from England?” Hvitserk asked casually but you tensed, and he felt it, saw your shoulders tense, no longer were your back slightly slouched. “I don’t care where you are from, you have proven yourself to be one of us more than once, I am only curious” Hvitserk added and watched as your shoulders sagged ever so slightly as you relaxed a little. “I guess… the uh.. the christian one… but they sound like the same” you noted and Hvitserk hummed quietly “yes, that is why I was curious, this whole time I thought you called our Helheim bloody” he said in a chukling voice and you couldn’t help but laugh slightly, though it was cut short when another harsh tug made your head snap back, a pout on your lips as you wished you could glare at him through the back of your head.

You both sat in silence until Hvitserk let you know he was done, patting your shoulder and standing up, letting you get up by yourself and watching you as you moved your hand over the braids, feeling each one of them and how they sat together, a smile on your lips, you only wished you had a mirror right now. You grinned as an idea popped up in your head and you took out your sword, unsheathed it and used it’s reflective surface to look at the braids, at least as much as the sword allowed, it was a rather crude mirror. But you liked what you saw, your eyes moving to Hvitserk who smirked at you “you look beautiful” he complimented, your cheeks growing a tiny bit warmer at his words as you looked down, putting your sword back in it’s sheath and grabbing your bag with your free hand, putting it over your shoulder as you looked back at Hvitserk “let’s show Ivar” you said with excitement, about to lay your sword on your bed when Hvitserk tsked at you, making you roll your eyes as you held onto it as you walked out and towards the Great Hall. As you walked inside you saw Ivar and Heahmund playing chess, the sight making you grin as you walked towards them with newfound confidence “well, losing to him is better than losing to a kid” you said loudly, Ivar looking up, a glare ready on his face until he saw you, your braided hair, sword in one hand, dressed in leather and chainmail armour with a dagger strapped to your hip, the leather shaft of the dagger imprinted with your house animal. Ivar smirked as he studied you freely, ignoring the glare Hvitserk gave him and the way you looked down shyly to avoid his gaze. “My dear (Y/N), you are beautiful” he praised, hearing you giggle as you walked around sit besides him at the table, putting your sword and bag on the table itself, your entire arm disappearing into it until you pulled it back out with a large book, much to Heahmund’s great shock.

You let your eyes move over the chessboard and smirked, gave a small hum and began to read, Ivar narrowing his eyes at you before carefully studying the board for what had made you react like that, finding it and taking one of Heahmund’s pieces with a victorious smirk while you smirked with your nose in your book. “You will be fighting against your brothers. Yes?” Heahmund asked after having taken in your new look, his eyes back on Ivar as he took a sip of his drink and put down his cup, only for it to be swiped by you before it could even touch the surface of the table, watching you casually take a sip before putting it down yourself, as though it was your own cup. Ivar looked back to Heahmund and nodded softly “yes,” Ivar confirmed before putting his hands on the table before him. “Perhaps even my brother, Björn, if he returns from his travels” Ivar’s blue eyes went back to the chessboard as the words left his mouth, though he glanced up at his opponent when he spoke “do they frighten you, your brothers?” Heahmund asked and it made you peek over the edge of your book, giving a brief, amused scoff with a smirk before going back to reading. “No. Maybe Björn, just a little… I don’t find him very smart, but he is a great warrior. They call him ‘Björn Ironside’” Ivar said with a smirk, that is until Heahmund made his move on the board, then it vanished into an annoyed and thoughtful grimace. “And the woman, the one who killed your mother?” Heahmund asked and you hummed quietly, catching both of their attentions while your gaze was locked on the pages of your book, “thin ice mate, thin ice” you muttered without looking up and Ivar grimaced as he looked back to the board “Lagertha?... I’ve sworn to kill her… and she knows that I’ll do it. She just doesn’t know how bad it is going to be” he said coldly and calmly, but the name he said as though it was the name of the Dark Lord himself, with venom and pure, uncontrolled rage, though the last part of his sentence was said with a small smile as Ivar moved one of his pieces on the board.

“Where will you fight?”

“I don’t know, perhaps they’ll placate themselves in Kattegat, the main town” Ivar muttered, Heamund watched him for a few seconds before slowly moving his piece while speaking “that… would be foolish” he said calmly and you looked over the edge of your book to see which move he had made, grinning when you saw it but your eyes quickly went back to your book before Ivar could see, not that you cared either way though. “She won’t, she knows it will be a huge battle, she doesn't want to risk the lives of innocent people. She’ll take the battle elsewhere, she might even try to negotiate, but she won’t fight while inside Kattegat, too many things could go wrong and too many innocent people could die” you stated calmly while reading, only looking up when the room was completely silent, seeing all eyes on you and you shrugged lightly, suddenly losing the confidence your words had before “s-she’s not one to hide, especially not if it could endanger others… s-so I think that’s what she’s going to do” you muttered with less certainty and Ivar smirked at you, moving his hand up and softly letting his knuckles caress your cheek, and feeling them burn hot under his touch made him smirk even more. “Maybe the two of you can help me think of a strategy” Ivar’s words made Heahmund laugh, snapping you out of your daze, making you realise you had just stared at Ivar as if in a trance of some sort. “You would trust me to do that, even though I don’t care which side wins?” Heahmund asked with suspicion and Ivar smirked as he took a sip from his cup before putting it down, his hand that had caressed your cheek was lying comfortably on your thigh as though it was completely normal. “Ah, but you want to win. I see that. And I want to be around people who want to win… what they do afterwards, who cares?” Ivar said casually with a shrug of his shoulders, his thumb rubbing soft circles against the fabric of the dress underneath the armour, his eyes moving to you briefly to see you with burning cheeks, gaze locked on the pages of your book as you had a shy smile on your lips. Ivar looked back to Heahmund once more as he spoke up. “The fact is, I will only fight for you because I am certain, as certain as I can be, that God wishes me to do so. That I am part of some plan which I cannot comprehend” as Heahmund spoke Ivar lowered his head with amusement as he chuckled quietly. “Then you believe, like us, that you are fated, hm?” Hvitserk asked, but Heahmund merely looked at him with that same emotionless expression “no, I still believe I have free will. I choose to fight for you” Heahmund said calmly and you sighed, closed your book and put it on the table, more interested in the dilemme going on now than your fifth year Herbology book. “If you are fated, it doesn’t matter if you choose or not, you simply have the illusion of being free to choose” Ivar explained and you blinked a few times to process it. “Bloody hell Ivar, that’s darker than Voldemort himself” you muttered, Ivar raising a brow at you while you stared at the table as if in shock, thinking everything over, that is until Hvitserk’s voice snapped you out of that trance, your gaze turning to him instead “I don’t know” Hvitserk took a sip from his cup after speaking. Ivar turned his head and frowned at his brother “excuse me?-”

“Ivar-”

“I just don’t know if, when I joined your side, whether it was fate or free will” Hvitserk admitted and you sighed as your warning to Ivar had gone unheard, burying your face in your hands and letting out an even deeper sigh of annoyance. “What does it matter? Hm?” Ivar asked annoyed and you moved your hands from your face and moved your eyes back to the chessboard “it doesn’t” you muttered before pulling the chessboard in front of you after pushing your book, sword and bag to the side, gesturing in a head nod for Heahmund to move in front of you, which he did, as you gathered the chess pieces they had both won from each other, setting up for a new game. “You know how to play?” Heahmund asked and you hummed quietly “been a while since I played muggle chess, but I think I remember” you muttered and Heahmund blinked at you confused, making you sigh “muggles are your kind, such as you, Ivar, Hvitserk, Ubbe, Lagertha, Harald, Astrid... Now, black or white?” you asked and he gestured to you “ladies first” he said softly and you scoffed “hm, a gentleman” you mused before making your move. You were watching Heahmund as his eyes moved over the board, Ivar’s eyes on your face as you narrowed your eyes at the Bishop, watching him think and finally, your eyes moved to the board as he moved his piece, prompting you to tilt your head ever so slightly as you thought over your next move. You ignored the sound of King Harald’s laugh as he walked into the hall, patted Ivar’s shoulder and passed by you, your eyes still locked on the board as you moved your next piece, looking up at Heahmund as he frowned ever so slightly, studying the board to find a way out of what looked to be an early win for you, making you smirk.

“What’s the matter with you?” Ivar asked as he looked at King Harald, your eyes moving up to look at the grinning king as well, narrowing your eyes at him before humming and looking back at the board “it seems to me as though he’s happy… be careful Ivar, you might contract something” you said with a sly smirk, feeling in your bones that Ivar’s eyes roll to the back of his head at your comment before looking back to the cheerful king. “I’m going to be a father, skål!” King Harald said with what you could only describe as pure bliss, laughing as he left the hall once more, drawing a small smile to your lips as you softly shook your head at his cheerful demeanour, turning your attention back to the board as Heahmund made his move, making you frown as he had ruined your plans for an early victory. Ivar looked over the board and reached over before you could stop him, “no no, he is winning… see, if you move this here…” he muttered, mostly to himself, moving one of your pieces which made Heahmund move one of his own in return afterwards, a scowl on your face when you noticed that Heahmund had won. You glared at Ivar who seemed somewhat shocked, slapping his arm roughly before groaning and grabbing your book, opening it and sticking your nose in it once more, a frown still present on your face. “(Y/N)-”

“Dunghead” you muttered annoyed, Ivar blinking at you while Hvitserk almost fell off his chair while laughing, Heahmund’s lips tugged at the corners of his mouth, a smirk forcing it’s way onto his face as he lowered it so it wasn’t as visible.

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You were standing next to Ivar down at the docks, Hvitserk behind you as the two of you chatted quietly, occasionally making you let out a giggle that you quickly stifled. It annoyed Ivar, hearing you giggle with Hvitserk even though you were standing at his side, even though you had promised to stay with him through all of this. Ivar clenched his jaw as he thought of something to do that would make your attention be swayed from Hvitserk and back on to him, eventually settling on looking up at you with a soft expression, making you look down at him and when you did, he nodded you to lean down so he could talk to you, which you did. The second you were close to him, he leaned up, his face inches from yours as he smirked “kiss me” he almost demanded, making you blush but you obliged anyway, giving him a sweet kiss that made his own cheeks burn. As you pulled away you smiled down at him with that sweet smile of yours that made Ivar’s heart flutter. “Was there a special reason for wanting that?” you asked, amusement laced with your words but Ivar ignored it, shrugging lightly “I wanted to, do you not want to kiss me?” he asked with raised brows but you knew he wasn’t actually asking because he was concerned, he already knew the answer. “Shut up” you mumbled shyly and sat down on the wood below you, Ivar frowning confused at your action until it hit him. Everyone was standing, everyone but him, he stuck out like a sore thumb, until you sat down. You sat down to make him blend in more, because you knew how much he hated that he couldn’t stand without being in agony. Ivar smiled softly at the realisation, one of his hands coming closer, his fingers tracing over one of the braids in your hair, even though you weren’t facing him he could see that you smiled when you felt it.

Without thinking it through, you laid your head against Ivar’s legs as you watched the approaching ships, holding your breath as you waited anxiously for his reaction, letting out a breath of relief when you felt one of his hands softly lay on your head, quietly moving down your neck and onto your shoulder, resting there comfortably, a smile tugging at your lips, stretching so big that your cheeks began to hurt after a while.

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You frowned as you tried to read in the dark cell where Heahmund was kept, you were currently visiting him with Ivar, while Ivar was eating you had thought you would try and read some, but the darkness and dimly lit candles didn’t help one bit. You nervously glanced at Heahmund, which Ivar noticed, as Heahmund spoke, looking back at your pages and then at your wand that was laying on the table right by your side. You softly shook your head before your thoughts could run too far and instead tilted the book towards a candle to try and see the pages clearer, only for your frown to deepen as it barely worked, annoying you. You glanced at Ivar who gestured to your wand, making you glance nervously at Heahmund, which Ivar of course saw. Ivar brought your attention back to him by softly turning your face by your chin to look at him, a soft look in his eyes “you are free to do whatever you want, my dove, even with your magic” he said quietly and you nodded softly, grabbing your wand and hesitantly whispering a quick ‘Lumos’, the wand tip lighting up and once it did, you put it up to rest behind your ear, letting the light shine down onto the pages so you had both hands free. Ivar admired the sight for a second or two, your features illuminated so perfectly, before turning his attention back to Heahmund as he began to tell him of the Virgin Mary, a conversation you tuned out now that you could finally read properly.

You had been in your own head, reading, until you heard Ivar’s words, making you lift your eyes from the pages of your book and frown at said man who stood near Heahmund, or rather behind him, with a small knife. “I want to believe there is someone in this world who does not cheat… or lie…” Ivar’s words stung as you purposefully slammed your book shut loudly, making the two of them flinch in your direction and by then you had already put your book away in your bag and made the small light disappear from the tip of your wand. Ivar frowned at you as you got up and began to leave the room “what are you doing? Where are you going?” he asked, confused, and you stopped, turned and stared at him with a blank expression “oh, me? I just forgot I had a busy schedule tonight, I have a lie to tell in an hour and I have to cheat by then and deceive a few people, my goal is at least three” you stated with sarcasme but your voice was the same, not a single note changed and as the words sunk in, you left two very stunned men, slamming the cell door shut loudly after you and storming off towards your little hut, bumping into Hvitserk along the way but you ignored him as he called after you.

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You lifted your head up from the pillows when there was a knock at your door, narrowing your eyes at the door before getting up, dagger in one hand as you approached the door “who is it?” you called, gripping your dagger at the thought of seeing Ivar’s face right now, but your anger quickly vanished and turned into confusion when you heard the voice on the other side, “Queen Astrid…” you hesitantly opened the door, frowning confused as you let her inside and immediately she noticed the knife, gesturing to it “expecting someone else?” she asked and you scoffed as you closed the door after her “Ivar” was all you said before walking back to your bag and putting the dagger down by it, turning around to face the Queen. “I heard you have… certain abilities… Ivar says you are a gift from the Gods, capable of creating things far beyond our imagination, able to heal and wound people alike…” she began, walking around the hut, her eyes lingering on the Flitterbloom in the corner before looking back to you as she walked closer. “Are you capable of other things? Of helping in other ways?” she asked casually and you tilted your head softly at her, shrugging lightly and sat down at a table, gesturing to the empty seat across from you which she took swiftly. “Depends, what’s the problem?” you asked casually and she tensed, taking a heavy breath before looking down, fiddling with her hands in a nervous way that made you frown when you noticed. “I believe I am with child…” she stated softly and you smiled at her “congratulation-” you stopped yourself when you noticed her sombre look, the way she averted her eyes and kept her head down. “You don’t want it…” you muttered and she blinked away what looked to be tears, making you lean over the table, placing a hand on hers which made her look at you. The two of you stared at each other for a while before you sighed heavily “you want me to do something about it…” you muttered and she visibly tensed, but didn’t deny it, making you lean back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest at the uncomfortable thought of killing an unborn child…

“Why?... I-I know it might not be easy but please tell me why… you’re asking me to help you take a life away… I need a good reason…” you explained and she clenched her jaw and nodded, but didn’t say anything, making you look away as you thought things over. “Was it planned, you know, with your husband?...” you asked and she nodded briefly, making you nod as well before continuing. “Was it… by your husband?...” you asked carefully and seeing her tense you frowned again “was… was it- did you participate... willingly?” you managed to get out and when she tensed even more you nodded and got up “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises” you stated softly and she nodded, getting out a pouch filled with gold items, about to hand it to you when you pushed her hand away, giving her a soft smile before walking to your bag and once you had it, you sat back down at the table with her as she stared at you in confusion. You looked through your bag and got out one of your potion books, ignoring her shocked look when your entire arm disappeared in it. “I doubt there’s a spell for it that wouldn’t also kill you… so we might have to turn to alchemy, luckily I’m quite brilliant at potions, Hermione even borrowed my notes one time” you said proudly without looking up from the pages as you flipped through the book. There was a long while of silence before you settled on a page, frowning as you read it over, Astrid leaning over with the same frown but when she tried to read the pages all she saw was gibberish and a drawing of a flask with blood red liquid in it. You softly shook your head before she could say anything, going back to looking through the pages, the same frown on your face as you flipped through the book. “I-I don’t think there is something for what you’re asking for… I mean I could make a poison, have you drink it and then have you drink an antidote immediately after, but I think it’ll save the…. the both of you, not just you” you concluded, looking up from your book to see a brief flash of worry across her face but she quickly forced it away “I want to try the poison” she stated confidently and you hesitated before sighing and looking through the pages again “I’m not recommending it… most of the poisons has undiscovered side effects…” you stated firmly as you continued to look through the pages but Astrid just kept a stoic and stubborn face, making you sigh and nod to yourself as you continued to look for a poison.

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You softly shook Astrid’s shoulder, it had been hours since she arrived and only a few minutes since she had laid down on your bed to rest while you continued to look for a solution to her problem. She looked up at you with hopeful eyes but when she saw the sad look on your face she sighed and looked down as she sat up. “I-I’m sorry… I’ve found plenty of poisons but-... the antidote is, well, counteracting… it’ll have to be taken immediately after since it’ll need to save you, but if taken immediately after, the poison probably won’t have had time to work on-... on your problem” you said with a light cringe, calling an unborn child a ‘problem’ felt like vinegar on your tongue but it seemed that Astrid prefered it like this. She nodded and sighed, got up and turned to face you, giving you the pouch of gold despite your protests. “Thank you, for trying” she stated softly before turning around to leave, only stopping when you moved in front of her. “M-Maybe it’s a good thing… that I can’t help… I-I’m not saying what happened was good, not at all! But-... I-I don’t know, I’ve heard that children are like… the light of people’s lives and-... maybe-... maybe it won’t be all bad, you know?” you offered but se just smiled sweetly at you, softly cupping your cheek as she smiled at you “b-besides, this is way too much I-I wouldn’t know what to do with all this” you said in an attempt to lighten the mood, giving her the pouch back once again before smiling at her “and I won’t tell anyone… I promise…” you said softly and she nodded, tears stinging the corners of her eyes and the second she felt it she let her hand drop from your face and left the hut without a word. You looked at her as she walked through the crowds of people, head down as she sped past them when they parted, you felt sorry for her… she seemed like a nice person once you got under her guard. You entered the small hut again with a sad expression, packing up the books you had splayed out on the table while looking for a way to help Astrid, deciding to go to bed early, after all, tomorrow a war began.

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Tags: @youbloodymadgenius @profoundtyrantharmony @draculasbride-blog @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @heavenly1927

[ahatintimepieces]

It Comes Down in Buckets

Before Luka and Hattie ended up in Subcon, they faced many challenges on the road as they adjusted to Luka’s curse. This is a lil gift for Mak, @doodledrawsthings, and their “””Coffeeshop au””” where Luka pushes himself a bit too hard while trying to make the day special for Hattie. Please enjoy!

Word Count: 7,678

The rolling waves tumbled against the velvet sand and the morning sunlight skipped across the foaming crests, painting them gold. Hattie’s grip tightened around the old bucket she had found as she inhaled the salty, fishy air. Standing at the patches of grass that separated the edge of the forest from the beach, she gazed out at the shore. Her sketchbook waited in her backpack, begging her to pull it out and to memorialize the look of the sea and snapshot the ebb and flow of surging waves, but she had work to do.

She had to find the prettiest seashells before anyone else so she could sell them for some extra cash. Every little bit helped.

Weaving down to the beach, the warming sand caught between her toes and kicked up with each flop and flip of her flipflops. She swung the dented bucket with rust stains as she hurried to the lapping tide. She stepped into the water and immediately squealed before jumping back from the cold. The foam receded, as if teasing her, and an impish grin spread across her features.

As the water crawled back up the shore, Hattie fixed her old baseball cap and then leapt into the ankle-deep wave. Her initial screech dissolved into laughter. Splashing around, her flipflops tossed clouds of murky dust up and the sloshing, icy water splattered against her leg. She placed her hands on her hips and struck a pose as she gazed out at the sliver of light where the sky paralleled the ocean. With the cascading crackles of the snapping sea rumbling around her, it was hard not to let her mind wander into daydreams.

She could picture it perfectly. A calm day at the beach. No time limits for her dad, no worrying about money, and he could finally rest. He could finally be happy again. And she could play in the surf and chase crabs, pretend to be a pirate finding buried treasure, or draw and paint next to her dad as he napped. She could picture it so perfectly.

But she glanced down at the bucket as it bumped against her hip. Its creaking handle brought her back to reality.

Hattie let out a huff before shuffling out of the grasp of the waves, where it would be easier to spot shells. But before she did, a playful crest rolled back to reveal the tip of a fancy looking shell. Gasping, Hattie knelt and carefully tugged the shell free and revealed what she always thought of as a mini conch, though her dad would probably tell her that it was whelk of some kind since it had a rounder top and thinner end.

After checking the inside cavity for any snail or sea critter by poking a cautious finger around to confirm it was empty, she held the whelk to her ear.

She grinned when she heard the ocean. But she was also standing in it so the shell could still potentially be a dud. Nevertheless, she placed it into the bucket, and it slid around as she went searching for more.

As Hattie combed the beach, a couple people showed up to lounge on the sand or wade in the surf. It didn’t get crowded, since it was a workday, but when she wandered towards the opposite side of the long beach, where the sand was cut off by rounded boulders that jutted out into the sea, she ran into a tourist screaming at a seagull.

“What’s wrong?” Hattie called as she hoisted her bucket overflowing with shells to the side to make it easier to sprint forward.

“That darn seagull took my stuff!” The tourist gestured angrily towards a seagull perched on one of the rocks surrounded by water. It bobbed its head around as it stood proudly over a grey camera. Sunlight glinted against the lens.

“I’ll get it,” Hattie offered without hesitation. She placed the bucket down and scrambled up the boulders.

“Wait, kid, you don’t have to!” He waved his hands across his chest, trying to get her to stop, but it was too late. She didn’t listen as she assessed the slippery boulders and slowly navigated her way across.

She came to the edge of the final boulder and eyed the gap between it and the one in the waves. The seagull cocked its head towards her and let out a squawk. Pausing, Hattie glanced around, trying to figure out how to distract the seagull.

Before she could, the seagull snapped its beak towards something behind her and she glanced over her shoulder to find the tourist was waving a sandwich around. The seagull swooped over her, and she belatedly ducked as it soared over to the tourist. He yelped and turned on his heels before sprinting from the squawking bird.

Hattie tugged her cap down in determination before turning back towards the rock. She took a cautious step back before lunging from the boulder and vaulting onto the next. Grunting after she smacked against the rock, she scrambled up and grabbed the camera. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and nestled the camera between her sketchbook and Professor Popcorn. For good measure, she tucked her dad’s hoodie around it to keep it extra safe.

Once her backpack was zipped, she looped her arms through the straps and got ready to jump back.

The tourist had returned to his spot, hunched over and panting with his cap askew and white and grey feathers stuck to his vibrant orange shirt. She inhaled a steadying breath and leapt back towards shore.

She misjudged the distance.

Nearly sliding over the side of the rock, she scraped her knee against stone as she clambered and clawed. Panic squeezed her chest until she could finally find her grip.

“Careful, now!” the tourist called as she hoisted herself up with her heart pounding. She glanced towards the worried man and gave him a thumbs up before crawling forward.

Her stinging knee threatened to buckle when she first stood, but she gritted her teeth and pushed onward. She navigated back to the beach and dropped down onto the sand.

“Geez, kid, that was dangerous!” the tourist sighed as Hattie pulled out his camera.

“But I got it!” She beamed, holding it out proudly. Her smile faltered when she noticed the identical camera that hung around his neck. His chin tilted down as he followed her gaze.

“I was trying to tell you, I have a spare,” he said apologetically. “But, hey! Since you got it, why don’t you keep it? It’s great for preserving memories!”

Hattie pulled the camera back, appraising the contraption.

Preserving memories? No matter how much she sketched all the places she and her father had been, it might be nice to be able to just take a picture to quickly capture everything. She could take a picture of the sea, in fact. But she stared into the curved lens with growing dismay.

Flashes of headlights and blinding snaps. Posters with blurry images of her shadowy dad offering money for anyone who could capture the pictured creature, dead or alive. And, even when he shapeshifted, he was still so jumpy around cameras.

Maybe she could sell it at a pawn shop for a little extra cash? In the meantime, it might not hurt to keep it on hand…

“Oh, hold on,” the tourist exclaimed, startling her out of her thoughts. She tucked the camera back into her backpack and blinked up at him with wide blue eyes. “You got quite the scrape there, let me help.” He motioned her over to his set up on the beach, complete with a towel and umbrella.

After the tourist helped her clean up and shared back-up sandwiches he had prepared, she let him choose one of the shells to take as thanks and set off to sell the rest.

She set up a little area at the top of the beach, halfway between the rest of the city and the parking lot for beach goers. After doodling a cute sign declaring her wares were ready, she caught the eyes of passersby and wove imaginative tales about the shells for anyone who came near. Since this wasn’t the first time that she had sold items that she salvaged while her dad worked, she had developed a good enough sense to get a read on personalities and how to appeal to them. Parents with children were easily swayed by silly stories about the shells. She even managed to convince a businessman walking by to purchase one since her wares were far cheaper than the nearby souvenir shops that sold the same shells. And, after all, hers were higher quality and, really, didn’t he want to support an aspiring entrepreneur? (It probably helped her chances that she practiced that word a few times prior to make sure she was pronouncing it right).

She bolted when she spotted some cops patrolling the area, though.

By the end of the day, she successfully sold more than half of her shells. She tucked the coins and cash safely into an inside pocket in her backpack, where her secret stash would help her buy food for whenever her dad inevitably got stuck in noddle form and couldn’t work. She had tried giving her earnings to him directly before, but he had only gotten upset, insisting she didn’t need to worry about money and it was his job to take care of her, not the other way around. But they both knew that he often pushed himself past his limits, and he couldn’t do everything himself.

She was just beginning to collect firewood close to their camp when footsteps tracked through the grass. Hattie froze, turning towards the sound and holding her breath. Golden light flickered between the trees and an approaching shadow broke into the small clearing.

“Hey, kiddo!” Her dad, still in his human form, which surprised her, jumped forward with a wide grin and his hands behind his back. Wrinkles lined the corners of his eyes, but he was alert with enthusiasm as he straightened. A plastic bag crinkled noisily as it swayed behind him. “Guess what I got for our most important celebration tonight?”

“Celebration?” Hattie tilted her head, though his energy was infectious, and she cracked a smile.

“Don’t tell me you forgot what day it is,” he teased, bringing his hand forward and adjusting the delivery cap he wore for his morning job of delivering papers.

“Payday?” she guessed, crossing over to their firepit and dropping the dry twigs and branches she found.

“N-no, kiddo,” he faltered, quirking a brow as he revealed a plastic bag with local dollar store logo. “It’s your birthday!”

“Oh.” She blinked up at him.

“Did you really forget?” His features fell and the worn creases on his face highlighted the underlining fatigue. “We talked about it, right? When we were-when we were moving.”

“Y-yeah,” Hattie said. She did sort of remember now that he mentioned it, but she hadn’t thought too much about it since they had other things to worry about. “I just forgot what day of the week it is.”

He didn’t seem to believe her but he accepted the excuse.

“Well, I got hot dogs and marshmallows,” he added quickly, pulling out a bag of large marshmallows for emphasis. If he sensed how she tensed, he ignored it and gestured towards the direction of the beach. “I thought we could start a fire at one of the communal firepits and have a cookout!”

“What about our camp?” Hattie gestured to the little circle of rocks they had set up a few days ago when they first decided to settle in this city.

“It’ll still be here,” he promised. After tucking the marshmallows back into the bag, he walked over to her pile of wood and searched for the longest and cleanest sticks.

“But the beach is out in the open,” she pressed, nervously fiddling with the edge of her shirt. “Don’t you need to change back?”

“Of course not!” he insisted with a little more force than he probably intended. In a lighter tone, he waved his hand dismissively with a smile plastered across his face. “I can hold it together long enough for your birthday. Come on! Let’s have fun!”

He placed a few sticks he deemed worthy for hot dog and marshmallow roasting into the plastic bag and then motioned for her to follow.

“But—” she hesitated.

“You know, I used to do this when I was a kid,” he jumped enthusiastically into the memory, not giving her a chance to argue. She frowned but grabbed her backpack and the bucket that still had the leftover seashells.

Hey, if they were going to be on the beach, she might as well keep an eye out for more.

“Any time we went camping, we would grab a bunch of hot dogs and marshmallows. Of course,” he added a bit quietly as they walked through the woods, “usually we had buns and graham crackers and chocolate. But I did snag some ketchup packets from the restaurant!” He beamed proudly.

Hattie forced a smile, though guilt gnawed at the reminder that he had worked two jobs that day, trying to get enough money together so that they could find a motel to stay at sooner than later. She considered giving him the money she had saved, but she didn’t want to cause him more grief especially since she could tell he was masking his exhaustion. Maybe she could hide the money where he would find it with his things? She could pass it off as him misplacing the bills!

Though, both of them had become increasingly vigilant when dealing with money in the past couple years. He would have noticed if that much went missing in the first place.

“Here we are,” he gestured to the firepit closest to the forest the second they walked onto the sand. “Sit tight while I get the fire going.” There was wrapped firewood next to the pit, all ready for them and their cookout. His water bottle was also leaning against one of the logs, indicating that he had stopped by before running to get her. While he finished setting up, Hattie gazed out at the sea.

The water mirrored the stretch of twilight. Orange-pink rays of dwindling sunlight lingered on the horizon and the occasional star twinkled in the darkening sky. Crackles and pops that came from the growing fire behind her mingled with the surging waves before her. And when her dad joined her side and held out his hand, she smiled as she took it, keeping her gaze locked on the horizon.

“It’s like that one picture in the book at the library in the last town,” she whispered, craning her neck back to meet his warm golden gaze. “The one with the watercolor illustrations!”

“It is!” he agreed, giving her hand a tight squeeze.

“I want to paint something like this one day,” she admitted, turning back to the sea.

“I bet you can, and sooner than you think.” His smile permeated his voice. He gently tugged her hand and nodded towards the firepit. Despite the lines under his eyes, he did seem happy, and that was good enough for Hattie.

“Okay!” She joined him on a log, and eagerly waited for him to pass her a stick he doused with water to keep it from burning.

Her dad filled her in on his day as they roasted the hot dogs. He got her laughing with a few jokes his coworkers shared, and she nodded knowingly when he told her about some of the customers he had worked with. When he asked about her day as he broke open the bag of marshmallows, she explained that she was looking for seashells and presented the bucket with her findings.

“Quick, if you have twenty seashells and I take five, how many do you have left?” he quizzed.

“F-fifteen!” Hattie blinked, hesitating only a moment as she registered the question.

“Good girl,” he praised, passing over a marshmallow.

“If you bought one bag of marshmallows for tonight, how many marshmallows will you have tomorrow morning?” She blinked up at him, trying and failing to conceal her growing smirk.

“Hmm.” He speared his own marshmallow as he gave her a wry grin. “That’s a tough one, why don’t you give me a hint?”

“Zero!” She pulled her burning marshmallow out of the fire and quickly blew on it.

The flames dissipated into a plume of smoke, leaving a burnt crust behind on the marshmallow. Without waiting, she popped it into her mouth and the gooey burst of molten sugar melted on her tongue.

“Becath I’ll eat ‘em all!” she declared through her sticky mouthful.

“Just don’t choke!” He chuckled before putting his arm around her and giving her a side squeeze. She immediately snuggled into his side, comforted by his warmth.

As they worked through the marshmallows and the night cloaked the beach, Hattie pulled out the hoodie and tugged it over herself. The hoodie was far too big since it was her dad’s but despite the floppy sleeves and how it was more like a dress on her, it was cozy and kept the night chill away. She became even cozier when her dad plucked her up and enveloped her in a hug.

“Happy birthday, princess,” he whispered as he nuzzled his cheek against hers.

“Hap—erm,” her cheeks flushed since she had almost wished him a happy birthday back. “Thank you.”

He chuckled and gave her a tight squeeze.

“Okay, I have one more surprise,” he said, arching back and stretching his arm maybe a bit farther than a human arm should, and rummaged around the plastic bag.

She leaned over, trying to peek and his other hand moved over her eyes.

“Don’t look!” He shifted around a bit before Hattie felt something lower into her lap. “Alright, now you can.” He pulled his hand away and she immediately glanced down.

Watercolors. A plastic palette of watercolors rested in her lap with a tiny brush snuggly tucked into a divot on the side. A single golden ribbon was taped on for the birthday wrapping. Her chest tightened as she imagined all the things she could paint, all the things she wanted to bring to life with water-soaked pigments.

But how much did he spend on her?

“Well?” he prompted with an edge of nervousness. “Is it okay?”

“I love it.” In one swift movement, she hugged the palette before swiveling around and burying her face into his chest. A lump threatened to lodge in her throat, but she swallowed it as she hugged her dad.

“Oh, Hattie.” He leaned over her and held her tightly. “I’m glad. I know it’s not much.”

“It’s perfect,” she promised, grasping his shirt.

He did so much for her, sacrificed so much just to take care of her, and now this? She wished she could do more to help.

After a few moments of lingering in his embrace, she pulled back while rubbing at her eyes.

“Everything oh-ahem.” Her dad suddenly pulled his hand away from his task of brushing her hair back. She wrinkled her nose as she blinked up at him.

He held his hand behind his back and his nervous, forced smile revealed his growing fangs.

“Dad,” she shuffled out of his lap, “you need to change back.”

She glanced around the beach quickly, relieved that there was no one nearby to see him.

“No!” He winced when an edge of a reverb tainted his voice. He cleared his throat and waved his other hand dismissively. It had completely turned ebony-violet. “I’m fine! I can hold it for a little long—” he stalled as he glimpsed his other hand and snapped it behind his back too, “—longer.”

Hattie frowned with her brows drooping. His irises radiated golden light as his pupils faded.

“Please. I know I can—” he faltered, pulling his hands back and holding them out before himself. His fingers trembled as they dripped, trying to reconnect. He bit his lip and grimaced when his lengthening fangs jabbed him. The familiar, purple-singed shadows spread from the expanding tips of his chestnut hair.

“It’s okay,” she insisted, turning around and rolling up the sleeves of the hoodie to start cleaning up so that they could head back to camp. She knew he was probably more exhausted than he let on.

“But it’s your birthday,” he whispered in such a broken voice that she felt a world of guilt press against her shoulders.

“And I can still spend it with you as a noodle!” She kept her tone light, giving him a smile strained from her concern.

The gold had encased his eyes and his teeth became backlit by a surging light in his throat. He considered her with tight dismay before scowling.

“No!” He pushed to his feet. “No, I can do this!”

“But, Dad,” Hattie called anxiously, unable to do anything but watch as he paced by the bonfire.

He held his hands out in front of himself, clenching them as he stared daggers into his purple palms. During his pacing, his legs began to quiver, and he paused, hunching as his hair began to drip. His fingers merged into mittens, taking on a gloopy appearance and Hattie thought that that was it, that he would just start getting bigger. She opened her mouth to try and get him to focus on saving his clothes, but the words died in her throat.

“Stop changing,” he wheezed in a wavering voice. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as he strained to keep a human shape. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, snuffing out his golden light. The flickering fire cast twisting shadows against his trembling form. His arms lost all pretense of having bones and flopped down like limp noodles. His legs buckled and he thrust out his hand to catch himself.

“Something’s wrong!” Hattie hurried to his side, reaching out as his mitten hand clenching the sand lost its shape entirely and expanded into a puddle.

“N-no,” his reverberating voice gurgled behind globs of dripping purple that stretched across his mouth when he parted his lips. “I can do this!” But just as he said that, he grunted and lurched forward. Viscous liquid oozed from his shoes as his legs melted.

But they didn’t form a tail.

They just pooled out uselessly behind him.

“Dad!” Hattie placed a hand on his arm, but it collapsed under her touch. He let out a strangled cry as his whole arm gave away and he slammed against the beach.

He continued to melt despite his groaning and straining. The trembling shadows spilled from his clothes and into the sand. Panic seized Hattie’s chest as she feared she was going to lose him to the beach. Glancing around frantically, her gaze fell onto the bucket, and she lunged for it.

“Hold on!” Hattie called as she dumped the shells out and slid over to her father, who had gone eerily silent as the pooling liquid oozed and spread.

She dropped the bucket into the sand and quickly tried to shove waves of the viscous liquid inside, catching particles of sand with it. Once half of him filled the rusted bucket and kept spilling out, she righted it before scooping up purple globs. She tossed handful after handful of the soupy remains of her father into the bucket. The trembling sludge sputtered and splashed. Tears stung the corners of her eyes when she saw some liquid darkening and fading into intangible shadows that disappeared into the sand, gone for good.

“Stay with me,” she whispered in a cracking voice as she scooped up every last bit that she could.

After wringing purple from his shirt, pants, and the edges of her sleeves which had tumbled into the puddle a few times, Hattie searched for any of her father’s features in the goop squelching against the edges of the bucket.  

“Dad?” She lightly prodded the thick surface of the liquid and it shivered. A muffled groan bubbled up, though no golden light from his eyes or mouth followed. Hattie sighed, sitting back in the sand as she convinced herself that the fact that he had groaned meant he was still there. But now just as soup. In a bucket.

They’ve been through worse, right? This, too, should pass?

“Okay, you just sleep while I clean up,” she muttered as she pushed to her feet.

She collected their things and put out the fire, all the while glancing at the bucket as the goop settled. Once she had the plastic bag slung over her shoulder and her birthday gift tucked into her backpack, she slowly picked up the bucket.

“Oof,” she huffed as she heaved the bucket up, wincing when droplets splashed over the side. “Why is magic goop so heavy? That’s stupid,” she grumbled as she slowly made her way across the dark beach and back to their camping area. As she paused multiple times to give her arms a break and catch her breath, she swallowed the rising lump in her throat and pushed onward.

*

Luka groaned and on top of the usual reverb that came with his noodle body it sounded oddly like the gurgle of a garbage disposal choking on water. He blinked tired eyes and the golden glow rebounded against the daffodil-yellow inside of Hattie’s baseball cap.

Oh. Had he shrunk down and dozed while Hattie was shopping? That didn’t seem right. Actually, what had he been doing before this?

A surge of panic bubbled up as he recalled trying to hold onto his humanity at the beach. He remembered the tighter he held the form, the more it slipped through his clenched fingers. He heard a slosh of thick liquid when he tried to lift his hand.

He couldn’t lift his hand.

He couldn’t lift his hand.

He couldn’t even turn his head! His eyes darted around frantically, catching the rim of some sort of curving, metal wall in the corners of his vision but he could only really look straight up at Hattie’s cap.

“K-ki—” he sputtered as some sort of gunk trickled into his mouth. Expelling wet coughs only caused more of the viscous goop to slip in. His anxious attempts to move coupled with his hyperventilating only increased the panicked sloshing that sounded like puddles disrupted by pricks of rain.

“Dad?” Hattie’s sleepy voice responded.

“H-help I’m—” he gagged on a particularly large glob.

“Hold on!”

He tried to spit out the gunk and a heavy droplet plunked against him. He shivered from the sensation but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what was going on. Relief swelled when the cap was removed and Hattie looked down at him, with sunlight filtering through the trees. Squinting at the sudden light, he tried to squirm around.

While not happy, she at least looked safe and sound. She wore his delivery cap, and he could see the dangling strings of his hoodie. If the sunlight was any indication, he must have slept through the night. He grimaced, hoping she hadn’t been too uncomfortable or cold without his coil to protect her from the elements.

“What’s going on?” he forced out, feeling like he was talking through a wad of bubblegum.

Hattie sat back, making it harder for him to see her at his angle. He twisted to try to get closer.

“You’re in a bucket,” she answered tiredly. When she glanced up and realized she was wearing his delivery cap, she jolted and swiftly took it off.

“A bucket?” he echoed in distress. His eyes shifted around as he glimpsed the walls and the occasional splash of purple-black goop if he moved too quickly. He blinked.

“Oh my god, I melted.”

“Yeah,” Hattie sighed as she rubbed her eyes with the baggy, purple sleeve. “Are you okay?”

“Um.”

No.

“I’ve been better.” He winced, realizing all the gunk that was getting caught in his mouth was himself. Fantastic.

“Do you need anything?” she prompted with hesitation as she glanced around. “Like water or something?”

“I need to get out of this bucket!” He pushed his eye against the rim, and he felt himself ripple. “Here, dump me out! I can try to—” he coughed, “—pull myself back together.”

“I lost so much of you on the beach though,” Hattie objected. “And y-you just disappeared, like the goopy stuff turned all shadowy.”

He caught the crack in her voice, and frowned, both from hearing how part of him just up and evaporated—okay, a lot of him if what was left of his monstrous noodle form could fit inside a tiny bucket—and from how much he had frightened her.

“I can’t stay like this, though,” he argued. “I have work! And you can’t stay in the woods on your own!” He shifted around, trying to figure out how to stretch his neck or anything but his neck and everything was gone! First, he lost his body and now he lost his monster body? This wasn’t fair! He couldn’t live like this!

In his frustration, he tried to will himself to have arms or hands or even his tail would work. The goop bubbled and frothed, and he grunted from the strain, but he could do it! He could pull himself together!

“Stop!” Hattie commanded. He yelped as he felt small hands jut into the goop and scoop up his features.

He felt himself spread out and winced as strands dripped back down into the bucket with heavy plops. It was like the world and his body were spinning around him, disconnected and far from his grasp as his head remained stagnant but stuck. After blinking and spotting Hattie’s thumb acting as a barrier as trickles of him slipped through the cracks of her fingers, he grounded himself in her frustrated blue gaze.

“If you keep hurting yourself, you’ll just make it worse!” Her nose scrunched up into a hard scowl, but he heard the lump in her throat underneath her irate bite. “Just stop!”

“Sorry,” he gurgled quietly. Her brows furrowed even more, and he added as gently as he could, “I’ll rest, kiddo. I’ll take it easy.”

“Promise?” She stared him down.

“Promise,” he breathed out, slumping.

She lowered him back into the bucket and a soft bloop sound was followed by flickers of drops as she pulled her hands out. He hummed to relieve some distress as he tried to force himself to relax.

“Maybe you just need sleep,” Hattie offered. She grumbled a bit, but he could tell she was trying to soften her tone.

“That’s usually all it is,” he agreed.

He did feel a similar exhaustion to all the times he pushed his time limit and got stuck in noodle form. Only this was much worse. Even when he was a human, he wasn’t sure he could ever remember a time he was so tired that he couldn’t move his muscles.

Leaning his eyes against the rim of the bucket for some semblance of security, he desperately hoped he wouldn’t be stuck like this. But even if he did eventually turn back to monster-normal, he had a sneaking suspicion he really screwed over his already sparse shapeshifting time.  

“Do you want me to put the hat back over?” Hattie lifted her cap into his view. “To help you sleep?”

“No,” he said a little quickly. She lowered the hat and he added, sheepishly, “I know I can’t see much from here, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Okay. Go to sleep. Let me know if you need anything.” She scooted over to their campfire, and he heard the click of the lighter.

He sighed but tried to let the distant crackle of flame and the low tap of Hattie sketching on paper lull him into a semi-relaxed state. His eyes closed into tiny slits and as he dozed, a gentle and continuous rumble bubbled up from within.

“Dad?” Hattie whispered after a stretch of time, scooting back into view and looking down with her hair slipping from behind her ear.

“Hmm?” His eyes cracked open, slowly registering the rumbling sound. In his peripheral vision, the surface of the ebony-violet goop rippled steadily.

Hattie cracked a grin.

“You’re purring!” she said in slight disbelief before exploding into giggles.

“I’m—?” he began before he recognized the familiar and involuntary purr. A dusting of faint gold emanated from beneath the surface of the goop as he blushed.

“The whole bucket is shaking!” Hattie covered her mouth as her laugh trickled out in mirthful chimes.

Despite himself, Luka smiled, glad to hear her laugh.

“I guess it looks pretty silly,” he admitted, imagining the bucket wiggling around. Though now that he was becoming more alert, the rumbling slowed to a stop. In their absence, he realized how comforting the vibrations had been.

Hmm. Maybe the purring was a way to pull himself back together? It wasn’t something he could force or speed up, though. Typical.

“Do you want any food?” Hattie perked after she calmed down from laughing. “I was roasting some hot dogs.”

“I’ll try a bite,” his eyes and mouth shifted up and down in an affirmative nod that sent tiny waves splashing against the side of the bucket.

He couldn’t really tell if he was hungry, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to eat but he would do anything that would help him replenish some energy.

When Hattie returned with a torn piece of a hot dog, Luka opened his mouth and let out a gurgling, “ah.”

With a giggle, she gently lowered the hot dog as close as she could before dropping it. He felt the hot dog plop down and coughed. Hattie winced in apology as he closed his mouth and pensively chewed.

“I’m fine,” he said after a thick swallow. He couldn’t feel the lump of the hot dog anymore but in the past few years of dealing with his magic, goopy body, he learned to not ask questions he couldn’t answer and near the top of that list was wondering what the heck replaced his melted digestive track.

Hattie fed him a few more pieces and he swallowed the dismay of not being able to feed himself. Even though he had grown accustomed to relying on Hattie for help when his chameleon paws couldn’t work with delicate silverware, the familiar sorrow from the early days returned now that he didn’t even have hands.

After what he was certain was a late lunch, he napped on and off as Hattie remained nearby. When he would check in with her, she would present her latest sketches proudly, and even had one completed work in watercolor. It was a scene of the ocean, and while her sketchbook paper wasn’t meant to hold so much moisture, causing it to crinkle and warp when it dried, she excitedly explained that she was going to do other paintings exactly like it, but all showcasing the ocean at different times of the day. He told her that he was eager to see them, overjoyed that she was having fun with her gift like he had hoped she would.

If only he had been able to save up enough for a motel in time for her birthday, or at the very least, if only he hadn’t melted on her. But that was really his fault for pushing himself so hard.

He had just so badly wanted to make it special. She hadn’t even remembered her own birthday! What else was he supposed to do? Let himself turn into a monster? She deserved to have her actual dad on her birthday.

“Hey, Dad?” Her voice drew him out of his sinking despair.

“What’s up, kiddo?” he shifted his eyes in the bucket, trying to find a position that best allowed him to see her.

“What should I tell your boss?” She held out his phone, which was lit up with messages with letters in all caps.

Luka groaned.

“Can you read the messages for me?” He mentally prepared for the nerve-wracking ordeal of trying to explain himself without admitting to his boss that the reason he couldn’t make it to work was because he turned into a bucket of silly putty.

With Luka directing her, Hattie responded to the understandably angry but maybe harsher than necessary texts from his boss at the restaurant. Once that was done, he let out a heavy sigh, accidentally blowing a bubble in the goop, which shortly popped and splattered. He flinched when a drop landed in his eye.

“Do I have anything from the newspaper office?” Luka asked, dreading the thought of not only the manager getting upset when he found out no one had delivered newspapers in the morning, but of all the people who would no doubt call to complain about empty doorsteps.

“No,” Hattie replied slowly.

“Really?” Luka wasn’t sure if he should count that as good or bad. Either way, he was probably out of a job. “I’ll need to start looking for something else.”

“Why?” Hattie scooted closer, hugging her knees to her chest as she looked down at him.

“They’ve probably already decided to fire me,” he lamented with his mouth sinking and gurgling in the gunk.

“Nah.” She glanced away, tapping around on his phone.

He blinked up at her.

“Nah?” he repeated. When Hattie kept her gaze down and her lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowed. “Hattie? What did you do?”

“I maybe did your deliveries for you?” she offered guiltily.

He stared at her.

“You what?” he sputtered, causing his sludge to ripple as panic seized him. “By yourself? Hattie! You just turned eight! My route is a couple miles long, and you would have had to bike before dawn! There are child labor laws! What do you mean you did my deliveries?”

“I had help!” Hattie hurried to explain. “I ran into a nice tourist I met yesterday, and he gave me a map and delivered half of the newspapers for me.”

“You worked with a stranger?” Luka demanded, shifting around in the bucket. “Harriet Princeton, you are not supposed to talk to strangers!”

“So, I’m only supposed to talk to you?” She threw her hands up in the air.

“No! I mean—that’s not the point!” he faltered, sloshing around as the bite in her words stung. Bits of goop splattered over the rim and Hattie jolted.

“Stop freaking out!” She helplessly tried to grasp at the stray droplets. “I can’t lose you again!”

He paused, tensing. Well, tensing as much as he could as a viscous liquid.

“Wh-what do you mean lose me again?” he pressed tightly.

“I thought you were gone when you melted,” she said with a cracking voice. She hugged her legs and rest her chin on her knees. “I thought I didn’t get all of you in time and you were gone, and I just wanted to help because you’re so tired all time but—” she trailed off in a squeak as tears filled her eyes.

“Hattie—” he shifted towards her, but the goop sputtered as he instinctively tried to reach out to his daughter. Liquid stung his eyes and he blinked rapidly. “Hattie, look at me please.”

She turned and revealed tears streaming down her cheeks.

Gold blurred his vision, but he pressed on.

“I’m sorry,” he began in a congested voice, thick with gunk and reverb. “I know you were just trying to help, and I appreciate it! But I don’t want you worrying about my jobs or money. You shouldn’t have to.”

His voice cracked and all too late, he realized that the reason he sounded so congested was partly because of the golden tears filling the bucket. They glittered in the goop, separated like oil drops in water. His breath hitched and the goop swelled.

“But I can—” he tried to continue as the tears slipped out and the goop splashed up when he instinctively tried to wipe them away with a hand that wasn’t there.

“You’re spilling!” Hattie interrupted, jolting upward and hurrying over, placing her arms around the rim but the added tears were causing his anxious sloshing to spill over. “Stop crying!”

“What?” He jolted, shifting his eyes around and catching glimpses of purple and gold staining her sleeves. Her dismayed features above him only encouraged his tears and he made a muffled sniffling noise as panic surged and his tears swelled.

“Dad!” she yelped. But her own distraught features cleaved through his squishy, melted chest.

“I-I can’t! Give me a moment!” Twisting away, he tried to lock his eyes on something to ground himself, but in his panic, he kept attempting to turn and wipe his tears. The spilling goop sloshed uncontrollably.

“Try to laugh!” Hattie begged. “Tell me a stupid joke!”

“Ah, uh.” He pressed his lips into a tight line as he struggled to think of something. “Um. You know what? This situation really pails in comparison to—uh—that one time we teleported into that bear den!”

“What?” Hattie furrowed her brows. But it looked like her tears halted in confusion.

“P-pails, like a pun? It’s a joke. It’s supposed to be funny. Please laugh,” he said weakly. He blinked and let out a tight exhale as he felt himself calm and the rest of the goop start to settle.

“That’s a stupid joke.” Hattie sniffled as she leaned back and slowly lifted her arms, revealing sleeves soaked with purple sludge.

“I got buckets of them.” He added a sardonic, “ha,” as the gold ebbed. While a few dancing droplets of tears wiggled in his goop, now that he was calmer, trembling splashes no longer spilled over the rim.

Hattie wrung out the sleeves. He flinched at the droplets that pelted his face and sent ripples along the surface.

“That’s even worse,” she sighed, though a small smile found its way onto her features. She tugged up one of her sleeves and gingerly reached over and wiped at the edge of his eye.

He grunted, squeezing it shut but when she pulled away, he watched her flick a golden droplet towards the grass. He sighed, blowing a few bubbles.

“Please don’t do my job tomorrow,” he said quietly. “We’ll be okay.”

She nodded slowly before thinking better of it.

“Only if you promise not to push yourself, okay?”

“Okay,” he said tiredly before he yawned. Sludge dribbled into his mouth, and he sputtered.

“Sleep.” She poked the goop. He shifted his eyes next to her finger, which was the closest he could come to giving her an encouraging nuzzle.

“What about you?” he asked, staring up at the canopy of leaves. There was still sunlight trickling down, but it seemed fainter.

“I can eat soon,” she shrugged.

“Wake me if you need anything,” he muttered, feeling his eyelids grow heavy.

Did he even have eyelids at this point? Maybe it was more that his eyes were sinking. Might be more apt.

Hattie promised to, but he had a feeling they both knew she would deal with any problem on her own before waking him. Frowning, he supposed the best thing he could do for her would be to recover as swiftly as possible.

He settled into the bucket, and soon enough, the sludge began to ripple as he automatically purred. He caught Hattie’s stifled snort at the vibrating bucket before he fell asleep.

Night blanketed the forest by the time he woke up again. Still purring, he blinked as he felt something shift. The rippling rumbles of goop seemed to be tightening and when he moved to lift his head, he peeked over the rim of the bucket. Relief swelled inside as he spotted Hattie’s back. She was drawing by the fire, safe and sound.

Edging backward, he tilted his head down, blinking at the vibrating goop as it slowly re-solidified into shape. After a moment, he lifted his noodle arms and wiggled his chameleon paws. Funny, he was actually relieved to see them for once. Once his tail formed, he heaved out a sigh. There wasn’t a drop of him left behind in the bucket, but now he took up less volume.

“Kiddo,” he called softly, floating up to the rim of the bucket and placing his hands on the edge, curling his tail beneath himself.

“Dad!” Hattie gasped when she saw his familiar form. Scrambling around, she darted over, and he flew up into her embrace.

“You’re tiny,” she muttered into the plush fluff around his neck. His tail waved back and forth as he returned her firm hug.

“I’m sure I’ll get back to normal size,” he guessed. Probably. After a long enough rest without using his shapeshifting.

Moments passed until he caught a low grumble coming from Hattie’s stomach. He craned his neck with a smirk.

“In the meantime, are there anymore marshmallows to share?”

“I ate them all. Remember our math quiz? Zero left.” Hattie said without missing a beat as she turned back around and brought him to the fireside. “Just kidding, I saved you some.”

“That’s my girl!” His tail waved harder as he chuckled.

He extended an arm towards the bag, noting that he couldn’t really stretch it like usual, and made a grasping motion. Hattie plopped the bag into her lap, still using an arm to hug him, and they both took turns popping the confections into their mouths.

Yes, after a week’s worth of rest, he would grow to his usual massive size and when he could shapeshift again, he would have to deal with the consequences of missing so much work. But until then, he and Hattie would take it day by day and one marshmallow at a time.

[dankmyfarrik]

Our Angel | Chapter 1: Get Your Halo Dirty

Summary: You have been hired to pleasure a lonley Mandalorian. It’s just a paycheck.

Read it here:

(Personal Preference)

Archive Of Our Own

Wattpad

A/N: I am starting a new series! I’ve had this idea in my phone's notes for about 3 months now and am very excited to finally be posting it! Please know that this will not replace Faults! That story is still a love of mine and I will be finishing it!! This is just in the meantime for when I lose inspiration for one story I can switch over to the other so you will always have something to read. Also, I am switching POV from an original character to “You” so I will try not to give away too many physical details.

Word Count: 6k ish

Warnings:

This chapter is mature.

Gambling, female masturbation, sex, alcohol- the whole shebang.

Depiction of a sick loved one although it functions the same as cancer it will not be specifically named because starwars.

This series handles cancer and turning to prostitution from financial desperation which are very heartbreaking, real-world issues that I am insensitively exploiting for fanfiction. Enjoy! :D

“Single file everyone, show me how straight you can make a line!” You called out above the many little heads in front of you, “you too Poe!”

With a satisfying breath of relief with the somewhat curved line. A warm smile sprawled your lips as you said your goodbyes for the day.

“I’ll see each of you tomorrow- and don’t forget about the art project!”

The kids, one by one, scurried off after seeing their parents, their backpack almost larger than their frame as the little legs darted below them.

After the last child was picked up, you gathered your notes from your desk. A sigh escaped you, this time of drowsiness: you had spent all morning and afternoon with preschoolers yet your workday was nowhere near completion.

The speeder keys jingled in your grasp as you approached the rust bucket. With a gruff twist of the engine and a bit of luck, the tin can coughed to life. You turned through the streets of Canto Bight arriving at your second job of the day: combustion engine specialist and repair guru.

That’s what the title was on paper anyways. In practice, it was a lot grimmer and you seldom stuck to one thing. Your ‘specialist’ title applied to whatever odd job Boss had convinced the client they needed. It is not a natural talent of yours, you prefer something more on the creative side, but after getting the job, Boss taught you the basics.

Honestly, you should be thanking Maker itself you still have the position when almost every other repair shop in the kriffing galaxy is fully operated by DUM-droids.

That’s because the store owner can’t afford to purchase a droid, in fact, no one on this block can, which has probably more detrimental issues. Nonetheless, you are grateful for the paycheck when there otherwise wouldn’t be one. But, it pays less than teaching these days, which is saying a lot. Also, the job is boring. Really boring. You have to deal with rude customers and even violent situations; you were under a speeder (and what felt like 3 feet of oil) when a zabrak burst in with a clearly ill-functioning blaster, demanding money and scrap parts. You chuckled at the thought, rolling back under the speeder to continue your job. The zabrak didn’t get his way, of course, you had called his bluff and relished as his cheeks flushed a deep red. Good memories.

You glance at the time and curse. It’s only been 15 minutes. Maker.

Your eyes drift up to the clock every once in a while during the rest of your shift. The hours slowly crawl by, filled with nothing but nagging customers, grease, metal, and bad, repetitive store music.

Finally, it’s over.

Exhausted, you punch out and leave the shop into the crisp night air which had a slight salty tinge due to the proximity of the shore. Upper city Canto Bight shimmers off in the distance while you watch over your shoulder on the way back to the speeder. It groans to a sluggish start.

“Just one more, one more today.” You murmur out loud, you're on the home stretch.

—-

Sweeping sucks and it’s degrading. What was once a relaxing activity has turned into a perpetual nightmare of moving a never-ending pile of dust. The fathiers kick up dust- over and over again. You think they are intentionally trying to drive you crazy. To be fair you would too if you were forced to run in a circle for entertainment.

The job paid the best of the collection simply because it was graced by the presence of inner-city Canto Bight, the sin darling of the outer rim. That was why you put up with the sweeping even after your hands became covered in calluses and your hair caked with dust- the credits were hard to ignore.

At least your shift was almost done.

You heard a shuffling sound behind you and whirled around to find its source. The noise was too light to be a fathier.

One of the people you hate the most, your boss, stood before you with a terrified-looking child at his side. One you did not recognize from the school although the age fit.

“This isn’t working out,” the man gruffed. He pushed the child forward indicating you to give up your broom.

“What do you mean?” Panic began to rise within your chest, strangling the tone of your voice.

“I found a more efficient system,” the man returned plainly with a hint of pride.

“What,” your voice is harsher now. What was the worst that could happen- you get fired? “Child labor?!”

“Yes.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. The kriffing laws on this planet actually allow this. As long as the wealthy tourists are happy- nothing else matters. Children be dammed.

There goes your payment.

—-

“Dank farrik!” You hiss as you send your foot repeatedly into the side of your speeder.

You are royally screwed now. Tears threaten the corners of your eyes but you won’t let them fall- not yet.

Maybe the school and give you a raise? You almost laugh at the thought. But it might be worth a try.

You’ll have to find another job quickly.

The engine of the speeder rumbles below you after a few failed tries. The drive home is a blur, the lights flash by and the salty wind whips your hair. Shouts of excitement and regret dim the further you get from the gambling center. They are replaced by the fizzing of broken street lights and the rustle of looming shadows.

You sigh, park the speeder, and somehow find the energy to carry your feet up 4 flights of stairs to your apartment. You gently knock on the door.

There is a shuffle from behind the frame, as the usual routine of checking through the peephole before opening transpires.

Mazey recognizes that it is you, done with work and home a few minutes early because that douche bag fired you. After the door swings open you exchange a warm but beaten smile before stepping inside.

Life Daylights did almost as good of a job and were cheaper than the alternative, so the whole apartment was filled with the small bulbs attached to their string- you like the look of them better anyway.

You glance at your half-finished, dusted-over art on the walls and windows. You didn't have the time to complete them these days and it’s not like they would sell for much anyway so instead they hang there; a reminder of what could but never will be. The plants however do not need your attention to flourish and Mazey has taken to the hobby more than you ever did. She prefers putting them in small little jars and arranging them like a scene from planets you both want to one day visit if you had the credits.

“How is she today,” you murmur, keeping your voice low enough so Tim doesn’t hear.

“The same,” Mazey responds but there is something in her voice that you don’t believe. You both share the same eyes thanks to dad; you can always tell when hers are unhappy.

“Sis!” Tim squeals from behind the spoon of what appears to be cereal as he drops the utensil into the bowl with a splash before rushing to hug you. He only reaches to your waist but the sentiment is still the same.

“How was school bud?” You found the energy to add a playful inflection in your voice.

Tim tells you ALL about his day as you make your way over to the table and pour yourself some of what he was eating. To make space for your bowl you relocate the piles of pill bottles, needles, and other miscellaneous medications off to the kitchen counter- you’ll organize it later. Right now you are kriffing exhausted.

Your eyes begin to feel even heavier as you search the job section of the holo news. Nothing. Nothing. Well… there is always availability at- you won’t let yourself finish the thought. You will never be that desperate.

Tim is done with his story around the time you begin to panic about your financials- for what seems the 100th time today. The cost of her medication will go up soon, it always does, you won’t be able to handle it. You won’t be able to keep the lights on again. You failed like he said you would.

After Tim is in bed you check on her. He should have been asleep hours ago but he stays up to see you because you always leave the house before he wakes. Mazey stays with him for the bus in the morning; that doesn’t mean she doesn’t do much. The textbooks piled high in the corner of the kitchen would indicate that. The words describe math and science of the distant stars, things you will never understand but are glad it gives Mazey the chance at a real career. She is going to save you all in the end; you just have to hold on in the meantime.

“Hi mom,” you murmur, as you approach the sound of oxygen struggling to pump and an array of machines beeping.

“How was your day?” Her voice croaked, you could just about see her through the dim light of the table side lamp. She appeared more fragile, a noticeable change from yesterday. You had grown long accustomed to differences since the illness. Originally she lost that sparkle in her eyes, then her weight most notable on her face. Her cheeks which were once a warm pink and full of comfort now lay flat against the bone of her jaw. The biggest change of all was her hair, she had given up and shaved the last of it cycles ago.

“Good,” you lied, just wanting her to see the best in the world, “the kids are doing artwork on their favorite system- I expect many beautifully colored galaxies when I go back tomorrow!”

She smiled and began to chuckle, the sound brought a smile to your lips. It was a rare occasion indeed, getting her to laugh when she looked this sad, the nostalgic feeling of her laughter filled the air with the scent of warm cookies fresh from the oven. You remember racing Mazey for the first taste, the chocolate chip was always your favorite.

The moment was short-lived as coughing erupted from her lungs. The sharp biting noise tore you from your memories to the depressing present. Her meds were going to go up, or she would need more of them- you just felt it.

——

The weekend rolls around which normally would be a nice break but now it means you are down to just one job when you could have been working two.

You wipe the dirt off your hands on a rag on your belt, tossing it to the side. The speeder was mostly fine now it just needed the gunk removed from its inner workings- something anyone could have done and most definitely not worth the ridiculous price tag your boss planned to charge for it. You were fine with him overcharging customers, there were few mechanic stores this close to Canto Bight and people got desperate if they had to travel far. His prerogative.

What you didn’t like however was how intently he was watching you work. And you knew why- an opportunity to make more credits.

“How was the hydraulics?” He hummed and you felt your stomach churn.

“Untouched,” you counter, hoping that will deter him from what he was suggesting, “the issue was with the carburetor, there was a lot of build-up.”

“Really?” Oh no here it comes. “I thought the hydraulics looked a little rough too,” you shift uncomfortably, “I am going to suggest they get that fixed either this visit or the next. Would you please be a dear and ensure they will be needing to come back in a month or so?”

“I’m sorry sir but I only see an issue with the carburetor.”

His charismatic smile darkened.

“Check out the hydraulics.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, “No.”

He gave you a disappointed look, “I’m sorry dear, I don’t think this arrangement is going to work out with you here.”

You unfasten the tool belt and it drops to your side.

You began to walk away when, “Oh, and don’t ask for a letter of recommendation.”

You send him a rude hand gesture as you step out the door.

—-

Your speeder endures another round of kicks and curses to its side.

“Keep it together,” you voice, but the whisper fades away and you are left feeling helpless.

That stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking nerf herder- just had to be so greedy and you just HAD to do the right thing. Now you only have one job and it doesn't pay on the weekends. Which means no money coming in for almost two days.

—-

You wait with your mom for the doctor to come back in. The room is cold and smells like disinfectant. Machines buzz and beep around you- the pipe is still in her arm. You distract her with magazines and bad holo shows. But despite the circumstances, she seems to be doing alright. Routine can make almost anything comfortable, however, there is another layer you pick up on- you are always at work. You have missed so many of her appointments and this is the first one you were able to make in what feels like forever (because you got fired) and she seems happy about your presence.

The door swings open and the doctor, dressed in a white lab coat, walks in. Her nose was buried in her clipboard. She finally looks up with sorrowful eyes and you feel your heart shatter.

—-

The good news is that she has a good shot at surviving this. The bad news, and why you found yourself with a glass of whiskey in your hand alone at a bar, is that your intuition was half correct: BOTH the price and quantity of meds increased. Kriff.

There is this dream that you've heard rumors of- outside of Cantonica, people who need financial help or medicine can receive it somehow. The risk of drowning is not entirely possible. That could never be here. Canto Bight is a playground and nothing more. It’s not supposed to function for people to live there behind the scenes. The mistake was being born here and stranded with no way to afford escape.

So instead you spend the credits you made today on calming the burning in your chest for the burning of a drink. You look down at the drink with a grimace, three empty glasses line in a row and hopefully, three more are on their way.

“Hey, there birdie,” the barmaid with heavy makeup comes up to you trying to be comforting. You just wanted to be left alone.

“Let me guess,” her brows furrowed, “it’s either a guy, credits, or a guy and credits.”

You shoot her a dirty look and down the rest of your glass.

“Well? Was I right?”

“Credits,” you hum to buzzed to care. Maybe you were past buzzed at this point.

“I would say gambling but you look too smart for that.”

“Thanks.”

“You a local?”

“Unfortunately.”

She made a sound of acknowledgment, “Jobs?”

“Yes.”

She paused for a while contemplating. You swirled your blue drink, watching as the ice clinked against the sides of the glass. Both the price and the quantity went up. Both of them. You're drowning.

The woman looks you up and down. “May I give you a suggestion?”

“ s’Sure,” you slur.

“How far have you read into the holo news job postings?”

“I know what's back there.”

Nothing good.

“I used to live on the streets…” There was a musical inflection in her voice as if she was teasing you.

“I know where you are going with this. I have thought about that as a possibility. I have but…”

When you trail off, she takes her opportunity to finish, “I have an apartment all to myself. Six months is all it took,” she paused seeing the look of temptation blatant on your features, “Canto Bight is all about pleasure birdie. If you aren't here for that then you starve.”

Her words were true but you were stubborn. You wanted to bend the world- have them see what you were capable of. Something no longer possible. The price and quantity of the meds increased. She needed the medicine. If it was just six months…

“What did you do?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

“Some port hopper Twi'lek got bored from moving from place to place. He wanted consistency I suppose. I got food, clean water, warm showers, and credits. I got to travel and see the stars from other planets.”

Maker, what are you doing?!

“I’m s’sorry,” you cough, “I shouldn't even be here right now. Credits and…”

“Oh common, get your halo dirty- it pays.”

You vehemently shake your head, hurriedly finish the bill, and stumble out the door.

—-

You had spent the day hungover and searching for jobs when they called you to come into the school. Finally a raise at last. There were no jobs on the news. There was never going to be anything nice and you knew that but you still clung to a shred of hope. Maybe the new money from the school would be enough to support you while you sold some of your art. If there was no hope then what was the point?

You sat in an office chair wearing a nice dress and your hair down.

“Thank you for coming in,” the man behind the desk spoke, shuffling around papers. He had a cute smile. You had seen him before in passing but never said much more than ‘hellos.’

“I am glad to be here,” you breathe, “I wanted to talk about my wage. Perhaps a pay increase?” You smiled at yourself for the fake confidence.

“That is sort of why you are here,” he bit his lower lip nervously, “while you do a wonderful job and the kids adore you-”

Oh no.

Maker please no.

“-you should be getting a raise. We want to apologize that we will have to cut all of the teachers' income due to funding. We see this is best to ensure the kids get enough school supplies for the upcoming season…”

He trails on for a while but you don’t interpret the words you just stare forward at his lips when he speaks. Your world is collapsing around you. You think for a moment the Maker is bored and you're its only source of entertainment but surely the Maker is not this cruel. You want to go back to the bar… you shouldn't waste anymore credits. You want to make the pain go away nonetheless. You will deal with this later.

A while passed, you awkwardly waited by your speeder until the man from earlier bumbles out of the school towards his vehicle. You approach. The poor soul. You've never done something this bold before and you sure as hoth don’t want to remember the details.

“I’m sorry about the pay cut,” he whispers on your lips in between kisses when you are back at his apartment.

“I understand,” you say, not wanting to think about it. Only the release.

—-

He rolls off of you (way too soon) and you both lay there for a bit to wait for his breathing to slow.

Wow you really should not have just done that.

“I am considering prostitution to pay for my moms medical bills,” you blurt. Oh now he thinks you are even weirder than from before. Stars, what is wrong with you?!

It’s strange, he doesn't necessarily want to immediately leave after you say that. He just gives you a sad smile, sits up and puts his shirt back on.

“It probably pays more than teaching,” he muses, reaching for his shoes. The sympathy ending there.

“Probably.”

—-

A few days pass and you've scheduled an interview with a ‘Gentlemans Club’ establishment… you didn't know what to wear for your interview but it turns out that didn't matter. They hired you on the spot, “We are always understaffed,” they had said.

Now you wait on the other side of your apartment door as Mazey checks through the peephole and lets you in.

“I have good news,” you smile when the three of you were gathered around your moms bed so she did not have to get up, “I interviewed for a mechanic job!”

“Oh wonderful,” your mom smiles, warming your heart.

“Really?” Mazey seems more suspicious.

“Yes,” you begin to explain, treading carefully not wanting to give away the details, “I will work away on a ship for about six months and I will have room and board and they will send the credits back to you guys.”

“Six months?” Tim echoed.

“I know. If it is too long I can stay here if you guys prefer, but the pay is unlike anything I have ever seen before.”

They go quiet at this.

“It would be more than my old three jobs combined.”

“Don’t go if you don't want to,” Mazey murmurs, “we understand.”

“Will you get to see the galaxy?” Tim asks.

“Sure will bud!” you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, “And if I go I can tell you all about it when I get back!”

“Would you get to see Naboo?” Mazey asks before she can stop herself. Her cheeks red with embarrassment from her childlike wonder.

“Perhaps,” you hum.

“What about Hoth?!” Tim squeals in excitement.

“Maybe!”

They both giggle.

“When will you know if you got the job,” your mom asks, having to clear her throat.

“I just came back from the interview they hired me on the spot!”

Mazeys brows furrow, she is on to you. It was a blatant lie, there were no mechanic jobs on this planet. People came for gambling and pleasure- not to hire someone to fix their ships.

Mazey opens her mouth to counter but you interrupt before she can get a word in, “I think I'll do it!”

“Our angel!” your mom exclaimed, resting her hand on your cheek, “thank you.”

It was the most deepfelt words of gratitude you have ever heard, she had done so much for the family after he left and you were all giving back anyway you could. Perhaps this was really for the best.

“Well when do you start?”

—-

Goodbyes were always difficult for you.

You tried to avoid them whenever possible but after you had hugged your mom and Mazey, turning to Tim is what broke you. His eyes were puffy and shimmering with unshed tears, trying to be strong.

“It’s not goodbye,” he sniffled, “we will see you soon.”

If you talk you will just turn into a pool of tears so instead you kneel down and hug him at an equal level. This was for the best.

You nod to them and step into the taxi so they could have your speeder while you were away. You had a small go-bag with you where you had brought a handful of clothes, some of the few lace bras and underwear you owned- you didn't really know what to expect. At the last minute you grabbed your sketchbook and some charcoals for grins. If it takes up too much space you can toss them, although the thought hurts- you had saved for so long to buy them one summer.

—-

“Name?” The lady at the front desk asks and you open your mouth to say it.

“Not your real name honey. Here is the list of some of the ones we have available. We want to keep your identity safe.”

“Oh, okay.”

She hands you a yellow paper with a list and you skim over the choices.

Crystal

Midnight

Sapphire

Cinnamon

Candy

You turned the page to hopefully find something less… horrible. Maker, are you really doing this? And you thought sweeping was degrading- no way in hoth is someone calling you ‘Cinnamon’ in bed.

Dimond

Sparkle

Cherry

Josephine

Your eyes paused at Josephine from where it stood out on the list. Okay that one is not bad. Seeing that the name below it was ‘Glitter’ you decide to cut your losses and go with the name you don’t absolutely hate.

“Name?” The woman prompted.

“Josephine.”

“Alright Josephine, lets get you in the system.”

—

Din had been acting like a droid, as much as the term disgusted him, for the better part of 3 months.

Get the puck.

Get the bounty.

Get Paid.

A simple and effective program that was albeit not mentally healthy. He rarely ate and laid in bed restless most nights staring at the ceiling. Din did not even need or use the money, his job suited him so he just did it; he wanted a purpose because he gave his old one away to a stranger.

Din was empty and lonely. Emotions he had never really felt before. Emotions all of his training told him to repress- he just broke. After he retrieved the bounty from the scummy streets of Canto Bight and shoved him into the carbonite- it was a blur. He was desperate for a release. Needed a distraction. And his feet carried him there. At least the visor hid the shame.

Now he could spend those credits he had been hoarding.

—

The woman spoke for a while about benefits and income: all dependent on the person and what they were willing to pay for your… service. The average income was 7-10% of the clients travel wage plus tips and any food/ room and board they were willing to supply. That would be enough. The average would be enough to keep the lights on AND pay for her medicine!

This was not a fancy institution by any means, they would have seen your speeder and kicked you to the curb without an interview if that were the case. Again, anything within the heart of Canto Bite found wealth. You were almost giddy as you put your signature on the last paper still left to be overturned.

Josephine

The woman then explained the mechanics, they would get a portion of your income but would leave your tips alone. So that would be your best bet at the most credits.

“How do I get tips?”

She gave you a knowing smile and continued on talking, “This device goes on your arm. It acts as a built in birth control,” she placed a black strip on your bicep. It beeped and stung like a shot. “Double tapping the band like so,” she pressed her index finger twice on the bar and a small green light flashed for a second, “is how you will receive your tips.”

The woman tapped three times then held her finger on the band the same light flickered red. “Triple tap and hold sends the nearest law enforcement to your location.”

You hated the way this line of work was so thought out and developed with the newest technology. Surely there were more productive things to focus people's efforts. Technological development followed the credits you supposed, and few things in the galaxy were more profitable than Canto Bight’s pleasure industry. Which was now a good thing for you.

“Now what?” You ask although a little hesitant to know the answer.

“You wait until a client comes in and you work out the details. It never takes long, we serve the whole galaxy after all.”

On cue the door swings open and a kriffing Mandalorian walks in.

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. They are still alive?! You had only seen them on those bad holo shows with your mom. You almost thought they were a myth. But no. There was one right in front of you with the helmet and everything. And a most definitely full functioning blaster at his hip.

A modulated baritone breaks your train of thought, “Nine percent travel wage plus tips.”

Oh, he was a client.

“Fifteen.” Maker, what is wrong with you. Nine was already generous you probably just lost the best offer you were going to get.

“Ten.”

He was so tall.

“Twelve,” you counter.

“Deal.”

Twelve percent of his credits earned in addition to tips and free room and board. A dream come true.

The woman spoke, “There is a room down the hall if you want to see if she is compatible, it's on the house.”

You stiffened and noticed to your surprise he did the same, responding instinctively, “She’s compatible.” And turned and headed towards the exit; you were supposed to follow.

This is actually happening.

Mandalorians were supposed to be bounty hunters right? So you are going to take 12% of his bounty credits? Is that legal?

You felt like a bounty right now though. From what you had seen from those shows- they would trail behind them in cuffs to their ships and certain doom. You tried not to make the comparison as his ship came into view. You were doing him a service… you didn’t have a bounty on your head (at least you didn't think you did), you weren't going to end up in carbonite.

The ramp lowered and your nerves spiked. You glanced over your shoulder to see the flickering lights of the Maker forsaken city, breathed in the salty air one last time and followed him into the belly of the ship. The ramp closed behind you.

The hull was larger than your apartment with multiple segmented doors. You assumed a refresher, bed room and stuff like that. You had never been on a ship before. You wondered what types of planets it has been to.

He seemed awkward, almost as much as you. Looking at you from under the visor and messing with the glove in his hand. Would you get to see his face?

He pressed a button to the side of a wall and a compartment opened up. He gestured for you to put your bag inside so you did and looked back up at him- neither of you saying a word.

5 months, 29 days, and 55 seconds to go. Yikes this is going to be rough.

“I am going to start the take off cycle,” he pointed at a ladder which led to what you assumed to be the cabin, “get yourself prepped and I will be back down in a few minutes.”

“What, no tour?”

“Later.”

“Where are we going?”

“Takodana.”

You nod and he climbs the ladder, disappearing overhead.

There is a slight hum from the corner of the room and you investigate. Creeping closer, there is a low light emitting from the side of the corner, you lift your hand to turn it and jump backwards. There is a disfigured humanoid completely encased in carbonite. So he is a bounty hunter that was confirmed. It honestly didn't scare you as much as you thought it should. You were more interested in the man, his story, how he came to be a frozen bounty in the belly of a hunters ship. You could see the individual muscles and veins of his arms- it would really be quite the specimen to draw…

‘Get yourself prepped and I will be back down in a few minutes.’

Holy bantha dung, the meaning of that sentence just hit you like a pile of bricks.

You step away from the carbonite. There should be a bed around here somewhere right? That would probably be the best place for… that- at least in your experience.

You start scanning the hull for any sign of a mattress. There is a button next to a panel on the wall by where you had left your bag. You press it and two doors swing open revealing an absurd amount of weaponry. Wow you should have asked more questions about his profession before blindly following someone into their ship. Triple tap and hold calls in the nearest law enforcement… no. He is a bounty hunter. This is a part of the job; you shouldn't ask questions. Besides, bounty hunters probably make a ton of credits.

You feel the engine rumble below you. Goodbye Canto Bight.

You try for a second panel. Bingo. There really wasn't going to be enough room for both of you to fit in there… oh well you'll make it work.

Okay, tips. Think about the tips. You slip off your shoes and crawl on top of the bed and lay down. You think about the guy from a few days ago to get you in the right headspace. Nope. That had almost the opposite effect on you… he was nice but that is about where his virtues (and talents) end. You maneuver your hands underneath your waistband; maybe an idea will come to you.

So a Mandalorian, you think, like a fairytale. A knight in shining armor here to save you from your financial doom. You wonder if his armor is as magical as the stories say. Despite the whole murder, bounty hunter aspect you are trying so hard to ignore, you suppose you could have gotten someone a lot worse. Oh Maker, a Hutt could have… the slime. THE. SLIME.

You certainly were not being very productive at your new place of employment. You felt as dry as Mustafar. Come on- focus. It was strange trying to do this in a stranger's bed with the distinct smell on their sheets, something comparable to wood chips and… gunpowder?

Your fingers ghost over a place that gives you shivers. Yes definitely wood chips, perhaps a soap? You shiver again. He probably did take the armor off to shower. He wasn’t a total barbarian.

“Enjoying yourself?” A low noise growls next to you.

“Starting to,” you tease. Then he kriffing sits down next to you and just watches. You're not one to blush but stars! His visor was completely unreadable. He could be giving you a completely disgusted look right now. No, don't think like that. He asked and is paying for this and you should do your best to provide a good service.

“What can I call you?”

“Mando.”

“Something is telling me that’s not your real name.” You start lifting your hips ever so slightly and you see him shift. Perfect.

“Is your real name Josephine?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

You bite your lip, wimper, and lift your hips with more forrosity: pretending you are doing a much better job than you actually are. It works, he nearly jumps from where he is sitting.

You begin to trail your free hand up underneath your shirt. How hard did the guy in the carbonite fight? How many people have lost to this man and here you are, moments after meeting, able to have this much of an effect on him. Stars.

Your hand travels below your bra and thumbs your nipple and you add a whimper for good measure. Finally he breaks.

It happens in a flash of silver. An arm wraps around your middle and you're turned around, back to him, legs folded under you on the bed.

“Bite,” he orders, holding the glove to your lips and you follow. The glove slips from his hands revealing tanned skin. He’s human- good.

He hesitates a moment on your waistband until you roll your hips back on him- giving him permission. When you do, you feel a hardness there that is not from the armor. His fingers drop lower and he tisks disapprovingly when he discovers how bad of a job you actually did. Leaning down with the helmet sending a dark rumble in your ear and his glove still in your mouth, “Joey.”

And your eyes roll to the back of your head.

His fingers, unobstructed from the leather, work perfect circles you never thought possible and you crumble. You swear your knees gave out because you sink into him further. The hard armor is surprisingly comfortable with the warm man underneath. He rocks into you and you see stars. And you climb higher and higher- his gloved hand reaches and presses ever so slightly on your throat and you collapse; back arching into him. The glove slips from your lips. There is a modulated hum in your ear and then, “May I?”

You nod.

Your pants are snatched over your butt and your shirt is ripped off so fast you barely had time to recover. And you fall slightly forward onto the bed throwing your hands out to catch yourself. He scoops your legs out from under you so your feet fall to the floor but your upper half is still on the mattress while he stands behind you.

He doesn't bother to remove any of his armor but you are completely bare in front of him. He just takes himself out of his pants, lines up, and slowly begins to split you open. You make an unrecognizable noise as he starts up a sharp rhythm. Both of his hands have a death grip on your hips using it as a counterweight and to keep you almost flush against the mattress. Besides the occasional uncontrolled sound from you, and a grumble or two from him, both of you don’t say anything. The room is mostly quiet except for the whirl of the engine and the vulgar slapping sound.

Until he grinds into you in a way you can’t describe and you let out another noise; there is a desperate attempt to muffle it with the blanket below you but the ungloved hand leaves your hips and pulls your hair. This forces your head upwards and the sound comes out unobstructed.

You would be embarrassed if you could find the will to care. Right now there is a Mandalorian in full armor taking you from behind and it is fantastic. You hit another high and tighten around him.

“Kirff,” he hisses from behind you and his hips stutter; filling you up. Warmth dribbles down your legs. He pulls out immediately and stumbles backwards.

Exhausted he leans back over you, placing his bare palm on your spine to ground himself as you both return from bliss.

“We will be there in an hour or so,” he double taps the band on your arm; the light turns green.

“Thank you,” your respond.

And he heads up to the cockpit leaving you there exhausted and dripping. A successful first day on the job.

[narrans]

Everyone Needs A Little Hero | Conversation Match

Hero’s curiosity was getting the better of him. Ever since the arrival of the new family three weeks or so ago of three brothers and daughter, Mayzie, his parents had been acting odd. They left most mornings to go and observe the human while leaving the borrowing to Atlas, Cali, and even Tiron. Meanwhile, Hero, much to his dismay, was usually on Winnie watch. His younger sister, Winnie, wasn’t old enough to be left on her own, but old enough to get into everything.

With everyone maintaining the house and keeping tabs on the weird acting human and new family, Hero’s personal duties were being put on the back burner. He hadn’t had a chance to go out and see Sam, Eliza, Maggie, or any of the others he had befriended. The most he was able to do recently was go and clean cobwebs from the corridors for other Borrowers.

There was a simple nobility in doing this for other Borrowers, but it didn’t stop Hero from missing his friends - especially his human friends.

What seemed unfair was that Hero was the one who wanted to find out more about the three newcomers, but it was Tiron who was getting to spend the most time with the one brother, Dorian.

Evidently, Tiron invited Dorian to their little music practice and, after a couple of meetings, Dorian opened up a little. He didn’t say much but, needless to say, Dorian didn’t feel like he was in danger around Ashlynn, the human. Hero suspected that Tiron was allowed to meet with Dorian because the new Borrower had a deep appreciation for the Borrower rules while Rey, his brother, was the one who they heard had a fascination for humans.

Maybe they thought they could get information about the family through Dorian, but it still didn’t seem fair.

It was one day when he was finally allowed out when he was on his way to clean cobwebs from some of the human cabinets from nearby apartments when he saw Rey, the new Borrower, once again.

Rey had on his borrowing bag and was making his way down the stairs toward the main elevator shaft. Was now his chance? No time like the present.

“Rey!” he called as he waved as big as he could to get the teenage Borrower’s attention. Rey’s attention snapped over immediately to see Hero waving frantically. Rey smiled and, looking around for a moment, walked over to Hero.

“Hey, how’s it going?” asked Rey, resting his hand on the pin at his side and the other hand slipping under the strap of his borrowing bag. He also had on a backpack which looked a little bulky, but Hero couldn’t tell what was inside of it.

“It’s going,” muttered Hero. “Everyone else gets to go borrowing and I’m stuck at home playing babysitter with my sister, Winnie. I love her to pieces, but it’s not the same as going out. What… um… what are you doing?”

“Taking a minute to stretch my legs and look for anyone who might be willing to trade a bundle of thumb tacks for some pen springs. I just talked to the bucket list brigade or whatever they’re trying out now for a group name and they didn’t have anything. Evidently, people aren’t using a lot of pens right now and, if they have pens, they’re super hard to unscrew,” replied Rey.

Hero could help but chuckle at the name. “The bucket list brigade? Did you come up with that?”

“Yeah, it seems like the ultimate list of things you could ever want except for my thing. Anyway, where are you headed off to?” asked Rey.

“Oh, I was going to go out and clear up some of the cobwebs. They make it tricky to borrow and it’s something nice for the…” Hero stopped himself mid-sentence, almost finishing with the word “humans” instead of “Borrowers.” It was only a slight hesitation, but Hero managed to correct himself and save his statement. “Others. It’s nice for the others.”

“That’s pretty neat of you,” said Rey. “Do you need a hand? I’ve got a couple minutes. Maybe we can borrow some discarded pens while we’re there.” Hero could not have been more thrilled.

With a smile he couldn’t slap off his face and a bounce to his step, he said, “Absolutely! Come on! I don’t have long.”

Rey followed Hero along the elevator shaft, up the stairs to the next floor, and ducked down one of the unused passages. Well, unused to other Borrowers. This was one of the chambers Hero used in order to get up to Watney’s apartment. He pulled out a bit of popsicle stick that his father cut into walking sticks, emergency torches, and spears.

Hero liked using the wooden stick the best. He learned using the end to collect the webbing, it could be used as a torch and it caught fire faster. He began waving the stick back and forth, twirling the webs around the tip of the stick until it looked like a match.

“Oh, that’s clever,” grinned Rey as he attached the battery to his hip lamp, creating a soft and almost haunting glow in the fathers where they were. “Want me to use one? Or just use my pin.”

“Um… sure, use one. Waist not want not as mom would say. Here you go,” said Hero, fishing into his own pack and pulling out another stick. They started walking along the boards, making sweeping motions while twirling the thin webs onto the end of the stick.

After a couple of minutes, Rey was the first to break the silence.

“It’s nice, getting to see other Borrowers again. It’s been a while since we had anyone live so close by. Now, all of a sudden, there are so many of us,” said Rey as he spun the stick in a particularly thick part of web.

“Yeah?” asked Hero, wondering where Rey might be going with the conversation. He remembered that his parents seemed wary of Rey and his brothers because they thought they were seen, but did that really mean anything?

Hero felt slightly nervous, almost like he was supposed to be under cover and asking questions like humans do in those television shows. Was this how Tiron felt when talking to Dorian? If that was the case, Hero didn’t like how it felt already. It felt dishonest. Well, more dishonest than he was used to being by keeping his interactions with his human friends a secret.

“Yeah,” sighed Rey. “I don’t know. It’s almost weird being back with so many of us, if that even makes any sense.”

“Oh? How so?” Hero asked.

“Well,” sighed Rey. “Back at my first home when I was really young, it was my mom, dad, and my brothers. We migrated after my mom… got sick, and then it was just Soren, Dorian, and dad. Then… well… after a while it was just us three Borrowers and…”

Rey seemingly hesitated for a moment. Hero was trying to figure out what he could be hesitating about when the slightly older teenage Borrower continued to speak.

“Then we had four other family groups move in. Soren married one, and she was really nice, and Dorian made friends with the others. Things happened and, well, now we have Mayzie and not Lucy while the other families moved away until it was just us again,” Rey said. “Now, we’re here and there are dozens of families. It’s just… different.”

“Sounds like quite the adventure,” Hero replied, pausing for a moment from collecting cobwebs to look at Rey. “Do you like being around so many people?”

“People?” asked Rey. “You mean Borrowers, right? Or are you talking about all of the humans?”

Hero felt slightly disheartened. The fact that Rey made a distinction between humans and Borrowers could mean he didn’t feel as comfortable with humans as Hero thought.

“Um… yeah. That’s what I mean,” said Hero. Rey, in response, shrugged after a tense pause.

“I mean, I like having a lot of people around. They’re a lot of fun to talk to. I just wish they… well… never mind,” said Rey as he finished clearing some of the cobwebs he was working on. Hero felt his pulse quicken. What? What was he going to say?

“Wish what?” he asked, trying to hide his excitement. Rey sighed and shrugged while keeping his back to Hero.

“I wish people weren’t so hateful to the humans. They have a lot of great ideas for inventions and stuff. You know, they have things that actually help them fly? Not just glide. Fly,” said Rey. Hero’s eyes widened.

“What? You mean that’s real?” he asked excitedly.

“Yeah,” replied Rey, turning slightly to see Hero’s excitement. Taking it as a good sign, he felt himself getting excited. “Yeah, it’s all real. There’s so much they have that we can learn from.”

“And you’re not afraid? Of the humans I mean?” asked Hero, instantly regretting his eagerness to ask the question because Rey seemed to quiet, reeling his excitement back in.

“I mean… aren’t you?” Rey asked as he turned his back to Hero. There was something off in Rey’s voice that Hero picked up on. It was subtle, like the older teen was hiding something, but Hero thought it was better not to press his luck just yet. One thing was for sure though, Rey wasn’t being completely honest with him.

“Right, yeah. Of course,” said Hero. They were quiet for several seconds before Rey glanced back toward the entryway.

“Thanks… um… for letting me tag along. I probably should get back,” said Rey as he reached up and scratched the back of his neck. Disheartened, Hero started to follow behind Rey as they walked along the passage until a thought occurred to him.

Watney!

Watney, being an artist, surely had enough pens for Rey to select from. Perhaps Hero would get a chance to see how Rey interacted in the world with humans.

“Hey, Rey, wait. You said you needed springs, right? I think I know of a place we can go to. Are you up for a quick borrowing mission?” asked Hero. Rey glanced over at Hero quizzically and, seemingly winning some silent debate in his head, nodded.

“Sure, just as long as it’s quick. I need to get back and help cook dinner,” said Rey.

“Sweet,” grinned Hero as he spun around on his heel and headed back down the way they came. The darkened passageways illuminated by Rey’s hip lamp made Hero feel like he was in some kind of haunted film. They crept down through the walls until they reached the same floor joist Hero used before when he first entered the apartment.

Hero almost forgot to listen to the apartment, willing to charge right into his human friend’s apartment, but caught himself just as he lifted part of the floor. No sounds in the apartment. Rey was almost disappointed, but maybe it was for the best that Rey didn’t meet Watney just yet – even though he was sure they would get along well.

They slipped into Watney’s apartment and crept over until they made it to Watney’s trash bin which was made of a metallic mesh. Just as Hero suspected, there were some discarded ball point pens in the trash The mesh made it easy to climb up the edge, flip over the edge, and get to the bottom of the bin with the crumpled pieces of paper.

Rey, almost shaking with excitement, found a couple of cracked pens he was easily able to open and extract the springs from. He was also able to pry some of the plastic fragments from the pen for weapons and the curved bits for miscellaneous construction projects. He climbed back out of the mesh trash bin in a jiffy and he and Hero were on their way back out of the apartment a few short minutes later.

The moment they were back under the furniture piece, they heard the jingle of keys, making both of the Borrower boys pause. Now was the chance to see what Rey would do! Hero crouched low and watched as Rey cautiously backed up and crouched as well.

To Hero’s displeasure, he watched as Rey carefully maneuvered backward toward the baseboard and carefully opened the floor joist so they could slip inside. Hero paused, looking back to Watney as he entered the apartment and set down his bag. He wanted to say something to him but, given Rey’s silence and uneasiness, he decided he would have to come back later.

They slipped back quietly beneath the floorboards and made their way back along the corridor. The whole way, Rey was talking about how excited he was to get started on some projects. Meanwhile, Hero couldn’t help but think about Rey’s reaction.

Rey didn’t seem afraid, but he did back away toward the floor joist to leave first. Maybe he just had experience going out into the human world and knew how to handle himself? Whatever the reason, Hero couldn’t pinpoint it.

Hero would have to go and figure it out later. In the meantime, the two teens parted ways once they made it back to the elevator shaft.

Where did Rey said he lived? Maybe Hero could ask to come visit his home and see firsthand what his parents were worried about.

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Continue 

Previous

Beginning

Prompt

[luimagines]

I was wondering how the boys would react to you having a breakdown?

Masterlist

SO so softly.

This one won't be as long as the others but I will be splitting it into two parts.

This one contains Hyrule, Sky, Legend, Warrior and Wild.

Content under the cut!

Hyrule

Hyrule had noticed that you were having a rough day.

He wasn't sure what had set it off or how it started because you were fine in the morning but something happened along the lines that tipped you over the edge.

You were walking down the trail of this unknown Hyrule. Until you tripped and landed directly on your knee.

Hyrule stopped in his tracks at the sight.

Usually you'd just get back up and brush it off, act like it never happened. But this time...

He hears you sniffle and his heart breaks.

"Hey," Hyrule makes his way over to you. "Are you ok?"

"I... I don't know." Your voice cracks.

You shift to get off of your knee and look at the cut. It appears that you landed directly on a rock and it cut through your pants.

"No... I'm not ok." Your eyes quickly fill with tears and Hyrule all but runs to your side.

He's quick to pull you close and rub circles on your back. The touch seemed to be the final straw on the camels back and sobs began to rack your body with such force that it shook Hyrule to his core.

His heart bled with you as you cried.

"Anything I can do to help?" He asks after a few minutes of silence.

"No." You sniff and hug him tightly.

"You sure?"

"My brother... He's sick." You admit. "And I... I can't-"

You look up and into his eyes. "I can't go see him. He's not getting any better. I'm stuck. I-"

You freeze, glancing over his shoulder and the sobs turn to rage. "YOU!"

Hyrule lets you go and turns around.

A shadow. Formless and floating. A single black mass with no face or discernable features but all the more watchful.

You rip yourself away from Hyrule and stand up again. "Why are you here?!"

You know this thing?

"Is it dangerous?" Hyrule stands up as well and makes a grab for his sword.

"To me? No." You admit and grab his hand. "But it's never really shown itself to be an ally."

You glare at it, wiping the last of your tears away. "You can't hurt my friends, you hear me? I'll kill you if you even try."

Hyrule put his hand on your shoulder and begins to lead you away. "Ca you even kill that thing? Are we safe?"

Your glare hardens. "I don't know, I've never tried. We should be safe though. It's a long story."

"I've got time." Hyrule smiles. "We're at the back of the group, so it's not like we have to worry about the other walking up on us."

"Maybe later." You sigh and take his hand in yours. "Let's go."

Your voice is soft and quiet, he has to strain himself a bit to hear it but he knows its because the sadness has returned.

He takes his hand out and places it around your shoulders instead, holding you close.

Hyrule walks with you, side by side until to reach the rest of the group.

Maybe you just need a friend right now.

He can be that friend.

Sky

Sky had noticed that you were quieter than usual.

And not within the same brand that Link’s were typically used to.

It was like a loaded spring waiting to burst from confinement and he thinks he can see the moment when it happens.

The group was simply teasing and rough housing each other until someone said something and you didn’t appreciate it.

You shoot straight up from where you’re sitting, fists at your side, jaw clenched and what looks like to be tears beginning to build in your eyes. Without a word, you turn on your heel and leave the group behind. 

The camp falls silent at your departure, no one knowing what went wrong.

Sky hums in contemplation and stands up as well, silently waving to the group that he has you covered.

He’s to follow where you went and he picks up the pace to make up for lost time. You didn't seem to go far, just out of ear shot.

When he finds you, you’re pacing back and forth, muttering to yourself in a language he doesn’t understand or even heard for that matter. Your hands are still clenched into fists, but one’s by your mouth, pressed tightly enough that the skin pales and the other is gripping your wrist tightly enough that he thinks you’re digging into your skin.

There are tears openly falling from your eyes but aside from the miniscule voice cracks that he barely catch, you’re silent.

If no one followed you, he doubt that they wouldn’t have even known this was happening.

“Hey.” Sky clears his throat and he sees you snap in his direction. You’re eyes widen in shock and he’s made a witness to all your pain and frustration and he’s aware how vulnerable you’ve made yourself by not leaving them entirely. 

You knew that any of them could have followed you and didn’t actively try to hide yourself.

He doesn’t want to make it worse.

“Hug?” He opens his arms and tries to show how unjudgmental he’s being. He doesn’t want you to think he’ll think less of you. That any of the group would think less of you. It has to be why you just left. But he also knows that there is a time for talking and a time for silence.

This is not a time for talking.

You look at him a moment, your grip on yourself tightening by a fraction.

The spring is wound up even more. 

“You don’t have to talk about it fi you don’t want to.” Sky reaches out.

It explodes.

You run to him and collapse into his arm. He’s quick to wrap you up and hold you tight. As tight as he can manage without the fear of actually hurting you.

You don’t say anything and sob into his shoulder.

He lets you.

He doesn’t lessen his grip until you stop crying, and even then, he holds you until you pull away first.

You stay close to him until you’re breathing easier and the evidence of your breakdown lessens somewhat. At least until it’s not so obvious.

“Thank you Sky.”

“Any time.”

Legend

“Hey, The Old Man is looking for you.” Legend walks to where he knew you ran off.

It wasn’t any of his business to know where you were going or why.

It... tickled his curiosity however, he couldn’t help the want to follow you and make sure didn't just go off and die.

But he knew you could handle yourself if you needed to.

So he shrugged and let you be.

But now that he sees you....

He regrets it.

Your back is turned to him and you don’t turn to face him when he calls him. The air around you is heavy and somber and your completely still in posture. You’re leaning up against a tree with your arms crossed and with one leg crossed around the other.

It’s a blocked off stance that Legend is familiar with. What’s concerning to him is that there was no one around you to consider blocking off- unless you were blocking off the group... And he supposes that you did, since you left... But to still be blocking something off...

He hates to think about the other option.

You’re blocking off yourself.

He creeps closer, trying to be as quiet as possible, until he’s close enough to hear you gulp.

“Yeah I’ll-” Your voice cuts itself off with a slight crack. He knows what you’re doing. You’re trying to project your voice to be as normal as possible. “I’ll be there in a minute. I didn’t mean to be away for so long.”

Legend creeps around you until he’s facing you head on. He sees that your eyes are closed and shut tight and there are tear tracks on your cheeks. Not to mention that you have an iron grip on both your arms, enough so that your knuckles turn white.

Oh... Now Legend feel like a horrible friend.

The worst actually.

He knows he’s probably the last person to be here. He’s not at all equipped for the emotional...anything. But he’s also not inclined to go back and find someone who is.

This.... Looks really personal. He doubts that you want more people to know about this.

Legend takes a step closer and places a hesitant hand on your shoulder you.

You wince and slowly, oh so slowly, lift your head and open your eyes.

Legend gulps and puts his other hand on your opposite shoulder. “I’m not very good at this-”

Your legs give out.

Legend is quick to fall with you and pull you away from the tree and against his chest. You cry openly and loudly this time, clinging to him like your life depends on it. He’s your life line in this vulnerable moment and Legend feels.... Honored is not the word he wants to use. But he does feel a certain way about being the one here to share this moment with you, to be the one you trust with this, to be the one you’re clinging to.

Forget the others right now, he thinks as he begins to cling to you just as hard as you do him, this is more important.

Warrior

Warrior wakes up with a start one night. He’s confused and disoriented, the only thing he’s aware of right now is that something is wrong.

But it’s quiet, his brain registers a second later. So no monsters.

Weird. Why is he awake then?

He sits up slowly, trying to gather his surroundings and what could have woken him up.

Legend, Hyrule and Wind are accounted for, they’ve gathered together in a twisted pile of limbs that makes it difficult to tell where one starts and the other ends, but they look warm and comfy.

Wild and Twilight are both leaning up against Time, the Old Man has both of his arms around them and holding them close.

Sky and Four are by his side, Four is wrapped with Sky’s sailcloth and is snuggled close to the knight and wait a minute...

It was your watch. Where are you?

Warrior shoots up straighter and makes a quiet maneuver to his feet to not wake the others. He gets his sword and stands up turning in a circle to survey the whole camp.

You’re nowhere in sight.

A striking fear hits him right in the heart, like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. He’s immediately thinking the worst.

You’ve defected. You’ve betrayed them. You’ve been kidnapped. You’ve deserted them. You’re hurt. You’re dying.

He stops himself from screaming out your name.

He’s overreacting.

You’re fine.

Healthy even. You probably just had to relieve yourself and would be back just as soon. He can wait until you come back.

Warrior takes the post and sits by the fire. 

This is fine. You’re fine.

It’ll only a be a few minutes and then he’ll go right back to bed.

Minutes pass.

You don’t show up.

Warrior stands up again and tries to look around for you or any evidence as to where you might have gone. He doesn’t really find anything. He begins to panic again.

He makes the executive decision to move away from the camp and try to find you. He gets a little ways into the tree line and begins to travel in around the perimeter. The group will be fine for a minute. If he can’t find you then he’ll go wake the group up, start a search party and then go find you.

Then he hears something.

A sniffle.

A chocked sob.

Warrior should expect a wave of relief to wash over him at you both being nearby and alive but instead, a different sort of dread washes over him and he all but runs in the direction of the sound.

You’re not fine.

He finds you sitting against a tree, almost camouflaged with how dark it still is, with your legs hugged close to your chest and your head against your knees. 

He places his sword down and kneels next to you.

“Hey...” Warrior reaches out and places his hand on your shoulder. You don’t react to his presence and it breaks his heart. 

He sighs and takes a seat next to you. Warrior takes his arm and wraps it around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. His other arm comes up to cradle your head and his finds that his fingers gently take your hair and methodically begin to run through it.

Warrior resolves to stay next to you until you’re done, until you feel better.

And he does.

Wild

Wild was cooking lunch and minding his own business for a change when he sees you storm into the camp, ignore absolutely everyone, and continue power walking through until you’re gone again.

It stuns him enough that he actually drops his spoon into the pot, losing it to the boiling contents within.

Twilight hisses by his side. “That’s... unfortunate.”

“Watch this.” Wild points to the pot and stands up, not giving Twilight a chance to say his piece.

He storms after you, trying to match your pace before you get too far for him to track.

Wild considers himself lucky that you don’t go that far from the group, only just slightly beyond what would have been the perimeter of their camp.

You’re entirely wound up, hands by your face and pacing back and forth.

Words fail him in that moment and he watches as you press harder against yourself trying to calm yourself with deep breath.

It’s not working.

Wild calls your name quietly and you freeze up in your spot. “Are you ok?”

You lock eyes with him and crumble.

The Champion rushes to your side and catches you before your knees hit the floor. You curl into him and grip his tunic like a life line as the strongest sobs Wild’s ever heard just completely rack your body. He’s quick to wrap his arms around you and hold you close and tight. One arm goes around your waist as the other cradles your head by his neck.

The position is familiar to him and the deja vu Wild’s experiencing is a kin to a smack to the face but he powers through.

It’s not about him right now.

He says nothing while you cry. He asks no questions and makes no claims. Comfort words don’t flow either however and the only sounds that reach his ears are your broken gasps and his own quiet breaths.

I’m here, he thinks. I’m here for you. It’s ok. Let it out.

He’s almost jealous for a moment about how you still have the energy to cry, to still find the strength and space to let out your emotions even after everything you’ve been through.

He’s cried for a long time, coming to terms with what’s happened to his home, his love, his friends, and at the same time he thinks he hasn’t cried enough.

But he’s has no more tears to shed.

He’s also has no shoulder to cry on.

But you need one right now and he’s not willing to leave someone he cares about alone in a time of grief.

Hopefully Twilight doesn’t let the food burn. Good food is always good for the soul.

He thinks that it’ll help when you’re done.

Part 2

[ultimatetrashyfanfic]

I’ve been really into Komahina lately. This started off all lighthearted but then became a bucketload of Komahina hurt/comfort. Just because I think Nagito needs more people to care about him. This is post-hope arc when they are just trying to be normal again. - Circle

Also on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33992074

Warning: descriptions of injuries (nothing serious but requires stitches), blood, some spoilers for SDR2 game and the anime.

Nagito wasn’t surprised when his bad luck struck that day. He’d been having too much of a good time. He’d come to expect this, to feel a wary tension whenever something nice happened because he knew the bad was now right around the corner.

At least this time the luck had affected himself rather than the other Ultimates. The morning had been so happy and relaxed, the perfect conditions for Nagito to let his guard down. He was so grateful to be invited on the beach trip with Hajime, Fuyuhiko and Kazuichi. They’d acted like it was no big deal, like they had no idea of the gravity their invitation held.

“You want to hang out with a nobody like me? The Ultimates are so generous, I don’t deserve such-” Nagito started, but then Hajime put a hand over his mouth, Kazuichi stuck his fingers in his ears and Fuyuhiko told him to shut the fuck up - but all three did this fondly.

It was easy to grow accustomed to the beach when living on a tropical island, but it seemed especially beautiful that day. Blue sea and white sand shimmered with a special sort of exotic glamour - though perhaps that was down to the three other men laughing along and acting like he was equal to them. It was absurd, really, that these Ultimates should give him any attention. He was about to voice this very thought, but then Hajime took Nagito’s hand without hesitation - without a hint of shame - and the words died away. A strange warm feeling bloomed in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar.

Hajime must’ve sensed he was getting overwhelmed, because he led Nagito back up the beach while Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko went swimming. Or at least Fuyuhiko went swimming; Kazuichi paddled and ran for the shore whenever a strand of seaweed brushed against his leg. Hajime spread their towels out in the shade of a palm tree, lying flat and gesturing for Nagito to do the same. “Come on, get in the shade. I know how easily your skin burns.”

“Don’t you want to swim too, Hajime?” Nagito asked, flopping down. He let his head fall back onto Hajime’s stomach, making his grunt softly.

“No, it’s okay. I could tell you needed some peace and quiet.”

Nagito frowned. Hajime was doing that much more often, seeing through his smiles and cheerful comments to the truth inside. Nagito knew he should be happy, grateful even. Hajime wanted to know him better. Hajime wanted to understand him. So why did it make Nagito feel so raw and vulnerable, like Hajime was scrubbing away a layer of his skin?

“You shouldn’t have to miss time with your friends for someone like me,” Nagito said. “You were nice enough to bring me along. That’s more than enough.”

“What, do you think I’m going to chain you to a tree like a dog while we have fun? I’m not missing out on time with anybody. I’m spending time with you, Nagito. Because I want to. I like to. Right?” Hajime said, his voice exasperated. But then Nagito felt a hand in his hair, clumsy yet gentle, and he knew Hajime wasn’t really upset with him.

Nagito felt the weird feeling come back, itching insistently. He forced himself to give a lighthearted laugh. “You’re so inspiring, Hajime. You have hope for everyone, even miserable wretches like me.”

“Nagito.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Nagito did as he was told. Hajime started idly fiddling with Nagito’s hair, taking hold of one wild curl and pulling it straight, then letting it bounce back. Nagito wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, nervous giggles tickling the back of his throat. This wasn’t them. They weren’t tender and gentle and soft. They weren’t sweet words and walks on the beach and fingers running through hair. Their relationship was messy. They were angry outbursts and nightmares and holding onto each other too tightly, too long.

Nagito remained tense for a long time, but Hajime didn’t speak again. His hand continued moving through Nagito’s mop of hair until - finally - he felt the man sigh and release the tension in his shoulders. With the warm sun on his face and his head bobbing slowly up and down to the rhythm of Hajime’s breaths, Nagito felt his eyelids droop. And the nightmares didn’t come this time.

Hajime must’ve slept too, because they were both woken by a splash of icy water over their faces. Hajime yelped and sat upright so hastily Nagito tumbled off him onto the sand, spluttering in shock, wet hair plastered to his face.

Fuyuhiko and Kazuichi loomed over them with empty buckets, grinning impishly. Hajime lifted his sopping fringe with one hand to glare at them, and they both burst out laughing.

“You two were sleeping the day away! We didn’t want you getting dehydrated.”

“It was Kazuichi’s idea,” Fuyuhiko said.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Hajime growled.

“It wasn’t! Fuyuhiko started it,” Kazuichi said, but he was giggling like an idiot and it was clear he was lying.

Hajime stumbled to his feet, hauled Nagito up and snatched Kazuichi’s bucket from his hands. “Right, come on, Nagito. Payback.”

Hajime started running to the shoreline, dragging Nagito along. Fuyuhiko made for the sea too, and Kazuichi, who was now without a bucket, ran to the right of the beach, clambering over the slick rocks by the cliffs to hide.

“I’ll go after him,” Nagito told Hajime. “I know there’s only two buckets but I could… throw seaweed at him, I suppose. He seemed afraid of it in the water.”

Hajime snorted. “Yes, do that! That’s hilarious. I’ll get Fuyuhiko.”

“No you fucking won’t!” Fuyuhiko yelled.

So Nagito ran down to the side of the beach too. The damp black rocks appeared every low tide as the sea retreated, leaving behind a selection of tiny pools filled with small fish and anemones and little crabs. The rocks were covered with seaweed and very slippery, and Nagito was barefoot. He should’ve known better - he was used to watching out for potential hazards - but Nagito knew Gundham and Sonia had been down there on several occasions to study the wildlife in the rock pools, and neither of them had been sensibly dressed. Sonia was even in heels, for God’s sake. Surely the rocks couldn’t be that treacherous.

He wasn’t thinking properly. It was just nice to finally be able to act silly and do stupid stuff with people who seemed to want him around, even if they were just being kind. Nagito had never been in a water fight in his life. He was kidding himself he was normal.

So he clambered over the slime-covered rocks with reckless abandon, barely pausing to breathe. He had his eyes on Kazuichi in the distance, and he didn’t notice the small rock pool until he was slipping into it, his right foot sliding over sharp rock and rough barnacles. The pain and the shock of the icy water screamed all the way up his leg and his knees gave way, sending him falling onto his behind in the pool with a splash. He sat still for several seconds, the sole of his foot screaming.

Kazuichi had originally started laughing when he saw Nagito fall, but his expression clouded when Nagito didn’t join in. Usually Nagito smiled after his clumsy moments and said something about his bad luck being a stepping stone for hope later or some similar bullshit. But this time Nagito didn’t smile. He didn’t attempt to get up. He just sat there, face blank.

“Hey,” Kazuichi called, slowly creeping over. He still wasn’t quite sure if this was a trick. He didn’t want to get a face full of seawater. “You alright?”

Nagito didn’t react. He didn’t even blink. Kazuichi moved closer, coming right up to the rock pool and bracing himself. Nagito didn’t try to splash him. He just sat, blank-faced, twirling one finger idly in the water and making pinkish swirls with the… sand? Silt? Kazuichi couldn’t tell what it was floating in the rock pool, but it didn’t look sanitary.

“You should probably get up. That looks pretty dirty,” Kazuichi advised. “And you’re getting your pants wet. What’re you doing anyway? You’re not gonna go weird on me, are you?”

“I… think I may require Mikan, when it’s most suitable for her. I wouldn’t want to bother an Ultimate with my petty issues,” Nagito said calmly.

“What? Why?” Kazuichi said, alarmed. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”

As if in answer, Nagito lifted his right leg out of the water. Kazuichi’s eyes went wide when he spotted the huge gash on the sole of Nagito’s foot, gushing blood at a terrifying pace. He looked again at the murky pinkish water and suddenly understood.

“Oh my fucking God! Fuck, shit, what do we do?” Kazuichi cried in a panic. “Don’t just sit there playing around in your blood, you weirdo! Shit, HAJIME!” Kazuichi yelled back down the beach, waving his arms at the two men in the distance like he’d been shipwrecked.

They approached warily, not taking the situation seriously. “This better not be a trick, Kazuichi!”

“I’m not playing the game anymore! Komaeda is bleeding to death over here!”

“What?” Hajime cried, picking up the pace.

“Bleeding to death is rather an exaggeration,” Nagito said. “You’d need to lose thirty to forty percent of the blood in your body to even fall unconscious.”

“I’m not going to ask how the hell you know that,” Kazuichi mumbled.

Hajime and Fuyuhiko climbed over the rocks, staring in horror at the big cut on Nagito’s foot and the rock pool growing cloudy with blood.

“What did you do?!” Fuyuhiko cried. Nagito opened his mouth, but Fuyuhiko was looking at Kazuichi.

“I didn’t do anything!” Kazuichi cried, looking wounded. “I think he slipped or something. I found him just sitting there.”

“It was nobody’s fault but my own,” Nagito said, his voice the calmest among them despite the fact that he was the one gushing blood. “I was tempting my bad luck. I should be thankful I’m not worse off.”

“What’s he on about?” Kazuichi asked Hajime.

“His luck cycle thing.”

“So something bad is gonna happen every time we’re nice to him?” Kazuichi said. “That sucks. Should we like… shove him over first before we invite him somewhere? Will that cancel it out?”

“Kazuichi, stop fucking talking,” Fuyuhiko snapped.

“I didn’t mean a hard shove or anything…”

“Shut up.”

“We need to get him to Mikan,” Hajime said firmly, hooking his hands under Nagito’s arms and carefully hauling him out of the rock pool. “Ugh, you’re all soggy.”

“Yes, that tends to happen when you fall into water, Hajime,” Nagito said, smiling. Not quite a nice and happy smile though.

“You should probably carry him,” Fuyuhiko said. “Otherwise he’ll get sand in the cut. And he can’t hop all the way back. You should keep his leg elevated above his head to reduce the blood flow.”

“How am I meant to do that?” Hajime snapped. “Dangle him upside down from his ankles?”

“I was only trying to help, asshole.”

“You’d all be terrible first responders. We’ve made no progress whatsoever,” Nagito said. Hajime and Fuyuhiko told him to shut up in unison.

Kazuichi was grimacing at the growing pool of blood under Nagito’s foot. “He has a point. He’s bleeding a lot, guys. We should probably do something.”

“He’s on a ton of medication. Lots of them have blood clotting as a side effect, so he has to take blood thinners. That’s why it’s… bad,” Hajime explained. He sighed, scooping Nagito up into his arms, cradling him like a bride.

It was still far too easy to hold him like this; Nagito’s eating habits were pretty disordered. On bad days he wouldn’t eat at all. Hajime had thought it was sheer obstinacy, but when he’d forced Nagito to have lunch it had come back up again so quickly Nagito hadn’t even reached the bathroom in time. They were in Hajime’s cabin too, which made it worse. That was one of the few times Nagito grew visibly angry with him. He was usually so careful to keep a smooth, happy mask, smiling and chuckling when he was nervous or upset or scared. Hajime never pressured him to eat when he said he couldn’t again.

“Is this okay?” Hajime asked, trying to shift his arms to lift Nagito’s injured foot as high as possible.

“Are you going to carry me over the threshold, Hajime?” Nagito said, smiling.

Hajime could feel his cheeks growing warm. Wow, that was not good. He didn’t want to react physically whenever Nagito teased him, or he’d just tease much more. “I’ll drop you in the ocean if you’re not careful.”

“Who says chivalry is dead,” Fuyuhiko muttered dryly. “Now hurry up, we need to get help. Take Nagito back to your cabin, Hajime. Me and Kazuichi will go hunt down Mikan.”

Kazuichi usually moaned if anyone tried to make him dash around in the hot island sun, but he just nodded. “Yeah, we’ll find her. Try not to bleed to death, okay Nagito?”

“I’ll do my best.”

They ran off together, and Hajime carried Nagito across the sand towards the cabins. Nagito had his arms wound around Hajime’s neck, his face peering over his shoulder. “We’re leaving a trail of blood. Like that old fairy story.”

“What?”

“Some children leave a trail so they don’t get lost in the woods. I remember that part, but I can’t think of the title. It was so long ago…”

“Oh, you mean Hansel and Gretel. And they left a trail of breadcrumbs, you weirdo, not blood.”

“And there was a woman in that story who was a cannibal…”

“She was a witch. She was keeping the kids to cook and eat them.” Hajime was starting to think properly about some of the fairy tails they’d all grown up with. They were actually pretty dark when you thought about it. Trust Nagito to bring that to his attention.

“Never mind that. How’re you feeling? You’re bleeding an awful lot. And it must hurt.”

“You don’t need to worry about a nobody li-”

“Nagito, if you don’t give me a real answer I really am going to drop you.”

“No you’re not.” Nagito spoke with such calm confidence that Hajime had to clench his teeth to hold back a snarky retort. Okay, maybe Nagito was correct. Hajime wouldn’t just dump his injured boyfriend on his ass in the sand. But that didn’t make his tone any less annoying.

“Ah, you’re pulling a scary face, Hajime! Are you growing tired of me yet?” Nagito asked, starting to laugh.

Hajime sighed. He’d been hearing that line a lot from Nagito, as long as they’d been dating and well back into their friendship too. Are you tired of me yet? Whenever it was Nagito’s turn to wake gasping from a nightmare, whenever he grew so ill and weak he could barely move and Hajime had to walk him to the bathroom, whenever the phantom pains from a hand no longer there kept them both up at night, he’d start. Ah, I’m such a burden. Why are you here, Hajime? Why do you care about a nobody like me? Aren’t you tired of this? Aren’t you tired of me?

He always kept his voice light and easy, but Hajime sensed there was must be some sort of truth behind the questions. Nobody repeated something over and over like a parrot unless the same thoughts were swirling non-stop in their own heads. Hajime knew Nagito had been alone most of his childhood, forced to take care of his own problems. Now he seemed to baulk at the idea of help or support of any kind, like Hajime was going to play a cruel joke on him and shove him away at the last second.

“I’m growing tired of you saying that,” Hajime said. “Come on, let’s just get inside. And no more woe-is-me speeches, right? I keep telling you, I want to help.”

“You’re so kind, Hajime.”

“I’m not kind. I’m not doing it because I’m kind,” Hajime said irritably. “I’m doing it because I want to. Because I care about you. Okay?”

Nagito didn’t respond, just smiling calmly. Hajime wished he could peer right behind those eyes and see what really went on in Nagito’s head. He sighed and sat on his bed to wait for Mikan. As he was still holding Nagito, he ended up perched on Hajime’s lap, but he didn’t attempt to move. Hajime felt the tight frustration in his chest ease and he carefully wound his arms around Nagito’s skinny waist. Too skinny. Fuck, they needed to find something Nagito could eat even when he felt ill.

“I’m dripping blood on your carpet,” Nagito whispered, his head still resting on Hajime’s shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter right now.” He peered over the side of the bed. “You’re still bleeding a lot. Are you feeling okay? You’ve gone pretty pale.”

“Just a little light-headed, Hajime. Don’t worry about me.”

“Of course I’m worrying about you. Stop testing me, Nagito. I care. I’m not leaving, I’m not annoyed, I’m not sick of you. Please stop it,” Hajime begged.

Nagito went silent again. There was a strange expression on his face, brows furrowed, almost irritated - but before Hajime could question him there was a knock at his cabin door and Fuyuhiko and Kazuichi burst in. They were dragging Mikan between them, one on either side of her like bodyguards.

“We found her!” Kazuichi cried. “Is Komaeda okay? Because we don’t have spare blood if he needs a transfusion or something.”

“Who the fuck has spare blood?” Fuyuhiko snapped. “He’ll be fine. I’ve seen guys bleed way more than that and still live.”

“Well, the peace and quiet in here was nice while it lasted,” Hajime muttered. He smiled at Mikan apologetically. “Sorry for dragging you over here at such short notice, but I think he needs stitches.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble. I would never tear an Ultimate away from their work with my petty desires and-” Nagito’s string of self-deprecation was swiftly cut off as Hajime’s clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t listen to him. Please, can you help him?”

“Of course,” Mikan said. Her smile was nervous, but Hajime didn’t think it was anything they’d done - Mikan always seemed nervous. She’d had the forethought to bring a case of supplies when Fuyuhiko and Kazuichi dragged her across the island, so she knelt on the blood-spattered carpet and took hold of Nagito’s ankle.

“Y-yes, it’s quite a deep gash, but it’s not very serious. You’ll need stitches and you won’t be able to get them wet or put weight on your right foot for at least a week,” she explained, snapping on rubber gloves.

“Looks like Hajime will be doing a lot more carrying then,” Fuyuhiko said.

“Does Peko carry you when you get hurt?” Kazuichi teased, then yelped as Fuyuhiko thumped him hard.

“I’m going to clean the wound. I want you to take a deep breath, Nagito. This will be painful,” Mikan said. Her usually shaky voice seemed much firmer and more assured when she was talking about her medicine. Her clumsy hands grew confident and graceful as she worked, carefully cleaning, stitching and bandaging the wound while gently reminding Nagito when to breathe and warning him when something was going to be painful. She put so much effort into making him as comfortable as possible - an Ultimate trying to help a nobody like him! Nagito wanted to show Mikan how thankful he was, how wonderfully selfless it was to treat him like a worthy patient, like an equal - but his throat ached so badly he could only choke out a “thank you” in an almost inaudible voice.

And it wasn’t just Mikan; Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko stayed too. They peered over Mikan’s shoulder while she worked, having to be reminded several times to back off. Kazuichi pulled faces whenever the wound was revealed and Fuyuhiko teased Nagito for managing to slice his foot so badly in a fall most people could’ve laughed off uninjured, but it was clear they cared too. They did their best to offer help.

“I’ll bring dinner for both of you tonight,” Fuyuhiko said. “Probably best if Nagito rests in the quiet. He might be feeling shitty from the shock.”

“I’ll make you some crutches, Nagito,” Kazuichi promised. “Crutches that work on the sand too so you can still go to the beach with us.”

They were being so nice… and all Nagito wanted to do was shove them out the door. The tightness in his chest was growing worse and worse, like somebody was slowly tightening a belt over his ribs. He was dangerously close to shattering, and that was something he couldn’t do now. He needed them out. They cared too much. He hardly dared blink or speak in case it all came bursting out.

Nagito moved closer to Hajime as Mikan fixed the bandages on his foot, his lips so close they brushed Hajime’s ear. “Make them leave. Please.”

He couldn’t say any more. He wanted to explain, wanted to make Hajime realise how urgent this was, how close he was to being vulnerable around three people he was not ready to open up to in this way. Hell, it was still hard even to show Hajime, the man he literally shared a bed with.

Nagito’s eyes were burning. He felt a surge of panic. Oh God, Hajime, please get them out of here…

Perhaps Hajime heard the strain in Nagito’s whisper, perhaps he felt how tense his body had grown against him, but - miraculously - he seemed to understand. He carefully eased Nagito onto the bed, thanked their friends for their help and reassured everyone Nagito would be okay now, he just needed some rest and some peace. Nagito stopped listened. He was barely blinking. He managed to smile and nod until Hajime had ushered Mikan, Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko to the door, then Nagito rolled over and hastily buried his face in a pillow.

Hajime finally convinced his friends they’d both be fine and closed the door with a sigh of relief. He turned back to the bed, not too surprised to see Nagito lying on his stomach with his face hidden.

Nagito was all mixed up when it came to emotions; bad situations had him laughing and smiling, positive reinforcement had driven him to tears several times now. With Hajime. Nagito refused to cry in public. Sometimes it could be really inconvenient too. Since they’d all woken up and decided to try to undo all the terrible things in their past, everyone was trying to be nicer. And trying to be nicer to Nagito if he was feeling particularly weak or tired or ill that day was fatal. He’d start tugging on Hajime’s hand, gently at first, but the tugging would grow more frantic as he struggled to retain control. Sometimes Hajime had to interrupt people mid-conversation with some silly excuse to save Nagito’s pride. Once he’d run out of ideas and made out to Akane that he had a sudden and urgent need to use the toilet. That had actually made Nagito laugh when he’d calmed down.

It wasn’t ideal, but Hajime couldn’t help being thankful that Nagito trusted him more than anyone else. Trusted Hajime to whisk him away when he needed help, and trusted Hajime to hold him while he wept silently, face hidden in his jacket or covered with his hands - even Hajime didn’t get to see his face when Nagito was in that state.

So Hajime didn’t comment when he saw Nagito soundlessly weeping into his pillow (hopefully Nagito’s pillow anyway. Hajime didn’t want tears and snot on his own pillow). He didn’t ask what was wrong. He simply walked to the foot of the bed and took hold of Nagito’s ankle, examining Mikan’s handiwork. The white bandages were almost the same colour as Nagito’s skin, and his exposed toes were icy cold.

“You should put some socks on,” Hajime noted.

Nagito, predictably, didn’t move, so Hajime grabbed a pair from the dresser. “Are you going to cooperate?”

Nothing. Hajime sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed and grabbing hold of Nagito’s leg. “Honestly, I bet even Sonia never had anybody to put her socks on for her and she’s royalty. Come on, bend your leg. Help me out a bit.” Despite his grumbling, Hajime eased the socks on with scrupulous care, being especially delicate with the injured foot. “There, your majesty. Surely that must feel better.”

Nagito still didn’t make a sound. Hajime moved to stretch out beside him on the bed, a hand resting between his shoulders. “Hey,” Hajime mumbled. “It’s alright. I know it’s hard, but they care about you. It’s not a bad thing.”

“They shouldn’t care. I did terrible things,” Nagito said, his voice so muffled by the pillow it was hard to understand him.

“So did I. So did everybody here. We’re all trying to make up for that.”

“I don’t deserve love.”

“That’s what you tell yourself. It’s not the truth.” Hajime very gently eased Nagito off the pillow into his arms. Nagito immediately hid his face in Hajime’s chest, but he didn’t pull away. He clamped a hand hard over his mouth to keep the sobs inside.

“Don’t,” Hajime said firmly, taking hold of Nagito’s hand and trying to pry the fingers away from his lips. “Stop holding it all in. I think that’s partly why you keep getting overwhelmed so often. You never let go.”

Nagito didn’t give up, wrenching his hand free and slapping it right back across his lips - but not before a single gasping sob had escaped. It was the first time Hajime had ever heard him make a noise while he cried. Nagito screwed up his face immediately, wincing.

“No, that’s good! Fucking fantastic! Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I’m cheering you on for crying, but here we are,” Hajime muttered. He took hold of Nagito’s hand once again and tried to prise it away. “Come on, we’re on the right track. It’s just us here. Our door is locked, nobody expects us at dinner. You’re safe, okay? You’re not a burden. I don’t think any less of you. Please…”

Hajime yanked Nagito’s hand away, keeping hold of the wrist this time. Immediately a loud sob burst out, another chasing on its heels so quickly Nagito barely had time to draw breath. And the floodgates opened. He gasped and wheezed and sobbed, soaking Hajime’s chest with tears and spit and snot, clinging so tightly to Hajime’s arms that his nails left little crescent moon shapes in the skin. And Hajime never complained. He held Nagito tight, whispering encouragement into his hair, warm hands rubbing between Nagito’s shoulder blades - holding him together, anchoring him against the darkness that swirled inside Nagito’s head.

Nagito wasn’t sure how long he spent sobbing desperately into his boyfriend’s chest; it felt like hours. He cried until his head throbbed and his throat ached. He cried for his friends, struggling themselves to shake their pasts as Remnants of Despair. He cried for all the people they hurt and tortured under Junko’s brainwashing. He cried for the parents he could only remember from photographs. He cried for the childhood dog who’d died in his arms. He cried for himself, for his lifetime of loneliness, his bad luck driving people away out of fear. And he cried for Chiaki.

All the while, Hajime held him. Hajime let Nagito drip all over him for an eternity, and when the sobs finally, finally started to fade away, Hajime brought him a bottle of water and held a cold cloth to his puffy eyes, wrapping an arm around him and pulling Nagito against his shoulder. “I learned this from Mahiru. She does this for Hiyoko when she’s been crying. It’s meant to stop your eyes getting all red and sore.”

Nagito nodded, far too emotionally exhausted to speak. He sat helplessly while Hajime fussed over him with tender but clumsy hands, dabbing his face with tissues and smoothing his messy hair off his forehead. Nagito stared blankly ahead - and then felt two warm hands grip his cheeks. He was forced to stare into Hajime’s heterochromic eyes.

“Hey…” Hajime’s soft tone was a complete contrast to his firm stare. “I’m so proud of you, Nagito.”

It almost brought the tears back. Proud of him? For what? For having a tantrum like a baby?

Hajime recognised his expression. “I’m proud of you for feeling. I’m not good at this mushy stuff and I know you’re not either… but it’s just so good to finally see you letting yourself hurt openly like that. I’m really fucking proud of you.”

Nagito’s chest hurt again. He pulled Hajime’s hands away from his cheeks and held them, squeezing as hard as he could manage. It took several tries before he managed to speak, tasting salty tears on his dry lips. “Next time you feel bad,” he whispered, his voice low and hoarse, “I’ll put your socks on for you too.”

Hajime laughed - and Nagito finally found himself smiling again, though his face was still blotchy and tearstained. They’d be okay. They had each other to put their socks on when they were having bad days.