#8k words

[yanderedrabbles]

The Fisherman and The Starwife

There was a sea at the edge of the world. And a fisherman who tried to catch moonlight. And a bride who was plucked right out of the sky. Do you care to hear their story?

It started on a cold night at the edge of the world. Nights were almost always cold in that place where the land falls away forever, but this was a freezing night even by those standards. The sea churned with shards of ice and the waves chimed like rolling glass.

A fisherman was getting ready to cast his lines. And though most fisherman in most parts of the world are busiest at dawn and dusk, this particular man did all his work in the very dead of night.

The nets he cast weren't like any a normal sailor would know. They were woven out of glass - each string made up of hundreds, thousands of clear beads. For this fisherman wasn't concerned with salmon or roe but with another sort of quarry entirely.

This fisherman was fishing for moonlight.

Moonlight was perhaps the most elusive thing to catch. It poured over the land but couldn't be speared or hooked or trapped. Just one pearl of moonlight was considered a king's ransom. Five pearls was enough to buy a man a kingdom. Ten would keep his children and his children's children fed and wealthy for centuries.

But fishing for moonlight was dangerous too. The only place it could be caught was at the very edge of the world, where the sea and sky were so close they almost touched. And the sea here was rough, not just with waves that grew wilder every hour, but with sea bears and moon hounds that could flip a warship with just a flick of their tails.

The fisherman knew all this. He'd seen countless men come and die in their attempts to catch moonlight. Their bodies swallowed by the ice sea, faces blue and bloodless as they sunk below the waves.

The fisherman knew the dangers, but he still went out every night in his tar bottomed boat. For the fisherman had a secret. A way to calm the waves and the water beasts alike.

(And oh, it was a secret costly bought. He'd traded ten years of his life to a sea hag for it and considered it a fair deal).

The fisherman knew the tune of the sea. Each night he would recline in his boat after casting his lines, and unwrap his pan flute from its oilskin. He would play the notes as the sea hag taught him - soft and sweet like the tide crawling out, sharp like the crack of lightning on the waves, mournful as the open ocean.

The sea would listen, and finally calm. The sea bears would dive deep and dream of arctic caves. The wind would cease its mourning. When the fisherman played his flute, all the beasts in the sea silenced their queer voices to hear it.

On this night, the moon was full and bright. Her daughters, the stars, reflected their icy beauty off the water. His music drifted far in the quiet and tonight even more so.

In the spreading canvas of the night sky, one star leaned down to better hear the music.

It was like nothing you'd ever heard before. It wasn't the subtle, tinkling music of the night sky. It wasn't the sweet song of the moon. It was mournful and wild, and you were so focused on it that you didn't feel yourself slipping until it was too late.

A scream. And a spash. And in the span of a breath, a star fell straight out of the sky and into the sea.

The fisherman sat up with a start, and without thinking, reached into the water and hauled you onto his boat.

At first he didn't know what he was looking at. Your hair was soaked and the beads in your hair shone so bright they hurt his eyes. He couldn't understand it - not even with all the strange things he'd seen. How could a girl suddenly appear in place so lonely and remote? Did you fall from the sky?

You sat shivering at the bottom of his boat, too stunned by your fall to realise where you were. And oh, you were the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on.

In that moment, the fisherman had a choice.

You were dazed and soaking wet. Anything he did to you, you wouldn't be able to fight back. He still had his nets and ropes; he could grab you and take to shore, could force you to be his wife. He was handsome, but strange in his ways and dreams. He didn't have a wife or a lover or even the memory of one. No one would be surprised if he caved to his loneliness and stole whatever good fortune came his way.

For a long, painful moment he was tempted. It would be so lovely to have a warm bed and a warm body waiting for him after a cold, dangerous night. He worked so hard for so little - didn't he deserve a reward?

Instead, he pulled off his oilskin and draped it around your shoulders.

"Be still," he said softly. "Breathe deeply. I will take us back to shore and build you a fire. You won't be cold for long."

You looked up at him, eyes all wide and wet. "Th-thank you."

When he reached the shore, you stumbled and fell to your knees, teeth chattering. You were a creature of starlight and shadow - your feet were never meant to touch the ground.

Carefully, for you looked to him so frail in the thin light of the moon, he picked you up. You smelled like salt and sea, but underneath it was the burning ozone smell of a fallen star. Perhaps that was when he first started to suspect what you were. That what he held in his arms wasn't built of blood and bone.

He brought you to his house and put you down on the hearth. True to his word, he stoked the fire until it roared. You put your palms out to it cautiously, for although your uncle Sun was said to be fire all the way through, you'd never actually seen something burning. Your fingers were so cold they ached and the warmth was a welcome relief.

"Here." He wrapped a blanket around you and set a mug of mulled wine in your hand. "Warm up a little. And then dry yourself off. The sea chill gets in your bones if you aren't careful."

"Wh-where am I?"

He looked at the fire and sighed. "On the shore of the hinterland sea, at the very edge of the world. I fear you're very far from home, wherever it may be."

The wine was warm and sweet, spiced with the last of his cloves and ginger. You drank and finally your teeth stopped chattering.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a fisherman."

You set the cup down carefully, still unsteady. "What is a fisherman?"

He raised his brows but answered you all the same. "Someone who catches fish. Either to sell or to eat. Often both."

You considered this. Stars lived off ether and cloud dust. You had no idea why anyone would want to eat fish of all things.

"What fish do you catch?"

"Ah, that's a difficult question." There was a gleam of amusement in his storm grey eyes. "I'm not like other fisherman. I fish for moonlight instead of animals."

"Moonlight?" That confused you. How could someone catch something so intangible? Did they eat it as well?

"Yes. If you're careful and clever, you can catch moonlight when it reaches down and touches the sea. It's a fortune made to catch even a little."

He looked at you carefully. In the firelight, it was clear you were no ordinary human. Perhaps you weren't mortal at all. As your hair dried, it took on a sheen like starlight dancing on water. Your teeth were small and sharp when you smiled, your pupils shaped like stars in the centre of your irises. It was his turn to ask a question, though he thought he already knew the answer.

"Where do you come from?"

You tilted your head liked he asked the most obvious thing in the world. "From the sky of course. Usually I'm between my sisters Astra and Vena."

He smiled and reached down to throw a log on the fire as though the third brightest star in the night sky wasn't shivering on his hearth.

"Would you like to change into some dry clothes? I haven't any dresses for you to wear, but anything is better than the wet and the cold."

"Oh, yes please."

He brought you the softest, finest shirt he owned.

"I'll wait outside until you're done."

You tilted your head again in that sharp, bird like way. "Why do you have to wait outside?"

He almost choked on his tongue before he could answer. "Because I'm a man and you're... not. It wouldn't be proper."

"But it's cold outside."

You were already dropping the blanket and the oilskin he borrowed you. Underneath it, you wore a silvery white robe that was still wet enough to be see-through. He hurriedly turned away from you, jaw clenched tight.

"It's fine. I'd rather..."

He could hear the whisper of your robe as it fell. He froze, mind racing.

"Rather what?"

Rather not be thinking of you naked in front of my fire.

"... Nevermind. It's nothing."

"You can turn around and stop clenching your hands now," you said, amused.

You were wearing his shirt, the collar gaping at your collarbones. You rubbed the hem between your fingers. "What material is this?"

"Just homespun."

He gathered your still damp robes and marvelled at the almost silk feel of them - woven so light that if it weren't for the water he'd barely feel their weight.

"I like it," you said. "It's warm."

He hung your clothes to dry on the back of a chair. "You can sleep in my bed tonight. I'll sleep by the hearth."

"Oh." You thought about it. "Is it 'not proper' to sleep together?"

Gods in Heaven have mercy.

"No," he said, carefully avoiding your eyes. "It's not proper. That's the sort of thing only a husband and wife can do."

"My mother is married to the Tide. Did you know that? He's not a very nice man."

The fisherman didn't need you to tell him how unpredictable and cruel the tide could be. He made his living by its whims.

"Have you met him?" he asked.

"Once or twice." You came to stand behind him and watched as he made the bed comfortable for you. Fluffing his meagre pillow and dusting out the blanket.

"You have very nice hands," you said. The fisherman stilled. His hands were rough from the salt and hooks and lines of his trade. They ached on bad nights. Were nicked with scars upon scars, a strata of hurts.

You reached forward and took hold of his fingers, drew them towards you. Your hands were soft as only ones untouched by labour could be. 

"You say you are a man, and that we're different. How so?"

He sighed and let you pull him towards you.

"You are from the heavens. You know nothing of cruelty or greed or love. Mankind, earth - it's not the same." He paused. "If I were another, you might be in danger around me."

You looked in his eyes - oh, you creature of starlight, one of a kind, too pure and rare for his common touch.

"My sister once fell to the earth. When she returned, she told me of love. And of lovers. Do you...have a lover?"

He smiled, rueful. "No. This is a cold, remote place. And it's a cold, remote life I've chosen for myself."

"Do you want one?"

You were still holding his hand, and he was all too aware of it. How would your hands feel, touching other parts of him?

"It doesn't matter," he finally managed to answer. "I have nothing to offer. No wealth, no great learning, no family honour."

"Oh, but you are kind. You are gentle. You saved my life and invited me into your home, asking for no thanks in return. Is the world of Man so evil, that these things mean nothing?"

"They mean less than you seem to think."

You held his palm to your cheek, tilted your head into his touch. His hands were rough as only ones knowing hard labour could be. What would they feel like, touching other parts of you?

"My mother told me a boon granted is one that must be repaid. Tell me fisherman at the end of the world, what would you have in exchange for saving my life?"

You. I would have you, girl too beautiful for even my dreams.

Instead he said, "Nought. My mother told me a kindness given should not expect to be repaid in kind. All I would have is that you recover, and return to the place you belong."

You sighed and dropped his hand. "As you will, so shall it be."

That night, you slept on a thin mattress and dreamt of the dark sea outside the door. And he slept not at all.

You were awake at the first sign of morning light. You were firmer on your feet and you made it to the door without stumbling.

The fisherman heard you and fought the urge to stand. If you wished to leave before the dawn, he wouldn't stop you. Already he'd met a creature few thought existed. He would be greedy to hope for more of you.

You didn't leave. You stood on his threshold and watched the sun rise at the edge of the world. For though you knew your uncle through stories and messages, you'd never seen him.

"Hello uncle," you said to the pink and orange sky.

"Hello niece. What are you doing upon the earth, so far from your place in heaven?"

"I grew distracted with music and fell into the sea. But a man rescued me and now here I stand."

"I would caution you, niece of mine. I rise and set each day. And each day I see Mankind's cruelty to one another. Murder and imprisonment and awful acts of lust. Linger not too long in this place, lest your man think to do what so many others before him have done."

"Oh uncle, he is not like the stories I have heard. Not like the monsters you warn me against. The earth might indeed be filled with danger, but here I think myself to be safe."

Your uncle sighed and clouds parted in great gusts. "Niece, things are never as clear as they seem. Not when you stand upon the earth. Take my advice and return to your sisters as soon as the night arrives. Your mother has seen even more than I the awful lechery of Man."

You smiled at your uncle, proud and burning creature that he was. "Thank you uncle. But this place is filled with strange and wondrous things. I can not return until I've satisfied my curiosity."

"As you say, blood of mine. But know that regardless of how we love you, neither your mother nor I can protect you when you're out of our reach. Anything that happens, you must fend off on your own."

You glanced back into the cottage, and at the fisherman sprawled on the hearth. "I am not so alone as you fear, uncle."

The fisherman could understand little of your conversation. He could not hear the sun's voice. When he heard your footsteps whispering towards him, he forced himself to hold still. Was this it? A final whispered goodbye?

You knelt at his side and brushed your knuckles against his cheekbone. "Will you wake, saviour of mine? The new day comes."

He opened his eyes. "You're still here."

"Does that displease you?"

"No!" He sat up in a hurry, eyes locked on yours. "Never. Please, stay as long you'd like."

You smiled, secretly pleased. "What do you do in the day?"

He thought for a moment. "I work at night, and the day is spent mending my nets. But you're here now. I think I'd rather show you the secrets and wonders of this place."

"You said few people come to the edge of the world. What secrets could there be?"

"Oh, plenty. All the more secret for having seldom been found."

He turned away from you and built up the fire. "It will be cold today, and the wind will be sharp. Still, would you like to see what I wish to show?"

You watched the firelight flicker across his face - lined at the eyes like he smiled too often, tanned and ruddy from the sea.

"Yes," you said, "I'd like that."

He borrowed you thick furs to wear and wrapped a scarf around your neck. Your robes had dried overnight but one glance at them was enough to know they weren't nearly warm enough.

He packed a small pack with food and wine. At the door, he held your hand while you got used to having the fine pebbles of the beach under your feet.

A cold wind was blowing from the north and stirring the patchy snow on the ground.You could almost hear a voice in it, coldly amused.

"A star so far from heaven?"

And another, softer. Pitying almost.

"Run back to your sisters, little star. The hearts of men have no room for mercy, or for you."

When the wind disappeared, so too did the voices. You leaned closer against your fisherman and let him lead you down the beach. The still rising sun painted the water orange, and the stones reflected it as a bright gold.

Oh, how many colours in this new world. How wonderful the gold, the silver, the thousand shades in between.

"Do you walk the beach often?" you asked.

"No." He sounded amused. "At least, certainly not with company."

He lead you towards a high embankment, and a narrow path crawling up it's side. He kept hold of you as you climbed, his arm steady and strong around you. The loose stones of the beach hardened to shale that crumbled if you stepped too heavily, the path growing steeper as the embankment curved around the cliffside.

The sun was well above the water when you reached the top. But oh, was it worth the effort. The view from the cliff dwarfed anything you'd seen before. The ocean stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, the water black near the shore and then lightening to a dark greenish-blue. The sun caught on the peaks of the waves, turning them aquamarine and gold.

The fisherman set out his bundle of food on a rock. Fresh bread, a thick hunk of cheese, raisins. You ate breakfast with the sea spread at your feet and the warm south wind tugging at your hair.

You pressed the cheese and raisins between two slices of bread and held it to his lips. "Try it like this. It's incredible."

He raised a skeptical brow but leaned down to eat from your hand.

"Sweet," he said, eyes crinkling with his smile.

You thought the cliff and its view was his secret, but that was far from it. After you ate, he led you to a small, hidden path carved into the cliffside. You wavered - the drop down was beyond treacherous.

He held both your hands in his and showed you how to walk down the carved steps.

"I won't let you fall. I promise."

You believed him.

The path led to a cave, its entrance little more than a gash in the cliffside. You squeezed through, not sure what to expect.

What you saw made you gasp. Your fisherman hadn't brought you to a cave at all, but to the last remains of a castle. You stood in a great hall, it's pillars carved out of the stalactites. Moss had grown over the walls and the ceiling, and the whole room glowed a deep blue.

"What is this place?"

"The barrow of a long dead king. Killed before his time, killed in vain."

Flowers were pushing up through the cracked floor tiles. Strange blue flowers that only grew in the dark. Their pollen rose in golden clouds when you passed them by.

"Oh, no place so strange and wondrous exists in the sky."

You twirled in place, your eyes on the ceiling and its strange, twisting patterns. The fisherman watched you, his heart pulling him in two different directions. Would it be so wrong to keep you? To ask you stay with him for the rest of your days?

Yes, some fierce part of him whispered back. You cannot keep a star from the sky. You think you could love her. But what sort of love is captivity?

You grabbed his hands and pulled him from his thoughts.

"Will you dance with me? My sister says palaces are filled with dancing, with music. This dead king must feel awfully lonely, with a hall so cold and quiet."

He followed you, hands slipping to your waist.

"I must warn you. I'm no king's man, to dance gracefully."

You laughed and let him twirl you in his arms.

"I don't want a king's man, nor a knight, nor a prince," you told him, "I only want you."

He caught you again, dropping you in a slow, graceful dip.

"Don't be cruel, little star," he whispered. "To give me dreams I can never have."

The night flower pollen hung in the air, dancing in patterns from your movement. The room was a mosaic of midnight blue and gold. You reached up and brushed your fingers across his lips.

"I am never cruel. I offer what I willingly give."

It would have been so easy to kiss you then. To have, even for just a moment, a love so far out of reach.

"No," he said quietly. "You're too good for me. I will not pull a star from the sky for my own satisfaction."

He put you back on your feet and let you go.

The walk home was quiet. He held you when he needed to, but his touch was light. Afraid almost.

He stoked the fire and showed you how to feed it. Showed you where the food was kept and how to slice the bread. And then he left you.

He claimed to be going fishing, but his nets and lines stayed in the corner of the room.

You watched him from the door until he was out of sight. And then you curled up on the narrow windowsill and waited for his return.

In your chest, your heart ached in a way you couldn't explain.

You asked him to take you with him that night. He hesitated, his glass nets slung over his shoulder.

"It's dangerous."

"Perhaps so, but I want to hear your music again. The sound I fell from heaven for. Will you not let me hear it once more?"

He gave in and told you to sit as still as you could, for the waves were rougher than usual. The night was clear, and as he rowed you out to sea, you sisters' voices chimed in your head.

"Little sister, why do you stay upon the earth? Your place in heaven is cold and empty."

"Little sister, does the man do you harm? Does he hold you prisoner?"

"Little sister, mother worries for you. Will you speak to her?"

"Little sister, will you not come home?"

"Soon," you promised them. "Soon."

The fisherman cast his nets and began to play his tune. And all thoughts of your sisters and your home vanished. To watch him at sea was to witness a creature in its element. Calm and careful, slow and thoughtful.

You didn't leave that night. Or the one after that. Your mother moved through her phases and still you chose to stay on the earth.

You learned how to light and keep a fire, how to mend the fisherman's lines and snares, how to bake bread and mull wine. You learned to sleep with the moon and rise with the sun.

"Oh niece," you uncle sighed, "I fear this love will be your undoing."

"Love? Is that what I feel? This aching in my heart?"

"Love indeed. Why else would a star choose to be a fishwife?"

At first, your fisherman tried to keep his distance. But you were persistent in your questions, in your conversation, in following him wherever he went.

Finally he caved. Started speaking to you without holding himself back, started taking his meals with you. He was careful not to touch you, and perhaps even more careful not to let you touch him. It was friendship, companionship - but always tinged with longing. You would sometimes catch him watching you, eyes sad as the sea.

Each night your fisherman would tell you a story. Both of you sitting on the hearth rug, his hands carving the tale out of the air, his eyes twinkling. Stories of love, of bravery, of treachery.

He told you of a queen carved from the sea foam, of a wolf who shed its skin to find a bride, of cities so bright and sprawling that to see them from above was to think earth and heaven had switched places.

You would dream of his stories, and of his hands. Skimming down your back, warm and strong.

A full month after your fall, your mother frowned down at you and demanded to know when you would be done with your adventure. You wavered, for your mother wasn't the type to accept a flimsy answer.

"When our story is all told," you finally replied.

She kept her frown, but your man was returning from the sea and you were too distracted by him to notice it.

You would happily have stayed just as you were. Sleeping in his bed and sharing his clothes, waking to see him already in front of the fire. But your luck changed - yours for the worse and his for the better.

For the fisherman finally caught moonlight.

You were with him when he reeled his nets in, and you both saw the silver gleam break the water at the same time. He stilled, eyes wide.

"I can't believe it."

He plucked the pearl from its string and let it sit on his palm. It cast its glow all the way across the boat and still beyond. There was no doubt now as to why moonlight was so valuable. Looking into it, you could see what your mother saw. Could see the ocean spread at your feet, could see the stars dancing, could see the breadth of heaven and earth.

"Here." He dropped it into your palm and closed your fingers around it. "Hold onto it."

You looked at him, eyes wide. "You trust me with it?"

He smiled his crooked half smile. "I trust you with more than your know, little star."

As he rowed back to shore, you wondered at how your life might change. Hadn't he once said that the only goal of a fisherman at the edge of the world was to catch moonlight? That even a little was a fortune made?

Would he leave the sea? Would he leave you?

When you were back in the cottage and out of sight of your mother, you felt brave enough to ask.

"Oh, never. I'll never leave you, little star. Not for as long as you'll have me."

You looked at the pearl in your palm. A fortune made... What did that really mean?

"What now?"

He came to stand behind you, reaching out to carefully run his fingertip across the shimmering surface.

"Now I will head away. To civilisation. To find a way to sell it without getting my heart cut out first."

"Why would anyone do that?"

He sighed. "Because of its value. Some men will do terrible things to possess a single beautiful thing."

That worried you.

"I want to come with you," you said.

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. "I would have it no other way."

The preparations took almost two weeks. Food to be dried, smoked and packed. Water to be stored. Clothes to be mended and altered for travelling. The boat to be tarred and dragged ashore.

The fisherman was in no hurry. He still told you stories at night, the moon pearl sitting in a box between you and lending its strange silver light to the tellings.

If you'd known what was to come, you would have thrown that cursed thing back into the sea. But though you were many things, you were not an oracle. You couldn't guess the misery it would bring.

On the day before you and your fisherman planned to leave, three men came to visit.

They wore the deep black of thieves and killers, and the knives at their belts spoke plenty of their profession.

They found you both on the beach at sunset, wrapping canvas around the boat. Their shadows stretched long in the fading light, so you weren't sure what you were seeing until they were too close to avoid.

Your fisherman stood to greet them, though from his eyes you could tell he wasn't pleased.

"An unpleasant place, this," said the first of the three.

"Cold and miserable," said the second.

"Though we suppose it does have its charms," said the third.

The fisherman considered them for a long while before replying.

"An unpleasant place, aye. The work is dangerous and the reward an impossible dream. Still, some of us are suited to places like these."

The first of the killers looked at you, ran his eyes over your body.

"For you perhaps. But what of your woman? Surely she would like somewhere warmer."

The fisherman tensed. Just the tiniest tightening of his shoulders, but you noticed it all the same.

"I keep her as warm as she needs," he said.

That made the men smirk. Made them eye each other like the joke was oh so funny. The sun was almost gone now and the brightest of your sisters were peaking out of the purple sky. You could feel their worry at the back of your mind.

"Hurry and come away, little sister. I like not the look of these men."

"Quickly. Before they play any tricks."

You didn't like the look of the strangers either, but you refused to leave the fisherman on his own. Whatever this was, perhaps it might still end well.

The leader rolled his shoulders, sighed like this was as mildly unpleasant as a persistent itch. And then he pulled a moon pearl out of his pocket.

It was much smaller than the one your fisherman caught, but it had a strange red tint to it that made you shiver. If you looked closely, you could see yourself in it. Not a reflection, but a view from on high. Whoever these strangers were, they'd been watching you.

"Enchanted to find others like it. Thought it wasn't worth the money at first. Never bloody did anything," the first one said.

"Not until a few week ago at least," another continued.

You felt yourself going cold. They knew.

Your fisherman must have realised the same thing, because his eyes slipped to you and the pearl hidden on a tether under your shirt.

"That's all you want?"

They looked at each other again, and whatever passed between them was only for them and the wind to know.

"Aye," said the third, "That's all - the bounty of the night sky. Give us that and we'll leave you be."

Your fisherman shrugged like they weren't demanding a king's ransom and then some. He turned to you and carefully pulled the pearl free of its cord. You grabbed his hands and held them.

"Why?" you whispered.

He looked in your eyes and there wasn't any regret there. No grief or anger over losing the thing he'd spent years fishing for.

"I worry of losing something far more precious than a stone."

He pulled away from you before you could stop him and tossed the pearl to the leader. He caught it easily and held it to his eye.

"A finer thing I've never held," the thief said.

"Aye, and a finer thing I've never seen," said the other.

"But that's not all you have, is it fisherman?" said the third.

The fisherman rolled his shoulders and anyone could see the threat in it.

"That's the only thing of value here. The only thing you can take. So have joy of it, and be gone from this place."

"Daughter."

Your mother's voice was sharp. "Come away. Now. These men mean you harm worse than you realise."

"Not yet," you murmured, "Not while my love stays."

The thieves smiled at each other. Nasty grins filled with blades.

"Oh, but you have another thing worth perhaps even more than moonlight. Tell me, fisherman at the edge of the world, how did you rip a star from the sky?"

The fisherman snarled, all quiet calm forgotten.

"Come now, don't be so hostile," the thief mocked. "You promised us the bounty of the night sky. That was our deal."

"The star is not mine to keep nor give."

The thieves laughed. "She wears your clothes and helps in your labour and whispers her secrets to you. How can you claim that she isn't yours?"

The fisherman kept his hands loose at his sides but it wasn't only you who noticed his eyes dart to his knife, stuck into the roll of canvas you were working with.

You reached out and grabbed at his hand. It was dawning on you now what your mother meant. These men were worse than you first assumed, and to stay in their presence was to invite death to your door.

A star leaping back to heaven is an easy thing. Your bones are light and your magic is strong. But to take a human with you? That was another matter entirely. Their feet were rooted to the earth, their bones weighed down by the nature of their birth. You pulled with all the magic you had, but you couldn't move him. Your heart was a fluttering, panicked thing in your chest.

"Mother, please."

"I cannot," your mother said, her voice torn with grief. "He is of the earth. I cannot lift him to heaven no matter my strength."

The fisherman and the thieves didn't seem to notice your efforts. Their eyes were on each other, hackles raised.

The thieves moved first. Drew their knives and rushed your man all at once.

But the fisherman didn't survive on the hinterland sea by being slow or cautious. He pushed you behind him and in one graceful step, pulled his knife loose from the canvas. He slashed at the closest man, his blade a silvery arc that turned the night red with misted blood. The man fell away, clutching his eyes and screaming.

The fisherman was too slow to dodge the oncoming strike, so he threw his arm up and let the leader's blade carve a long furrow down his forearm. Blood welled at his elbow and fell onto the black pebbles of the beach.

He kept you behind him as he retreated, his eyes darting between the two standing thieves.

You were frozen. Eyes glued on the fallen man and the blood welling up between his fingers.

So this is what you meant. That Mankind will do terrible things to each other without a second thought. Oh uncle, I'm sorry I doubted you.

Your mind raced. How to escape with your man alive and in one piece?

The two thieves were spreading out, flanking him as wolves would. The blood from his arm had soaked his side and you could tell he was growing pale.

You needed to fight. You needed to kill. But how?

Stars are no great terror. You aren't like the moon, who can wreck cities with her pull on the sea. Not like the sun, who can turn crops to dust and cities to deserts. You had no weapon, no strength, no great magic.

But I must have something.

Oh. Oh. You did indeed have something. A little magic of your own. There was a reason people wished on the brightest stars. There was a reason a falling star was considered lucky. And you, well, you were one of the brightest stars in the night sky.

No great magic, but maybe you didn't need to move mountains or spilt the sea in half.

Your fisherman once showed you how to use a needle and thread, told you that sometimes injuries were sewn up just like a ripped shirt. You focused on that now. Thread in, thread out. You pulled your fingers through the air like you were sewing a sail.

The fisherman flinched but kept his injured arm raised. There was a faint glow from under his sleeve and the blood slowed it's dripping. His steps grew steadier.

As though sensing the change, the thieves pounced. Coming at him from two sides at once. He wouldn't be able to fend them both off.

You acted without thinking. Earth magic and sky magic didn't mix well, but you were beyond caring. You pulled at the ground with your magic and one of the thieves fell, their leg thigh deep in a narrow sinkhole. The fisherman took the opportunity he'd been given. He stabbed his knife into the man's throat, all the way up to the handle. There was an awful, wet choking sound when he ripped it out.

You looked away, sick. And that's when the final thief stabbed your man in the back. The blade sunk deep into his shoulder and he roared, whirling around. Too late, too late. The attacker had a second blade ready and when the fisherman turned, he plunged it straight between his ribs.

You screamed.

The fisherman fell to his knees, blood not just trickling but pouring down his chest.

You caught him before he fell entirely, his head falling back against your collarbone. When they said the dead had no light in their eyes, you finally understood what they meant. You could see it fading.

You poured your magic into him, not caring about technique or luck or skill. That little bit of brightness that makes a star glow, you gave it all to him. Your hands were glowing silver, burning like the coldest night.

And still the blood came. Still his life bled out of him.

"Please," you begged. "Please."

What more could you do? You were light headed, cold.

"Stop!"

Your mother's voice was a frantic shout.

"You'll kill yourself giving him that. Stop it daughter. Stop now!"

Kill yourself? Hope bloomed in your heart. The world needed balance. Death was meticulous with his scales. If you burnt yourself out, wasn't that one life gone? Didn't that mean another could stay?

If you gave your life for his, would he live?

You didn't hear your mother scream. Didn't hear your sisters' horror echo through the night. You dug for that last glimmer inside of you, the last breath of the brightest star.

You gave it to the man you loved.

Kindness need not be repaid in kind, he'd said. But he saved your life. He showed you tenderness, care. You loved him. And if only his body was left, you owed him.

You kissed his hair. Pressed your cheek against him. You felt so cold. Colder even than the night you fell into the sea. I'm dying, you realised. There wasn't fear there. Only regret.

Was it ever so hard to breathe? Your lungs stuttered. You barely cared. All you needed was to know he would live.

The last thief standing watched you for a long while. Saw your glow fading. What use was a dying star to him? He picked up the moon pearls, skirted the injured man who was still rolling on the ground and left. If there was honour amount thieves, he didn't have any.

You were beginning to think it all for nought. He was a limp, heavy weight against you.

"Please," you whispered. "Please."

He stirred. Drew in a breath thick with blood, like the first gasp of a drowning man. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were shaped like stars.

"Love," he whispered. He reached up and cupped your cheek in his palm. "Oh, love."

You kissed him. His lips were rough, but not in an unpleasant way. There was blood on your mouth when you pulled away.

"All those nights with you just across the room, all I ever wanted was to feel your lips on mine."

You sighed, pressed his palm closer against your cheek. "Oh, love. That we could have had more time."

He was still drowsy, still reeling from blood loss. But at your words his eyes sharpened.

"We have time."

He sat up slowly, his hand still on your cheek, his knees in the dirt.

"We do. Don't we?"

Whatever he saw on your face was answer enough.

"No."

"Yes." It wasn't you who answered, and perhaps it was the nature of the speaker that only you heard him.

You looked beyond your lover's shoulder. Standing in his shroud, Death waited.

"A fair trade?" you asked.

The fisherman turned to follow your eyes, but all he saw was the open sea.

"Better than fair."

Death shook his head, long nails click clacking on the handle of his staff.

"It is rare indeed that I claim one of your kind."

There was no triumph in his voice, no sorrow. He truly was implacable as the grave.

"Who do you see?" The fisherman asked you, hands gripping your shoulders, frantic.

You thought he already knew. He was not so long out of the underworld that he could forget the feeling of Death's footsteps passing by. He pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head.

"No, no. Reverse whatever you've done. My time has come and passed." His voice was raw, flayed by the salt of blood and tears. "Please."

You grabbed a handful of his shirt, felt the heart beating strong and true in his chest. "I cannot. I will not."

Above you, the moon and the stars wept.

"Daughter. Oh, my poor daughter."

"Little sister, gone, gone, gone where we cannot follow."

Death brushed his hand across your brow and you shuddered. The fisherman pulled you closer, spoke to the air where Death stood.

"Take me instead. It's me you came for, it's me you want. You won't be cheated by a fisherman, will you? So do as you came to do."

"Fair is fair, fisherman at the edge of the world," Death said in a voice like bones rattling.

"A life must be taken. The scales must balance. Even the stars in heaven die at my hand."

The fisherman paled. Very few heard the voice of Death while they still lived, and fewer still kept their minds together after. It was the sound of the tomb, the grave, the earth thudding on the coffin top. When he spoke, his voice was wretched with grief.

"I'm begging you. Let her live."

"We beseech you, let our sister go," the stars chorused after him.

"Please," said the moon. "Please have mercy, Lord of the end."

Death stood at the edge of the world and all of heaven begged him to be kind. Just once. Just for a moment.

"No."

You felt his hand on your heart. And then you felt nothing at all.

The fisherman knew the second it happened. Your body sagged against him, your fingers dropped from his shirt.

He cradled your body and wept his terrible grief into your faded dress.

Death held your soul between his fingers. The size of a moon pearl, but ten thousand times as bright. Few things in his collection were quite as fine.

"I will not be cheated. Not by the innocent nor the wicked."

The wind and the sea sighed. They knew all too well how inflexible he could be. To all the witnesses, this should have been the end. Lovers were not spared by Death. Why would he make an exception now?

And to all who knew the moon, in her timed phases and careful rotation, this too should have been the end. But the thing they most often seemed to forget was this; the moon was still a mother. And though you were dead and on the earth, you were still her blood.

"A link!" your mother whispered to herself. "He lives with a part of her inside him, creature of the earth that he is."

Death didn't notice when the moon reached down for your body. Why would he? The soul was what mattered to him. But she wasn't called the wise woman for nothing. He was about to leave, about to step from one world to the other, when your mother snatched your soul straight out of his hand.

Too late, too late he whirled to catch it, to curse at the moon's trickery. Already she was gone, your body and the fisherman gone with her.

Death cursed, gathered his shroud to pursue, when the Tide finally spoke. The moon's husband was quick to anger and slow to forgive, but he loved his wife. Hated to see her grieve.

"Still yourself, bone lord. I ask you not for mercy or for kindness. I ask you simply to trade."

"What could you have, sea beast? Drowned men are a dime a dozen. What can you offer for a star's soul?"

The Tide sighed, for he knew that Death measured by a metric none living or dead fully understood.

"I can give you a mermaid's heart, still beating with the pull of the waves. I can give you a fishwife, still young and in love. I can give you the most beautiful of my pets, to forever keep as own."

Death laughed, as terrible and grating as a tomb opening.

"No deal at all, sea beast. Life for life must willingly be given."

"I thought so," said the Tide. "But if you are as quick and wise as they say, you would look to the heavens and realise whatever soul you wanted is beyond your reach."

In the sky, twin stars burned. The third brightest in the sky.

Death laughed again. "Oh, the moon is a tricky one indeed. Two stars, sharing a soul."

You might have expected him to be angry, might have expected cursing and rage. Thought he would reach up and pull you both from the sky. But few understood the whims and wiles of Death.

He gathered his shroud and smiled and winked away. He would have you eventually. No one could escape him forever. But a star lives a long time and when it came down to it, he didn't mind waiting.

Death of all people could appreciate a good trick.

You pulled in a breath that rasped and burned. When you opened your eyes, the fisherman was kneeling at your side, your head in his lap.

"My love, how do I live?" You sat up slowly, afraid that he somehow undid the magic you cast.

"You've done a dangerous thing, daughter of mine."

Your mother stood waiting for you, her robes silver and red and the dusty gold of a full moon hanging low in the sky.

"Mother!"

"Don't stand. You're still weak." She frowned at you, and at the fisherman at your side.

"I did not think to ever have a son-in-law. And I did not think to ever watch my daughter die."

You looked her in her eyes, pale silver from end to end. "I'm sorry to have done that to you mother. But I'm not sorry for my choice."

She sighed, harsh from trying to hide her grief.

"You have him now, daughter of mine. The man you gave your own life for. I hope he was worth the sacrifice."

"He was. He is."

The fisherman's arms tightened around you and his head dropped to your shoulder. He was crying, but only you knew, only you could feel his hot tears soaking into your dress.

"Very well. Have your moment with your man. And then come and take your place."

She left you. For a second between the moment she opened and closed the door, you could see the faces of your sisters. Still worried, still pale.

The hall of your mother's palace was quiet. The fisherman kept his forehead pressed against your shoulder, breathing hard.

"I never should have kept you," he said finally. "I should have sent you back to the sky the second you landed in my arms. Oh love, how could I be so selfish?"

"Don't you dare say that. All you did was show me kindness. It was I who chose to stay. And even now, my only regret is that I bought you to such grief."

You intertwined your hands with his.

"I love you. I loved you the moment I heard your music and fell from the sky to hear it better."

He brought your knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss against your fingers.

"I loved you the moment I pulled you from the sea." Another kiss pressed against your hands. "I loved you the moment you spoke to me, the moment you smiled."

You hesitated, suddenly unsure. "I've made you give up your dream of catching moonlight."

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, I've caught myself something much better than moonlight tonight."

I've caught myself a bride. And oh, I'm never letting her go.

If you look to the sky at dawn and dusk, you'll see twin stars. They always rise together, always move across the heavens in tandem, always set hand in hand. Lovers wish on them, pray that Death is as kind to them as he once was at the edge of the world. Fishermen sail by them, trust the steadiness of their light to bring their boats safely home. And stories are told of them. Of the fisherman who tried to catch moonlight. And the bride who was plucked straight out of the sea.

The third brightest stars in the the night sky - the Fisherman and the Starwife.

[meiplays]

Bloodrush

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Vampire AU)

Word Count: ~8,000 words

Warnings: Blood, biting, bruises, vampire transformation, blood sharing, possessive behavior, grinding, red eyes, supernatural elements, intense sensuality (SFW)

Summary:

After Dean Winchester is turned into a vampire, he struggles with his newfound hunger — but when that hunger turns to you, things get darker and hotter than ever. As Dean’s vampire instincts collide with his fierce love for you, the two of you share blood, marks, and an eternal bond that nothing can break. But when Sam bursts in, desperate to save you both from the darkness, Dean claims you fully — and the stakes get higher than ever. With biting, grinding, and the slow, sensual transformation into vampirism, Bloodrush is a dark, sexy slowburn vampire romance where possession and passion entwine forever.

*all headers/dividers/images belong to rightful owners*

The moment Dean slammed the motel door behind him, you knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t the blood smeared across his jaw or the cuts on his knuckles. That was normal. Expected. But the way he didn’t meet your eyes—the way he lingered in the shadows—set every nerve in your body on edge.

He was breathing hard. Shoulders tense. And his eyes—God, his eyes weren’t just green anymore. They were rimmed with a deep, unnatural red. Like embers ready to ignite.

You stood from the bed slowly, a quiet shift of the sheets the only sound in the room. “Dean?”

He flinched like the sound hurt him.

"Stay back," he warned, voice hoarse.

Your stomach twisted. You crossed the distance anyway.

He groaned, stepping back as you approached, dragging a hand through his hair. "Don't."

You reached out, resting a hand gently on his chest. "Talk to me. What happened?"

Dean's heart thudded hard under your palm.

"It was the vamp nest," he finally muttered. "I got ambushed. Blood. Some of it got in my mouth. I..."

He didn’t have to say the rest.

You saw it in the way his lips curled back, barely revealing the sharpened edges of newly grown fangs. You felt it in the taut coil of his muscles. The way his breathing was shallow, strained.

He was turned.

Not fully. Not yet. But the hunger was already inside him, crawling under his skin like a live wire.

“Dean,” you said carefully, fingers curling into his jacket, “There’s a cure. You just have to hold on. We can fix this.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wild and unhinged.

"I can smell you."

You froze.

His voice dropped, lower, huskier. Almost reverent.

"Your skin, your blood, your sweat. I can hear your heart like it’s right next to my goddamn ear. And it’s taking everything I have not to rip into your throat."

A shiver slid down your spine. Not from fear. But from something far more dangerous.

You stepped closer.

Dean's hands shot to your waist, halting you. His grip was firm, but trembling. "Don’t. I could hurt you."

You tilted your chin up. "We’re already in this together. You think I’d leave you now?"

His eyes burned. "You don't get it. I don’t want to kiss you. I want to bite you. Taste you. Mark you so deep they’ll smell me on your skin for days."

You swallowed thickly. Your thighs pressed together.

Dean cursed under his breath. "Goddammit. You like this."

Your voice came out low, breathy. “You’re still you. I know you. You won’t hurt me."

He pulled you flush against him, nose brushing your neck, fangs grazing the delicate skin there.

"You say that," he whispered, lips hot on your skin. "But you have no idea what you're offering."

You slid your hands under his jacket, pressing your body into his. His muscles were tense, straining against the edge of control.

"Then show me."

Dean let out a guttural sound—half-growl, half-moan—and then he snapped.

He slammed you into the wall, hands braced on either side of your head as he buried his face in your neck. You gasped as he sniffed deeply, his nose dragging along your pulse.

"So warm. So alive," he murmured. "You don't even know what you do to me."

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your hips tilted forward, meeting the hard press of his thigh between yours. He groaned, grinding up into you.

His lips brushed your throat.

"You sure about this?" he asked, voice ragged.

"Yes."

He didn’t hesitate.

His fangs sank in.

You cried out, your body arching into his as fire bloomed under your skin. It was sharp, hot, and quickly blurred into something carnal. A rush of heat pulsed through you, your heart racing against his mouth.

Dean growled low in his throat as he drank, slow and deep.

You rocked against him, lost in the way his thigh pressed perfectly between your legs. Your hands clawed at his back, needing more—needing everything.

He pulled away, lips stained red.

"You're mine," he growled. "You’ve always been mine."

You cupped his face, pulling him into a bruising kiss. He kissed you like a starving man, like you were salvation. His tongue tasted of blood and heat, his hands possessive as they roamed your body.

Clothes were tugged. Skin pressed to skin. Every inch of him radiated power and want. His red eyes flickered down your body, pupils blown wide.

He kissed you again, harder this time.

The motel room felt smaller the moment Dean stepped inside, the air thick with tension and something darker — something charged and alive between you both. His red eyes caught the dim light, glowing like embers burning low beneath the surface. You watched as his chest rose and fell, the muscles taut beneath his shirt, every breath sharp and hungry.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, the hum of your heartbeats mixing, the scent of him — warm, metallic, intoxicating — curling around you like smoke. You wanted to reach out, to touch him, but something held you back — a delicious edge of danger that set your skin on fire.

Then, Dean’s voice came — low, rough, and thick with need. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he said, each word deliberate, burning. “Not just the blood... it’s you. Every inch of you. I can smell your heartbeat, feel it in my veins.”

You swallowed, stepping closer until your fingers slid into his dark hair, tangling in soft waves. His eyes flickered closed, breath hitching as your touch grounded him.

“I want all of it,” you whispered, voice steady but full of fire.

He opened his eyes again, brighter now — a dangerous red that made your pulse race. “You sure about that, sweetheart?” His grin was slow and wicked, the kind that promised a beautiful kind of chaos.

Without waiting for your answer, Dean caught you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly onto the dresser. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, his hands gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

The heat of his body pressed against you, muscle and sinew tense with barely contained hunger. His lips crashed onto yours — fierce, claiming, and utterly hungry. Teeth grazed your bottom lip; you parted for him, welcoming the bite.

Slow, deliberate fangs pierced your skin, sharp and thrilling. A gasp escaped you, the fire blooming beneath his mouth intoxicating and electric. He drank with reverence, lips moving against your throat as he pulled deeply, tasting, marking, needing.

His thigh ground firmly between yours, a slow, steady pressure that sent shockwaves through your core. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, matching the rhythm of his kiss.

“You taste like fire and danger,” he growled against your skin. “Like home. Like sin.”

Your breath hitched. “Take it all. I’m yours.”

His hands roamed your body, every touch setting your nerves alight. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning with dark devotion. “You’re mine. Every drop.”

The second bite was fiercer — sharper, deeper — and you bit your lip to keep from crying out. The sharp dance of pain and pleasure was intoxicating. When he pulled back, lips stained with your blood, he kissed you fiercely, tasting you on his lips.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice thick with possession. “Say you’re mine.”

You smiled, trembling with want. “Forever yours.”

His grin deepened, and he kissed you soft, promising more.

“Again. And again.”

The motel room was thick with the scent of iron and something darker — a heady mix of sweat, blood, and raw need that clung to the stale air like smoke. You lay back against the rumpled sheets, muscles still trembling from the intensity of what had just passed between you and Dean. The bruises blooming on your collarbone and wrists were angry purple and red, the crescent-shaped bites on your neck still warm to the touch. Flecks of blood dotted your skin and his lips, mingling with the sweat that made every touch sizzle.

Dean was a storm — his body pressed hard against yours, fingers tracing slow, possessive paths along your jaw and throat, his eyes glowing a fierce red in the dim light. His breath was ragged, but there was a softness beneath the hunger now, a dangerous tenderness only he could give.

"You’re mine," he murmured, voice low and rough, like a growl barely held back. "Every inch of you."

You smiled, your fingers threading through his dark hair, tangling just the way he liked it. "Always."

There was a knock at the door — hesitant, but insistent. Then the door burst open with a crash.

Sam.

His wide eyes roamed over the scene: the bruises, the blood, the flushed skin, the way Dean’s body was draped over you like a predator and his prize. His expression twisted instantly to concern — fear, maybe even anger.

"Dean! What the hell happened to her? Are you hurting her?" His voice was sharp, filled with disbelief.

Dean’s grin flickered — dangerous and amused, like he was holding back a secret only he could understand. Slowly, he lifted his head, crimson-stained lips curling into a smirk that sent a shiver straight through you.

"I didn’t hurt her, Sammy," Dean said, voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "I won her over."

He shifted, fingers brushing your hair away from your face as you looked up at Sam, calm and fiercely defiant. You met Sam’s wide eyes with a mischievous smile, the aftermath of Dean’s claiming clear on your skin and in your gaze.

"She’s mine now," Dean repeated, voice low, possessive — the kind of claim that left no room for argument.

Sam swallowed hard, the weight of Dean’s words hanging heavy in the room.

Dean leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that said everything: this was no longer a fight. This was possession. A bond forged in blood, fire, and something darker than either of them had seen before.

You clung to Dean as the kiss deepened, your body pressed against his. The marks on your skin, the sting of his fangs — they weren’t just evidence of a night’s hunger. They were symbols. Warnings. Promises.

Sam took a step back, running a hand through his hair, conflicted and stunned. The protective older brother ready to intervene, but something else — something reluctant — held him at bay.

Dean pulled away from your lips and looked Sam dead in the eye.

"This isn’t going away," he said, voice hard. "She’s with me. And I’m not letting go."

You leaned your head against Dean’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart — or whatever dark rhythm now ruled him. Despite everything, despite the danger and the unknown, you felt safe. Owned. Desired.

Sam’s gaze flicked between the two of you, searching for an opening — a chance to pull you away from this dangerous dance. But Dean was already moving, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you closer like you were the most precious thing he’d ever claimed.

And in that moment, the unspoken truth settled between the three of you: this was more than just a fight for survival. This was a new kind of family, forged in shadows and blood.

Dean’s lips brushed your temple, a dark promise whispered just for you.

"You belong to me."

You smiled, breathless, and whispered back.

"Forever."

The motel room was heavy with silence, the kind that thrums with unsaid words and waiting storms. The dim light cast long shadows across the worn furniture and cracked walls, but your focus was solely on the two men standing before you — Dean, whose red eyes shimmered like burning embers in the gloom, and Sam, whose wide eyes reflected equal parts fear and hope.

Your skin still tingled from Dean’s recent hunger, the bite marks—fresh and bruised—painting a story of possession and need across your neck and shoulders. You could still feel the echo of his fangs, the slow, deliberate pull of blood that had left you breathless and aching.

Sam took a tentative step forward, clutching a small vial of holy water in one hand and a silver knife in the other, as if the mere presence of these relics might somehow turn the tide. “We can fix this,” he said quietly, voice strained. “You don’t have to be lost to this... monster.”

Dean’s gaze snapped to Sam, sharp and warning. “She’s not lost. She’s mine. And I’m not giving her up.”

You looked between the brothers, torn — the pull of the darkness inside you now stronger than ever, but the hope in Sam’s eyes calling to something human and fragile you feared slipping away. You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper. “Dean... if I’m going to be like this... I want it to be with you. Only you.”

Dean’s expression softened, his hunger tempered by love. He stepped forward and lowered himself until his lips hovered just above your skin. “Then I’m taking you with me,” he said, voice low, dangerous, and full of promise. “Together. Forever.”

His fangs slipped out, sharp and gleaming in the low light, and then they pressed into your neck with the slowest, most exquisite sting. The pain was fleeting, quickly overtaken by a rush of warmth and fire that spread through your veins like wildfire. You gasped, clutching at Dean’s shoulders as the pleasure blossomed, dark and fierce and utterly consuming.

Dean’s mouth moved with reverent hunger, drinking deeply, the connection between you pulsing with life and desire. You could feel the raw power coursing through you, the shift from human to something more — something eternal and hungry. Every nerve ending sang, every breath hitched as the world tilted and spun, and then settled into sharp focus, brighter and more vivid than ever before.

Sam stood frozen, watching the transformation with a mixture of awe and helplessness. “Dean... stop,” he pleaded, stepping closer, voice trembling. “Don’t do this. You don’t know what she’ll lose.”

Dean lifted his head, eyes blazing crimson. “She’s already lost to the world, Sammy. But she’s found herself with me.” He kissed you fiercely, hands gripping your waist to hold you steady against the shifting tide. “And nothing will ever take her from me.”

Your senses flared — sound sharper, touch electric, the taste of blood lingering sweetly in your mouth. The hunger roared inside you now, but it was mingled with something else: a fierce love that wrapped around your soul like armor.

Dean’s hands moved over you with a possessive tenderness, exploring your new body, the way your skin shimmered faintly under the harsh light. His lips brushed your jaw, neck, and finally met yours in a kiss that was equal parts desperate and devotional.

You clung to him, your heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. You were his — completely and utterly — bound by blood and desire.

Sam’s face twisted with anguish. “You don’t have to be like this,” he said again, voice breaking. “There’s still a chance. We can fight it. You’re not alone.”

You met his eyes and shook your head slowly. “I’m not alone. I have Dean.”

Dean’s smile was cruelly victorious as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. “She’s mine. And I’m hers.”

Sam swallowed hard, his hope fading but his love for both of you burning bright. “Just... be careful. Both of you.”

Dean’s grin deepened as he pulled you close once more, lips trailing along your skin. “We will be.”

The night stretched on, filled with whispered promises and slow, burning touches. You and Dean embraced the darkness — together, unbreakable, and forever bound by blood and love.

As dawn threatened on the horizon, the first pale light touching the cracked motel window, you lay wrapped in Dean’s arms. The hunger had quieted to a steady pulse, a dark lullaby you’d come to know as your own.

Dean’s voice was soft, almost tender, as he kissed the top of your head. “Forever yours.”

You smiled, the weight of the new life settling around you like a cloak. “Forever mine.”

Together, you faced the unknown — two souls intertwined, hungry and fierce, bound for eternity.

The hunt had changed forever. But so had you.

[chaos-ducks]

well i opened up my google doc again and it was still at 8k words. why can't these books write themselves?

[sukoshininja]

JuLance Day 12: Undercover

Date Night

"So like a party?" Lance clarifies.

Finally, something interesting.

"'Party' is a little too informal a word," Allura explains patiently. "Not as much dancing and food, but I am sure there will be music and entertainment. These type of events are targeted to, ah, high-profile folks."

Hunk's eyes blow wide. "So like a —" he drops his voice to a reverent whisper "— a Jackson Wang party?"

Lance bursts out laughing so hard he has to gasp for breath. He hadn't been expecting that.

"Who?" Keith asks as Pidge's glasses flash, "Exactly!"

Hunk throws a hand to his forehead as he leans back in his seat.

"Oh, no father! Please don't send me away! I promise I will be the prefect daughter!" he protests in his best falsetto.

Pidge takes on a authoritative sitting position, elbows heavy on knees that are spread wide as they bow their head on their steepled their fingers. They adjust their glasses and sigh just as dramatically; as if the weight of the world is crushing down on them.

"I am so sorry, my darling, my one and only daughter, my prized treasure and only source of joy in this meaningless existence. But we are drowning in debt. Please, think of the good of the family," they plead in a comically deep voice.

Hunk gasps like he's been shot and throws himself down on his knees as he raises his clasped hands in a begging motion.

"No! I can't bear the thought of an outrageously wealthy man (who just so happens to be exactly my type) slowly become obsessed with me. I won't do it! I refuse!"

Pidge is not to be moved despite Hunk pulling at their sleeve with pathetic crocodile tears.

Coran joins in, equally distraught on Hunk's behalf, "Please, sir, not your only daughter!"

"I'm afraid the paperwork's already been done," they announce with finality and maybe a hint of regret.

Lance is limp on the floor, tears in his eyes struggling to breathe, but he's starts up again when he sees Keith's reaction to the scene: eyes round, mouth open, mortified.

"Okay..." Shiro appears equally confused but anxious to get back to the subject at hand. "Not exactly sure what's happening there but I'm gonna assume you get the idea?"

Lance, Hunk, and Pidge nod. Coran shakes his head with a contented smile.

Shiro powers forward. "This will be an intelligence mission. A large shipment of Quintessence will be changing hands. Our job is to find out not only who the buyer is, but more importantly, who is selling. We are not to interfere with this transaction whatsoever."

Hunk raises his hand.

"Yes Hunk?"

"But, like, won't they use the Quintessence for really bad things?"

"More than likely, yes," Allura concedes. "But if we let this one shipment slide it could bring us closer to shutting down all future shipments. If we apprehend the buyer the seller might get wind of it and be extra careful about covering their tracks. And it could take decaphoebs to catch their trail again."

"I don't like it," Keith mutters.

"Figures. You don't like anything," Lance quips, not missing an opportunity to take a dig at Keith as he pulls himself back up onto his seat. "Especially fun things like parties."

"That's not true!" Keith objects, arms crossed.

"Oh yeah?" Lance leans forward in his seat and holds up a finger at Keith. "Name one thing — and don't you say knives!"

Lance swears Keith's pupils transform into slits as the Red Paladin narrows his eyes at him. Lance shivers internally as the collywobbles bubble up in his stomach.

"That's what I thought," Lance sits back with crossed arms and a satisfied smile when Keith remains silent.

"I don't like it either," Allura admits. "But we have to keep in mind the bigger picture."

"So how exactly are we supposed to get into this super exclusive event?" Pidge asks.

Coran claps his gloved hands together gleefully. "I'm so happy you asked, Number Five."

*   *   *

Lance looks at himself in the mirror.

"Woah," he breaths, touching the slinky fabric snug at his neck. The deep blue is doing everything for his completion. It's a play on a halter top: draping from his throat and wrapping around his body until it meets again low on his back. He spins to check out how it looks from behind. Golden body chains accentuate the slopes of his spine. A delicate trail flows after him and his skintight pants that disappear into his thigh-high boots that somehow manage make his legs look even longer.

He gingerly touches his exposed chest (from the deep plunge cut-out) in wonder. He's never worn something like this. Elegant. Feminine. Never felt the need to. But now he doesn't know how he could ever go back.

He looks good. Better than that he feels good. Sexy. Desirable.

And he still needs his hair and makeup done.

"Just wait until Allura gets a hold of this," he smirks to himself as he skip down the hall.

Allura's door is open, but he knocks anyway.

"Perfect timing!" she invites warmly. "I'm just putting the finishing touches on Keith's hair. What do you think, should I go with the pearls or the crystals? Or maybe have him get dressed and come back and — oh my! Lance! You look..."

"Totally sexy right?" Lance twirls and strikes a pose, relishing how the material moves over his skin.

"I was going to say 'dashing.'"Allura coughs into her fist as Keith's mouth drops.

"No. This has to be a joke, you're not wearing that," Keith's reflection says to him in the mirror before looking up over his shoulder at the princess. "Allura tell him he's not wearing that."

Lance finds it a little disconcerting to see Keith's face all dolled up when he's still in his plain clothes. It's like his head had been cut off and replaced by a some gorgeous stranger. Allura had given him a dark red gradient lip and dark winged liner that highlighted his eye shape. She had done something to his face, making him look sharper — and were those silver freckles twinkling on his cheekbones like stars? The half up, half down hair style completely hid the fact that it was a mullet; the curls and braids twisting together to create something adjacent to beautiful.

Lance always knew Allura was magic, but this was proof. And if she can accomplish that with Keith, then what could she do with him? He bounces on the balls of his feet. He's never been so excited to be pretty before.

"Acutally, I designed all the outfits myself," the princess confirms to Keith's disbelief as she holds up a pearl to his hair with a critical gaze before setting it down and weaving in a crystal. "All the pieces are unique and I tried to keep your individual styles in mind. It was actually quite a fun project, I haven't gotten to do something creative like that in a long time."

"I thought we weren't supposed to draw attention to ourselves," he argues, giving Lance another once-over.

"Trust me," she assures him, grabbing another crystal. "You'll fit right in."

Keith opens and closes his mouth several times before the words die on his lips. Lance swears he turns purple. Keith isn't able to handle how good he looks, and Lance is enjoying every second of it.

"You having a stroke there buddy?" Lance taunts.

Keith gives him the stinkiest eye as Allura finishes weaving crystal embellishments into his hair  in a circlet. A halo of starlight.

She sits back and inspects her handiwork before nodding in approval. "Keith, I know social events are not exactly your scene. And if I'm being honest, I'm a little worried about us not being able to act the part. But people are willing to excuse odd behavior if you at the very least look like you belong."

In his ethereal glamor and his (perfectly defined) eyebrows bunched up in anger, he looks like he could be an angel of destruction.

"I hate everything about this," he huffs (very unangelic-like, in Lance's opinion) and storms out, but not before shooting Allura one last betrayed look.

Allura sighs. "Why must you always antagonize him?"

"Me?"

"He was fine before you came in. Honestly, I know you don't like each other but I need you to at least be able to work with each other."

Lance finds this a bit unfair. Keith is perfectly capable of getting upset all on his own. Lance just gently nudged him along. Why is he getting blamed for Keith's attitude? But he doesn't say any of that. Instead, he takes a seat in the chair Keith just vacated. "The crystals were the right choice."

*   *   *

Lance presses his palms against the window of the shuttle, trying to get a better look at the planet they're approaching, but the angles were not on his side. From what he can see it is tidally locked: covered in white ice on one side and covered in sea-green water on the other. With a sigh he sits back on the bench and shivers. For the first time he misses the comfort of his armor's insulating black rubber undersuit. Space is cold.

But he looks fantastic, so he'll live. Allura had kept with the gold accents when doing his make-up. Gold sunspots dusted his cheeks, giving him a warm, lively appearance. She kept the rest relatively simple: gold lids and  simple gloss on his lips, the focal point clearly being his outfit and the way it showcased his body underneath.

Allura had been correct in her prediction he would look less out of place when the whole room was dressed to the nines. But in his backless attire Lance is still showing the most skin out of all of them. Lance slyly wonders what prompted the princess to make that decision.

He snuggles into Hunk's side a bit more, and Hunk wraps a bare arm around him, equally grateful for the shared warmth. His outfit is a bit sturdier, consisting of a golden vest that crossed over his front and fell to his knees. The Yellow Paladin is the only one out of them going bare-legged, his tunic held in place by a wide belt. Strappy gold sandals wrap up his calves and a plain gold circlet runs across his forehead. Allura tied the look together with hand drawn intricate green markings on his chest and arms. Lance thinks they would make sick tattoos.

Lance feels the hairs on his neck go up, and he knows exactly where that nasty energy is coming from.

Keith had folded himself in the back, arms crossed and a sour look on his face. Usually Lance would ignore him, but Keith won't stop glowering at him from the corner.

He looks striking in dark oxblood, his pale skin and dark hair in stark contrast to the bold pop of color. Lance can't really see the details of the outfit because of the cape that drapes luxuriously off of one shoulder that Keith swaddled himself in. Lucky.

Lance hates to admit it, but he looks drop-dead gorgeous, even as he's staring daggers back at him.

"Take a picture it will last longer."

Keith gives him the darkest look, like Lance just stomped on his puppy, and pointedly looks away with a hmph. An actual hmph.

Cheezits. Lance knows Keith isn't happy about this mission but it's not like it's his fault Keith has to go. Why is everybody mad at him?

Oblivious to the death-match stare-down happening around them, Pidge is happily bobbing their head as they quietly sing to themselves and mime out little dance moves.

Lance has never seen them not dressed like a gremlin and finds their transformation perhaps the most jarring of all. They're the only one not showing skin, their billowy sage top ending in bishop sleeves and a high collar. Their brown leather pants extend up their waist into something kinda like a waist corset. Hair slicked back and glasses gone, Lance barely recognizes them. And as a final touch, Allura had painted shimmery geometric patters on their face that are only just barely visible when the light hits them directly so that only little shows at a time. It makes them look like their skin is slightly translucent and underneath they are made of circuitry. It's really cool.

He keeps finding himself stealing glances at them, as if he's not completely sure this isn't some stand-in swapped out at the last minute. Suddenly, Pidge jumps up and starts rapping. Poorly. And yep, there they are.

"Oge tido tiga naya channeun geoji won Nunbusige binna binteumi eopji neon Nae nune eolmana yeppeunji I want you Jigeum idaero you're the only one"

Hunk bobs his head, humming along and vocalizing on the English words.

"대체 뭐야? 한국어를 언제부터 알고 계셨나요?"¹ Keith says darkly from the back.

Pidge just shrugs. "I don't actually know Korean."

"You call yourself an fan," Hunk shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"Says the one who only knows the English parts!" Pidge accuses.

"Yeah, well, Keith doesn't even know what we're talking about and it's his culture," Hunk deflects.

Keith shrugs in such a way that Lance is reminded of that one Lin Beifong meme. "I grew up in Texas."

This is news to everyone.

¹ The fuck? Since when do you know Korean?

*   *   *

Keith's unlikely background is still Voltron's hottest topic by the time they dock.

"Yeehaw. Howdy pardner," Pidge sniggers quietly as they disembark.

The shuttle had landed on the planetary side of the the eternal night, down a tunnel to far underground. Kinda like an underground parking garage. The air was stale but at least it was warmer down here.

Keith was over it yesterday. "That's offensive."

"And I'm, like, 12," Pidge exaggerates. "I say offensive shit."

"Pidge, stop being racist to Keith," Shiro admonishes, a little lost on the the conversation he walked into after leaving the cockpit.

Their leader looks royal in muted purples. The style is kinda giving gothic vampire with its snug waistcoat and dramatic overcoat, but Lance thinks it works. He appreciates the time Allura took to conceal his large scar running across the bridge of his nose. She had brushed purple blush on his cheekbones that climbed to his temples, giving his face a new focal point.

"Racist!?" Pidge chokes. "I'm making fun of him for growing up in Texas, not because he's Korean!"

"Doesn't matter. If you can pilot Voltron you can know when to stop."

"Oooooh," Lance pokes them in the cheek. "Shiro dad-ed you so hard!"

"It's the least he can do for loosing my real one," Pidge grumbles teasingly.

"Alright that's enough," he says miserably. "This isn't some party we can goof off at. We're here with on a mission, and that mission counts on us being able to blend in long enough to get the information we need. That means we need to act like we belong. Princess?" Shiro offers her his arm and she smiles softly as she takes it.

Allura is the definition of radiance. Every bit as elegant and beautiful as the title of 'princess' evokes. If Keith's the angel of destruction then she's the angel of creation. A bringer of life and light. A goddess. Lance finds himself feeling a little small and shy in her wake.

He follows them to the entrance where they are admitted after Allura flashes some sort of documentation. They are ushered into a room where the are swarmed with staff. They are scanned for weapons and asked if they wish to check their coats. Shiro gratefully unloads his. Lance swears he sees Keith snarl at the poor Unilu who dared approach him for his cape.

They load up into an elevator that shoots them up to the surface.

"Okay team, remember this is an intel mission only. Don't blow our cover, and absolutely no getting involved. We're probably going to see a lot of things that are illegal and we have to act like we're used to it. Be friendly and open, but don't share too much about yourselves, even if it is just a cover story. Any questions?"

"Nah, we got this," Lance says confidently as the elevator doors slide open and they are assaulted with pounding music and sounds of a lively crowd.

"Okay, we'll split up to cover more ground, but use the buddy system."

"I'll take Lance," Keith grumbles. "We'll go look for any vantage points where we can survey from above."

Lance head whips to him in surprise. The Red Paladin had been giving him nothing but dirty looks since debrief. "Uh, okay?"

Hunk zeros in on a staff member weaving through the crowd with a little tray of appetizers. "Mmm-hm, sounds good. I'm gonna scope out the food situation and make friends with the caterers. They always have the juiciest tea. They might know something."

"Delicious. I'm with Hunk," Pidge announces grabbing Hunk's arm as they dash away together.

"Behave!" Shiro calls out after their hastily retreating forms.

"I guess that leaves me with you, Princess," Shiro says, bowing and offering his hand. "Care for a dance?"

"I haven't danced in ages," she laughs as she takes his hand.

They look perfect together. It twists something in Lance's chest. He watches them go wistfully.

"Do you ever forget that she's an actual princess? Like it's not just a title, but who she truly is?"

Keith side-eyes him.

Lance continues. "Because I do. She's just so..."

"Human?"

"Yeah, something like that," Lance sighs, rooted in place.

Keith gives him a moment before he lightly smacks the back of his head. "Let's go scope out the vents."

"Wha abp abp abp abp abp abp abp. Hold your horses there, cowboy. Didn't you hear Shiro? We need to blend in. We're going to check out the pool. These things always have a pool."

Keith looks him up and down. "We are not swimming."

"Who said anything about swimming? Fancy places like these? Probably has some sort of balcony that overlooks it."

"That's — actually a better idea."

"Just stick with me, you scowling wallflower," Lance says strutting forward. "I'll take it from here."

Lance takes maybe five steps forward before he is momentarily blinded as something is thrown over his head.

"Hey!" Lance yells as he thrashes wildly. As it turns out, it's just Keith's cape, and Lance is not, in fact, getting stuffed into a sack and hauled off to be kidnapped and ransomed for Voltron.

"Put it on, you look cold."

"What about you?" Lance takes in the pleated leather that wraps around Keith's broad chest, leaving his shoulders and abdomen exposed. Since when did he have washboard abs? Lance narrows his eyes.

"Galra perk. We don't get cold."

Lance tears his eyes from his infuriatingly perfect figure. "Wait, actually?"

Keith doesn't answer and just moves past him.

Lance rolls his eyes and runs his fingers along the suede fabric. Whatever. It is a bit nippy.

*   *   *

Keith looks up with crossed arms. "It would be on the ceiling."

"Yeah, forgot about that," Lance admits as he rubs the back of his neck before snapping his fingers into a finger gun. "How about that one ballroom with the really loud alien club music? I think I saw a bar or something overlooking it. Plus it's dark — the perfect setting for shady business."

Keith's knits his brows together. "I don't remember a ballroom like that."

"I don't think you saw that one."

It's funny watching him suppress the urge to argue that they had been together the whole time.

"Unless you got a better idea, Mr. Let's-climb-in-the-vents?"

"Okay, sure, whatever."

Lance leads them back though the maze of rooms. He's good at mazes. When he can see the walls, that is. He stops suddenly, something catching his eye.

Keith bites back a curse as he crashes into him. "What is it?"

Lance just points with his chin.

Slower, softer music is playing in this room, and the dancers drift about the room in pairs. One pair in particular stands out.

"She looks so happy," he says longingly as Shiro twirls Allura before catching her in his arms. "Why do they look like a couple right now? It's so stinking cute, I hate it. Just you wait Princess. Shiro may be the perfect gentleman and you might look cute together, but I'll become the best dancer the universe has ever seen!"

Keith side-eyes him. "You do know that, ah, um, nevermind."

"Of course I do. I was in Instructor W's flight theoretic class."

"Oh."

"It's just I've never seen he smile like that before and, ugh, I can't take this," Lance says turning away. "C'mon. This way."

*   *   *

"I thought you said ballroom," Keith complains loudly over the pounding music, annoyed.

"What? There's dancing," he shrugs and sweeps his arm out over the floor.

"Lance, this is a strip club."

"Yeah, and the best view is from up there, chop chop."

Keith glares at him in disbelief.

"You wanted a vantage point," Lance reminds him. "I got you a vantage point. If you don't like it you can find your own vantage point."

"Fine," he hisses though gritted teeth.

They take the escalator (a terrifyingly small glass plate that hovers magically) up the the top.

Lance spies an opening at the railing and secures two seats.

"Go get us drinks," he shoos Keith away after sitting down.

"We're not here to mess around," Keith asserts, the frustration rising in his voice.

"Yeah, I know. We're here to blend in. So, Sherlock, what do people do in bars?" Lance leans back in his seat with a smug smirk.

Keith looks like he's trying to strangle him with his eyes.

"I hate you so much right now."

"This was your doing," Lance reminds him as Keith irritably turns away to fetch the aforementioned drinks.

Lance settles in and gives the room a wide sweep. Three levels. The main stage is on the floor, where six or seven dancers perform. Some seating, but not a lot. The second floor consists of standing tables and a couple miniature stages where a single performer is stationed, and he can see attendants meander about with little trays of hors d'oeuvres. The third floor, where he's currently sitting, consists of the bar and some private booths. He begins a second, more meticulous, sweep, but finds himself distracted by what is happening below.

Lance's eyes follow the lithe movements of the dancers as they weave around each other in fluid formation, mesmerized. The fact that they are all in various states of undress help keep his attention.

He jumps when something slams down in front of him. A drink. Lance sniffs it. Bergamot and...something.

"Too busy to save my seat?" Keith bites in his ear.

Lance looks to his left and the stool next to him is indeed occupied. That's a blow to his pride as the team's eagle-eye. He shifts over, offering half his cushion.

Keith just rolls his eyes and leans his forearms on the railing next to him.

Lance inclines his head towards him so as to speak without shouting. "Actually, I was. As you can see, it's too loud in here for normal conversation, which is ideal if you don't want to be overheard. But, much like us, they'd have to be all leaning close if they don't want to shout." Lance takes a cautious sip and it zaps him, like static electricity. He tries again with a similar result. "I've never thought it was possible to drink static."

"Then don't drink it."

"No, I like it!" Lance protests, taking a big gulp. It fizzles the whole way down, making him warm and floaty. "Anyway, right now there's four groups that fall into that category. We got T-Rex Man and Green Suit in the northwest corner on the second floor, Badass Tabaxi Girlbosses and what could be a Galra Officer in the private booth behind me, and Two-Tails and Cyborg sitting in front of the poles," he recites without looking up.

"And the fourth?"

"You and me."

Keith furtively looks where Lance directed. "Okay, I'll get closer. Stay here."

"Waa—" Lance squawks. "Why? I don't have my gun, it's not like I can watch your back if you get caught?"

"I'm less likely to be caught if I'm by myself. Besides, if something were to happen to me then you can still alert the rest of the team."

Valid points all round.

"Keith wait!" Lance grabs his arm as Keith begins to turn away. "Do my lips look weird?"

Keith squints at him, "No?"

"They feel weird," Lance smacks them together experimentally.

"I'm leaving," he says, exasperated.

"Wait! Bring me back another one?" Lance lifts his half-full glass.

"Already?" Keith judges.

"It's not like you're gonna lose your seat or anything."

Keith sighs but pushes off the bar all the same. "Watch my drink."

Lance smiles to himself. He's enjoying the fact that Keith can't fight back as usual without making a scene. He just hopes Keith doesn't turn that around on him. Peeking after him to make sure his back is still turned, he steals a sip of Keith's drink and immediately spits it back in instant regret.

All the sour candy in the world could not compare to this abomination, this potion of poor choices, this elixir of embitterment. Lance scrapes his tongue on his top teeth a couple times in attempt to get the lingering taste off, but it's no use. Lance downs the rest of his liquid static, maybe the numbing effects will balance out whatever distasteful agents clung to his tongue.

He watches as Keith approaches the Tabaxi mafia. He really does look good tonight. Too good. Lance closes his eyes and shakes his head.

It's hot in here. Unrelated to anything. He shrugs off Keith's cape and drapes it across his lap as he takes a deep breath, enjoying the relief the cool air brings to his skin. He leans forward, chin cupped in his palms, idly scanning the room in between locating Keith every couple seconds. On a closer inspection T-Rex and Green are looking a little too canoodley for a high-profile fuel deal, and Two-tails just slapped Cyborg before storming off in a huff. Even the private booth looked more like a situation where private booth things happen. Lance is all but certain what they're looking for isn't going to be found here. It's too loud. Too open.

"You're a new face," a voice purrs next to him.

Lance looks up to see a Galra woman, large fangs on display as she smiles.

Lance grins back coyly as he readjusts his lazy pose to face her. "What makes you say that?"

She slowly gives him a head-to-toe. "Because I would remember a divine thing like you."

Lance can't help but blush. He's not used to being on the receiving end of lines like these. It does something to him. Or maybe that's just the drink getting to his head.

She leans closer, tail flicking at his ankle. "What could bring such a celestial being to this side of the galaxy? Business? Pleasure?"

"Who says I can't do both?" he flirts back in true bisexual form.

A laugh rumbles in her chest. "Aren't you curious? Are you... unattended?"

"Ask me what this is made out of," Lance encourages as he suggestively touches the material down his front.

"He's with me," Keith says firmly, stepping between them and placing a fresh glass in front of Lance.

Her eyes flick to where Keith's arm drapes protectively around the back of Lance's chair.

"My mistake," she says, slipping away.

"That's never happened to me before. I'm always the one to make the first move," Lance admits once he's sure she's out of earshot.

"What did you expect? You look like you should be down there."

"Bet you'd love to see that, wouldn't you?"

Keith seethes. "Did you watch my drink?"

Lance uses two fingers to slide the nasty-ass drink over to him and fails to hide his shock when Keith empties it in one go. No flinching or anything.

"So I don't think the other two are in the running anymore. What did you find?"

"It's, uh, bad. Really bad. But not why we're here."

It's killing him to do nothing, Lance can tell. It bothers him too, and he wants details, but he knows that will make it worse so he says nothing. He looks around for a distraction. Luckily there are plenty to be found here. Lance takes a sip from his second drink and openly ogles the entertainment below.

"Are you nineteen?"

"Nope," Lance says, popping his 'p's. "Just healthy."

"Uh-huh," Keith hums, not impressed in the least.

"Anyway, I think I found something."

"I swear to god if you say your —"

"No, no, for real. Watch," Lance points to the main stage below. "When Pink Scales passes by Tassels she always whispers. Every time. Look."

Keith rolls his eyes as he turns his head to the platform before blanching and rounding on Lance with an aghast expression. "Tassels? Really?"

"What would you call her?" Lance challenges defensively.

"Uh..."

Lance takes a triumphant sip of his drink. "Not a lot to go on, huh samurai?"

"We are calling her Vanessa," Keith says firmly.

"Vanessa? She like you're first crush or something?"

"Lance, focus!"

"Right, right. So watch closely: Pinkie Pie will pass by, and say something to Vanessa. And the more she says the unhappier Vanessa looks. They could be negotiating! But then it's tricky because Mr. Slave also be acting suspicious with Mr. Hat in the corner."

Keith stares at him in a cross between wonder and disappointment.

"There's something wrong with me. On like, a fundamental level," Keith bemoans to himself quietly before continuing. "Why would they need to broker a deal while peforming? They're probably from the same troupe."

That thought hadn't occurred to Lance.

"Oh yeah..." he says, eyes still glued to the dancers. "But like, what if they were from different troupes and they wer— hey!"

Keith plucks his drink out of Lance's hand and swigs the rest of it. "Nope. No more drinks for you. Come on."

"But I haven't concluded my investigation," Lance blubbers as Keith hauls him along by the arm.

"Nope. We're done here."

*   *   *

"We're not gonna find what we're looking for in a big wide open space like that," Lance explains as they wander through the aquarium. "It will be somewhere quieter with more privacy. Somewhere where there's not a lot of traffic. Hey look!"

Lance points to an unfortunate looking red fish with purple stripes. "It's you!"

Keith doesn't find it nearly as amusing as he does. "Probably harder to find too."

Lance rolls his eyes. Keith's been going about this all wrong.

"Excuse me!" Lance waves down one of the staff, tittering drunkenly. "Is there anywhere, ah, more private?"

He takes Keith's arm and leans on him, smiling secretively.

Unfazed, the attendant gives them directions before disappearing.

"Your problem is that you are so stuck in the mindset that we're not supposed to be here." Lance rights himself, still leaning an elbow on Keith's shoulder. "Relax a little. Who knows? You might even have fun for once."

Keith's eyes are so sharp they cut. "Where's my jacket?"

"Dunno. I think we left it at the club. Darn! Now we have to go back," Lance provokes.

In response Keith swats Lance's elbow of his person, but something about his stressed features tells Lance that he's considering it.

"I thought you said you didn't get cold."

Keith doesn't deign that with an answer, and nudges Lance forward, herding him down the path they were given. He keeps close, walking a little too closely behind Lance as they meander across the property. Always the bodyguard.

"Hey, slow down!" Lance protests when they get to an art gallery. "We can't walk through here and not look at the art!"

Keith eyes a painting with random shapes and colors before glancing at the sculpture of haphazardly placed metal blocks. "I've never really understood art like this," he admits.

"It's because you have no imagination!" Lance says dramatically, stepping towards the sculpture and swinging his arm up at it, eyes shining. "It's not only about what you see, but also your reaction to it. What does it make you feel? Does it bring up any memories? This kind of art is unique in that it can evoke a very different response in every person. That's the beauty of it."

He turns back to Keith who is staring at him like he's in a daze. Keith covers his mouth with his hand as his cheeks flare red.

"What? What's wrong?"

Keith inhales deeply, composing himself. "It looks like a space wreck."

"To you! To me it — hey actually you're right," Lance tilts his head at it. Like a whole bunch of metal collided with something and had been floating in space, gravity gradually pulling the pieces back together into a misshapen ball. "But my point still stands!"

"Mmm, totally."

"Okay, whatever, let's just go!"

*  *  *

They find their way to a hall with alcoves and soft music playing.

"This exactly what we're looking for!"

Keith eyed the lighting. "How are we gonna look around without being suspicious?"

Lance wags his eyebrows at him and offers him his hand with a slight bow. "We dance!"

"I don't know how."

"It's okay, I'll lead. With you're footwork you'll catch on in no time." Lance lifts his hands waist high, palm up. "Gimme you're hands."

With his uncertain expression and eyes wide, Keith looks like a terrified kitten ready to bolt, but he does as Lance directs.

"I got you, samurai. We'll start slow." Lance assures him. "Come a little closer. Not that close! Right there, yeah. Okay now bend your knees slightly like you do when sparring. Good."

Lance pushes their hands towards Keith. "You're gonna want to keep your elbows bent and then lock them there. No folding or extending. Now imagine that there's this invisible beach ball between us. If we get too close it will pop, if we go to far we'll drop it. We need to hold it gently, that will help keep the same space between us as we move. When I push —" Lance takes a baby step forward "— keep the distance and step back. Perfect! And when I pull, yep, you got it. Just keep following like that until you get the steps down."

He's kinda cute like this, face scrunched in concentration as he keeps is feet glued to Lance's feet. His grip is so tight it almost hurts, like he's hanging on for dear life. The great Keith Kogane, humbled by some basic dance steps.

"Step back with you're right foot," Lance follows him by stepping forward with his left. "Same thing with the left," again, mirroring. "And the right again. Good. Now, side step with the left and then together. Nice! Again."

They repeat the moves a couple more times.

"Is that it?" Keith asks, relaxing a little.

"Not quite. Those were just the steps." Lance drops his right and raises his left, stilled clasped with Keith's. Keith tenses as Lance snakes a hand around Keith's waist before Lance jerks away like he's been burned when hand comes in contact with bare skin. Lance repositions for a hold higher on his back, over the leathers, and pulls him closer.

Keith half-heartedly resists, face tight and stance ridged.

"That beach ball is an orange now."

Keith looks like he wants to say something, but Lance steps forward in sequence, forcing Keith to follow. Keith is a fast learner. Too fast. Lance grins as he thinks of a way to keep him on his toes.

As they step together on the last count Lance swings him down and around in a dip. Keith lets slip what Lance suspects is a curse as he claws at him, clinging closer. Lance would be lying if he says he didn't like it.

"Relax, I'm not gonna drop you," Lance laughs as Keith shoots daggers at him with his eyes.

"I want to lead."

"Hmm, maybe next time," Lance promises, knowing full well that this was very much a one-time thing. Absolutely no next-times on the horizon.

Lance never would have imagined himself here. At a fancy party, dancing with his rival. And kinda-sorta enjoying it. It helps that he can't help but steal a few glances. Keith really is gorgeous tonight.But it proves as a perfect way to move about the whole room in a way that didn't draw too much attention.

They overhear plenty. Mostly boring shit that wealthy people do to entertain themselves. But it's not until they work their way over to the corner that they find something interesting.

"...transaction proceeding smoothly..."

"...are professionals...not aware...handling..."

Keith squeezes his hand twice and Lance nods, subtly changing their direction a bit closer to the voices.

"Goods are ready to go, just let me know when the transfer is complete."

Yeah, this is promising. Lance risks a glance and, oh shit that's the woman from the bar. He whisks them behind a pillar and out of her line of sight, stepping on Keith's foot in the process.

"What is it?" he whispers, leaning close into Lance's ear.

"Remember the lady from the bar? The one that was giving...open minded vibes?"

"Shit. She knows our faces."

"Do you think she recognized us?"

Keith shakes his head, hair tickling Lance's cheek. "No. Otherwise the deal might have been postponed. But it still wouldn't be good if she sees us here."

Lance peeks around the corner. The Galra and her companion are quickly moving across the out side of the room and down a long corridor. Lance pulls Keith along as he backpedals, craning his neck and watching what door the disappear behind. "Okay, it's your turn. Time to show me your ninja skills."

Keith looks a little lost as Lance lets go of him, his arms almost like they have a mind to grab him back, taking that orange seriously. But then Keith shakes his head and he's all business again. "C'mon."

They quickly move down the corridor and stop at the door Lance indicates. They press their ears to the door where muffled voices can be heard.

"The transfer has been completed. We're moving the goods now."

"Wild. I wasn't expecting it to change so many hands today. What happened?"

"Some sort of gambling dispute. But it looks like it's all settled."

"Perhaps we should wait until the end of the night before making any moves, the product is unstable can't handle that much movement.

"Policy dictates that whoever holds ownership gets the shipment. It must change hands immediately."

Lance is certain this is what they've been looking for. But they need names.

Lance exchanges a look with Keith. Their faces are close enough that he can see the small scar in Keith hairline from when he hit himself in the face with his bayard. Lance steps back, looses his balance, but then catches himself on the doorframe.

"Did you hear something?"

Shit.

They backpedal away from the door, but they are in the middle of a long hall, nowhere to hide, no excuse for how they got there.

Keith reaches at his waist for his knife and grasps at air. Setting his jaw he steps in front of Lance.

"Wait!" Lance hisses as loud as he dares, pulling him back. "I have an idea, but you're gonna hate it. Trust me?"

Keith glances apprehensively at the door as the handle begins to turn. He gives a small nod. It's not like he had any options.

Lance reaches for him and Keith's eyes go wide in shock and that's all Lance sees as his eyes slip closed when their lips touch.

To his credit, Keith only fights him for a few seconds before catching on, urgently moving his lips against Lance. Lance wraps his arms around his neck, burying his hands in that beautiful hair, stepping back a few more steps. Keith follows after him. Someone was paying attention during dancing lessons. A moment more and Keith is grabbing at Lance's waist. His hands are hot everywhere they touch Lance's bare skin and in this outfit he's more or less naked from the waist up. This was a terrible idea.

Lance barely even registers when the door opens.

"Oh, quiznak, not in the hall, we have rooms for this!" the voice of the companion wails. "Szeth!"

A new, softer voice makes itself heard. "Excuse me."

Lance moans into Keith's mouth in protest before pulling away. They separate with a pop. Lance wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as the other snakes under Keith's leathers. He giggles, "Oops. Our bad."

"If you will follow me," the attendant dressed in all white says with a slight bow and leads with his hand.

Lance's heart pounds, but he dares not look back. Just because he didn't hear her doesn't mean that the Galra woman didn't come to the door. And if she did then, well, it wouldn't be good.

They follow the attendant around a few corners until they enter a dark room. Lance's eyes get huge. They are not the only ones here.

"Let us know if there is anything you need," the attendant says.

Look like we belong look like we belong look like we belong, Lance repeats in his head.

"Uh, we're good," he turns around quickly and pulls Keith by the hand after him to an unoccupied corner. The attendant is still there. Why is he still there?

Lance pushes Keith down onto the couch before climbing on top of him.

"Oh hell no," Keith growls, flipping them over.

Fine. If Keith wanted to top in this make-believe production who was Lance to argue? He knew who was really in charge here. He looks up at Keith. His eyes do that thing where they reflect light in the dark and Lance's stomach feels weird. Keith touches his jaw, as if to say "are we doing this?"

Oh, they're doing this. Lance lifts his head and Keith meets him halfway. Maybe it's the darkness, but this kiss feels a lot more intimate and Lance finds himself quickly getting embarrassed and maybe a little overwhelmed. He turns away, breaking it. Keith stays close, nosing his cheek as his hands trail down his sides, making Lance shiver.

Lance slides a hand up Keith's exposed abs. For no other reason other than he'd probably never get this chance again. And to keep up appearances. Yeah. Mostly that. He squirms when Keith's hair tickles his throat. He slides a hand though it. It's so silky. Just like he imagined it might be. He combs his hand in again.

Lance guiltily looks to the entrance.

"Hey, I think — mmungh — I think they're gone," Lance whispers but Keith makes no indication that he heard him as he attends to his neck.

"Keith? Keith!" Lance pushes him and Keith dislodges with a pop, eyes glassy and mouth dripping. "They're gone."

Keith blinks dumbly a him a couple times before bowing his head on Lance's chest and cursing. "좆됐어."²

Lance lets his head fall back on the couch in relief as he admits with a shaky laugh, "I thought we were dead for sure."

Keith is not laughing. His face is tight, mouth pressed into a thin line, avoiding eye contact.

"How long do you think we have to stay here before we can leave without it seeming suspicious?"

Keith clenches his jaw.

"I did warn you that you would hate it," Lance reminds him.

Keith pushes off of him and gives the room a quick glance. Everybody's too preoccupied to give them much notice. And just like that he walks away.

Sitting up on his elbows, Lance watches him go, guilt eating him up. For Lance, physical touch is as essential as breathing, and this was almost too much for him. How much worse for Keith who naturally shied away from anything of the sort?

² I'm so fucked

*   *   *

"There you are," Lance sinks beside him, reaching for Keith's cup. "I thought you said no more alcohol?"

"I said no more alcohol for you," Keith corrects, lifting his cup out of Lance's reach.

"I'm sorry about back there. I panicked," Lance blurts.

"'S fine."

"No really. I know you don't do the whole touchy thing and that was a lot."

"Lance. I'm gonna need you to stop bringing it up."

"Okay. Okay." But Lance can't help himself. "Was that your first kiss?"

"I will kill you."

"Sorry, sorry!"

"Are we good?"

"We're good."

"Good."

They sit in mutual silence. Lance tries not to think about the fact that he now knows what the Red Paladin tastes like. What it feels like to be held by him. How his —

"Is that Hunk?"

Lance looks up.

"Dios mío."

*   *   *

Long story short, they get escorted out. By security.

The bad news is that they didn't get any of the information they were looking for. The good news is that they were kicked out for causing a disturbance, and not because their cover got blown. They probably still were blacklisted for life though.

"Wait! Where's Pidge?" Shiro asked, alarmed.

Hunk shrugs. "I lost them in the casino."

"How are we going to contact them?"

"They're very intelligent, I'm sure they'll figure it out," Allura says calmly.

"They are a minor!" Shiro stresses, rounding on Hunk as they weave their way around attendants rolling heavy carts on their way to the shuttle. "I can't believe you just left them there!"

"Left who?" a familiar voice asks.

Pidge is perched up on the top of the shuttle, swingging their legs as they supervise the attendants load up the shuttle.

"Pidge!" Shiro calls in relief. "Thank goodness. What's all this?"

"Uh, my winnings?" they say cockily.

An attendant looks up at them and bows. "That should be everything, Mx. Safe travels."

"Thanks!" Pidge says, swinging down from their perch.

"So how'd it go?" they ask when they attendants all leave.

"We got kicked out," Lance reports as he boards, squeezing in between the boxes. Keith slides in close next to him. Lance tries not to read into it.

"Wait, really?"

"Really," five voices say in unison as the door sides shut.

Pidge's eyes shine. "Awesome!"

"No, not awesome," Shiro corrects. "We failed to find the supplier."

"Oh, I found that out ages ago," Pidge says casually, waving their hand.

They stare at their youngest teammate, disbelief in their eyes.

"What? Chronic gamblers with bet anything," they explain. "Turns out, the buyer was a gambler, and ended up betting his whole haul, but I told him he could keep it if he told me where I could get my own slice of the pie. But then he lost to me again."

"So you have the buyer, the seller, and the quintessance?"

Pidge gestures at the boxes crowding the shuttle.

"And you didn't think to tell anyone?"

Pidge shrugged. "I was on a winning streak."

My other JuLance 2025 fics

[itsumoegao]

The Day Izuku Midoriya Went Missing - Mun Drabble #1

Katsuki, All Might and Inko

[[ Obvs, I do not want anyone to feel pressured to write in this verse if your muse is featured but in my "story line" for my Black Swan verse, this is what happened when Izuku disappeared. If there is a Katsuki, All Might, etc interested in writing in this verse, we do not have to follow this canon, it's just my default canon. Enjoy ! ]]

A well aimed swift kick to a rock sent it smacking into a light pole, ricocheting in a random direction as the metal rang. Too bad that wasn’t the dweeb himself. An annoyed growl slipped in between light panting as he returned to his sprint.

Gotta get this shit straight! I didn't need his damn help or anyone's back there! 

Bakugou wouldn't get a wink of sleep until that nerd knew damn well he was fine on his own. The stupid record would have been set sooner had Deku not scampered off like the scared loser he was. What was he thinking, running at him and the sludge monster like that? The twerp was lucky All Might showed up when he did or he’d be dead. Recognizing that he neared Deku’s home after turning this next corner, he ran faster until steering around the edge. “Hey Deku–!” Staring down the long path between residences, well illuminated by the setting sun, no doubt he couldn’t miss him, the green haired failure wasn’t in his scarlet sight. 

“Tch.” Hands shoved into his pockets as he marched down the dirt walkway, teeth still clenched. Deku probably ran home crying to his mother. After those pro heroes chewed his ass for being a complete idiot, Death Arms wailed on him the most, the dweeb looked ready to bawl his eyes out. Pathetic. He huffed as stiffened shoulders slumped. Mulling over it again, memory sharp as whip like his tongue, Deku kept his head low, arms hanging at his side and eyes almost closed. 

“Stupid.” Knowing the nerd took this route home, Katsuki searched for that shitty shade of green again. He couldn't have gone that far unless he really did run. A weak body like his couldn't keep that up though. 

So why the hell can’t I find you, Deku?! 

A rustling by a gate caught his attention, throat ready to unleash a few insults as he picked up the pace again, noticing smoke wisps rising. Did the nerd hear his yelling and try to hide from him? “Get out from behind there before I drag your scrawny ass out!”

“Hold on there, young man.” Instead of the puffy eyed weakling he expected, an older blond man stepped out into the clearing with his hands raised and an awkward smile across his gaunt face. “Easy.” Expression shifted into a surprised delight as he walked closer, as if getting a better look. “Wait a minute. Weren’t you on the news today? Bakugou, yes?” 

“Huh?!” Did the whole fuckin’ country know?! Katsuki’s face twisted for a moment, staring at the weird stranger. The man appeared as unimposing as Deku, basically a lanky skeleton in baggy clothes but he was much taller than that runt. “Who’s askin’?”

“Um. The name’s Toshi.” A pause.

Ya think that means anything to me? I ain’t tellin’ shit.  

“So … there was another young man who was with you, yes? Midoriya?” Toshi cleared his throat, subtly wiping away a line of blood from his mouth then wore a more confident smile. “I was looking for him. He has a school uniform like yours, freckles and green hair?” He pointed to his own blond fringes, waiting for an answer. It didn’t come. “Do … you know where I could find him?” 

“What the hell do you want with that loser?”

“Er–” Maybe they weren’t as close of friends as Toshi first suspected? “Uh. I wanted to commend him on showing a true act of heroism today.”  

An eye twitched as a snarl briefly flickered. “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

How brash! “I-I’m sorry?”

“The hell are ya on about?!”

The snap sent Toshi back an inch. “W-well, today with that villain. He was an inspi–”

“Damn Deku almost got his useless ass killed back there! What kind of act of heroism is that?!” 

“Young man, listen to me-”

“He did absolutely nothing!”

“Now wait a-”

Rough voice howled over the plea, inching closer to the emaciated figure. “Instead of commending him, how ‘bout ya condemn him for being a dumbass without a fuckin’ plan! He was a god damn liability back there! It pisses me off that a defenseless shit nerd like him–”

“That’s enough.” The two simple words, not uttered from the rail thin man but summoned from someone stronger, somehow shifted the air between them. Just two words but, like arrows pinned to his flesh, they prevented Katsuki from moving as Toshi’s presence suddenly changed. With that smile gone and replaced by a sharpened stare, not of intimidation but determination, demanding Bakugou to back down, the atmosphere weighed heavier. Toshi had not moved a muscle but it felt as if he took a stance against the foul mouthed teen.

The older man didn't look anything more than a desecrated corpse but Katsuki's senses rose an alarm, warning him he stood before the embodiment of power, akin to something regal, deserving respect but also threatening if not. The fuck was this coming from? As that blue stare pierced, silence lingered with only the light crinkling of leaves in the wind. Toshi never broke eye contact as he finally spoke but in a softer tone. “With an ability like yours, you want to be a hero too, don't you?”

Tch! Able to move again, seriously what the fuck? , he adjusted the strap on his bag. “Yeah and?”

“If you found someone in danger, you wouldn't hesitate to save them?”

The snarl returned with furrowed twitching blond brows, instantly knowing where this was going. Damn adult trying to make a point. He knew this angle all too well as his glare shifted to the side with a disgusted sigh. 

“Would you?”

“Yeah, I'll save their helpless ass.” A shrug. “What's your point?” 

“What if you were quirkless? Would you still step in or wait and risk losing them?” 

“?!” What if he was—? A rebuttal caught in his muffled growl but he soon swallowed it. Bakugou didn’t have to answer to some bullshit from a hollowed out bastard.

Toshi didn’t pry, reading it clear across the young man's face. “He tried to save a life,” your life, “whether you believe that or not.” His firm posture relaxed as his words took a role of sincerity with a friendly smile. “I want to speak to him.” Katsuki knew he was genuine as he detected a hint of urgency, but it didn't stop his lighter growl. “Just for a few moments. Please.” 

Scarlet eyes rolled as he spat. “Fuckin’ hell.” A long exhale later, Bakugou returned to his mission, finding where ever the fuck Deku was, walking passed the withered man without a second look.

Toshi watched Katsuki stomp off with a slight frown but held no ill will against him. Young Bakugou wasn't obligated to help. Worth a shot as he sighed quietly. He would have to seek Midoriya by other means. Tell that young man he could, in fact, be a hero. Tell him that what he did today–

“Oi! Forehead! Ya comin’ or what?” 

“Wha?” Facing behind him, Toshi found Bakugou glaring over his shoulder before walking again. 

“I ain't waitin’ all day.”

“Yes. Y-yes! Many thanks!” He immediately ran and caught up, surprisingly fast for a bag of bones, his face brightening with a larger grin. 

—

“Katsuki! It's so good to see you!” Finding Izuku's friend at her door was always a pleasant surprise for Inko. Happy her boy still had someone he knew well at his side, Katsuki was always welcomed at their home. “And uh…” She looked over the older blond gentleman beside him, not recognizing him in the slightest. “I'm-I'm sorry. You are … ?” He didn't look like one of their teachers? 

“I’m Toshi. It's a pleasure meeting you.” Another friendly grin and his hand patted Bakugou's shoulder. “I wanted to tell your son how impressed I was when he saved this young man's life!”

“HA?!” Hand swiped the other's away like an intruding insect as his shoulder jolted back. “I didn't need saving!”

“Oh! You mean on the news today? I heard about–” A gasp. “Wait, that was you captured by that villain, Katsuki?! You must have been terrified! Are you okay? Have you spoken to your mother? Do you want me to call her for you?” 

“I wasn't scared! I'm fine, she's fine! I didn't–ugh!--whatever!” As a means of getting further away from the questioning and Toshi, who snickered under his breath, Katsuki headed inside, slipping off his shoes and walking up to the door labeled with Izuku's name. “Is the dam– I mean, is ‘Zuku here?”

“No, not yet.”

Damn it. He noticed those red shoes missing by the door but he figured the weepin’ nerd forgot and just ran to his room. Katsuki then heard Inko muttering under her breath while shifting her gaze to the clock.

“Which is strange since he usually would be home by now but with roads being blocked off and such, he may have taken a different route.” She perked back up. “Toshi, why don't you come in too and I'll make us some tea while we wait?”

“We would be honored to wait.”

“Don't speak for me, Forehead!”  

Inko laughed lightly while Toshi followed suit, though she leaned out of the apartment, expecting to find Izuku in the distance as she checked briefly before closing the door. He'd call if there was any trouble. A few moments passed and she placed a tray of steaming cups on the dining table. “Here. Be careful though. You know it's hot.” She held one herself, blowing upon the rim and looking at the gentleman again. “So … what exactly did you want to talk about with my son?” 

“I'm so glad you asked.” Toshi's grin formed bigger than before, reaching to his sunken but clearly earnest eyes. “He did something amazing today. There were heroes on the scene of the attack but out of everyone, it was your son who acted. I wanted to let him know he's worthy of … becoming someone great.”  

“Mmph!” A muffle as Katsuki bit the cup’s rim to stop himself from protesting and forcing himself to drink.

“Ah, Katsuki, are you okay? It's still hot.”

“ ‘m fine.”

Well, if he was sure. Her attention returned to Toshi, blowing on her tea then staring down at the rippling liquid. “That's awfully sweet of you to say and I can tell you're sincere but my boy,” a pause, “he's quirkless.” Even though her and her husband had quirks, a part of her wondered what if he didn't? The chances were incredibly slim but every jump for joy, every smile at a video, every time they played hero together, a part of her couldn't help but wonder. It was a mother's duty to hope for the best but expect the worst. “He's always wanted to be a hero, ever since he was little but …” That doctor visit.

Sorry, kid. It’s not going to happen.

No, she couldn't think like that. Her boy was kind and more importantly driven. Today proved that. As much as she wanted to scold Izuku for putting himself in danger, her eyes glanced at Katsuki. “But he keeps trying.” A small smile. “He's been really quiet lately so I know he would love to hear that. Thank you.”

That hadn't gone unnoticed by Bakugou. The nerd had been eerily unresponsive the past few years to the point Katsuki had burned through his clothes just to get a reaction outta him. Today he had been lively, only a few moments, talking about joining UA but, Kastuki shut that shit down again. Deku had to face reality and stop trying to get himself killed. Without a quirk, he couldn't defend himself and would never take down nor defeat any–

“So, Katsuki,” settling her cup after finally drinking, “what did you want to talk to him about? It's been a while since you last came over.”

Biting the ceramic lip, he drank again to avoid answering the question for as long as possible. After the final swallow, he sneered but lowered his voice. “Wanted to see how he was doin’. He seemed shaken up ‘bout bein’ yelled at by those pros.”   

He was met with her tender gaze and warmer grin. “Looking out for him as always.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Scarlet eyes averted but to Toshi who also looked at him fondly. “What are you starin’ at?!”

“Oh, nothing. The tea is really good.” As proof, he lifted and took a long drink. He is sort of well behaved around Inko.

When the sun finished setting, Inko checked the window again, ignoring the beauty of the stars which replaced the day. Hand clutched her chest as her eyes welled lightly. “He's never been out this late. I'm-I'm getting worried.”

Bakugou threw his head back and huffed, aggravated, digging for his phone and deciding to give the dweeb a ring. “He's probably hidin’ somewhere crying. I'll get his ass and bring him back, don't worry.” Upon placing the phone to his ear, he expected a few rings then a sniffling answer or maybe a text message reply if Deku choked on his tears too much to even say a damn word. 

Katsuki didn't expect the call to go straight to voicemail. “Huh?” Wait. Hold on. He tried again, hitting the redial button. It didn't even ring. Straight to voicemail. What the hell?

“What's wrong?” Her hand clenched tighter. “Is-is he not answering?”

“He-” Katsuki didn't contact him that often but he always, always, answered. Without fail, Izuku answered. Phones only went straight to voicemail if they were turned off or their battery died. Did the nerd forget to charge his phone? But that didn't explain why he wasn't home yet. Unless he took a wrong turn and was lost? No, he could have found a hero or police officer if— what the hell was going on? “I'll call for a few more minutes.” 

A few minutes … turned into a few hours.   

Toshi reached out his hand, wishing to stop Bakugou and check his phone himself. “Are you sure you're dialing the right number?” Why else wouldn't young Midoriya answer? It may have seemed like an oversight on Katsuki's part but … worry caused the rational to think of anything for an explanation no matter how ridiculous.

“Huh?! You think I'm a moron, you boney bastard?! Of course I'm dialing the right number! It's saved to my phone and even if it wasn't, I know Deku's fuckin’ number by fuckin’ heart!” 200 times. He called Izuku's phone over 200 times and the result was the same. “Stop sending me to voicemail and pick up already!”

As much as she didn't want to believe it, as badly as she refused to face the possibility of something happening to her son, Inko had been on the phone as well, to the police. “He's-he's only 14! Where else could he possibly be?” She patted her eyes over and over with a cloth, trying to steady her breath. “His only friend is-is right here in my house! P-please! He's missing! You can't expect me to wait around until he turns up tonight! His name-his name is Izuku Midoriya. He has freckles, green hair, green eyes, a little over five feet tall! P-please, you need to send someone to find him!”

Anger, frustration, rage, fear burrowed deeper and deeper into Katsuki the longer he kept calling, overhearing Inko and yelling. “Don’t be fuckin’ nice ‘bout it! Tell them to stop DRAGGING their useless asses and send a police bastard to find him!” Straight to voice- “FUCK!” Damn it all–what the hell?! Why hadn't he come home yet?! Why wasn't he answering?! Did something actually happe–He growled, slamming that possibility to the back of his mind. Not the kind to give up, he dialed again, ignoring the tightening in his chest. 

“H-hello?” A feminine and nervous voice answered.

“ ‘Bout damn time!” Toshi and Inko immediately surrounded him. “Ya have any idea how many times I’ve called you? Where the hell—” He stopped. That wasn’t Izuku. “Who the hell is this?! Why do you have Deku’s phone?”

“I'm sorry? This is Tsuniken from Goldsake Pawn Shop.”

Pawn shop? What the fuck was Deku's phone doing at a Pawn shop?! “Why do you have his phone?”

“I just turned it on since I was about to clear it but it suddenly blew up with notifications from someone named Kacchan then you–”

“God damn it! Tell me WHY you have it?!” Black smoke gathered and seeped from his non dominant hand, tensed fingers trembling as his sharp scowl focused on the screen displaying the name ‘Deku’. “Did you steal his phone to make a quick, lousy buck?!” 

“No! He sold it to me.” 

?! “What? Is he still there?!”

“No. He left an hour or two ago.”

“Where are you located?”

“Beg par-"

“Where THE FUCK is your shop located?!” A heartbeat. In less than a heartbeat, the instant he heard, Katsuki slammed open the front door and shot off the apartment balcony. Explosions disrupted across the night as Toshi ran right after him, stopping at the guard rail.

“Young Bakugou! It's ill advised to use your quirk—” But Toshi knew his heed couldn't carry over the eruption of multiple bombs, their flashes fading the further the hellbent teen soared out of sight. “I'm … many pardons, Miss Midoriya.” He bowed quickly. “I can-I know someone who can help. I'm sorry. I need to go.”

—

Hinges nearly broke from the door frame as Katsuki bolted inside the pawn shop, finding Deku’s phone within the counter then locking fierce eyes with the woman behind it. “You…” She had no time to even address him as he panted, darting towards the display case. “You… are you going to tell me …. everything.”

“I-I am sorry,” the brunette stumbled back, “about what?”

“Don't play stupid with me!” Hands slammed onto the glass. “You're fucking Tsuniken, aren't you?!” 

“Y-yes but I don't know what-”

Katsuki jabbed at the phone behind the display case, nail scratching the glass. “You're the one who has Deku's goddamn phone! Tell me what happened!”

She leaned back, visibly shaken up. “There’s not-not much to tell. He-he sold me his phone. I gave him the money and he bought some playing cards then left.”

As she prattled on, his snarl let up. That didn't sound like Deku. “What did he look like?” Maybe some shitstain scumbag stole his phone and sold it? That wouldn’t explain why he wasn’t home unless he was roughened up and left in a ditch–? Stop it–Damnit!–what the hell was going on?!

“Um. He,” she pondered nervously, “was plain looking but he had on the same uniform as you. M-messy green hair, a backpack, really bright red shoes.”

Fuck, that was his Deku. He backed off from the counter, unintentionally giving Tsuniken much needed breathing room. Why would he do this? His heart drummed louder, his outfit constricting as his chest rose and fell rapidly. Somehow, he felt colder. Why would he–? 

“But his eyes, they looked-”

“What about his eyes?!” Twisting a fistful of her sleeve, he yanked her closer. 

“Hey, you can just grab-!”

“Tell me!”

“His eyes, they just looked really–uh–I don't–”

“What about his eyes?! Tell me! WHAT WAS WRONG WITH HIS DAMN EYES?!”

“They looked vacant!” She flinched. “Empty! Dull! No light in them! The kind of look people under brainwashing have!” 

Brainwashing?! He released her, palms pressing against the glass to stabilize himself, his breaths becoming more ragged. No. Why would someone want to brainwash– That-that would be the only reasonable explanation though. Izuku would never willingly sell his phone and then disappear. Head snapped behind to the entrance then back at Tsuniken. “Was he alone? Was anyone with him? Which way did he go?!”

Despite his aggressive demeanor, despite not knowing this boy at all, the desperation in his widened eyes and scrappy voice compelled her to speak. “I'm sorry.” She knew something was wrong here. “He-he was alone, there was no one else and I-I told you! He-he left hours-"

“TELL ME WHICH WAY!”

“W-when he walked out he made a right!” 

Then came the second time Katsuki nearly ripped the door off its hinges.

Few people still wandered the streets at that hour. Those noticing a blond teen rushing towards them barely leapt out of his way, cursing at him for reckless behavior but their swears never reached his ears, the mad beating of his heart drowned them out. Thoughts raced for a solution, muscles burning along his limbs and his breath labored harder as he sprinted faster than what his body was used to.  

Where are you? Where are you? Why can't I find you? 

Katsuki had nothing but a direction to go off of. A direction and calling his name “Izuku!” hoping he would answer. “IZUKU!” Eyes scanned and scattered across the different buildings, the passing cars on the street, the people walking the sidewalks, looking, searching, hoping to find … anything! Checking the alleyways, he slammed dumpsters to the side, he flipped over any curled up sleeping body, he ran deeper and turned around the dark corners and found … nothing. 

Where the hell are you?! 

Why did Izuku go in this direction? What was in this direction? The pawnshop had been a ways from Izuku's home so he must have been driven there? Right?! Katsuki’s shortness of breath went unnoticed, but not by passersby. Some approached to stop the frantic adolescent, but he ignored their concerns, ignored them when they asked if he was okay. Rather, he ignored them because he didn't hear them. If they weren't Izuku, they didn't exist.

As strained legs never stopped chasing someone who wasn't there, Katsuki found no trace of Izuku. No yellow backpack, no burnt notebook, no soft whimpering, no shade of green.

Wait for me! Kacchan!

You're so lucky! Your quirk is amazing, Kacchan.

Are you hurt? I was worried you might have hit your head or something.

I've wanted to be a hero since I was little. I may not have a quirk but I can still try my hardest, can't I?

“Stop it!” He ceased moving, grabbing tight, fistfuls of blond hair as his legs trembled, begging him to not continue. Jaw dropped to catch his breath, but he gasped faster and faster, choking on the air while his hyperactive stare scoured off in the distance, expecting to see him. Expecting him to step out of a door or suddenly walk onto the sidewalk or call out to him from behind or place his hand on Katsuki's shoulder or something—-anything to assure he wasn't—Izuku wasn't— 

G o n e.

Slowly, fingers slid from clutched strands, arms lowered to his sides, weary gaze staring at nothing in particular, still wishfully thinking—expecting a green haired boy to somehow suddenly appear before him. 

… Why can't I find you?

Pressure built hotly around his aching, throbbing head as did his eyes, a contrast to the cold pangs piercing into him. Over and over again, spikes forged in ice crashed into his body, clawing at him to fall. 

As if impaled by the feet, he forgot his shoes at Inko’s, fire shot through his legs once he took a step again, his body warning him ‘Enough.’ Bakugou ignored the plea, the threat of collapse and ran further into the long night …

… stopping once he found what was so significant about Izuku turning right. A clue but not one he hoped for. Vision blurred and Katsuki rubbed his eyes to see, for confirmation he truly saw what he found. “No.”

He found … a train station. “No.” If Izuku was brainwashed, if he left hours ago, if he went in this direction. He could be anywhere by now! Why the fuck would anyone take him? If that pawnshop keeper suspected Izuku was under the influence of a quirk, why didn't she notify the police? Why did she let him go? Scenarios played out over and over as small crowds shuffled between entering and exiting the station. How could these idiots be so blissfully unaware that something was wrong?!

Cooler wind chilled the damp trails along his cheeks, sniffling nose red by more than the nip in the air as the ache, like a dull knife, sank deeper and deeper in his head with every step he took. No matter how hard he pressed his hand to his skull, he couldn't reach to yank it out of his pulsating head. Beads collecting beneath his chin fell once heavy enough as he staggered to one of the ticket counters, an employee waiting behind glass.

“H-hey…” Barely audible as he swallowed, mouth dry from his efforts. 

“Yes. How can I–” The worker initially looked up with a habitual smile but it dropped, their expression shifting to concern. “What's wrong?”

Katsuki paid no attention to the employee’s sudden change in tone, reaching for his phone. “I… did you … today. Did you see this kid?” Before selecting the photo section on his phone, he swatted droplets from the screen then cleared his blurred vision again. Flipping through the album, scrolling past photos of events, UA mock scores, and his family, Katsuki realized he did not have a photo of Izuku. “...” Why would he though? “Um, the kid. He would have been wearing the same school uniform as me.”

“I'm sorry. A lot of students use this station to get home but,” that shift in tone again, “what happened to you? Are you going to be—”

“Listen!” Bakugou tried not to raise his hoarse voice but this worker wasn't cooperating with him! “It wouldn't have been during the day. It would have been within the hour. Please.” Another swallow as he cleared his eyes again. “Please. He-he’s a runt, shorter than me. A mop of curly green hair down to the root, stupid green eyes that light up when he … when he smiles. It's never a fake smile. He has–has freckles on his face and all across his back. He reeks of apricots, has dumb dreams of becoming a hero when he can’t even fuckin’ defend himself!” Hands balled into fists as he sneered harder, so badly wanting to punch something but he forcefully released, his words choking. “He-he has a burn mark on his-on his right shoulder. It's a handprint. A-a left handprint.”

Katsuki’s handprint.

Teeth clenched harder, hurting his jaw while forcing a lump down his throat---why was it so damn hard to speak!? Katsuki let out a shaken breath, mouth still parched. “Have-have you seen him?” 

For a few moments, the worker watched the distraught boy before them begin to crack. Not answering, they searched through their desk and reached into a drawer. “Here, use this.” And offered a cloth.

Bakugou didn't hide his snarl. “W-why the fuck do I need that?” Were they not even listening? That wasn't what he asked for!

“To … dry your eyes?” 

“What?”

“Young man, you're crying.” 

“?!” A hardened glare soon took over, his fist balled against the glass partition. Katsuki didn't give a damn about crying! He wasn’t the one the worker needed to concern themselves with! “I don't need that! I need to know if you saw him?!”

At a loss for words, the employee recoiled slightly. “Young man,” they waved at the crowds behind Katsuki who glanced, “we have many people who use this station on a daily basis. Especially on a weekday. I'm-I'm sorry that–”

“Cameras.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have cameras everywhere, right?” All train stations were equipped with cameras mounted on walls and inside the trains themselves. If he found the footage with Izuku, brainwashed or not, he could track him down that way. “I need to see them. I need to know where he went!”

“I'm sorry. I can’t authorize--"

“I said I need to see them!” Palms rose as a countless number of smaller explosions fired off in rapid succession, drawing the attention of civilians around him.

The worker stood from their seat, hands up in defense. “Please! Please understand that I can't just--"

“My idiot has been missing for fuckin’ hours!” The explosions rang louder, brighter and faster as Katsuki raised one hand higher. If it weren't for his power constantly detonating, his intense but broken voice would have wrenched everyone's attention too. “He could have been kidnapped! He could be anywhere right now! I need to see where he went!” Willing to shatter the glass, the worker's reluctance pushing him to, he reeled his arm back to strike. “Show me the fuckin' footage or el–?!”

Something stopped him from making contact. Something like a steel clamp restrained his arm completely. Katsuki immediately twisted around, readying his other hand to blast apart whatever THE HELL grabbed him. “What?!”

Gripping Bakugou's wrist, not budging as the teenager yanked in his grasp, All Might stood right beside him. His fans, normally taking a chance to clamor around him, froze in place, watching with hands over their mouths, some holding their chest. Like many children, The Symbol of Peace was Katsuki’s idol, looking up to him with ambitions to surpass him but now, in his hysteric state of mind, he didn't see All Might. Bakugou saw an obstacle.

“What the fuck are you doing?! Let me go!” His body, again, begged him to take a break but he jerked back, futile in freeing himself.

Knowing his full strength and knowing he already reached his limit from defeating the sludge villain earlier, All Might’s hold was only firm, not painful. “You need to calm down, young man. This isn't–”

“Let me go!” A cloud of black smoke followed a powerful blast as Katsuki struck against the arm holding him. Not even a burn mark was left on the pro's skin. He struggled again, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes just as hard. “Let go! My friend is missing! He-he could be dead by now for all I know!” The word alone brought another flood of tears, the reality clutching his heart tightly, as if trying to stop it. “You NEED to let me go!” 

Unfazed from the explosion, All Might waited to help the boy relax from his frenzy. He knew desperation when he saw it, not holding a thing against Bakugou for his actions. “I understand what’s going on but you need to calm down. This won’t bring him closer to us. I know you’re scared and you just want to find–?!” To his surprise, it seemed Katsuki's feet went out from under him, his entire body limp as his head dropped. For a moment, he assumed the boy gave into exhaustion but All Might heard him mumbling something. Carefully, he lowered the distraught young man, kneeling beside him and … releasing his wrist.

Katsuki held himself like a vice, curling inwards as his head almost reached the floor, his entire body shaking, sweat and tears falling from his face. All Might leaned closer, catching Bakugou's words between shorter and shorter gasps of air, his voice woefully raw. “I need—I need—I need—I need—!!” Until it was nothing but a fight for air, panting with a dry throat, his breaths raspy. Katsuki clutched at his uniform, unable to even feel his fingers, his shoulders trembling in their struggle. “I—I—Izu—!” Was all his scratched throat managed before grabbing at his heart and falling into a fit of choked sobs. Waves of heat and ice collided, this goddamn headache fracturing his skull in two, as he failed to say the name of the only person he needed.

People’s worry for their own safety shifted to concern for the distressed boy, offering assistance but Bakugou never registered what they said. “I have it under control, please go about your business.” All Might called out then rested his hand on Katsuki's back. “!!” Shocked by how rapidly his heart raced … and to think this was the same teenager from hours ago. They must have been close. During times of a panic attack, the one suffering needed assurance. “You're not alone.” Bakugou immediately faced him, crimson eyes completely fraught but pleading. “I'm right here.” His palm stroked from shaky shoulder to shoulder, comforting as best as he could. “The police have already begun their investigation and I'm going to help. We will find your friend.” Such firm words from the Number 1 Hero should have quelled Katsuki from his catharsis but not until he saw Izuku, would he ever know peace again. 

Izuku Midoriya … never came home that night.

The truth of last night hit Bakugou hard the following day, eyes lingering upon Izuku's empty desk. His classmates blamed him, his bullying well known, but those assholes also were also shit to Izuku. They had no ground to stand on as Katsuki only acknowledged them by giving the middle finger. They didn't know jackshit about what happened. As he stewed in silence, ignoring the whispered bullshit behind his back, and the teacher trying to redirect everyone’s attention, he made a vow. Technically, two. One, he would not stop to find Izuku. The second, he would never lose another person, not on his watch.

Along with the heroes from that bleak day, Katsuki had been called in for questioning as he was technically one of the last people to have seen Izuku alive. He also faced repercussions for disturbing the peace, his acceptance into UA surely thrown but thanks to All Might, he was still allowed to attend the entrance exams in ten months.

Civilians registered with any type of bodily or mind control were also interviewed, many with verified alibis. It was suspected that the colleagues of the sludge villain sought revenge against Izuku. Those questioned held no known ties to the villain. Questioning the monster himself proved useless as he reveled in the tragedy. As promised, All Might adamantly searched for the missing teen despite other pros feeling this was something for the police to handle. As far as anyone knew, there had been no definitive proof the villain was involved. Footage from the pawnshop, streets and the train station had finally been released but only viewable to the proper authorities. Just as Tsuniken said, Izuku came into the shop, dressed in his uniform, backpack, red shoes and all, offering his cellphone in exchange for cash. As she counted the bills, he looked at the display cases and pointed to a deck of cards, purchasing it. He stood mostly still, very patient even as Tsuniken counted the money twice. With his head lowered, they couldn't see his eyes. After a little over an hour passed, Bakugou appeared. A few clips had been found of Izuku walking the streets by himself, no one close but that didn't mean he wasn't alone. Someone could have been in the shadows as night footage wasn't the clearest. At the station, they found him purchasing a ticket but no record had been kept of his name as he paid with cash. All the while, he never looked up, walking with no hesitation as if guided by some unseen force. The camera inside the train recorded Izuku boarding, the police focused on his spot and waited for him to leave. However, as mixed crowds entered and made their exit, blocking their view to Izuku, they never saw him depart. Another quirk user could have been involved outside of Brainwashing as he left without their notice.

A plea conference was held, spreading the word and hoping someone saw him and praying whoever took him would watch and bring him back. Inko stood before the podium, surrounded by mics and reporters with their flashing cameras. The attention was overwhelming but she swallowed through her tears. “Please give me back my baby. We're not well off and we don't have any connections. So why did you take him?” The Bakugou family were right there with her, Mitsuki holding her, keeping her together for support. “If you're mad that he played a part in that villain's arrest, I'm sorry! He's-He's always wanted to be—I'm sorry! He-he just wants to help people. He just wants to help! Please, give him back. He's my only son. He's my only baby! I'm begging you please—Give back my baby—!!” Inko collapsed into Mitsuki's arms, her weeping drowning her words before they surfaced. Masaru went to her side as well, the podium left empty as the reporters began questioning, cameras flaring. However, someone else soon stood before the mics. Katsuki. His scowl present, giving no fucks to the accusing questions as they knew he was there the day Izuku went missing. “Whoever took him… you're an idiot. He's useless to you. He doesn't even have a quirk. What good is he for?” Callous but true. ���Give ‘em back. Even if he's dead, give 'em back or I'll pry his body outta your cold hands myself.” A huff. “That’s all.” He ended and left the stand, stopping by Inko as she sobbed into a cloth. Mitsuki hugged Inko tightly and stroked her back as her wet eyes caught Katsuki’s red. Inko reached out a hand and feebly held onto Katuski’s before grabbing it, as if she was holding Izuku’s hand instead. Her words choked but she managed a few. “Maybe… if-if you two had walked home together that day…” His eyes widen for a moment as her words become lost again. “I’m sorry. I can’t—” “It’s okay. Let’s get you out of here.” Mitsuki and Masaru helped take Inko back and away from the media, leaving Katsuki alone with those words suddenly haunting him. If they had walked home together…  There was only so much a highschooler, barely about to turn fifteen, could do on his own. One without any proper leads. Often he returned to the alley way where the sludge monster attacked. Replaying the scene. Izuku with his head down, not even flinching when Death Arms and the others berated him for his actions while Katsuki received praise for his bravery. He stayed behind to give a statement but he gave a final glance, Izuku bowing his head to the pros, turning from them and leaving the alley.

If he had known that would have been the last he had seen of him… 

A few months later, when summer turned to fall, something … unnerving began to happen. People … began to go missing. But not regular civilians, no. These were sidekicks. Some seasoned and some students who graduated, just starting on the field with a pro. It began with four but as autumn leaves fell for bare winter trees and then spring drew the entrance exams closer, a total of ten sidekicks had gone missing. It happened when they were most vulnerable, after hours and never during their patrol with a pro hero. Some suspected it was whoever took Izuku as the similar patterns did not go unnoticed. They never made it home, their body was never found and there was little to no street footage. Undercover police and heroes began to catch whispers of someone named The Black Swan as the one responsible but there had been no concrete evidence. Few eyewitnesses came forth, stating they spotted an elegantly dressed woman with black feathers in close proximity to the missing heroes but nothing confirmed. 

Just … sometimes, she was spotted on the arm of a man with terrible facial burns or shopping with a blond high school girl. 

Katsuki made note of any leads but couldn’t give too much thought during his entrance exam, listening to the rules from Present Mic while sitting beside a tired looking student, his purple hair standing straight. Letting loose on the UA robots racked him up plenty of combat points, 77, but he hadn't run into the fourth one. Being worth zero points, it was beneath him. Until, the giant hunk of metal erupted from below and forced everyone else to flee. Not him though. It wasn’t worth shit but he refused to run like the cowardly extras around him. He took his time for sweat to build along his palms, ready to blast apart the large garbage can as it steam rolled closer, increasing his wild smirk but he heard a scream. Among the billowing dirt, Katsuki found a girl with a round face caught under rubble and right in the robot’s path.

Something ignited in him. Something possessed him. Something whispered...

Never again. 

Without a second thought, he shot over the rooftops, meeting eye level with the monstrosity as his fire and yelling stopped the others in their place. They immediately whipped around, in awe, gaping as his open palms detonated with power like a pissed off jet engine, incinerating a massive hole through the robot’s head, collapsing it into pieces. Not until he touched down, did he feel a shock of stabbing pain through his arms. The fuck was this? He hissed and grabbed at his bicep, turning his other hand as it shook. A scowl later and he forced a fist, standing straighter and ignoring whatever the hell that was. Don’t ever lose someone. Never again.

No surprise he earned a letter from UA after the exam. Inko, along with Katsuki’s parents, had waited excitedly for him to open and read the results. They had been inviting her more often. They didn’t expect a video message, they also didn’t expect All Might to announce joining as a teacher at UA. “Well, that’s a surprise.” Mitsuki commented but Katsuki rolled his eyes, wanting to hear it from No.1 that he got in. He smirked from the words of his acceptance however, the additional news dropped his smile.  

It wasn’t bad news, quite the opposite but he didn’t see it coming. “That’s right.” All Might’s booming voice continued, hand wavering at the screen displaying the point system. “We were grading on more criteria than vanquishing villains! It’s true, you earned the highest of 77 villain points but there was another factor in play. Rescue points!” “I–what?” “Congratulations, Katsuki Bakugou. Thanks to saving those around you, you have earned the highest entrance exam score in UA. 137 points! Welcome. Again, we are so proud to have you.”

That news traveled across the school, something he didn’t realize at first as he found Class 1-A, the seat behind his vacant gave him pause. Izuku. His brief illusion of the nerd sitting there broke when the dude with the tired eyes came in, Katsuki learning his name being Shinso once Aizawa sensei forced them outside for an aptitude test. He normally wouldn’t bother remembering names, he still didn’t care but the moment he learned the guy's quirk was brainwashing, he paid a little more attention. 

Ain’t no way in hell he could prove anything but he had to ask. The opportunity presented itself once he and four eyes were paired with Shinso and pink cheeks in a villain and hero test. When Katsuki went off on his own and isolated Shinso, he spoke first. Turns out tired eyes was also pulled into questioning during the investigation despite being a teen just like Izuku. Solid alibi too. “Shit.” Not that UA would accept Shinso if he was involved, Katsuki knew better than to grasp at straws but he meant it, he would never stop looking. Even as villains invaded the USJ, he felt no danger but an opportunity for answers. Sweat quickly beaded along his hands, the only one fast enough to check on the others when one of the villains separated everyone. Kirishima made a comment of him being terrifyingly precise, so focused, it “felt a little scary.” defending everyone. He made it to frog girl, Shinso and the small fry in time as his arms began to pulsate with heat. Ignoring the stabbing again, he worked out a plan. “Our teacher’s gettin' his ass handed to him so I’m going to say this once and you better pay the fuck attention!” He quickly pointed to each classmate. “Brainwash those bastards in the water, you throw all the balls you can at ‘em, I’ll blast them with an explosion and you get these two off the boat, got it?” He allowed them a moment to nod before crouching on the rail and launching into the air. A pinpoint explosion caused a whirlpool in the center as the sticky spheres clumped the enemies together. The shockwave also caused a much needed distraction for the freak covered in hands, allowing Mr. Aizawa a moment to recover. Not enough. That brain thing, Nomu, caught Mr. Aizawa, breaking his arm. Katsuki felt that spark again, a match striking then blazing. Something stopped him however. That stabbing skyrocketed up his arms but it shot through his head this time. Fuck, not now! Move dammit! He readied himself to attack the large beast but a figure flickered in the corner of his eye, that freak lunging at the frog girl. Move! She’s going to die if you don’t fuckin move! 

That crusty-faced villain suddenly stopped short of touching her, craning his head towards Aizawa, who, despite the blood and fractures, still chose to fight. Another match struck, burning brighter this time. He shot and slammed his hand with direct contact on skin, an explosion ringing throughout flesh as smoke coated the area. It wasn't the freak though. That Nomu thing got in his way! This time, he snarled at the second wave of hot daggers slashing up his limbs. Why the hell was this happening? He sneered even louder as the monster raised both of its fists, intending to crush Katsuki under them.

An unmistakable voice struck fear across the villains as the door busted apart, All Might stopping everything. “I am here!”  

After the attack on USJ, Katsuki was no closer to figuring out who took Izuku, none of the losing bastards recognized him nor taunted him for having the nerd. He did get one answer. Pertaining to his quirk seeming to backfire on him. According to the old medicine hag, he had been overusing it, pushing himself too hard beyond his limits. Of fucking course…

Inko accepted every invitation with the Bakugous, Mitsuki worried about her being alone without Izuku, the biggest event they looked forward to being the Sports Festival. It amazed her how Dark Shadow helped Tokoyami break free from the brainwashing quirk since they didn’t share a mind. Todoroki had also been a showstopper displaying his ice and freezing nearly half of the stadium instantly. She could have sworn he had fire but he never seemed to use it in battle. Not even once. She focused on Katsuki, cheering for him and feeling a sense of pride when he won first place as he promised. Though, she couldn't stop herself from wondering, what if Izuku was there? He was eligible, despite quirkless as he was but, her mind drifted to what if he was still here?

The reports of The Black Swan or Miss Swan were thought to have died down but her name reached across Japan when a pro hero went missing. Not a sidekick but a real pro hero. Death Arms. He missed a scheduled dinner with family. They didn’t suspect much, expecting him late as he mentioned changing out of uniform but he never arrived. His last whereabouts were unknown after leaving work for home. When the Hero Killer Stain had been captured, thanks to Bakugou piecing together four eye’s real reason for choosing Manual, they thought the disappearances would stop. They were wrong. Stain and the Black Swan were not connected but the Hero Killer revealed he had tried tracking her down as well. Wanted to know her motives. Authorities were skeptical but sometime after Stain’s arrest, another hero went missing, Slugger. Then another, Backdraft. Katsuki quietly noticed the three pros were the ones also there during the attack … the day Izuku disappeared. It couldn’t have been a damn coincidence. 

Training with the Wild Wild Pussycats pushed the whole class into breaking their limits but they never expected villains to infiltrate them. Katsuki noticed the boy Kota gone, setting another internal alarm bell and finding him before a murderer out for blood. He rescued the boy after nearly setting the muscles of the villain on fire. He didn’t invade the camp alone, other villains were out trying to cause as much harm as possible. As Katsuki darted between the clusters of classmates, trying to keep them safe, he hoped to come across the Swan. He had been reckless, getting caught and taken away. The so-called League of Villains, with freak face as their leader, offered a position for Katsuki to join. Hell to the fuckin no! With some quick thinking from Momo, All Might and other heroes located him. By some other quirk, he and the rest of the league were taken away. Stuck at Kamino, Katsuki felt like a burden to All Might when fighting some nutsack face named All For One. Tired eyes, ponytail, icy hot, four eyes and Kirishima, as stupid of a stunt as it was, they pulled a feat together and managed to get Bakugou’s ass out of there. Watching the broadcast, even when coated in blood, Katsuki recognized that lanky figure from almost a year ago, the guy he shared tea with was All Might? With the last of his strength, despite All For One’s efforts to humiliate and weaken All Might’s resolve, he obliterated the menace with a devastating smash. It wasn’t stated if the villain was killed in action, just that the League had been disorganized and gone quiet. Katsuki blamed himself for All Might’s lost of power, losing Izuku and almost losing his classmates but Mr. Aizawa had brought him back down. Heroes continued to go missing as agents pieced together Miss Swan’s use of suit cards. They seemed to correlate to certain heroes but deciphering which hero was which card came too late. Usually after a pro went missing. As Katsuki attended UA, his family continued celebrating his achievements with Inko. For Izuku’s birthday, it was her turn to invite them. She made a small cake, asking Katsuki to blow out the candles through a few tears but she kept smiling. Inko gave Katsuki a special gift she had intended for Izuku but knew her boy would want his best friend to have it. A signed All Might hero card. “I ain't takin’ that.” Accepting it felt like accepting Izuku was dead. “But I’ll hold onto it for him.” Afterwards, he needed a moment in Izuku’s room again. Sitting upon the bed, he gazed at the dresser, closet and desk, not expecting to find anything as Inko left it untouched. The police also thoroughly combed the area for any clue if Izuku planned on leaving. Of course he didn’t plan on leavin’! He didn't take anything! All he had was his damn backpack and stupid notebook— what? He stood up, staring at the shelves near the window. The top row held All Might figures, another held books, another origami and another —  Katsuki didn’t give a damn about the nerd’s notebooks but his jaw went slightly slack as he noticed the other 12 books were absent. He didn’t know why or what or how but he knew only one person who treasured those hero notebooks. “...You’re alive.”

As the years passed, during his internships, during his work studies, during anything which took place outside of Musurafu, he searched. Even if the police called off the investigation due to exhausting all resources, he held onto that sliver of hope of finding him, even in the form of missing notebooks. Even after Izuku was declared legally dead, he chalked him up as a missing person. He never stopped searching. 

Why can't I find you, Izuku? 

11 years.

It would be 11 years since the day Izuku went missing that Katsuki would finally see him again. 

[ae-azile]

The full (almost) 8k one-shot is now up! Let me know what you think! It sort of got dark near the end, but not in a bad way 🤔

Title: At Least We're Not on this Dark Road Alone

Pairing: Fadel/Style

Rating: M

AO3 Tags: Kidnapping, Road Trips, Season/Series 01, Episode Tag, Assassins & Hitmen, Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Childhood Trauma, Forgiveness, Healing, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Manipulation, Abusive Parents, Adoption, Cuddling & Snuggling, There Was Only One Bed, Handcuffs, Hopeful Ending, Ambiguous/Open Ending

Summary:

It takes Style less than 24 minutes to get over the fear of his boyfriend planning to kill him, opting to love Fadel through it all and pledge his loyalty to him regardless of the outcome.

As for Fadel, it takes less than 24 hours for his plans to be completely derailed. But with Style being Style, he should have taken that possibility into consideration.

Untitled Fadel/Style Fic Preview: Post 1x07

Style meant it when he said he deserved to die at Fadel’s hands. He never wanted any of this to happen. He could have told Fadel that he never personally spoke to the cop and didn't even know about Kant being coerced into becoming an informant or Fadel being a hitman until after they started dating. He could say that he simply agreed to seduce Fadel in exchange for a car.

Somehow, that sounds just as bad. And if he puts all the blame on Kant, that makes him more of a snitch. Style never even wanted to be a snitch.

“I really do love you,” Style says to him, keeping his eyes on the road, “Even when you point your gun at me, my heart flutters in my chest-”

“Shut up,” Fadel says, pressing the gun further into his side.

Style rolls his eyes at the order. As if Fadel would shoot him when he's the one in control of the car.

“I can't be quiet on car rides,” Style says, “It makes them go by too slowly. The music is great, but we already established that we have different tastes. Let's talk-”

“Style-”

“Fadel,” Style counters, “I’m bored. Let's talk.”

“I'm not going to talk to some fucking snitch.”

Style groans at that, “Whatever you tell me will die with me! You’ll make sure of that!”

“No.”

Apparently, Style will just have to deal with Fadel’s decision, so he focuses on the road until sunset. It's only when they are running on fumes that he pulls over.

“Did I say you could stop?” Fadel asks as Style pulls into the parking lot of a fuel station.

“I'm sorry,” Style says, hopping out, “I didn't realize your car runs on psychological, emotional, and sexual tension! You should have told me you were this environmentally friendly.”

“Get back in the car.”

“I'm serious. I'm proud of you,” Style says as he pulls his card out. He is a gentleman, after all. He is going to pay for everything on this impromptu trip, “Regular, right? Some people think they are pampering their car by getting a higher quality than they need. It's truly unnecessary. Please tell me you're not one of those people.”

Fadel says nothing. Maybe he is that kind of person and is just embarrassed. Style won't call his boyfriend out on it.

“I got you,” Style says with a grin, “You just relax!”

“Do not use your card.”

Style lets out a scoff, “I am a gentleman! I want to pay, I mean it-”

“So that your location can be tracked through your purchases?” Fadel asks suspiciously.

Oh. Style truly didn't think of that. This is another reason he loves Fadel. He's smart.

“Well, then how else am I supposed to take care of you?” Style asks, “I mean it, Fadel! I am a mechanic! Masculine and tough. A true man! It’s in my nature to take charge-”

“I have cash,” Fadel says, getting out as well, “Walk into the store. I am right behind you. Don’t think of doing anything stupid to try and get away from me.”

“That would be stupid because that's the last thing I want to do,” Style says, putting a hand on his hip. Despite this being the honest truth, Fadel looks unimpressed and continues to look that way until they pay in cash and go back to the car. Then, Fadel gets back in the passenger seat so that Style can take control as every higher being in existence intended. He presses Regular Unleaded, lifts the nozzle, and inserts it into the jeep. He then flicks the lever so it will automatically fill the tank and walks over and rests his arms on the rolled down window before smiling at Fadel adoringly. Because that's what he truly feels. Adoration and love, even now.

Maybe especially now.

“I really do love you,” Style says gently, “I'm sorry if my initially uninformed involvement in spying on you broke your heart and made you think otherwise. This is why I wanted you to tell me about your real career yourself! I wanted to help you out of whatever life you found yourself in! We could have run away together. Fled the country. I think Japan would have been good. I could work for Toyota there. You think they’d hire me?”

Fadel still says nothing. He's a man of such few words. Then again, Style likes that. If Fadel talked as much as he did, they would be interrupting each other all the time. He wishes Fadel would talk a little more though. Share things with him. Be vulnerable with him. Fadel might need a good cry. Once that thought enters his brain, Style knows it to be true. Maybe that should be his mission, to get Fadel to have a cathartic sob-fest where Style comforts him and tries his absolute best not to crack jokes.

“I think they would hire me,” Style continues, “Pa, too. I would need to bring him with us. He really likes you, you know! He likes you better than any other guy I’ve dated and he has happened to cross paths with. I mean…it's not hard. I’ve dated a couple of assholes. But he recognizes a good person when he sees one. He even told me he approved of you and wanted you around more often. He thinks you're a good influence and that you balance me out.”

In response, Fadel points the gun at Style’s face. Style smiles and kisses the tip of it sweetly. It's only then that Fadel jerks the gun back and looks at Style as if he has lost it.

He has lost it. For Fadel. This hiccup isn't going to get in the way of what he feels. He was afraid when he woke up by the pool, but now he has come to a decision. He's spending this trip with three goals in mind.

1. Find Kant - preferably not dead or seriously injured - and ensure he makes it home safe.

2. Find Bison and talk him down. He's pretty sure Bison is more dangerous than Fadel is. His prettiness and petite stature are both incredibly disarming and work in his favor. Style respects it.

3. Make it clear to Fadel that Style is unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him, like Bella was in love with Edward in Twilight. Their relationship probably isn't even as toxic as theirs. There is no creepy, Italian vampire council or ninety year age gap, although Fadel may currently thirst for his blood. But that doesn't matter. If Bella and Edward can overcome all those things and magically conceive a child, then Style and Fadel can too.

“Why are you just staring at me? Why did you kiss my gun? What is wrong with you?”

Style snaps out of his dreamy thoughts and ambitions as he meets Fadel’s glare.

“I was just thinking of us magically conceiving a baby.”

Fadel’s glare turns into a bewildered, slightly disturbed gawk. He's warming up to him again. Style is sure of it.

[kasieli]

Since tumblr won't us post just the A03 link and I desperately cannot stand a short, bland post, I suppose I'll be trying to post some sort of character and/or lore sheet per chapter of A Reign of Shadows. Starting off with these two birbs. Anyways, chapter three of A Reign of Shadows is up here!

[helleboretea]

Some Prompts for The Pitt because we need more fics:

Langdon’s mood swings aren’t from addiction- he’s got bipolar disorder and his meds aren’t working/he’s switching meds

A family member of one of the mains is brought in (Mel’s sister, Franks kids, Trinity’s estranged mother, etc) (with something relatively minor, please don’t kill off Mel’s sister or Frank’s kid)

Santos and Garcia had a one night stand shortly before she started at the Pitt

Mel discovers /becomes suspicious about Langdon stealing pills instead of Santos

T4T Robby/ Collins (ftm Robby, mtf Collins), Robby was the one who was once pregnant with Collins kid

Mel comes out as ace/aro

Whitaker’s first time going out with the street team

Yellowjackets au (I crave chaos)

Christmas (or other big holiday day) in the ED

Langdon’s first day back from rehab

Hostage situation

Recovery fluff after a bad shift

Santos saves Langdon’s life

Mohan has a chronic health condition that she’s been hiding

Santos used to be Robby’s foster kid

Mel deals with severe overstimulation

Please add more.

[ceilidho]

May we get just get a crumb of a preview of your ghost omegaverse 🙇🏻‍♀️

yes!!

[saintsylestine]

Built to Worship

gn!reader x astartes

Part 2 here

Authors note: heard yall wanna read some space marine husbandry (人´∀`)♪ - also dumb question do we mean husbandry as in husband-like or as in... the cultivation of stock? (edit: i did not understand)... anyways here's my take on a reverent boy.

Tags: sfw!! (I think- pls correct me if I'm wrong), being held, worship kink but soft, he treats you like you're holy, kissing, caressing

The cold of the ship always found your skin first. No matter how many layers you wore, the cathedral walls of the Lament of Icarion breathed chill air from vents carved like reliquaries. Silence stretched for hours, pierced only by the sound of hymnal engine-hum and your own thoughts.

But when he was near, that cold never touched you.

Brother-Seraph Decimus towered above the mortal crew—an Ultramar giant with skin the color of burnished ivory and eyes like burning cobalt. Eight feet tall, encased in partial armor even at rest, he was both sentinel and sanctuary. You'd first seen him kneeling before the altar of the Omnissiah, his bare arms glinting with the scars of a hundred battles—each mark like a story written in calligraphy you ached to read.

Tonight, the war was far away. The halls were still. And Decimus came to you like a tidal wave, quiet but unstoppable.

“I have... missed the warmth of your pulse,” he said, voice like rumbling grav-engines. His hand engulfed your shoulder, then your back, until you felt scooped into him like a cherished relic. You barely reached his sternum, even standing tiptoe. But he made no mockery of your scale—he held you reverently, a contrast to the slaughter he dealt elsewhere.

With one arm, he lifted you effortlessly, pressing you into the naked plane of his chest. His armor lay discarded in pieces—ceramite and adamantine scattered like the shed skin of a god. The warmth of his body burned through your clothes. He lay back on the narrow bunk, and you followed, cradled in the crook of his arm. It was like being tucked into a throne of living marble, his breath a slow and thunderous lullaby against your ear.

You shifted, and his fingers spread across your back, longer than your entire torso, calloused and careful.

“You are... so small,” he murmured, almost awed. “I could close my hand and hide you... yet you hold me tighter than any war-oath.”

You nuzzled closer. He allowed it. Encouraged it. The swell of his pectoral muscle rose beneath your cheek, and you felt the subtle twitch of a restrained need echo in his breathing.

"Does it frighten you?” he asked softly. “To be held by a monster?”

You shook your head, barely able to speak. You were trembling—but not from fear. From need. From the sense that you could lose yourself in the breadth of him and never be found again. You wanted to drown in that warmth. That scent of incense, gunmetal, and the deep ozone of a man bred to kill but now content to hold.

Decimus exhaled, pleased. The hand stroking your back slid lower, fingers spanning your entire spine. With a slow, seismic shift of his hips, he brought your bodies into closer alignment, the scale difference becoming impossible to ignore. The edge of heat between your thighs met the impossible girth of something still mostly restrained by control—and perhaps modesty, for now.

He tilted your chin up with a knuckle.

“I will not break you,” he promised. “But I will claim you, when you ask it. When you beg for it.”

He smiled then—a rare thing—and it made your chest ache.

“Sleep for now. And dream of being taken apart by hands that will always put you back together.”

---

The ship hummed around you like the breath of a sleeping god, deep and constant. Decimus didn’t sleep—Astartes rarely did—but he rested in vigil, still as a statue carved for war. You lay within the curve of his body, his hand resting at your hip, each finger thick as a torch handle and twice as warm.

The rise and fall of his chest beneath you lulled your mind into a strange twilight. You drifted—not quite dreaming, not quite waking—and in that space between, something opened.

Your breath caught. You were… somewhere else.

No longer the ship, no longer steel and incense and the far-off rumble of plasma vents. You stood barefoot in a hall of living stone, lit by violet fire that licked the edges of reality. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh, ozone, and Decimus.

He was there—closer than shadow, more vast than before. Nine feet now, perhaps ten. His armor was gone entirely, and he wore a robe of deep midnight blue, open at the chest. Pale skin marbled with veins like silver threads. He loomed, but not to frighten. To encompass.

You stepped toward him. The stone floor was warm beneath your feet. “Decimus?” you whispered, unsure if it was truly him or a dream echo.

His eyes flared—two suns behind a storm. “You came,” he said, with a voice that curled in your gut like smoke. “You called for me.”

He reached out, and the robe fell from his shoulders as if it feared to obstruct his touch. Hands like sculptor’s tools, terrible and gentle, swept down your arms, around your waist. He turned you slowly, reverently. Like he was reading a litany written across your skin. “So fragile,” he murmured, “and yet... perfectly made.”

You let your weight fall into him. He caught you easily, hoisting you up into his arms until you wrapped your legs around his waist, your face buried in the junction of his neck and shoulder. He carried you through the endless hall, murmuring promises in a language too old for the tongue, too intimate for translation.

“Do you know what I would do to keep you?” he growled low, voice vibrating through your bones. “I would hollow out ships with my hands. I would drown planets in silence. But here… here, I only want to unmake you.”

Your breath hitched. “Unmake me?”

“To rebuild you. From pulse to soul. Until your name is written in my mouth like prayer.”

He lowered you onto a great stone bed, soft with silks and the scent of him. Towering above, he braced one hand beside your head, the other curling around your jaw.

“Let me take you apart,” he whispered, eyes burning. “Let me worship each trembling piece before I put you back together.”

----warning: slightly spicy caressing/kissing---

He knelt above you like a cathedral built of flesh and fury, eyes molten and ancient, expression stricken with awe—as though he’d stumbled upon a relic too holy to touch.

But he did touch you. Gods, he did.

One hand spanned your ribs, spreading wide, fingers arching around your side like the bones of a gilded cage. The other swept up the curve of your thigh, not grasping—mapping. His fingertips found the inner line of your leg and followed it upward with aching slowness, the way a scholar traces the edge of a forbidden manuscript.

“You are not made for war,” he murmured, voice barely breath. “And yet your body is the fiercest thing I have ever beheld. How it trembles… how it receives me.”

He kissed you—finally—but not on the mouth. That was too expected. Instead, he bowed his great head to your sternum and pressed his lips over your heartbeat. A slow inhale. Then another. Like he was memorizing the rhythm. As though your pulse was the only sound in the void worth hearing.

“Each part of you,” he whispered, kissing lower, “is a verse.”

His mouth mapped you with maddening patience. Your abdomen, the soft flare of your hips, the inside of your wrist—all tasted, claimed, blessed. Between each kiss, he murmured something in High Gothic, the words old and full of weight, like binding spells. Prayers not to the Emperor, but to you.

You ran your hands over his shoulders, wide as a wall, feeling the subtle shifts of muscle beneath his skin. He shivered—shivered, this leviathan of steel and death—beneath your touch. It made you ache.

“I have crushed skulls with these hands,” he said, lifting them to show the battle-worn calluses, the scars. “But tonight… they learn gentleness again. Because of you.”

He bent, his face level with your navel, and breathed you in. His nostrils flared, eyes fluttering closed.

“I could hold you here,” he murmured, “between my palms like a breath. I could cover your whole body with just my mouth.”

He kissed you again—lower still—then paused. “Not yet,” he said, as if fighting himself. “You are not to be taken in haste. You are not prey. You are… ritual.”

And so, he rose again, stretched full above you, and curled around your body like a storm come home to roost. Your head tucked beneath his chin, his hand splayed across your belly, thumb brushing the edge of your navel.

“I will not touch you again until you ask,” he vowed, voice like distant thunder. “Not until your soul aches with the need to be broken open… and remade in me.”

------------ NSFW continuation coming-----------

Ty for reading (〃￣ー￣〃) hope you enjoyed. Will post the NSFW soon... somwhere... do people have a preference between here and AO3? Lmk.

[meiplays]

The Scent of Vanilla

Pairing: Demon!Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: ~8,000

Warnings: SFW but highly intense, yandere tendencies, obsessive behavior, stalking, possessive themes, bloodlust, Mark of Cain, weapon/knife use, reader pinned, emotionally manipulative Dean, claustrophobic setting, implied past romantic tension, intense physicality, spicy but SFW tone.

═════════•°•⚠️•°•═════════

The Impala sat beneath the flickering neon like a devil waiting in the dark. Its black paint gleamed in the haze of the midnight mist, untouched by time, yet it felt as though everything had changed.

Dean Winchester was gone. The man you had known, with his sharp smile and unwavering loyalty, was now lost to something darker. Demon Dean. The Mark of Cain burned in his flesh, and the cruel, twisted version of Dean that had emerged in his place was something you no longer recognized. He was more than a monster now. He was something hungry. Something that craved—no, demanded—control.

And yet, you couldn't stop the pull. You couldn't stop coming for him.

You’d crossed four states to find him, dodging demons, staying in motels that smelled of dust and regret. You didn’t know what you were hoping for anymore. Perhaps it was the hope that there was still some small part of Dean left, buried deep beneath the rage and darkness. Or maybe you just needed to see it for yourself. To confirm that what you were chasing was truly beyond saving.

But you had nothing left to go on except the cruel blade Crowley had given you, a gift you couldn’t trust, but one you’d been forced to take. You needed to kill him, or at least to stop him. Whatever this demon had become, it was too dangerous for anyone to leave alive.

You stepped up to the bar, boots scraping against the worn wooden floor. The door creaked as you pushed it open. Inside, the stale smell of beer mixed with the sharp tang of something metallic. The bar was silent, save for the low hum of a jukebox in the corner playing a song from another era.

Then, you smelled it.

The scent of leather, bourbon, smoke—but underneath it, something sweeter. Something almost familiar.

Vanilla.

Your pulse spiked. It couldn’t be. You hadn’t worn that scent in so long. But you had a sinking feeling in your stomach. And as you rounded the bar, the sight of him stopped you in your tracks.

Red flannel. Broad shoulders. A glass of whiskey in his hand. Dean.

Demon Dean.

You took a sharp breath, the dagger in your hand suddenly feeling too cold, too useless. He hadn’t seen you yet, but his presence felt like a force you could feel down to your bones. His head tilted slightly, and you knew without looking that he was aware of you. The air around you crackled with a tension you couldn't escape.

You took a slow step forward, eyes glued to his back. Your hand instinctively clutched the dagger tighter. You couldn’t let him see you. Not yet.

But before you could make a move, his head snapped in your direction. He sniffed the air—sharp, deliberate, like an animal that had caught a scent it couldn't ignore.

"Vanilla," he muttered, voice rough. "Y/N..."

You froze. His voice was enough to send a shiver down your spine. His eyes didn’t move from the glass, but you felt it—the heat of his stare searing through you.

He was aware of you. Completely aware. And suddenly, all the carefully laid plans, all the strategies, seemed irrelevant. He was playing a different game now.

Slowly, like a predator savoring its prey, he turned, his gaze locking onto yours. His eyes were black—empty, cold, and yet… so focused. His lips curled into a smirk, the kind of smirk that made your heart race with a mix of fear and something darker, more dangerous.

"You still smell like home," he purred, his voice low and thick with hunger.

Your breath caught in your throat. The scent of vanilla clung to you, and in that moment, you felt it—his obsession, raw and immediate. He wasn’t just talking about the perfume. He was talking about you. And the way you had been, the way he had once known you.

Before the demon. Before everything changed.

His smirk deepened, and you realized you weren’t just dealing with a demon anymore. You were dealing with something that wanted ownership. Something that would stop at nothing to claim what it thought was its.

"You think you can run?" he murmured, voice thick, dark, as he took a step toward you. You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the dagger, but there was something in the air now—an undeniable pull that made you hesitate.

"You came here thinking you could kill me," he went on, his smirk twisting, "but you’re not running from me. Not anymore."

You did run.

The second his boot scraped against the floor, you bolted. Out the side door, up rusted steps behind the building, the echo of your boots against metal a staccato drumbeat of panic. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. But you heard him. Not his footsteps—no. Just his voice, low and amused, carrying up after you like a whisper against your skin.

"You’re really gonna make me chase you, sweetheart?"

Your chest heaved as you pushed open the emergency door to the upper floor—abandoned, cold, and dark. You knew this place. You’d scoped it earlier. You darted down the hallway, past cracked doors and peeling wallpaper, your breath catching in your throat. Your scent was everywhere—he’d follow it like a trail.

You ducked into a supply closet, heart racing. You pressed your back against the door and slowly slid down until you were crouched in the dark. You covered your mouth with one trembling hand.

Then—silence.

Not even footsteps. Just the click of the door at the end of the hallway opening. Then... sniffing.

He was sniffing the air.

You closed your eyes, biting your palm to stop yourself from making a sound.

“Vanilla,” he drawled slowly, voice closer now, almost dreamy. “God, you’re driving me insane.”

You heard him outside the closet. Your heart nearly stopped.

"I can smell your fear, sweetheart. It’s delicious. But that perfume... that’s what’s really got me goin’."

A pause.

Then the doorknob twisted slowly.

You almost screamed.

The door creaked open and light spilled in, casting his shadow long across your body.

"There you are."

He crouched down, gaze burning into yours like fire. No smirk. Just raw hunger. He reached out and gripped your jaw with one hand.

"You always were a little tease," he said, tilting your face toward the light. "Thought you could hide from me?"

He stepped inside, kicked the door shut with a casual slam, and the closet went dark again. Claustrophobic. Trapped. His breath hit your face as he leaned in, forehead brushing yours.

"You reek of want. Of me. And that vanilla? It’s not just perfume, baby. It’s a signal. And I heard it loud and clear."

You whimpered, the sound escaping before you could stop it.

"You belong to me," he whispered, lips grazing your ear now, voice almost reverent. "And now? You’re never leaving again."

The rest of the night was swallowed by heat, by the tension between you that refused to snap, only stretch tighter—until one of you broke.

...

It wasn’t supposed to be him.

But it was.

And by the time you turned to run, it was already too late.

You barely had time to gasp before you were pinned. The door slammed shut behind you, your back thudding softly against the wall. Demon Dean's body caged yours instantly—heat, muscle, that infernal hunger pressing in from all sides.

His eyes burned. Not just black, but wild. Wanting.

“Little mouse,” he rasped, the words low and velvet-slick as they wrapped around your pulse. “You really thought you could hide from me… wearing this perfume?”

You couldn’t speak. Didn’t dare move.

Not with the way his gaze dropped to your throat.

Not with the way he leaned in.

His nose brushed the line of your neck, barely grazing the skin. He inhaled slow—too slow. As if memorizing you with his lungs. As if it had been weeks since he could breathe. His breath hitched—then stuttered. Then—

Whimper.

A broken, involuntary noise. Guttural. Barely human.

The sound shattered you. And apparently him too.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice suddenly hoarse. “Vanilla. And something else. Something that’s just you.”

He didn't give you a second to process before he was there, mouth pressed to your neck in a searing, open kiss. His lips dragged upward, his teeth grazing just enough to make your breath catch—and then he bit.

Not gently.

His teeth sank into the curve of your shoulder, just under your ear. Sharp, deep, possessive. You jerked against him, a gasp breaking loose—but he only groaned in response, tongue flicking over the mark like he needed to seal it.

“Mine,” he growled into your skin. “You hear me? Mine. You don’t get to walk away smelling like this. Like heaven’s little treat. Like you were made for me.”

Your fingers clutched at his jacket as his lips found the edge of your jaw, then your cheek. Every movement had a purpose. Every kiss was searing. Every breath he took of you left him more undone.

“You smell like home,” he whispered, voice so reverent it made your chest ache. “Like you were born to bring me to my knees.”

He licked down the side of your throat, tongue tracing the heat of your racing pulse before kissing you again—wet, open, needful. The way his mouth devoured yours wasn’t just passionate—it was desperate, like he couldn’t stand the distance between your bodies anymore.

He groaned low in his chest, hips pressing flush against yours as he pinned your wrists to the wall. His body was trembling now, not with rage—but restraint. Barely leashed, fraying at the edges.

“I’ve killed for less,” he whispered against your mouth. “You don’t know what this does to me. The way you smell… move… run.”

His tongue licked into your mouth again, this time deeper, darker. He tasted you like a man starved. Like a demon denied too long. When he pulled back, your lips were slick from his, and he just stared.

Eyes drinking you in.

“I thought I could let you go,” he said, voice cracking. “Thought I could let you play human. But then you ran, baby. And all I could think about was dragging you back. Locking you away. Keeping you just for me.”

You shivered. He noticed.

“Oh, you like that,” he said, smiling darkly now. “You like when I get possessive.”

His mouth dropped to your throat again, tongue lapping at the earlier bite as if tasting his own mark was addictive. Then another bite—lower this time. You whimpered, and he moaned in answer.

He slipped a thigh between your legs, lifting you just enough that your weight shifted into him. You grabbed his shoulders instinctively.

“You don't get to smell like this and think I won't come find you,” he murmured, lips brushing your collarbone. “I felt you from across town. Heard your laugh in my goddamn head. You’ve infected me, sweetheart.”

His fingers dragged down your waist, gripping tight—grounding himself with your body as much as staking claim.

“Even Crowley told me to let you go. Said you’d break me.”

He kissed your sternum, your throat, the corner of your mouth.

“He was right.”

Dean was spiraling—but not away from you. Into you. Around you. Like his very soul was curling around yours and refusing to let go.

Your hand lifted—hesitant—reaching for his cheek. He leaned into it. Just for a second. His eyes fluttered shut as you brushed your thumb along his stubble.

“You smell like something I’d sell my soul for,” he whispered. “Hell, I already did.”

And then he kissed you again—longer this time, slower. Still intense, still burning—but full of something else now. Something not quite soft. But close.

And when he finally pulled back, he didn’t let you go.

He just pressed his forehead to yours and breathed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”

[ambssssssssss]

Find Our Harmony

Five times Rumi is held by Mira while she sleeps and one time Rumi holds Mira instead.

Also read on AO3

ONE

The first time it happens, Rumi doesn’t have the energy to resist. She’s absolutely exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the exceptionally long day she’d had. From the failed Idol performance, to the big, onstage fight that revealed her patterns, to Mira and Zoey aiming their blades at her. That alone had been enough to break Rumi, to shatter her fragile self-image into a million pieces and then the hits had just kept coming. Jinu betrayed her, Celine tried to act like everything could be fixed with long sleeves and a sweet lie. Rumi had watched her inner demon come forward, her skin glowing with patterns and her eye changing shape and color, an unearthly growl seeping into her voice no matter how hard Rumi tried to keep it out. 

Rumi’s faults and fears had been put on display for the world to see. When she’d walked into that arena, filled with mindless drones singing praises at their demon idols, Rumi hadn’t been certain that she’d walk out again. She didn’t have Mira and Zoey, she barely had herself. But she still had her voice and maybe it wouldn’t have been enough, but it would’ve been something. Another life saved maybe. That would’ve been enough. 

We are Hunters, voices strong. Slaying demons with our song. Save the world and make it right. When darkness finally meets the light. 

Rumi’s darkness had met light and instead of being bathed in the shadows she’d feared her whole life, she’d been met with fractals of light. Mira. Zoey. They were just as broken as Rumi, in their own ways, but their broken pieces fit together like a puzzle, the fractures filled with gold. Not seamless, not perfect, but real and whole and beautiful nevertheless. It was something like peace, even if they weren’t strong enough on their own. 

Then Jinu sacrificed himself and Rumi shattered all over again. Not physically, not a complete collapse, but the edges of her freshly mended heart chipped away, cracks in the same pattern as the likes that decorated Jinu’s skin. Still, his sacrifice gave them the advantage they needed to create a new Honmoon and seal Gwi-Ma away again. The magical lines aren’t gold, but they are strong and true and Rumi knows, deep in her soul, that they’ll keep the demons at bay. 

The endless night turns to day and their work isn’t quite done yet. The demons had been defeated but now HUNTR/X had the much more dangerous issue of a possible PR scandal. Bobby handled it beautifully, as he always does, and their fans are able to accept that battle for the world as very elaborate special effects. Rumi’s patterns are not quite as vibrant to the naked human eye, but they are visible and it doesn't take long for fans to notice them. The tattoo excuse is flimsy but it’s not like they can explain what the patterns actually mean. Their fans, as adoring and trusting as always, praise Rumi’s new look and, after hours of signing autographs, taking pictures, and dodging questions about the Saja Boys, HUNTR/X is finally able to go home. 

Rumi, exhausted from the physical and emotional toll of the day, stumbles as they leave, only to be caught by Mira’s strong hands on her shoulders. She flinches away from the touch without meaning to, and though a brief look of hurt crosses Mira’s features, she doesn’t let go. Zoey comes up to Rumi’s other side and takes her hand. 

“Sorry,” Rumi says, unable to look either of them in the eye. “I just -” 

“It’s okay.” Mira replies, squeezing Rumi’s shoulders lightly. The patterns are warm beneath her palms. “Let’s go home. The couch is calling my name.” 

“Couch! Couch! Couch! Couch!” Zoey cheers, pulling Rumi along by the hand. Rumi laughs as she follows, her overwhelming desire to sleep for at least a day alleviated by the warmth of Zoey’s hand in hers and the steady pressure of Mira’s hands on her shoulders. 

Half an hour later, the three of them are piled on the couch in their living room, a mountain of food piled high on the coffee table in front of them, and thoughts of everything except getting some well-deserved rest pushed far from their minds. It feels deliberate when Mira and Zoey pull Rumi down to sit between them, but Rumi doesn’t have the presence of mind to think about it. She eats her weight in noodles and snacks, not really paying attention to anything but how cold the apartment is. She’s traded her normal hoodie for a tanktop and she’s surprisingly cold as a result. Rumi doesn’t mention it to the others, who are too busy competing to see who can put the most food away while some random show plays on the television mounted on the wall in front of them, but eventually the mountain has become more of a hill and the three of them are curled on the couch. 

Zoey curls up with her head resting on the arm of the couch, her favorite fluffy blanket wrapped around her and her feet stretched to rest across Rumi’s lap. Her eyes are big and bright as she focuses on the television. Mira and Rumi had let her pick what they watched now that they were done eating and she had picked one of her favorite movies from growing up in America. Rumi was still sitting near the middle of the couch, though she’d moved over slightly to allow Zoey the room to stretch out. She’s looking at the screen without really taking anything in, replaying the events of the day before in her mind over and over again, until a soft touch brought her out of her thoughts. 

It’s Mira, who had unearthed a second blanket and had thrown it over Rumi. She moves a bit closer on the couch, wrapping her arm around Rumi’s shoulders and rubbing her hand along the upper section of Rumi’s arms. 

“You looked cold.” Mira says when Rumi gives her a questioning glance. 

“I’m not used to wearing short sleeves.” Rumi manages a half smile with the words. Mira hums softly and inches closer. Her voice drops a little lower. 

“I won’t ask if you’re okay, because that’s a dumb question.” Mira says. Rumi huffs a laugh. “But I will ask if there’s anything I can do? Anything you need?” 

Rumi hesitates, opening and closing her mouth a few times before she finally shakes her head. She doesn’t know if she’s really processed everything that’s happened in the past two weeks but she knows that she’d spent hours feeling lost and alone and that was the scariest part of it all. 

“Maybe just - stay. With me.” Rumi shifts closer, lets her head fall onto a slim but strong shoulder. “I really don’t want to be alone right now.” 

“We’re not going anywhere.” Mira squeezed her shoulder again. “I won't leave you. I promise.” 

Rumi nodded, sinking into the warmth of Mira at her side. She freed one of her hands from beneath the blanket, resting her palm on Zoey’s calf in her lap, and finally let go of the tension building in her body. Her muscles relaxed, Mira shifted her to rest more securely against her side, and Rumi found her eyelids drooping further down with each passing second. She was asleep before the movie finished its first act, safe and warm between her friends. 

TWO

The second time Rumi falls asleep on Mira is an accident. They’re in the studio again, working on their new album. Technically, HUNTR/X is on hiatus at the moment. They’d earned their three months off with blood, sweat, and tears, but none of them were able to switch off completely. They hadn’t performed since the failed Idols, but they’d made a few public appearances. Never planned, never coordinated, but enough to keep both them and their fans satisfied for the moment. One fan's hope for new music had spurred the trio into action, lyrics and beats flowing from their lips like they used to. It’s easy, simple, and free. 

They lose track of time easily when they’re tucked away between the walls of their home studio. They’d made the executive decision early in their career to ban their cellphones from the room in the name of limiting distractions, which had the predictable effect of also ensuring that they were basically unreachable while they were recording. Celine would be able to get through to them sometimes, and Bobby would let himself into their condo if they took longer than a few hours to respond but aside from those two, no one could find them. It was exactly what they needed to get their music made. 

They’d worked out a system for their music years ago. They’d start with the lyrics, getting a chorus or a bridge or a verse and then finding a beat that matched it. Once they had a base, it was time to explore it, roundtable style. They’d work together to find the words and the chords, shouting suggestions until they had something usable. Then, once they had a song rather than an idea, they’d split to their own talents. Zoey would refine the lyrics, Mira would take over finalizing the music and overall style of the song, and Rumi would work out the harmonies and line distribution. This had been Celine’s job back when they started, their mentor often favoring Rumi ahead of the others, but Rumi did her best to make it even. She’d never wanted to be a solo act and Zoey and Mira both deserved their time in the spotlight. 

They had finished one song and were starting on another when the lack of sleep Rumi had been getting started catching up to her. She hadn’t been sleeping well since they created the Honmoon, her dreams interrupted by visions of hellfire, golden demon eyes, and anguished cries of the people she held dear. She saw Jinu’s last moments over and over again, but the smile he’d had the day of was replaced by a pain filled grimace. The cheers of the HUNTR/X fans were drowned out by screams. The glow of the Hunters weapons that Mira and Zoey wielded were blinding as they plunged deep into Rumi’s stomach. 

Rumi would wake up, sweaty, pale, crying, with nothing but the glow of her patterns and the soft fur of Derpy the tiger for comfort. She could only be thankful that she hadn’t been crying out in her sleep. She didn’t want to make Mira or Zoey lose sleep either. The nights leave Rumi with heavy circles beneath her eyes, covered with makeup, and a miserable lack of energy. 

Now, sitting in their studio with Zoey mumbling lyrics to a new song while she scribbles away in her journal and Mira sitting close at her side, absently strumming on a guitar, Rumi can feel her limbs growing heavy with sleep. She doesn’t remember what she’s supposed to be doing in preparation for their next song and she doesn’t have her phone to distract, so it’s only a matter of time until she begins to lean to the side. Her head finds the back of Mira’s shoulder, her eyes falling closed at the same time that her breathing slows and deepens. 

“Oh.” Zoey squeaks when she turns with an idea, only to see their leader asleep on Mira’s shoulders. “Should we take a break?” 

“Just let her sleep.” Mira responds. She glances at the lavender hair on her shoulder. Her lip quirks into a small smile. “She clearly needs it.” 

Zoey agrees, flipping to a new page, but there’s something about her smile that makes Mira narrow her eyes at her. 

“Are you ever going to -” 

“No.” Mira interrupts, freezing in place when her unintentionally loud voice makes Rumi shift in her sleep. Rumi stirs slightly, mumbles something that neither of them catch, and then settles again. “She’s got enough on her plate already.” 

Rumi, awake enough to know that Mira is speaking but not enough to track her words, moves closer, wrapping her arm around Mira’s middle in an attempt to get more comfortable leaning against her. She doesn’t feel the way Mira’s breath hitches at the contact or the knowing smirk in Zoey’s eyes. A beat passes and the other two members of their trio turn back to their tasks, Rumi’s soft snores grounding them both in the moment. 

THREE

The lights are low, the covers drawn over the windows as the adrenaline fades from the trio of superstars soaring through the sky in the aftermath of their first comeback concert. The performance had been a raving success, from the songs to the choreography to the harmony of the HUNTR/X on stage. They moved around one another with grace, trading smiles and even a few quick jokes as they pass one another. Their smiles are genuine, their voices unwavering. Rumi’s patterns seem to shine beneath the stage lights, mesmerizing the crowd. Even Mira seems momentarily distracted by the blue-purple-pink lines that slice across Rumi’s skin when they have a few moments backstage for a costume change. 

The fans are screaming for an encore at the end and the trio pulls out a stunning performance of ‘How It’s Done’ to end the evening, leaving them sweaty and panting as the lights fade and the crowd roars. The descending platform that guides them to the space beneath the stage moves them out of sight, where they are quickly ushered into their dressing rooms to change into comfortable clothes for travelling. 

An hour later, the HUNTR/X jet is flying high, and the girls are settling in for a few more hours of travel before they’ll get to the hotel in the next city. Their comeback tour isn’t a massive one, only a handful of stop compared to their last one, but after three months of down time, they’ve sort of fallen out of the rhythm of it. Rumi doesn’t mean to fall asleep before she’s even done eating her post-concert snack. She doesn’t even realize she’s fallen asleep at all until she’s gently woken up. 

“What’s ha-” 

“Nothing, nothing, we’re not there yet.” Mira says. It’s her hands on Rumi’s shoulders that had woken her up. Rumi blinks at her in sleepy confusion. Mira half-smiles at her, eyes soft in the dim lighting of the plane. “You were sleeping with your head hanging weirdly. Your neck is gonna hurt like a bitch if you keep that up.” 

Which, yeah, Rumi can already feel the crick in her neck from the awkward sleeping position and she’s vaguely aware that she’d been holding chopsticks in her right hand when she’d fallen asleep, but those are gone now. A sleepy glance to the side reveals the chopsticks and the noodles she’d been eating had been set in the cupholder for her. Rumi looks back at Mira and makes a soft noise, almost a laugh, almost a huff, that manages to communicate her understanding and appreciation. 

Mira smiles and it’s different than her normal smile. Softer, somehow. Rumi finds herself smiling back before she stretches out her neck and yawns so wide it makes her eyes close. Mira is sitting beside her when Rumi’s eyes open again, her phone in hand. Rumi is still just sleepy enough to not hesitate in leaning her head against Mira’s shoulder. Mira accepts the weight of Rumi against her with a quick shift of her weight, her own head tilting to rest against Rumi’s. 

Rumi watches over Mira’s shoulder as she scrolls through various social media feeds, occasionally popping in to comment or react to their fans showing them all the love after their concert. She threads her arm around Mira’s at one point to double-tap a post and then leaves her hand there, resting on Mira’s arm. Her eyes are drooping again when she feels Zoey join them on the large seat. Zoey lays her head in Rumi’s lap, eyes locked on her own phone. Rumi’s free hand comes to rest gently on top of Zoey’s head and then she’s asleep again. 

“You know she-” 

“Shut up, Zoey.” 

Rumi is woken up again as the plane is coming in for a landing, Bobby cheerfully announcing that there’s a crowd of fans waiting to greet them despite the late hour. The trio of pop stars rallies to the occasion, leaving their jet with warm smiles and waves to the crowd, but they don’t linger for too long. Rumi ushers Zoey along, the youngest member of their group also having taken a catnap on the plane and as such is slightly less reactive than normal, and Mira follows behind them like a guard. They pile into the SUV waiting for them, Rumi and Zoey both drifting in and out sleep as they make the short drive to their hotel. Mira, the only one other than Bobby who is fully awake, gets them into the elevator and then into their room. 

Zoey collapses into bed without prompt, and Rumi is awake enough to chuckle softly as the younger girl wraps herself in the blankets. Mira huffs, a sound that communicates amusement, annoyance, and fondness all at once as she plucks Zoey’s phone from her hands and sets it to charge. When Mira steps into the bathroom, Rumi shakes herself awake enough to pull their suitcases into the room, set their alarms for the morning, and lock up the hotel room before she changes out of her travel clothes. She’s just pulling down the blankets on the second bed when Mira returns to the room proper, also changed for bed. Rumi settles beneath the blankets and watches Mira look between the beds. 

“There’s no way I’m getting even an inch of that blanket.” Mira says, looking at the blanket burrito that Zoey had made around her. Rumi laughs softly. 

“Probably not.” She agrees. Mira shoots her a glare that only makes Rumi laugh more. She gestures to the open other side of the second bed. “Just share with me.” 

“Oh.” Mira pauses and for a minute, Rumi isn’t sure why she would hesitate at the idea of sharing a bed. Rumi’s been making a habit of falling asleep against her shoulder everywhere else. Why would a bed be different? But then, Rumi remembers that they’ve never done that. Before her patterns were exposed, Rumi wouldn’t have offered to share her bed. She wouldn’t even be in the room with them, too scared that they’d discover her secret and isolating herself in an attempt to avoid it. 

“I mean, if you want. I-I-I don’t mean that you have to sleep with m- in the same bed as me.” Rumi feels a flush rising up her face. She’s never been particularly tongue tied or nervous, at least not around Mira, and she doesn’t have the energy to analyze why she is in that moment. She just knows that she feels safe when Mira is beside her and for the past few months, the only time she hasn’t had nightmares is when she fell asleep beside Mira. 

“Don’t have a conniption, Rumi.” Mira says. There’s a physical shift in her that Rumi can tell is a manifestation of the inner walls Mira has being made stronger, though Rumi can’t fathom why Mira would need to build up her walls here, in their hotel room with Zoey asleep and Rumi bleary eyed and half-asleep herself. “If you wanted to sleep with me, all you had to do was ask.” 

Rumi groans and throws herself back onto the pillows behind her. Mira is almost cackling as she rounds the bed and crawls in beside her. Rumi finds herself laughing along, turning on her side to watch Mira settle with hazy, half-amused eyes. She waits until Mira is settled before she slides over, placing her head in the crook of Mira’s neck. She feels Mira tense and then relax and has just enough presence of mind to check in. 

“This okay?” Her voice is muffled by the sleep creeping in. She feels Mira’s arm wrap around her, hold her closer. 

“Yeah.” Mira says. She waits until Rumi is asleep before she speaks again. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.” 

FOUR

They’re three weeks into their tour when it happens again, but Rumi can admit that it’s not exactly an accident anymore. There’s comfort and safety when she’s near Mira, when Rumi’s able to let go of the pressure of being their leader, both on stage and off, and allowed to just be for a moment. To breathe. Mira never complains when Rumi inevitably ends up lounging against her, or when Zoey joins them and they become a pile of tangled limbs and hair that gets everywhere. She’s tense at times, her spine straightening like she feels like she has to stand taller whenever Rumi leans on her, but she never admits that anything is wrong when Rumi checks in. 

It’s the second half of their short comeback tour and Rumi can feel the tiredness creeping in more and more. Touring is incredible and exciting and something that Rumi will never take for granted, but it’s also a gruelling, demanding series of events with very little downtime. Between travel, rehearsals, actual performances, plus interactions with VIP fans and promotional duties, tours are mentally, physically, and emotionally draining. The Honmoon is still holding strong and they haven’t had to justify getting a new plane because theirs was hijacked by demons or sliced in half, but that’s the only thing that keeps the tour from transitioning from draining to exhausting. 

They’re on a bus instead of a plane. It’s midday and the small space is bustling with activity. They’ll go straight into a sound check when they get to the venue, an unfortunate result of the interview they’d done first thing that morning, so they spend part of the drive refreshing the setlist and their minds for the performance to come. They aren’t lacking in songs to choose from, with a five year discography to choose from, and they’d silently dismissed ‘Takedown’ from ever being performed live again. They didn’t want to remind their fans of the very public fight the song had been last time. They didn’t know that demons had been masquerading as Mira and Zoey. 

Bobby is explaining their rather tight schedule for the next few days when it starts to be too much for Rumi. She’s already fighting off a lack of sleep induced headache - she’d never travelled well on buses - and knowing that it’s going to be more of the same for the next few days isn’t reassuring her. She listens just enough to offer an affirmative sound when Bobby asks for one and then collapses back against the couch when he moves away to speak with the makeup artist on board. 

“Hey, you okay, Rumi?” Zoey asks her softly. Rumi nods and offers the girl a smile. 

“I’m fine. Just a headache.” She replies, shrugging sheepishly. “I’ve never slept well on these things.” 

Both Mira and Zoey blink in surprise. It’s something that they should have known well before now, Rumi knows. This is hardly the first time that they’d ridden on a bus for multiple days in a row. They’ve been doing this for five years. This shouldn’t be new information to them but it is and Rumi can’t help but feel guilty about that. Her shoulders drop in an attempt to make herself smaller. 

“Oh, well,” Zoey shares a look with Mira that feels significant. Rumi can’t decipher it. The two of them reach some kind of conclusion though as Mira leans back against the cushions with an expectant look towards Rumi and Zoey darts away from them, returning a moment later with two small, disposable cups in her hands. “Here, take these.” 

Rumi does so robotically, already leaning towards Mira’s side like a magnet is pulling her there. Her confusion must be visible on her face or in her body language as after she’s swallowed the two pills and handed both cups back to Zoey, Mira speaks up. 

“We have enough time for you to take a nap.” Mira explains, directing Rumi’s head to her shoulder like it belongs there. Like there’s nowhere else that she expects Rumi to have her nap other than pressed against her side. 

“Don’t we have things to do before we get there?” Rumi asks, but she’s already settling into place, wrapping her arm around Mira’s waist and curling her feet up on the couch. Her toes end up tucked beneath Zoey’s thigh when she joins them again. 

“Nothing that’s more important than you getting some rest.” Mira answers. 

“We’ve been doing this for years. They barely need us to run any of the pre-show stuff.” Zoey agrees. She has her switch in her hands now and Rumi can hear the soft sounds of one of her usual, mindless games coming up. One that she plays to pass the time rather than because of a good story or challenge. 

“We’ve been on the road for almost a month.” Mira’s hand brushes through Rumi’s hair, just beside her signature braid. “We can take a break for a few hours.” 

Any protest that Rumi wants to make dies when Mira’s hand continues to play with her hair, gently so she doesn’t mess up her hair, but enough that her nails scratch against Rumi’s scalp in just the right way. Instead, Rumi sighs, presses closer to Mira’s side, and lets the sleep that she’s been lacking take over her. 

“She certainly looks comfortable there.” Zoey remarks once she’s sure that Rumi is asleep. Mira is still absently playing with Rumi’s hair, a faraway look on her face. “So do you.” 

“Zoey.” 

“Mira.” Zoey matches her tone. “C’mon, Mira. You’re going to have to tell her eventually.” 

“There’s no rule that says that.” Mira can’t look her in the eyes. Zoey rolls her eyes and turns back to her game. 

“When are you going to admit to yourself that those walls you’ve built up are pointless? She’s already on the other side of them and you know it.” 

Mira doesn’t respond. 

A few hours later, Rumi wakes up in almost the same position that she fell asleep in. She’s still curled against Mira, but Zoey has moved further down the bus to get her makeup done. The open countryside outside has been replaced with the familiar sights of an upcoming city, dense traffic included. Rumi yawns and rubs her eyes but she doesn’t pull away from Mira yet. 

“Have a nice nap?” Mira asks. Rumi nods.

“Thanks for being my pillow.” Rumi says as she pulls away. Mira turns to her with a smile, the features of her face highlighted with her usual stage makeup. Rumi wonders if Mira had stayed there, letting Rumi sleep on her shoulder, while her makeup was done instead of risking waking her up by moving. The thought makes her feel warm inside in a way that has been growing increasingly familiar over the past few months. 

“Anytime.” Mira promises. Rumi knows she means it. 

“Oh, good, Rumi. You’re awake.” Bobby says as he comes up. “You’re up next for makeup. We’re just under an hour out from the venue. I’ll have your pre-concert carb load waiting in your dressing room.” 

“Thanks Bobby.” Rumi stands, and stretches. The bus sways slightly and Rumi feels Mira’s hand on the small of her back to steady her. 

“No problem, girls. You know I’m here for anything you need.” Bobby smiles at them. “Oh, and you’re already trending. Those HUNTR/X pre and post concert cuddle pics are doing numbers online.” 

Rumi raises an eyebrow as Bobby is distracted scrolling, sharing a look with Mira. Now that she’s certain Rumi is steady on her feet - not that she was ever unsteady, but Mira had reached out before she thought about it - Mira’s hand drops back to the couch cushions and she gestures towards the makeup chair with her chin. 

“Go make your face even prettier than it already is.” 

As her makeup is applied, Rumi pulls out her phone and finds the trending pictures. As Bobby said, the pictures are of the three members of HUNTR/X resting together. The first is from their first night on tour, with Mira resting her head against Rumi’s, who is curled against her side. Rumi’s other hand is resting gently in Zoey’s hair, the youngest girl resting with her head in Rumi’s lap. All three of them appear to be asleep in the picture. The second was one that had been taken only a few hours ago. Rumi is the only one asleep in that picture, but Mira and Zoey are both the picture of relaxed grace on either side of her. 

In both photos, Rumi can’t help but notice how peaceful she looks. All the tension in her body is gone. She’s almost smiling in her sleep, an easy, unconscious joy that brings a smile to her face now as she looks at them. She saves both photos to her personal HUNTR/X album on her phone. 

FIVE

The tour ends with a great deal of fanfare and more than a few tears - from fans and stars alike - but it does come to an end. Their condo in HUNTR/X tower is warm and inviting when they get home, the couch calling to them with an offer of unmatched relaxation. Rumi is unsurprised to find both Derpy and Sussie in her bedroom. They’d both been frequent visitors while the tour had been going on, but they’d stayed out of sight for the most part. Rumi is happy to see them both, laughing slightly as they both jump up to greet her and the motion makes Sussie’s hat almost come off. 

Rumi takes a long shower, washing away the layers of sweat and makeup and the pressure of an ever present audience so that when she finally emerges, fresh faced and hair down, she feels more like Rumi again. She dresses in shorts and a cropped tank, drying her hair until it’s no longer dripping before she steps back into her bedroom. Derpy and Sussie follow her out when she heads towards the kitchen, greeted by Zoey’s excited squeals when they enter the room. 

The trio spends their dinner time talking animatedly about the tour, scrolling through the videos and pictures and comments posted online with joy. They snap a picture to share with their fans before Rumi mutes her phone for the night. It’s not particularly late, but Rumi can feel sleep calling her name already so it’s not long after dinner that she bids the other two a good night and retreats back to her bedroom. 

She’s been too busy with the tour for the nightmares to creep in, but despite the exhaustion she feels, all the bad dreams she’d been subconsciously holding back when sharing space with Mira and Zoey come rushing in. But they’ve changed. 

There’s still hellfire. There’s still the voice saying that Rumi could never be enough, that she doesn’t belong because she’s an abomination. There’s cries of pain and outrage. There’s Rumi’s voice being taken over by something dark, something angry. But there’s also Zoey turning her back on Rumi, ignoring any attempt Rumi makes to get her attention. There’s the voice of Jinu in her ear, a whisper full of disdain and hate. 

‘You honor my sacrifice by loving her?’ 

There’s a flash of familiar pink hair. The glow of Mira’s spear as she spins it in her hands. The blade comes to a stop, pointing at Rumi’s chest. Rumi can see her reflection in the metal of the mystical blade, can see the way that the patterns on her skin have darkened and that her eye has turned yellow. When Rumi looks up at Mira, only now aware that she’s laying helpless on her back with Mira standing over her, she doesn’t see the lightness in her eyes that she’s become so accustomed to. There’s no warmth, no affection, not even the hint of her inner walls hiding her feelings. There is only hate and disgust. 

‘You think I could ever love you? Someone so tainted by the darkness, you willingly gave your heart to a monster?’ 

“Please.” Rumi begs. “Please, Mira. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.” She’s crying now. Mira’s blade presses into her chest hard enough to draw blood. Rumi gasps from the pain of it. 

‘You’re not you anymore, Rumi. You’re just a demon.’ 

“No, Mira. I’m still me. I am. I still care about you.” 

Mira’s smile is nothing but malice, the glow of the hellfire around them giving her an ethereal look. Even as her blade presses deeper into Rumi’s chest, Rumi can’t help but think that she's beautiful. 

‘Demons don’t have feelings.’ 

Mira steps away, leaving her staff buried in Rumi’s chest. She turns and walks without stopping. She doesn’t turn when Rumi calls her name. Gwi-ma’s laughter, dark and threatening, fills the space. Rumi is still crying Mira’s name when her body jolts forward. 

Her eyes snap open, a sob escaping her lips as she comes to the waking world. The light is on in her bedroom, casting shadows along her wall. Rumi can’t breathe against the pressure in her chest. 

“Rumi. Rumi! Rumi!” The voice breaks through her panic. It’s Mira. Rumi’s gaze finds her, eyes wide with worry and hair mused from sleep. She’s kneeling on the edge of Rumi’s bed, her hands resting on either of Rumi’s arms. “Rumi, breathe.” 

Rumi takes a deep, shuddering breath. She pulls away from Mira’s hands, still feeling the phantom weight of her spear in Rumi’s chest. She shuffles back and away, dodging the hands that reach for her until she’s on her feet. She needs air and space. The balcony door is pulled open and Rumi tumbles into the space outside her room. 

“Rumi, what’s wrong? Talk to me. Please.” Mira follows her out but she keeps her distance now, watching as Rumi struggles to get control of herself in the wake of her nightmare. “Rumi?” 

She doesn’t have the breath to answer yet. She just shakes her head, sliding to the ground with her back against the wall and her knees curled against her chest. She hears Mira copy her position with enough distance between them that Rumi doesn’t feel crowded. Derpy appears at her side and presses against her. 

“I’m here, Rumi.” Mira promises softly. “I’m not leaving.”

Slowly, Rumi’s breathing slows. Her limbs relax, the hands that she’d clenched into fists uncurl enough to tangel in Derpy’s fur. The phantom pressure in her chest dissipates slowly, growing lighter with each steady exhale. Mira sits in silent vigil until Rumi finally looks up at her. 

“Hey.” Mira says softly. The multicolor light of the Honmoon reflects in her eyes and Rumi can’t see anything but care in the hues she finds there. 

“Hey.” Rumi sighs the word. Her shoulders droop slightly. Mira scoots fractionally closer. 

“Must have been an awful nightmare.” Mira speaks softly, like she’s afraid Rumi will break if she raises her voice. “I’ve never heard you cry like that.” 

Rumi swallows thickly, only now aware of the soreness of her throat. 

“I’m sorry I woke you.” Rumi says instead of addressing the nightmare. Mira, of course, sees right through her flimsy attempt at changing the subject. 

“What happened? I thought the nightmares were gone. You didn’t have any when we were on tour.” Mira’s voice is still soft, but Rumi can hear the current of worry in her words. Rumi shrugs slightly in response. 

“I basically collapsed from exhaustion every night of the tour.” She says. She can’t look at Mira so she focuses her gaze on the skyline stretched before them. “And I wasn’t sleeping alone.” 

“Were you having nightmares before the tour?” Mira asked, again shuffling closer. She was near enough now that Rumi could feel her warmth even as she curled further into herself. Rumi nodded before setting her chin on her knee. 

“They weren’t as bad. More memories than anything else. Of that night. The performance. And when you and Zoey found me after…” 

“You have nightmares of me pointing my blade at you?” Mira’s voice has changed, something cracked and broken slipping between the words. It’s completely inappropriate, but Rumi wants to laugh at the question. She wished the nightmare had stopped at that. “Rumi, you know I’ll never do that again, don’t you?” 

The hum that Rumi responds with is noncommittal. She knows that she can trust Mira. Mira doesn’t say anything that she doesn’t mean, but the words are soured by the memory of her spear pressed into Rumi’s chest in her nightmare. 

“No, Rumi, I need you to believe that. I’ve never regretted anything more than the way I reacted that night.” Mira insists. She’s even closer now, close enough that it would take no effort at all for Rumi to turn and curl into her arms. She almost does it, too, drawn to the comfort of Mira’s embrace like a moth to a flame, but Mira’s words from the dream come back and halt her movements. 

‘You think I could ever love you?’ 

“You were scared and blindsided.” Rumi shrugs. “I don’t blame you for reacting the way you did.” It was what Rumi had always known would happen. 

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.” Mira says. Rumi doesn’t respond. Mira waits a moment and then presses on. “Is that what you dreamed about tonight?” 

“Yeah.” Rumi sighs. “That’s how it started anyway.” 

“How did it end?” 

“With your blade in my chest as you walked away.” Rumi doesn’t mean to say it, but she can’t hold it back, and Mira would see through any lie she tried to spin. Mira gasps. “After you told me that you could never love someone tainted by darkness. Especially after I fell for a demon.” 

“That’s - I can’t - I’m so sorry, Rumi.” Mira’s voice has changed again, filled with something deep and soulful. Rumi turns her head just enough to see Mira’s face clearly. There’s tears in her eyes and Rumi unwraps one of her arms from around her knees to wipe them away. 

“I know that it wasn’t you. I know that you never break your promises.” Rumi says. “It just felt real. Really real.” 

Her other hand rubs at her chest, where dream-Mira’s blade had cut into her skin. 

“I’m sorry.” Mira covers Rumi’s hand on her cheek with her own. “Is there anything I can do?” 

“You’re here.” Rumi feels the first flicker of a smile on her lips since she woke up. “That helps.” 

A moment passes. Rumi’s hand is still pressed to Mira’s cheek, gently caressing along her cheekbone. Her own tears have dried and Rumi feels her earlier exhaustion return to her. Mira must be able to see it sweep over her again because she rises to her feet and holds her hands out to help Rumi up as well. Once they’re both standing up, Mira pulls Rumi into a hug that finally dispels the lingering shadows in her chest. She can’t feel the phantom pressure anymore, or the sting of dream-Mira’s words. She can only feel Mira’s body pressed against her own, the warmth of her hands resting on either of Rumi’s hips, the steadiness of her breathing as she holds Rumi close. 

Rumi doesn’t have to ask Mira to stay. They climb back into Rumi’s bed as a unit. Mira reaches out to pull Rumi closer rather than waiting for Rumi to move on her own. They curl together now, not just a head on a shoulder and a half embrace but fully tangled together. Mira’s arm curls around Rumi’s back, her fingers stroke a soothing pattern down her spine. Rumi’s head finds its place in the crook of Mira’s neck and she drapes her arm over Mira’s abdomen. Their legs tangle together. She feels the soft pressure of Mira’s lips against her forehead. Derpy curls up at the foot of the bed, close enough that Rumi can feel his warmth too. 

When Rumi falls back asleep, her dreams are filled with quiet warmth and soft affection. And from somewhere far beyond her understanding she hears Jinu’s voice. 

‘Let yourself live the life you deserve. That will honor me more than anything else.’ 

+ONE

It’s a few weeks later when the first tear in the Honmoon appears. They’d known it would happen eventually. Rumi had never thought that they’d killed the demon overlord, only subdued him. As long as humans existed, Gwi-ma would hunger for their souls. 

They’re rehearsing for a local event when the rip appears. Bobby doesn’t even have time to question where they’re going before the HUNTR/X stars have seemingly disappeared into thin air. They fall into the familiar rhythm of battle, singing as they go. Rumi almost laughs when the familiar lyrics of ‘How It’s Done’ fall from their lips. Her blade is still imbued with Jinu’s soul, glowing brighter than usual and cutting through the demons easily. 

Rumi feels Mira and Zoey moving beside her, their movement as fluid as their choreography on stage and doubly as impressive. Mira catches her eye and winks. Rumi feels a blush climbing up her cheeks at the motion and she can tell that Mira sees it from the way she smirks. 

“Can you guys flirt when we’re not fighting demons?” Zoey complains, but there’s no heat in her words. 

“We’re not flirting.” Rumi fires back as she slices the head from the demon charging towards her. 

“Just like we haven’t been sleeping together.” Mira quips. Zoey cackles as she throws her knives out, taking out four demons in one fell swoop. Rumi turns to glare at Mira as she flips over her head and stabs through another demon. 

“Oh, careful, Mira, or you’ll be sleeping on the couch.” Zoey backflips away from a striking demon and slices across its throat. 

“I still have my own room.” Mira points out. Two demons rush towards her. She kicks one and knocks the other back with her spear. 

“I’ll send Derpy in there.” Rumi jokes, well aware that Mira and Derpy have a playful rivalry of Rumi’s attention going on. The tiger would absolutely block Mira from sleeping in her own bed if Rumi asked him to. He might even do it for fun. 

Mira’s response is cut off as the ground rumbles beneath their feet. The demons have retreated and reformed, a massive creature now attacking with a ferocious roar. 

“Fight now, banter later.” Rumi orders as Mira and Zoey step on either side of her. 

The demon looks like an amalgamation of a monkey and a lion, its head framed with a mane of fire and a sharp tail whipping back and forth menacingly. Its hind legs are bulky with muscle, the front ones slimmer but topped with viscous looking claws. It charges forward with a roar, front paws and tail whipping out. The hunters are forced to dodge, each of them moving in a different direction. Mira and Zoey dash to the sides while Rumi leaps up and over, slicing along the demon’s back as she flips over it. 

The fight that ensues is longer than it needs to be. This demon isn’t as mindless as the ones they normally fight. Despite its massive size, it’s surprisingly nimble. They have to get in close to get any meaningful hit, but the paws and tail make that a difficult task. Rumi flips over a swinging paw but doesn’t manage to make contact with her sword. 

“We need to distract it.” Rumi tells Mira and Zoey. Mira’s weapon has the most reach. If she aims it correctly, she can deal a killing blow from above while Rumi and Zoey distract the demon from below. The plan is quickly put into motion as Mira darts behind a column and then around, using a combination of flips and jumps to get into position. 

It takes three minutes of dodging, jumping, and making small strikes before Mira gets a good enough opening. The demon’s tail whips towards her as she launches herself towards it, the yelp of pain she releases drowned out by the demon’s furious roar. When the demon rears up on its hind legs, Rumi and Zoey both move to strike at its heart from the front. The demon fades from the overworld, the rip in the Honmoon sealing in its wake. Mira lands on her hands and knees, her weapon fading away as her hand reaches for her side. 

“Mira!” Rumi is at her side instantly, Zoey right behind her. Her hand rests against Mira’s back, eyes sweeping over her form in concern. 

“I’m okay.” Mira says, though her grimace leaves room for doubt. “Bastard got in a lucky shot.” 

“Let me see.” Rumi requests gently. Zoey helps Mira to stay steady as Rumi looks at the cut that slices across her stomach. 

The cut isn’t too deep, the blood already beginning to coagulate as a result of their Hunter abilities that enhance healing, but it is a long mark, beginning just above Mira’s left hip and slicing across her stomach to just below her ribs on the right side. It will heal, thankfully, but Rumi worries that it might leave a scar. 

“It’s not bad, just long.” Rumi says. “You’re not going to be doing any more rehearsals today.” 

“At least we have a few days until we have to perform.” Zoey offers comfortingly. Mira groans but lets both Zoey and Rumi help her to her feet. She drapes her arm over Rumi’s shoulders once she’s standing. “I’ll call Bobby.” 

Zoey steps away and presses her phone to her ear. Rumi wraps her arm around Mira’s waist and lets the taller girl lean against her, easily supporting her weight. 

“You’re not gonna make me sleep on the couch, right?” Mira asks. Rumi laughs. 

“Did you honestly think I would?” She asks with a raised brow. 

“Maybe, until you got cold.” Mira shrugs then winces. Rumi smoothes her thumb over Mira’s hip in a soothing motion. Rumi hums softly in reply, neither confirming nor denying Mira’s statement. Neither of them add anything else to the conversation, content to stand there together until Zoey makes her way back over to them. 

“Good news, we don’t even need an excuse for not finishing rehearsals today!” Zoey cheers. “That group that was doing the reunion performance needs extra time to get their act together, so we’re off the hook until tomorrow.” 

“That is great news.” Rumi agrees. 

They make their way back to their tower and pile into the elevator together, idly discussing new song ideas as they go. Zoey moves into the kitchen to get started on an early dinner and Rumi orders Mira to go shower so they can properly bandage the cut on her stomach. Once both tasks are done, she leaves Mira in control of the remote while she helps Zoey with dinner. 

After, when the food has been consumed and the mess from it cleaned up, Rumi and Zoey position themselves on either side of Mira on the couch. Zoey curls against the arm as she normally does, pressing her toes beneath Mira’s thigh. Rumi wraps a gentle arm around Mira’s waist and pulls her close, guiding her head to rest in the crook of Rumi’s neck. Mira hums softly as they settle. 

“That’s usually my job.” She says, tapping her finger against the hand curled over her hip. 

“It’s my turn to take care of you.” Rumi presses her nose into Mira’s hair and breathes her. She feels Mira smile against her neck and hears the rumble of a soft laugh. “What’s so funny?” 

“You made me sleep on the couch after all.” Mira jokes, giggling softly even as her eyes begin to fall closed. Zoey snorts from her place beside them. 

“Behave, or I’ll leave you here after the move is over.” Rumi threatens. Mira only laughs. 

“Nah, you’d never leave me.” She says, with all the confidence of a woman who believes every word she says. Rumi presses her smile to the crown of Mira’s head. 

“No,” she says softly. “I wouldn’t.” 

Mira falls asleep a few minutes into the movie. Rumi doesn’t know how she sleeps through the high speed chase and explosions scenes, but Mira’s breathing remains steady and calm, her body relaxed in Rumi’s embrace. Zoey watches them out of the corner of her eye, sneakily taking a picture of them curled together like puzzle pieces. 

“Not flirting, huh?” 

“Shut up, Zoey.” 

[fumifooms]

The Nakamoto household - facts & theories masterpost

Table of contents:

the hierarchy & general situation

The parents

The Maizuru situation

The siblings

The other retainers

Izutsumi

Toshiro

Conclusion

I also made tldr summary charts here. This post is about collecting facts about the setting and characters, but it’s gonna be a lot of analysis on what it means through the lens of Toshiro as well, his relationship and place in everything etc etc. They have entangled drama the scale of Daltian Clan. Things are so interwoven it’s hard to keep topics neatly in their own section, because of this pictures may be relevant at several point of this but I mostly won’t be putting them in twice, you might have to do some scrolling up while reading if you want the visual proof to accompany statements. Unlike with Chilchuck’s family there’s less ambiguousness and more intricate details and implications so it’s less theorizing & headcanoning and more stringing together all the crumbs canon gave us. I also dig into some cultural parallels, especially since characters from Wa are the most culturally coded in the series. Also disclaimer that I’ll be calling Shuro Toshiro through this whole thing because that’s his actual name & Shuro isn’t even a nickname he’s shown to like, for accuracy’s sake. The servant girls have real names but are always called by their code names so I’ll call them as such, except for Izutsumi who was named Asebi which I won’t be using.

The general situation

To start off, what’s the situation in canon? All three kids of the head of the house, the three sons (Toshiro and his two younger brothers), are sent out on a vague mission to find something interesting for his father to pick the heir. Each son is thus on their own journey, out with their own group of retainers for an unsure length of time, during canon it’s been 2 years that Toshiro left the house for this mission, and they seemingly all drifted towards dungeons. It’s important to remember that this state of things is the exception and not the rule, and before this the sons lived at home and had different uses of their time, and the retainers had other jobs than care after them. See the next paragraph.

The household offers ninja services, no exaggeration or misuse of the term, mostly spyint but also "covert maneuvers" which could include anything including assassination of people high up. That’s the job of their servants/retainers at least, the heads themselves are more like managers probably, possibly samurais themselves though especially since as we see with the heirs (besides the samurai armor) they also got trained in fighting as their skills showcase. I need to dig into the history of samurais more before I can draw the parallel confidently though. The Nakamoto household is noble/wealthy, distinguished as the Adventurer’s Bible puts it, but it works for and puts its service at use for "their local lord". It buys servants, but also has families who have served it for generations like with Hien. The comic shows that there aren’t only women servants, it’s just the ones we see all happen to be because Toshiro’s retainers are only a small team of all of Nakamoto’s servants.

Above, in a page showcasing characters’ relationships with their party leader: 父親の部下を借りている状態なので、 距離がある。Doubtlessly there must be a translation of this already somewhere but I’m lazy and impatient so I turned to machine translation instead, this translates into: "Since he is borrowing his father's subordinates, there is a distance between him and them". Calling the servants retainers is what most of the fandom does and it’s accurate so I’ll be calling them this.

Hien and Toshiro were childhood friends which means the servants do have some degree of contact not even just together but with the heirs too, or maybe just specifically Hien, since both their parents were ninjas for the Nakamotos she ended up getting raised there and they let her play with him as an exception? They did end up drifting away as adults as their relationship got more professional, so it’s possible. The servants eat and sleep in shared spaces, separate from the masters, though Maizuru has her own bedroom, if the room configuration at the in is to be believed + it’d make sense since she’s governess/head servant. I’m hesitant wether to say it’s implied that this group of 4 retainers was always a bit of a team or it wasn’t and got formed for Toshiro specifically. We know that Benichidori had little contact with Toshiro before they were sent out together for example, but we do see all three girls with Izutsumi in Inutade’s extra when they were younger, and them eating in the same japanese styled room etc. The inn they stay at on The Island is western styled though they do have futons rather than beds (there’s only one bed in their shared room and Hien has it because of her rank).

From Izutsumi’s Adventurer’s Bible profile: "Maizuru, who was also Shuro's governess, is the one thing Izutsumi fears. After Izutsumi was taken in by the Nakamoto family, Maizuru forced her through a harsh training regimen of speech, common sense, and fighting skills. Since Izutsumi refused to listen to her, Maizuru set a curse on her that would activate if Maizuru didn't touch her within a set time frame: "Ninja Art: Babysitter." "

Maizuru, called a governess, is the one training the girls, at least some of them, we know for a fact she was the one to train Izutsumi for example, and in general she’s the one in charge of the ninja girls we see. She was a ninja herself but retired from frontline missions, but has a central role managing the servants instead. Inutade for example is strong but not stealthy, and it’s said that it’s Maizuru’s job to choose how to train her and what role to give her in consequence. Her training includes manners but fighting as well, notably kunais and martial arts. Hien is shown to use bombs and Benichidori is implied to be good at disguises, Inutade uses a bold weapon like a club but it’s implied with "ogres and clubs just go together" and Maizuru not knowing where to put her to use that it’s uncommon for Nakamoto servants to use those. Their board game artworks also show their specialties neatly. When brought into the household, the servants are given new names and their whole lives become devotion to the house and their duties. The names might be intended to act as code names due to them being ninjas? It’s implied that they never use their non-code names anymore once they start serving the household. Maizuru’s training also contains language and "common sense"… Critical thinking? As well as implied etiquette. This isn’t surprising, as she was the one put in charge of raising not only Toshiro but his brothers as well.

Oh yes I want to mention that all the retainers’ "first deaths" are in the dungeon during canon, considering our main cast we’re used to death being permissible because dungeons make resurrections possible, but it’s relevant to remember that these people never died before. Never. These girls are professionals, ninjas with a sometimes very dangerous job. Messing up means death, permanently.

From what we see and with who we see, the hierarchy is:

Father (head of house, his word goes)

Mother (has status which puts her wishes above others’ and give her some control over the house, it’s unsure how much though, but hierarchy wise she’s very much above the rest but below the father)

Maizuru (governess, in charge of (at least some) servants and raising Toshiro. Two dots)

Hien (leader of their squad, trained servant from a family devoted to the Nakamotos. Two dots)

Benichidori (trained bought servant. Two dots)

Inutade and Izutsumi (bought servants. Power wise from their rank it’s unsure just how much the difference between Inutade (who has one dot), Izutsumi (who has none) and Benichidori (who has two) is, since Hien is team leader between the four servants at least that’s measurable. Inutade gets some janitor duties, and Izutsumi has a curse put on her so she doesn’t run away I suppose. Power wise it’s unsure, but socially/role wise Inutade and especially Asebi are treated worse.)

I didn’t add the sons because I’m talking more generally about the power structure and it’d depend on each sibling, like Toshiro’s wants and directives during canon trump Maizuru’s, but Maizuru is also his nanny and manages the girls so she has a lot of importance and sway even on the final decisions.

The parents

I am so pissed I forgot that we know Toshiro’s father’s name, Toshitsugu, from these panels showing the progression of the family tree. I am so pissed I’m adding this halfway into writing this whole thing, I am not gonna go back and replace every "the father" by his name atm.

The father is the part of this puzzle most important yet most shrouded in mystery, or rather a lack of details. What we do know paints a pretty full and vivid portrait: impulsive and cares mainly about his own entertainment. Maizuru calls him a fool, his sons are exasperated and go "This again?" when he summons them saying that they’re boring/dull, everyone knows he’s having an affair and he often has undignified demeanor, but what he says goes so yes Maizuru will take Izutsumi under her wing, yes the sons will be going out right away into the world to find you the 8th world wonder, yes whatever you want lord. He seems to have little care for how his action affects others, like crashing into Maizuru’s room at night and asking she take care of a catgirl, or sending out his sons suddenly with kicks to the butts. He does what he wants hen he wants and others have to comply.

Like we see with Izutsumi and Inutade, he tends to take a liking to slaves here and there and buy them on the spot, usually at entertainment places, like sumo wrestling matches for Inutade and a freakshow for Izutsumi. The Adventurer’s Bible states him acquiring Inutade as "By coincidence, Shuro's father came to see her first match; he liked her and bought her for the Nakamoto family." and Izutsumi as "She was on display as a "cat-girl" in a sideshow when Shuro's father took an interest in her and bought her." In Maizuru’s extra, he calls Izutsumi a "souvenir" he got for her, and he’s drunk so it could well be assumed that buying Izutsumi was a drunken whim, and that he mitht be alcoholic. You can’t really say that he picks them out because he sees potential in them to be a ninja or would be useful, since with Izutsumi she had no fighting training and Inutade doesn’t fit the skills they seek like stealth and she has trouble fitting in. You could assign noble goals to him like maybe wanting to help or relating to the misfits, but I think with what we see of him it’s more likely that he likes to pick up "oddities", like a catgirl at a freakshow or an ogre, especially since one of the only things we know of him is he wants his sons to bring back interesting trophies from their travels. Toshiro, about his father buying Inutade, says: "People in power desire ogre as servants, and ogres are chosen as opponents in tests of strengths or military exploits. My father bought her for similar reasons."

Also from this we can infer that he goes out to events often, like circus and sumo wrestling, again mostly for entertainment from what we see. I like to think it’s implied that he used to travell maybe still does, due to his own liking for it as a test and because he visits various places like the sideshow, plus his forearm scars in Toshiro’s extra… But him being a samurai in service of a lord could definitely explain that.

This all paints an interesting picture doesn’t it… The Nakamoto’s lifestyle is super encased in rules and social propriety, duty and hierarchy. Old noble man who’s been surrounded by propriety all his life and just wants some spark of interesting stuff happening amongst the humdrum of his lavish cushioned life at home, and is shitty to people around him in consequence and due to his privilege allowing him to. He’s despicable, but from his 3 appearances he becomes an interesting well-fleshed character, at least proportionally to the screentime he gets…

We also know that the affair with Maizuru is well known at least inside the household, so there’s no genuine secrecy around the topic. Makes sense that the wife would hate her guts.

Ahh yes the mother. Little is known about the mother, except that from Maizuru’s profile "Shuro’s mother can’t stand the sight of her, to the point where there are areas on the property Maizuru is forbidden to enter. Maizuru, however, is impressed by his wife’s strength of character." From this I glean that she does have enough power/respect in the house that she can make rules like where Maizuru is allowed to go. Also the implication that otherwise Mazuru would have access to EVERYWHERE in the house despite being only a (high-ranking) servant is a bit interesting. Wether the mother’s "strength of character" is overt and hot-headed or understated and cool-headed is unsure, but I imagine the latter more. I could see Maizuru’s angle in many ways, from being able to tolerate "that fool" aka the father both just in general and with knowing that he’s cheating on her, to knowing how hard it is to be respected as a woman and admiring her putting up with it all and still being able to have sway in the household. This is I think the only mention of the mother anywhere. Doesn’t seem like she is an important figure to Toshiro at all: in fact we hear about her on Maizuru’s profile, and seeing all of this we can see the importance of her in Maizuru’s backstory and life, moreso than Toshiro’s. I imagine she’s a bit of a recluse, which is part of why Maizuru not being allowed to roam the full house is important, because them running into each other at the house is high.

It’s unsure how much contact the parents have with their kids. What we know is that they left the principal tasks of raising the kids, or at least Toshiro, to servants. Toshiro’s profile says that he’s more attached to Maizuru than his parents, and that’s the phrasing. From the comic where their father summons the sons, it does seem like they’re more or less used to interacting, with the sons’ "This again?". So it’s not that they’ve only interacted with them few times enough to count on fingers, but how meaningful were those interactions? From Toshiro’s profile we know he has a complex where he thinks he’ll never get recognition from his father or be able to measure up to him… But is that more born out of secondhand gossip and expectations, or from direct interactions with him that made him feel that way? Likely a mix of both, especially since the father does seem to be very dismissive, uncaring and insulting with his sons. Oh, but it’s definitely notable that in the Hag monster tidbit (below in Maizuru’s section) six years old Toshiro runs to his father scared shitless for help against the shikigami, and his father casually helps him without batting an eye. Toshitsugu knows how to deal with Maizuru’s shikigamis, and he does so efficiently and without any sense of worry or urgency. Although the event traumatized Toshiro and he was very scared, it doesn’t seem like his father offered any comfort, beyond just helping getting rid of it and letting him cower behind him without comment. Toshitsugu gives hungover vibes in that one imo haha. It’s shown he was already training as a ninja, perhaps this event only reinforced Toshiro’s complex, seeing his father, the samurai the achieved man who has expectations for him, so unfazed and uncaring like that.

The Maizuru situation

Let’s establish a timeline first. It’s left vague how much time she’s served the Nakamoto family for, or how she came to be in their service. The central point is that "She was put in charge of raising their children at a young age". If straight from his birth, Maizuru started taking care of Toshiro when she was 15 years old. If from toddler age, then 16. It’s uncertain if when she stopped getting front-line espionage missions, but we know it’s late rather than early despite having kid raising duties. But well, since she’s also in charge of the ninjas she’s definitely has a multitasking role even now.

The dad prob has around 5-10 years more than Maizuru, I’d say. We only see half of his face and only a good few years in the past, around ~3 years ago probably with the shuro quest and a good 7 years with Izutsumi as a kid, but visually those are the vibes I’m getting. From Toshiro’s birth, it’s possible that the father was 15 when the baby was born too? But conception would have been closer to 14 years old then, and yeah I don’t think they marry and have kids that young. Toshiro is 26 years old in canon and is unmarried, and the heir hasn’t been officially picked, so marriage and kids don’t seem to be in the family’s priorities. Even if Maizuru do say that the father would love if Toshiro brought back a wife.

Now the elephant in the room: she has an on-and-off affair with the father and it has been si for many many years, at LEAST 7 years since that’s when we see that comic of him going into her chambers about Izutsumi, and in the comic above, Hien in that panel has an ambiguous age. Regardless it’s definitely implied that it’s a long, long-standing thing. Hien’s phrasing above makes it sound as if it’s not purely physical, as if feelings are involved, "he’s head over heels for his confidante", and who knows if this relationship is part of why Maizuru was chosen to be the governess, or even hired at all.

It’s in the feud with his father that we learn about maizuru’s affair and how after learning it he started shutting her out emotionally. It’s left vague when Toshiro learned about it, Hien made it sound as if everybody always more or less knew but I don’t think Toshiro started shutting her out when he was still pretty young. Regardless, the two are implied to be linked, his dislike of his father/complex and how he stopped getting along well with Maizuru/being emotionally open with her. Is it that he now feels as though Maizuru is actually on his father’s side and not his own, that after all if she had to choose she’d pick him over Toshiro too? Or is it that, because his father’s known to be a self-centered frivolous jerk, that knowing she lets it happen, "can’t seem to shake it", he respects her less? He has an irresponsible reputation and she does give off the vibe of needing to clean up his messes, so that wouldn’t be unplausible either.

On the flipside from her perspective, since he learned she was his dad’s mistress he emotionally shut her out, which can partly explain why she’s SO fussy with him and happy at the slightest hint of happiness or compliance, like when he listens to her and eats, or maybe even being happy that he lets her help him dress and keep tidy (imo this is supported by how they interact in the page showing him interacting with all his party members). She wants to regain that closeness they once had and for her baby chick to be alright as he’s slipping through her fingers. Man so sad to think about him rejecting her when he’s the only thing in her life. She’s raised him for 26 years, no wonder she’s so attached to him, the only thing in her life she feels true unconditional attachment for. Maizuru says that she thinks Toshiro’ll be a better head of the house than the father, too. The respect and care is somewhat onesided, given freely from her side but repressed from his end. When she cares for Toshiro is when her demeanor immediately and drastically softens. She gets easily carried away when it comes to him, rambling enthusiastically or smiling widely or tearing up. Her tendency to ramble or tell anecdotes about Toshiro is shown making Hien and Benichidori go "Here she goes again…" twice through canon.

With Izutsumi’s timeline we see Izutsumi was taken into the Nakamoto household at 10 yo, and since in the comic with Maizuru and the dad she’s shown as stinky and all I imagine she arrived there the same day, so Maizuru was in charge of her since she was first here. In fact if we assumed that it’s the same day as when he bought her at the circus show, then we could assume that buying her was a drunken whim like mentioned.

Since Izutsumi was taken in at 10 and she’s 17, this would mean that Maizuru is 34 years old here. She looks younger without makeup, but lower than that is mathematically impossible besides maybe 33 if Maizuru and Izutsumi’s birthdays line up just right.

Time for the second elephant in the room!!

Maizuru’s magic

Maizuru is the only person in the Nakamoto household, anyone from Wa really, who we see using magic, I doubt she’d be the only one who can use magic in the household but as the governess it wouldn’t be unplausible I suppose. From what we see, the magic is estimated by Marcille to be an "appropriation of gnomic magic" with an eastern script. For my analysis of written magic (though with only a brief glance over Maizuru’s magic), see this post.

If you scroll up and read the little section on Maizuru’s profile, Ninja art: babysitter: "One of the curses put on Izutsumi is Ninja Art: Babysitter, which manifests as a terrifying hag shikigami. Unless Maizuru touches the victim within a set time frame, this terrible curse makes a hag appear and chase them around with a carving knife. Maizuru originally created it in an attempt to keep Shuro from getting lost, but it ended up traumatizing him…"

From Izutsumi’s profile: "Maizuru, who was Shuro’s governess, is the one thing Izutsumi fears. […] Since Izutsumi refused to listen to her, Maizuru set a curse on her that would activate if Maizuru didn’t touch her within a set time frame: "Ninja Art: Babysitter." It was put on her when she was 12. Since Toshiro had it as a kid, presumably the curse can be lifted off rather easily, Marcille was confident on reverse engineering it as well. It’s unsaid what the time frame is, it’s kept vague everywhere and Izutsumi herself says "who knows" how long it is. Izutsumi ran away despite the very real risk of it killing her. Essentially, Maizuru can put people in a timebomb collar

… MAIZURU WHAT THE HELL

As we might have expected, Maizuru being given the task of rasing a child at 15 did not go perfectly. This, a babysitting technique??! This comic happens when Toshiro was 6 and so Maizuru was 21. Interesting to note that Toshiro didn’t even know it was Maizuru’s doing before this conversation during canon, and he doesn’t know how to bring it up or deal with it how it affected him. Maizuru seems surprisingly uncaring of Toshiro’s feelings on the matter here, oblivious to his conflict her and fondly recalling it all.

This curse is a shikigami. From her profile: "A shikigami user, Maizuru has a variety of shikigami that have been sealed in paper as her servants. Her favorite seems to be Gyuki, a bull ogre." Now don’t ask me when Gyuki appears, I do not remember it. But before we go into the cultural/historical basis for this practice, let’s take a second to recognize the parallel that Maizuru has servants she keeps sealed unless useful in the moment, even despite having enough "attachment" to have a favorite. She’s the governess in charge of the other servants, and she has shikigamis, which she has used on the heir and the runt at the bottom of the hierarchy alike.

Shikigami, in traditional japanese folklore, are conjured to exercise risky orders for their masters, such as spying, stealing and enemy tracking. Shikigami are said to be invisible most of the time, but they can be made visible by binding them into small, folded and artfully cut paper manikins.

Shikigamis are from onmyodo, onmyoji is a profession-legal title historically but it’s what you call a practitioner of onmyodo, and so I feel content in saying that Maizuru is an onmyoji, or based on it. Her outfit reminds me of a shinto priest. It’s interestingly closer to a shinto priest outfit than a miko/shrine maiden’s (in picture below, 2 instead of 5), and I feel like red being chosen for the inner sleeve is a very charged decision since the white & red color combo is the shinto clothes color combo. Especially white clothes with red inner sleeve. Shinto priests can be women nowadays but they’re rare, and onmyojis can be considered shinto priests though it’s a more complex than that. Image below as example, source. Now I don’t think Maizuru has the role or prestige of a priest at all- But the association with onmyodo and spirituality is definitely meant to be made I think. Onmyojis are usually clothed similarly to this.

The babysitter ninja art seems to be based off of the hannya yokai. "They were once human women who were consumed by jealousy and transformed into demonesses", twisted by anger and resentment. Interesting considering her being a mistress to a man whose wife hates her. Hannyas are associated with wisdom because of its name, but there is nothing positive about them. At its highest level of "demonic corruption" if I can call it that, their body tend to become serpentine, fun link to make with her name being from the snakeberry plant.

Other cultural ties or symbolism on Maizuru’s character could be found in the motif of cranes due to her sleeves, in the tales of the crane wife, origami cranes (called orizuru, from deformation of 鶴 "tsuru" aka "crane". All names are written in katakanas in Dungeon Meshi, but thus if we had had the kanjis it’s possible her name would have been written with the kanji for crane), tennyos, and japanese crane symbolism in general. I thought cranes might have been associated with motherhood, but seemingly not in japanese culture at least, I was thinking of storks haha.

Ok speaking of her name. Maizuru is the name of an existing japanese city (舞鶴), meaning "dancing crane". From @room-surprise’s work in progress research paper on Dungeon Meshi characters’ names: "Maizuru is her ninja code name, and comes from “maizurusou”, which is maianthemum dilatatum, the snakeberry plant/two-leaved Solomon's seal/false lily of the valley. Lily of the Valley is a plant associated with motherhood and virtue… So Maizuru being a false Lily of the Valley implies that she is a false, replacement mother, and also hints at the way that Toshiro became cold towards her when he realized she was his father’s mistress, and not a pure, virtuous mother-like figure that he thought she was. Also, lilies are toxic to cats, which makes sense since Maizuru and Izutsumi have an extremely bad relationship." For more details I’ll leave it up to Room when the paper is ready to be released. Edit: It’s out!! Click here! Incredible meta that goes into a ton of details not only about Maizuru.

So some big themes of her character are: (false) motherhood, spirituality/magic, control, cranes, woman’s jealousy.

The siblings

Alriight so besides Toshiro the eldest at 26 years old, there is Toshiyuki (Toshitsuge in one fantranslation) the middle son and Toshizane the youngest (Toshikage in one fantranslation). They were all said to be raised by Maizuru. "A strange level of distance" is interesting. Why strange? I feel like this implies they do interact regularly, and that they’re all rather civil wirh each other, but they still have little bond to speak of. That wouldn’t surprise me, especially since even inside the family etiquette and propriety and rules are enforced, the summoning by his father feels very formal and they all listen to him standing in silence despite having snappy inner thoughts. It’s unsure if they were largely raised together or apart, but since Maizuru was their (at least main) caretaker/governess it implies that they were imo. They were put in competition with each other for the title of heir to the house, though it’s unsure to what degree. It’s examplified by their family all having names that start with "Toshi" that the legacy is very important and thrust upon them, cogs in a machine almost. They all think the same thing when their father summons them and has a spiel, so they’re used to the same sort of treatment and they are indeed brothers for being on similar wavelengths haha.

Toshiyuki, as seen in the comic about his retainers, the poor soul sent into Darkest Dungeon, is brattish. Rude, selfish and rather lecherous, does not hesitate to be mean to his retainers and complain he wasn’t given women retainers. Visually he looks what, 14 years old top. I wonder if Maizuru stopped using her babysitter ninja art on the heirs after it traumatized Toshiro, and if so maybe that explains why Toshiyuki Knows No Fear In His Heart™️ and that’s why he can spout off stuff like that.

The retainers for the youngest brother, Toshizane, don’t seem to be as clad in ninja gear as the other two, seems like the priority is to take care of the very young young master there? Rather than truly go adventuring and dungeoneering, perhaps. Not that it’s ever said by anyone that their quest is to go into dungeons specifically, only to find something "interesting" to bring back, but both Toshiro and Toshiyuki are shown to have ended up drifting into dungeons. Toshizane looks young, I’d clock him 8 years old personally. He’s drawn looking rather innocent, especially the headshot doodle above and in the Toshitsuge complaining about his retainers comic. ALTHOUGH on the latter, interestingly as we see with Toshiro having a smug smirk in that same panel (or alternatively a smug indifferent/uncomfortable "i don’t care about this, even though you want it so much" look which at the very least is very exaggerated from how he emotes in reality), it’s Toshiyuki’s unreliable/exaggerated vision of his brothers and it doesn’t necessaeily reflect reality, though it’s still interesting to note that that’s the vision Toshiyuki has of his brothers/the impression Toshizane gives off. That can imply juicy dynamics for the brothers, for example if Toshiyuki feels as though he’s in competition with his brothers, feels superior to them, that instead of pushing the shitty family dynamic angst onto his father he puts the blame for it all onto Toshiro. Toshizane seems maybe too young to notice the tensions and seriousness around him, maybe more coddled… IS WHAT I WOULD SAY BUT in the comic where their father send them away he’s as well-behaved and serious as the others, so clearly he has a grasp on his role.

When talking about which retainers go with who, it’s said it was the father’s choice. I’d like to assume it wasn’t an airheaded/random choice. Maybe he knew that Toshiyuki would be weird about having women in his team of retainers? And wants to forge their character or protect them in the way they need. Though how Toshiro’s party only has women isn’t only pointed out and commented on by the comic with Toshitsuge but also in the main Dungeon Meshi story, both Marcille and Chilchuck going "his party is fully made up of women", one more loudly than the other haha. So it does feel like a somewhat pointed/purposeful decision, if not that the 4 girls were already a team like I mentioned.

The other retainers

Already made an analysis of Hien and Benichidori’s relationship (+ moment compilation) here. Honestly my juices are exhausted so quick rundown:

Hien’s parents both serve the Nakamotos, so she grew up with the family and was even a childhood friend of Toshiro. She assumed he and her might end up in a Maizuru-Toshitsugu situation ‘just because that’s how things are’/‘it’d be a natural development’ if we’re to believe Hien, ahh what growing up at the Nakamotos’ with those role models will make you believe is normal hah, and was surprised when it ended up not in that way at all. They grew more distant with time, in good part because of the professional nature of their roles in relation to each other (truly a reversal of the Maizuru-Toshitsugu situation). She’s the leader of their lil squad, under Maizuru, she’s very confident and she gets the perks, like getting the bedframe in the shared inn room. For all the details just read her page. She has two dots, showing her rank as a full fledged ninja. I made a more in depth more speculative reading of her in this post.

Benichidori was bought, by "the Nakamotos" so we don’t know who made the final decision. She’s perceptive and submissive, her specialty is implied to be disguise. She never had much contact with Toshiro before she became part of his party. She has facial dysmorphia where she fears the judgement of others if she doesn’t wear makeup and highly values beauty, in her extra her anxiety really shows and she ends up angrily snapping at Hien. Benichidori ends up taking a big liking to Hien and from there on they’re implied to be inseparable. She has two dots, showing her rank as a full fledged ninja.

Inutade is said to worship Toshitsugu because he "saved her" from her horrible life conditions, buying her personally from the sumo matches, she’s extremely grateful to the family and is happy to do any work they give her and is highly satisfied with her current living conditions. She seems to find Toshiro intimidating, though. She was separated from her parents from before she can remember and raised as a sumo wrestler in inhumane betting matches, where her front tooth broke. It seems she has very littke ambitions and dreams besides obeying orders day to day, but after Izutsumi fled away she was happy for her and mused that she’d love to go out and find her one day. They’re so besties Izutsumi gave her a dream of her own I’m sobbing… </3 She has one dot, showing she still has to be attributed her role and earn her stripes.

Their approval rating of their leader. The highest total score from all the parties.

Izutsumi

Sighh where to even begin. Her timeline was put in Maizuru’s section of this post but the rundown is "taken away from parents and turned into a beastkin" at 6 yo (the human half of her soul), "sent to a sideshow on the island of Wa" at 7 yo and bought by Toshitsugu at 10 yo when he took an interest in her when he visited the sideshow. Maizuru put the curse on Izutsumi at age 12, so from then on she always had to not stray much far from Maizuru or risk death, it’s unsure if Inutade’s extra is from before that time, before she was 12, so she could still attempt many many tries to run away. If that’s the case, then Maizuru’s curse was very much treated as a last resort, honestly beyond everything else I can see it being a pain that Maizuru would need to touch her every so often on Maizuru’s schedule as well. The alternative is that, not unlike Kabru who had no regrets dying in a dungeon rather than staying with Milsiril, she’d risk her life to get a taste of freedom. Besides, you know, being a slave and having a timebomb collar with Maizuru’s curse, her frustrations with her life with the Nakamotos is most concisely put in the comic just up above, Inutade’s extra.

She has no dot tattoo, meaning she’s at rock bottom of the hierarchy. It makes sense, since unlike Inutade she’s rebellious and needs threats to obey orders, and even then might try shifty business.

This last part where Izutsumi tries sleeping with Toshiro is most interesting to me. So she’s sought out contact with Toshiro before, she considers him "the stuck-up guy" but she doesn’t exactly hate him. I wonder if this comic is set in the inn on The Island or back at the Nakamoto household, because if that’s the latter it implies that she could get access to his room if she’s sneaky.

Oh oh also, this is fanon but since Toshiro’s weapon is one used usually on horseback, and with the steadfast and upright character of horses I associate Toshiro with horses a bit, though this is wild fanon. What’s interesting is that the plant Asebi was named after is a plant infamous for being toxic to horses. Hehe hehehe he wears a ponytail… Hm now that I think of it hairdos have importance for samurais, should look into that.

Toshiro

God. Ok. Everything was leading up to this guy. Need to split open his head like a geode and vibecheck his brain crystals. Let’s get some interesting details out of the way first.

His weapon is a tachi, not a katana. The wikipedia on tachis is more in depth if you want, but I consider the article I linked to be in deoth and digestible. Tachis are heavier and longer blades than katanas, and make for better horseback weapons than close combat. The way Toshiro uses one instead of a katakana shows that he’s extra strong… And does make sense, since most monsters won’t fight in as close quarters as human fighters. If katanas aren’t a thing in the world yet could make a difference, since tachis were invented first, and once the katana was invented and spread tachis became something more common in higher-ranking samurais. In the monster tidbit of the Hag, it’s shown that even at 6 years old Toshiro was training and learning ninja skills, his first instinct to the shikigami besides running being to fight.

Toshiro knew that Izutsumi wanted to leave, for sure. He may have been sympathetic, if his cryptic look back at her in the ‘Toshiro interacting with his party members’ page means anything. As seen below though, him being sympathetic doesn’t necessarily mean that much. Also, Toshiro had to have known about the curse on Izutsumi, where if Maizuru doesn’t touch her once in a while she’d die. "Asebi must have ran away, leave her" can be seen as subtle support for her to gain her freedom, but it could just as easily be seen as him leaving her behind to die. Because the outcome options are 1) she gets killed by Maizuru's curse, 2) she finds a way to break the spell, 3) she finds a way back to them.

He’s very conflict averse. Wether it be in relationships like with Laios or the status quo. Will not stand up for 99% things including himself. He obeys his father quietly despite his anger and dislike. This is the same guy who can't even get himself to speak up to correct the butchering of his name, the slippery slope that got him tangled in the Laios party seemingly without resistance. It’s very japanese etiquette from even nowadays, never saying a direct no to not be rude. ALSO THAT PANEL, has Toshiro beaten an ogre before?? Is that a brother of his?? Does seem in character for Toshiyuki the most, unless Toshiro was desperate to earn his father’s attention with feats. On the right I’d say the ones in the foreground are two of the brothers, maybe the third being the one to gesture to the ogre. It’s worth noting that inheritance laws during the Edo period often made the heir the son with "the most merit".

When with a goal that’s important to him he’s fine with even starving for it. Although what we see him be like that about in canon is Falin, aka self-admittedly in the post-canon proposal comic "the first person he has liked this much", which for him I feel is like admitting she’s one of the first things he has truly wanted for himself and fought for, soo… It’s more like an exceptional freaking out moment than something that would be recurring, most likely. How disheveled he got is a testament to how much he would forego propriety and rules for people of his status for the person he cares about most. Maizuru says the first personal request he’s (ever?) made was for them to help him rescue Falin.

Which ahh yes, his crush on Falin. I do think idealization plays into it, he doesn’t know Falin that well for sure, but it’s more complex than that too. Falin is pretty and can have an ethereal energy to her, she’s caring and gentle kinda motherly which Toshiro would find soothing I imagine, BUT MOST OF ALL. She’s weird!! She’s just weird enough to allow and be charmed by!! Shuro was fully shaped by his upbringing and environment of nobility, social etiquette and whatnot. Yeah she’s weird and quirky, but still quiet and sweet-mannered enough that he’s like "Yes, she wouldn’t bring shame on my family name". And why would he be charmed by her weirdness? Because all he’s ever known is rules!! Conformity, fitting in!! Unlike the others he knows, she is weird without being overbearing as well. "Woah she’s so different… She’s kind and soft and doesn’t care about fitting in… She is out of this world, she’s free, she shows me a world where tenderness and authenticity is possible…" She’s like his comfort character. MOREOVERRR I had totally forgotten about it, but Toshiro was shown watching a snail behind a bush and losing sight of everything else (like Maizuru calling him) as a kid in the Hag monster tidbit, the moment he fell in love with Falin it was when she looked enthralled at a caterpillar and he mentions how "most girls would have screamed or recoiled in disgust", and in the beach chibis page he’s crouching and collecting shells thinking about Falin… He likes bugs and crawly critters guys, he wishes he could be cottagecore too… It’s a genuine shared interest… . Someone pointed out that Toshiro & Falin’s relationship probaboy references this japanese folk tale, and I think that’s very interesting to note.

And Maizuru is like his mom but it’s a Thistle situation where they can’t just be a normal family and normal affectionate either- and when he learns about his father having a thing with her he feels weirded out. And like. Who knows how much he even got out of the mansion. He got homeschooled. He’s distant with his brothers. The family is in shambles

Shuro’s issue is that he was taught to be perfect and have the upmost respectable behavior, so if something annoys him he has to be righteous about it and that it’s the annoying thing’s fault or moral failing. Bro just let yourself be petty sometimes it’s healthier. With the feud with his father it’s explicitly stated that the pressure and expectations of the family name weigh on him a lot.

But then, that makes his beef with Laios so understandable doesn’t it. Not justified, but explained certainly.

Laios & Shuro and the whole mess coming to a head

I’ve made an analysis of the Laios-Shuro fight from Laios’ pov before, here. This is the Shuro pov analysis. Yes yes in The Fight, Shuro is dehydrated sleep-deprived and underate, he’s majorly off his rocker, BUT his frustration and the underlying issues are still things he felt on any day and it’s interesting to note.

Toshiro has been raised from his birth with the priority of propriety, nobility, etiquette, rules, conforming elegantly, appareances and reputation are everything. He’s modest, humble, quiet, stays in his lane and bottles all his feelings up. Wait who is this loud guy coming up to me being inconsiderate and loud af?? Does he not see me blinking in morse code that I’m not enjoying this and want him to leave?? Was he raised in a barn?? He’s overbearing and rude and way too friendly- He’s weird wtf! Not conforming to basic etiquette is illegal??! And people just… Let him do whateve he wants?? He lives well, no one stops him or kills him?? What the fuck, I’ve followed rules and etiquette thoroughly all my life, and it’s thankless work I get no recognition for, meanwhile he gets to be oblivious af and do whatever he wants without getting clapped?? Resentment, frustration, dislike, anger anger anger, jealousy.

Laios might even remind Toshuro of his dad in a way, because he SEEMS impulsive and like he does whatever he wants without a care to people around him, without thinking of how it might affect them. Doing things without thinking through the Implications. And interestingly this is a bit paralleled to to how Shuro is serious, strict, and big on the duties that come with having a leader role and the family dynamic it brings, like Laios’ own father, who Laios also dislikes… Dealing with his anger towards Laios, especially knowing that Laios doesn’t mean anything bad by it like Toshiro admits, is probably very healing to him. He stops repressing and thinks through his issues a bit, realizes what parts of his life he’s unhappy with and where all the negative feelings come from. I do think he bottles up his dislike for his father a bit, he has to at least for appearances. His beef with Laios is repackaged internalized anger for his father, but it’s ALSO repackaged frustration from his etiquette-bound lifestyle. He says it himself, when Laios is like "You never told Falin how you feel…? Alright, when I can I’ll tell her for you buddy!!", "that’s the part of you that I envy". Laios’ ability to just come out and say what he wants to, what he means. He wishes he could be free of all the rules more, that he had te courage to speak out, like with Inutade, or talking things out with Maizuru, or nit having to act like he’s not angry with his father. This narrative point of Toshiro envying Laios’ ability to say things freely and being frustrated by not being able to himself is ESPECIALLY examplified by their first interactions, the basis of their relationship: Laios enthusiastically befriending him, giving him a bad nickname and roping him into joining his party, with Toshiro never turning it all down despite wanting to, too hesitant to act possibly rude.

And now is time for the laishuro addendum… Because of personal experiences it’s a bit of a sensitive spot to me so while I see timelines in which I enjoy it I’m very picky… This is all further theorizing from me btw I’m not pushing my view here onto ppl as facts, but I think there’s more interesting bits and scenarios to bite into here. Laishuro has very cute and sweet potential. I personally don’t see the "Oh wait Laios is just girl Falin… 😳" angle because to me if anything that’d just make Shuro disillusioned with Falin lol, but like yes make Shuro learn that it’s ok to be weird with Laios 🥺 They DO have differences first of all, important ones, especially from Toshiro’s perspective. Laios is overwhelming, whereas Falin is soothing. Laios is loud and asks things of him where Falin is a calm, quiet presence. Laios pushes himself onto Toshiro, whereas Falin is content on just doing her own thing in her corner alone.

Hot take but the ultimate laishuro timeline is the one where he DOESN’T bring Laios back home, because he knows he’ll be seen as an oddity and clown by his father, and he doesn’t want Laios to be treated like the tapdancing monkey there to please and entertain his father the way he himself has always kind of been. Wouldn’t inflict that onto someone he loves. He can recognize when people are taken advantage of (mostly) like Inutade, and it doesn’t settle right with him. He might be especially sensitive to it in Inutade’s case because it’s about seeing his dad in a better light than he deserves, though. His father is his weak spot, THE weak spot.

It gets me so emotional thinking about it actually because seeing Laios played like a fiddle by his father, Laios so happy to find someone who’s enthusiastically listening to him ramble and engaging, would destroy Shuro emotionally I think. Like. On one hand being like "Oh of course my dad would find Laios fun, unlike me his boring son", super angry as coping mechanism for his intense sadness of not having positive parental attention, and then on the other he’d see Laios being treated as a clown and identify with it and that would remind him of how he gets treated similarly which he’s in denial about (more or less, but since he puts up with the family rules and follows along he hasn’t given up on getting recognition. He wants his father’s approval, and he couldn’t blame Laios for being happy with it despite how hurtful that attention truly is without Laios’ knowledge), which would be such an overwhelming conflicted mess of emotions and his worldview would shatter a bit because he has to repress it all even now, and he’d have a breakdown.

And similar deal but if he brought Falin home… Bc ok yes he idealizes her and doesn’t even know her all that well, but like I said imo what he sees in her is that "Woah she’s so different… She’s kind and soft and doesn’t care about fitting in… She is out of this world, she’s free, she shows me a world where tenderness and authenticity is possible…" So meanwhile with Laios he’d have mixed feelings on him getting treated like a clown and identify with it, bringing Falin home and having her be demeaned would be like having his perfect comfort character dunked on and he gets reminded that the world can’t have anything good actually. With both Toudens it’d make his resentment towards his father even worse, he might snap. I’m not the biggest on gendered analysis tbh but Kui evidently does like to do it to some degree, with the genderbending changing their life considerably and different fantasy cultures having different gender roles and all, but Shuro idealizing the Touden sister as something perfect he cannot attain while being jealous and frustrated at Laios for being something he cannot attain is like. So compelling actually. With Maizuru’s hannya of female rage weaponized there could be a theme of pushing the blame and responsibilities of things onto women too, the responsibility to raise and to manage and to dish out the work and to clean after mens’ reckless decisions. Anyways just a tangent.

Shuro on a bad family angst day is everything I love in a blorbo… He can be a lil shitty as a treat to make his healing arc more fulfilling. Toshiro snapping after he sees how they treat Laios/Falin and he gives up the family headship to LEAVE. Maizuru arc where she has to choose between loyalty to the clan and loyalty to Toshiro, will she stay with the boy she raised or go home… To me Maizuru is much less sympathetic than Shuro, but she is pretty tragic and her selfless love for Shuro is her one redeeming quality. Babygirl take no shit no more, but also better yourself and turn your life around please and thank you… She is so evidently taken advantage of but like. What else does she have? So she just takes care of and loves the boy she raised like her own kid and goes about her daily life in servitude and doesn’t think too much about it all.

Shuro is awful a nickname but also, I think Shiro would be a good nickname for Toshiro, because it gets rid of that ‘Toshi’ first part of his name that all the male members of his family share. It severes the link to his father and the tied pressure from his family.

Laishuro brotp turning slow burn romance would be so lovely. I think college au for laishuro would be peak actually… Shuro so is the repressed "I am so normal" guy who has a furry liberation identity crisis arc… I also quite like the potential he’d have with Namari, as both work-oriented misfit foreigners cast out of their homes, and she’s also bolder so it’d be good for him, and he could bring her stability… That’s a topic for another day tho. Even he and falin are sweet tbh, they could have traveled around together even if just as friends… Bc yeah she does value him as a friend at least somewhat, she says she’ll visit him~! Mostly I want Izutsumi-Toshiro brotp fancontent.

Conclusion

The household is very hierarchy oriented, and honestly the system doesn’t seem to make anyone happy, or at least not healthily so. Sighh feudalism.

Obviously their situation are very different, but still Toshiro and Izutsumi react to the same conflict in opposite ways: when a hierarchy and lifestyle of rules and duty is thrust upon them, Toshiro obeys and believes that it’s how things simply are, always having it been drilled into him since being a baby and being privileged enough to live ok with things as they are, meanwhile Izutsumi rages and eventually breaks free and never wants to submit herself to rules or hierarchy ever again, even if that perceived hierarchy is a mutually beneficial professional party dynamic or having a role inside a well-meaning team, like Laios’ party. WHICH IS WHY THEY SHOULD HANG OUT AND HAVE AN ARC TOGETHER. LET HER INFLUENCE HIM TO GET WILDER AND THINK OF HIMSELF MORE. FUCK INHERITING THE HEADSHIP. THE SIBLINGS NARRATIVE.

As always if I find more stuff to add i’ll edit it in. Rn I’m thinking that I’ll look into ninja & samurai feudal history and try to find specific terms that might fit their roles and situations more. I should reread try to cover Izutsumi’s end of the Toshiro-Izu dynamic as well.

I greatly recommend this paper for more excellent meta on all named Dunmeshi characters and their culture!

Ah yes yes, I forgot to talk about it but we don’t know what Toshiro’s retainers have been doing with their time on The Island, especially while he was dungeon diving with Laios and co. Although in the anime’s ed in this shot we see them "stealthily" follow him around, so presumably when he’s not in dungeons they’re tailing his moves.

Afterword here, it has summary charts about the power structure & relationships and complementary pages and artworks, couldn’t put them in here because SIGH 30 pictures per post limit.

[thesunisatangerine]

playing for keeps – chapter three

alexia putellas x barçakeeper!childhoodfriend!reader

warnings: coarse language, light angst

(a/n in the tags) [chapters: one, two, three, four]

word count: 8.8k

[1]

Just before you turned thirteen your body, finally, began to change. 

While Alexia’d gone ahead of you a year prior—with her limbs now lanky and sinewy, and her muscles stretched close to the newly grown bones—you were left behind. She’d grown taller, yes; not by much but the two-inch difference (two and a half, as Alexia was always inclined to remind you) felt like a foot to you. So the change was welcome when it finally started, and more importantly, it happened to coincide with something that completely altered the trajectory of your life.

During the spring after your birthday, your father got a promotion at work. To celebrate this milestone, he took you and your mother for a trip around Europe. And as a gift for your hard work and for getting into La Masia with Alexia just a few months before, your parents surprised you with tickets to at least one game in the country, or area, you were visiting. 

In Gelsenkirchen, Germany, you found your destiny. 

Or at least that was how you liked to look at it. 

Before seeing the match between Schalke 04 against Stuttgart, the idea of keeping never entered your mind; you’d played forward your whole life, and you thought that would be the position you’d play in professionally. But as you saw Manuel Neuer controlling the outcome of the game with his hands, a spark ignited within you—this overwhelming surge—and right there and then, you were enlightened to the art of keeping. That spark returned home with you and, playing into the hands of fate, your journey to keeping began.

[2]

The crescendo of the cicadas’ song was this close to lulling you to sleep. It didn’t help that Alexia’d curled herself up beside you in your bed, her head on your lap while her math notebook laid forgotten at the foot of the bed, and her eyes already closed. It was a rare occurrence for the both of you and even more so for Alexia to ‘slack off’—if you were to put it as Alexia had—but this afternoon was a particularly hot one. Summer had practically bled into spring, and even someone like Alexia clearly wasn’t immune to its soporific effect. 

The numbers from the homework you were working on began to blur when you heard a knock downstairs. Out of curiosity or just surprise, you snapped awake. And so did Alexia, apparently.

“You expecting someone?” Alexia yawned, stretching out her long limbs before settling over to her other side. The movement made a lock of hair fall to her cheek which you brushed away with the back of your finger.

“No, it’s probably Mamá’s.” You hummed in answer, relaxing down on your pillow to finally chase that nap that continued to tempt you.

But then came your mother’s voice, “Guille! Hello, my boy! How are you?”

Alexia let out a startled yelp when you jumped out of the bed, now fully awake, tripping on the rug as you rushed into the closet. 

“What the hell? What are you doing?!” Alexia hissed with annoyance but you were too busy trying to get changed to address it. 

You snatched the closest pair of shorts and jersey shirt, and began to shed the ones you had on before you slipped the fresh ones on in quick succession. 

As you did, you began to explain, “I completely forgot! I was supposed to meet up with Guille today!”

When your head popped out of your shirt, you found a deep crease between Alexia’s brows. She was sitting in the middle of your bed, cross-legged, looking very much like a disgruntled cat woken from a nap with the way her hair stuck out in odd places. 

She looked adorable. 

You bit your tongue before you could say it.

Crossing her arms, Alexia retorted, “Why? It’s Saturday.” 

The tone she used made it seem that today being a Saturday was a valid enough reason for you to not go. 

“And it is because it’s Saturday—and no training, Alexia—that I can go with him.” 

At that, her frown only seemed to deepen. You had half a mind to tease her but you knew that’d probably just piss her off even more, although if you were being honest, you didn’t understand just why this seemed to bother Alexia so much.  So instead of teasing, you tried a placating tone, “You could come with if you want?”

Alexia opened her mouth, “I—”

Your mother’s shout cut through the air. 

“Honey? Guille is here for you!” 

You sent Alexia one last apologetic glance. 

“I’m really sorry! Please stay for dinner! I’ll be quick!” 

And with a quick hug goodbye, you rushed out of your room and practically flew down the stairs. At the bottom, you found Guille leaning against the bannister, hands in his short pockets, with a small rucksack on his back who, upon seeing you, gave you a bright smile.

“Hey! You look—” He began but then suddenly, his eyes darkened and the quirk of his lips turned upside down, his tone flattening, “Oh. You’re here.”

In the same second you noticed Alexia beside you, Alexia’d slung an arm over your shoulders.

“Lovely to see you as always, Guille. And I could say the same about you.” Alexia deadpanned, flashing Guille a smile full of teeth, her eyes void of any warmth as she stared at him down her nose. Then she turned to you, her face lighting up as she asked with a little too much excitement, “So, are we going or not?”

“Wait, she’s coming with us?” Guille blurted out, but before you could even answer, Alexia left your side and ran down the steps. 

“Of course, Guille! Come on, keep up!” Alexia exclaimed on her way out of the door, tapping Guille’s stomach as she did—not without force apparently with the way Guille expelled air out harshly. 

When you got to him, you placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?”

He let out a strained, “Yes.”

You gave Guille an apologetic look, grabbing your ball bag. 

“I’m really sorry for the last minute change. I’ll make it up to you.”

Still clutching his stomach, he said, “Don’t worry about it.”

The three of you got to the field near your place—which you were glad to find empty—without any more incidents. You were faced with another problem as it was only after you’d begun warming up that you realized that in your haste to leave, you forgot to bring water with you. When you told Alexia, she offered to go to the nearest corner store to buy some.

You stretched as you waited for Alexia’s return when Guille suddenly said behind you.

“Here.”

Turning, you found him holding a paper parcel bag. You considered his outstretched hand with curiosity before you met his eyes, taking the bag from him slowly. “What’s this?”

“Just a little something to get you started,” he answered, scratching the back of his head. “You said you wanted to keep, so I thought you’d need them.”

Peering into the bag, you gasped at what you found inside. 

A new pair of keeper gloves.

“Guille, you didn’t have to!”

He shrugged, smiling, “Yeah, but I wanted to anyway.”

“Thank you! Come here, you big baby!” You laughed, throwing your arms around him. Unlike Alexia, Guille was only taller than you by mere centimeters so it was relatively easy to ruffle his hair as you pulled away. 

“Mess up my hair again and I won’t teach you anything,” He threatened with a faux glare as he swept his fingers through his curling locks in an attempt to tame them. 

You rolled your eyes, grinning at him. “Okay, Antonio Banderas. So, what are the basics?”

He imitated you, rolling his eyes before he shook his head slightly, his smile never leaving his lips. Then he pointed to a spot by the goal line. “Put your gloves on and stand right there.”

You did, noting the way your new gloves fit perfectly over your hands and fingers. It felt different—stuffy—and you could already feel your palms beginning to sweat from the trapped heat. When you stood where Guille pointed, he walked around you all the while he instructed you to correct your posture: he told you keep your feet shoulder-width apart, to bend your legs slightly so that your chest was just past your knees, and to hold your palms facing out. 

“The main thing to worry about starting out is your stance. It will take time to get the balance right but once you get it down, you’re set.”

“Is this alright?” 

Guille took a step back and he gripped his chin as he hummed. After a moment of scrutiny, he nudged you back suddenly. It wasn’t quite forceful but it made you tumble down on your rear all the same. 

You smiled at him sheepishly, getting up. “I guess that’s a no?”

“Yep. It looks like you keep your weight on your heels too much.” He crouched down at your feet, drawing a square over the front half of your foot. “Keep your weight spread out around here and you should—”

Guille scrambled back suddenly, yelping as a football went flying past where he was just a second ago and into the net. Turning to the direction where the ball came from with your mouth agape, you found Alexia there with water bottles clasped to her chest, an eyebrow raised, while one corner of her mouth was set in a bemused droop, another ball rolling beneath her left foot.

“What the hell was that for, asshole?!” Guille shouted as he stormed his way over to Alexia. He was in front of her now, looking up at her with flame in his eyes but Alexia remained unfazed. She put the water bottles down before she settled her hands on her hips, cocking her head slightly to the side. 

“I’m sorry, Guille. I didn’t see you.” Alexia said flatly, “And aren’t you supposed to be playing keeper?”

“Really. You didn’t see me? Besides—”

“Ale, I asked Guille to teach me.” You huffed, running in between them and separating them with your arms before things got out of hand—again. 

This wasn’t the first time this… row between them happened. In fact, you noticed it’s been occurring more frequently lately. For all their similarities—the main one being their short tempers—the two never got on well together for reasons you never really understood and the only thread that tied them together was you. 

They weren’t always like this though; they were nice with each other the first time they’d met. Guille transferred to your school not long after you’d joined Sabadell, and if you and Alexia were inseparable there, it was always you and Guille at school. And when an opportunity arose for your two favorite persons to meet, you took it. It went well; they were friendly with each other. You only noticed things had changed after you and Guille’s school team started playing against Alexia’s so you were never sure when this all started, and by that point, the friction between them was too great to smoothen out which both saddened and disappointed you.

And it wasn’t like you never tried to get to the bottom of it. You’d asked them what happened, they both gave similar answers. By that, you meant completely avoiding answering. 

Guille’d assured you, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, we’re friends? Don’t worry.” 

While Alexia’d said with a confused frown, “What do you mean? Nothing happened.” 

And when you pestered her, asked her if the reason was because she liked Guille as a joke, she looked at you without reply, and when next practice came, she made a nuisance of herself enough to let you know the answer to your question and more. 

And here you were again, with them acting like this–always at each other’s throats. 

At your answer, Alexia looked at you, confused. “Why would you ask him to teach you how to keep?”

Your gaze lanced away as you bit your lip.

Maybe you should’ve told her after all… 

Mustering up the courage to meet her eye again, you replied, low and serious. “I want to start playing keeper, Alexia.” 

Alexia blinked, and then she crossed her arms before she eyed Guille who was scowling at her in return. She looked at you again. 

“Have you told Alejandro about this?”

“Yes.” 

“Oh.” A pause. “What did he say?”

“I’ll still start as a forward. But he said he’ll put in some extra technical sessions for me starting next week which was why I asked Guille to help me get started. Alejandro said if I get good enough, he’ll see if I can start as keeper for the team.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over you three. 

You caught Guille’s eyes darting from you to Alexia and back again from the corner of your eyes but you remained focused on Alexia’s face. At a glance, Alexia might seem calm—impassive with the way all of her features remained flat. But her eyelids drooped just so they hid more than half of her pupils, how her lower lip was slightly concealed beneath the upper one; she was pissed and even worse, she was hurt. And knowing that you’d hurt her was enough to compel you to reach out and touch her arm, apologetic.

Alexia regarded you for a moment longer. Another word of apology was on the tip of your tongue when she finally sighed, the corner of her lips tilting up to a half-smile as she spoke softly. “Okay. How can I help?”

You couldn’t help yourself. You threw your arms around her and it felt like a weight was lifted from your chest upon hearing the chuckle she let out.

The next couple of hours were spent with the three of you working together: Guille by the goal who continuously gave you notes and instructions, while Alexia—upon Guille’s signal—would send some shots to the net so you could try and stop them. The first… fifty or so shots went right past you—going easy was never exactly Alexia’s strong suit—but the more you focused on getting the timing right and reading the language of Alexia’s body to anticipate the direction of the ball, you ended the session with a few decent saves. 

It was a rough start but you were satisfied with it.

You’d left to use the restroom but upon coming back, the two of them were bickering once more.

Oh, no. What was it now?

You heard more of their words the closer you got, but you didn’t have to move too close with the way they were shouting.

“Come on, dude! Please, don’t tell me you’re still pissed off about that? It was a fair match!”

“How was that fair, Alexia? The two of you playing together is never fair! You’re both in La Masia for crying out loud! And even more importantly, she was supposed to be on my team! That was the original plan, but you went ahead and took her away!”

“What made you think I took her away?” Alexia crossed her arms, scoffing. “Let’s face it. She likes to play with me more than you.”

“You don’t know that!”

That was the moment Alexia spotted you and before you could even get a word in, she said, “Why don’t we just ask her who she’d rather play with?”

Two sets of intense eyes looked your way and without meaning to, you gulped, taking a step back.

“So? Who would you rather play with: me or her?” Guille asked, eyes wide and pleading. 

Suddenly feeling like you were backed into a corner, you stammered in your panic, “Umm, I—”

[3]

Alexia stayed over for dinner that night. That was normal; what was unusual was she left you alone to do the dishes. You had a feeling where she might be, especially since she’d been mostly quiet throughout the whole evening.

After you put away the last dish in the cupboard, and when your arms were finally free from suds, you took a peek into the living room. She wasn’t there—a confirmation of her whereabouts.

Putting on your flip flops, you headed out of the back door. 

The light from the living room casted a faint glow that dissipated the darkness around the garden when you opened the door that led out to it, aiding you just enough to see Alexia on the swing, sitting still with her back hunched forward. Once you were just a few paces behind her, you saw the contours of her headset, but even with them on, there was no way she didn’t know you were there—the fact that your shadow stretched to reach her before you did was a dead give away. Yet still, she made no move to acknowledge your presence.

Okay. That was fair.

“Ale,” you said softly. 

She gave you a glance before she went back to looking down at her clasped hands. 

“Alexia, come on.” 

Still no response. You fiddled with your thumbs as the moment dragged on. 

You sighed, sitting down on your heels next to her.

“I should’ve told you about the keeper thing,” you muttered. “I wanted to get a feel for it first, to get a bit better at it before I told you. But I didn’t consider how that would make you feel… and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making you feel that I didn’t want or need you by my side, Alexia. I wanted you to think I was good enough for this.” 

Finally, Alexia turned to you, taking her headset off, the movement barely above a whisper. And softly, she spoke, “What made you think that I’ll think you’re not good enough for anything?”

“I don’t know.” You admitted, pulling at the grass in front of you. Your mother would probably see the hole you’d made on the lawn and berate you for it in the morning but you needed something to keep your hands busy. “I just wanted to go through this without too many expectations. And it’s not like I don’t want to keep our dynamic going. I love playing forward with you, Alexia, but I think keeping is my calling, just like midfield is to you.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I completely understand. You didn’t want any added pressure. I’m not going to hold that against you.” 

“Thank you,” you smiled at her. Then, “So, tell me why are you sulking?”

“I’m not sulking!” Alexia huffed with indignation. Then she looked away again, working her lower lip between her teeth.

You put a hand on her knee. “Alexia, what is it?”

“I…” Alexia sighed, brushing the bridge of her nose with her thumb. You gave her another moment. She heaved another breath before she began.

“That thing you said… Did you really mean it when you said you’d rather play with him than me?”

Oh. So that was what this was about.

“Of course not. We both know it’s always going to be you, Alexia.”

“Then why did you tell him that?”

“I feel like if I didn’t, I’d lose him as a friend.”

“And you’re not worried about losing me?” Alexia cried out, her tone inflected while her eyes reflected her hurt.

You blinked at her. 

There were moments—just like now—where you’d feel a sudden urge to shake Alexia. For all her sharpness and unmatched awareness, she sometimes failed to see even the most obvious of things. Couldn’t she see that you loved her and that you’d follow her to the edge of the earth if she asked you to?

At the absurdity of her question, you really couldn’t help but laugh. You stood up and shuffled behind her before you threw your arms around Alexia’s neck, draping yourself over her broad back, which made the swing move forward. The dampness of her hair felt cool against your cheek, the scent of your shampoo that clung to them filled your senses as you chuckled into her ear. 

“Why are you laughing? I’m serious!”

“Because, Alexia, do you hear yourself? I love you, you idiot!” You giggled again. “I know our friendship isn’t that shallow that I’d lose you over this. Or am I wrong?”

Alexia turned her head and you saw a hint of a smile on her lips. “No, I suppose not.”

A pleasant silence blanketed you both. And then Alexia hummed.

“But if there was something that could break us, what do you think it would be?”

You stopped to ponder, twirling a lock of Alexia’s hair with your finger, noting her hair was nearly dry now. When your mind drew blank, you replied nonchalantly, “Honestly, I have no idea.”

“Good.” Alexia leaned away so she could give you a lopsided smile—an earnest one. “Because me neither.”

[4]

“—you okay?”

You blinked and turned to Alexia. “Hmm?”

She glanced at you for a moment before she turned back to what she was doing, sleeves rolled up as she scrubbed a plate in the soapy water in the sink.

“I said, are you okay? Is there something wrong? You’ve been out of it since practice.” When a moment of silence lapsed, Alexia added, “And don’t think I didn’t notice you on your swing the past few days, too, because I did.”

You looked out the window and watched how the rain sluiced down the glass pane. In the darkness behind the window, you saw glimpses of soaked, curly locks and heard the hasty confession all over again.

You sighed, blinking the memory away.

“Guille asked me out.”

The sound of glass shattering and metal clanging made you jump, and you watched as a casserole pot twirled like a top on the hard, kitchen floor, while fragments of a broken plate skittered out to different directions. 

“Oh, shit!” Alexia cursed, looking down at the mess, while a voice called out from the living room. 

“Alexia, is everything alright in there?'' Came Eli’s voice. A few seconds later, Jaume’s head popped into the kitchen. He glanced at you then his eyes settled on Alexia who was crouched down, looking up guiltily at her father.

“Are you okay, girls?”

“Yes, Papá. I just… dropped some stuff.” Alexia said. You crouched down, too, about to pick up a fragment when Jaume spoke.

“Don’t pick that up, love, you might cut yourself. I’ll do it.” 

Jaume shooed the two of you to a corner he deemed safe and the both of you watched as he picked up the pieces, throwing them in the bin by the back door. Afterwards, he gave Alexia a kiss on her temple, and you a hug and a ruffle to your hair, as he retired for the evening, leaving the two of you again in your own company. Alexia went back to the sink to finish up whatever was left, and you returned to your place on the counter beside her. 

The silence that intruded was cut short by Alexia when she cleared her throat, “So… what did you say?” 

“I haven’t said anything, yet,” you sighed again, looking back out the window, the questions coming back full force. In the eight years you’d known Guille, how long had he harbored those feelings for you? When did it happen? What did you do to make him feel that way?

“Do you like him?” Alexia’s question brought you back to the present.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want him?”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” You laughed slightly, glancing back at Alexia who shrugged her shoulders in answer.

“No, I don’t think so. Desire is a drive, like it makes you want to act. Attraction is just… I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s a weaker feeling. And they complement each other but they’re not the same.”

“And you know this how exactly?” You asked her teasingly, a brow raised.

Alexia averted her eyes, and shrugged your question off with a laugh.

In the moment of silence that followed, you traced Alexia’s profile, and your gaze ended at the elegant curve of the bow of her lips. She looked so pretty casted in the candescent glow of the kitchen light that it made your chest ache just by looking at her. You dropped your eyes to your feet as your mind ran faster than before this entire conversation happened.

Clutching your arms tightly across your chest, you muttered, “I don’t know what I want.” 

[5]

Maybe hoping it would all turn out fine was a bit naive because naturally, Guille didn’t take your rejection well. It was your fault really for expecting otherwise but nevertheless, the inevitable discomfort of disappointment settled like lead in your gut. 

The thing was, you were ready to give Guille the space he needed to accept your boundaries—friends, or nothing at all—and to heal. But accusing Alexia of making you turn against him? Now, that was something you couldn’t let pass. 

He knew he’d crossed a line, too, with the way he kept avoiding you. At first, the silence didn’t bother you; he was hurt, after all. But when the apology never came, you understood that you’d be going through your last year of high school without your closest friend there by your side.

A fortnight passed without any word from him so it surprised you when he showed up at the local meetup that the three of you used to go to. He refused to meet your eyes but he had no problem leveling with the glares Alexia kept giving him. And when you ended up in Alexia’s team, the only sign of his distaste about it was the way his lips flattened to a line. He looked like he was about to say something, but with a slight shake of his head, he turned around and made his way to his teammates.

With one last look at Guille’s retreating back, you tuned back in your team’s conversation.

“—doesn’t need to play keeper. We need her more in the offensive.” Alexia said evenly but when you met her eyes, there was a clear question in them. 

You gave her a slight nod to let her know you were okay. 

She nodded back.

“How will that work? She’s the better keeper.” And then Marco added, “No offense, Julia.” 

Julia only shrugged carelessly, a gesture of nonchalance.

“Julia is perfectly fine and besides, with you, Benji, and Carmen, our backline is already strong. The four of you together lessens our chance of conceding.” Alexia paused, looking over her shoulder to the other team before she faced you all again, continuing, “Our priority is the offensive. What good is a strong backline if we can’t counterattack? That’s why I’m suggesting she play as forward in the meantime, while Martina and I will play as interiors. Does that make sense?”

A collective nodding occurred.

“So just to clarify, we’re playing three–two–one?” Benji asked.

Alexia hummed, nodding her head. “Mostly. If we find the space and some opportunities, we can easily do three–one–two.”

“No pressure on us defenders, right?” Carmen said with a laugh, if not with a hint of nerve. 

Everyone laughed but at the end of it, Alexia placed a hand on Carmen’s shoulder. “No pressure because you guys, as I said, are very strong. You got this.”

Carmen smiled at Alexia at that, nodding before she finally moved to her spot. As you and Alexia moved towards the middle of the pitch, Guille was introduced to your line of sight, and a weight pressed in your gut. Disappointment? Perhaps. Or maybe you just actually missed talking and hanging out with him.

Alexia’s teasing tone pulled away your attention from Guille.  “I hope you haven’t forgotten how to play forward from all the keeping you’ve been doing.”

“Four years of keeping against the five years of playing forward? You need to brush up on your math ‘cause I think you’ve forgotten how to count.” You said dryly, giving her a look so dirty that had her throwing her head back in laughter.

Alexia leveled you with an unimpressed look but her tone remained playful. “You are such a bitch sometimes. You know that, right?”

“Thank you. I do try, you know. It’s my only defense against your smart-mouth.”

“Stop denying you don’t like my teasing.” Alexia waggled her brows as she smirked. The way she looked just then—with both hands on her hips, the ball beneath her left boot—your throat dried, heart racing; a sensation that’d familiarized itself to you during its recurrent visits over the past few weeks. Your mind blanked out, clear as the white of Alexia’s shirt, and when no words came to you to retort back, you shook your head and just laughed. By the time the game started—or maybe it was because it started—the feeling finally went away, replaced by the adrenaline that shot through your veins the moment Alexia kicked the ball to you.

It proved to be a tight game. The main strategy of the opposition seemed to be to mark and shut you and Alexia down whenever the ball so much turned your way. Alexia was right to trust your backline: any counterattack from the other team was dealt with immediately, and Julia only needed to save a handful of shots that passed through your defense, which she handled well.

At last, your team finally made a breakthrough.

Alexia cut a diagonal through the box, taking two of the defenders as she did, freeing up the space just behind her. You knew what she was doing so you faked a sidestep, turning quickly to lose your marker, before you sprinted in towards the middle of the box. And as you anticipated, Alexia sent the ball back to you with a flick of her heel. Now, if you could just—

The ground tilted, and there was a moment where the whole world suspended. It lasted for less than a breath before everything—the sensations and sounds—came rushing back in.

You slammed to the ground. 

Air was squeezed out of your lungs from the impact, while your skull and teeth rattled within the confines of your skin; the taste of green, earth, and copper spread on your tongue. Muffled shouts and grunts filtered past the ringing in your ear but when you cupped a hand over your tender ribs, your resulting groan was all you could hear.

When you finally came to, Alexia’s face was over you, the doubled image of her finally merging into one. Her wide, hazel eyes looked on you with worry and you felt the warmth of her fingers as they grazed over your face: from your temples down to your cheeks which she took in a gentle cradle.

“Alexia?” You let out another groan as you turned on your back while Alexia helped you.

“Tell me where it hurts.”

There was a tension that constricted around the front part of your head, but you could feel the blood pulsing most on the side that collided with the ground. “My head… it hurts.”

“Okay, okay. Just lay down for now, I’ll get you…”

You seemed to have passed out after that because one moment you were lying on the fields, and the next you were beside Alexia on her living room couch. You had a vague recollection of being carried on Alexia’s back, but the feel of the strong plane of her shoulder against your cheek remained there, warm and comforting. 

And only then, after Eli gave you ice for your head, did you see the bruise that bloomed deep in the skin of Alexia’s jaw, just below her left cheek, and the scuffed knuckles of her right hand which were splotched with deep reds and purples.

You took her hand onto your lap, gently running over the ice for your head over her knuckles, while you looked at Eli sitting on the opposite couch with Jaume beside her. Eli’s face burnt redder than you’d ever seen before, while Jaume held onto her hand, circling his thumb over the top of it in an attempt to calm her down.

Alexia remained quiet the whole time, eyes casted down as she took her mother’s reprimanding words. There was the unmistakable shine of shame in them, her guilt, but also an unwavering quality that stood for what she did. At the end of it, Eli and Jaume hugged the both of you before letting you retreat into Alexia’s room as you waited for your parents to arrive.

Instead of getting on her bed with you, Alexia plopped down on the floor just by the foot of the bed, her back against the wooden bedframe. You regarded the back of her head, her neck curved downwards, and you suddenly felt the need to be close to her so you shuffled off her sheets, and got down beside her. 

“Thank you, but your mother was right, you know? You shouldn’t have done it, Alexia.” You mumbled, unfurling her fingers to rest on your knee so you could access more of her knuckles that way. Gently, you placed ice over it, but she still hissed in pain. “You shouldn’t have punched him.”

“Why not? He deserved it.” Alexia said evenly as she stared at the far corner of the room. “And before you start defending him, you didn’t see what I saw—what the rest of us saw. He didn’t even touch the ball—it was all feet. He meant to trip you up.” 

Warmth bloomed in your chest at her words—at how her action showed just how much you meant to her—but the discomfort in your gut marred the surge of your affection for her. 

You took a deep breath, sighed it out, and it tasted like disappointment. 

“Alexia, I appreciate the gesture, I do. But you can’t just hurt people just because they did something to me.” 

Alexia puffed her chest and proclaimed, “I can.”

“Stop that nonsense, Alexia. I mean it.” Firmer now, you said, and there was a hint of desperation in the intonation of your words. There was an urgent need to make Alexia understand the gravity of what she did, what future implications it held if what Eli and you told her didn’t sink in now. “Actions like this can jeopardize you, Alexia, and all the things you worked hard for. Do you understand that? What will Alejandro say when he sees you all bruised up next practice? And if I get tackled dirty during a game and I get hurt, would you risk a red card, or suspension, for behaving like this?”

Alexia became silent, the muscle in her jaw working, and when she turned to you with her mouth open and you spotted a defiant crease in her brows, you were quick to stop her.

“If the answer to that question isn’t no, Ale, I don’t want to hear it.” The sound of teeth clattering filled the air. She casted her gaze aside again, her cheeks growing a shade deeper. “Look at me, Alexia.”

When she kept her eyes glued to the floor, you dropped the ice pack to take her face in your hands. She flinched from the coldness of your fingers but as you looked into her eyes, rimmed with redness and framed by drooping eyelids, you found exhaustion and the shine of apology. You brushed away a matted lock of hair from the tail end of her brow.

“You have a good heart, Alexia, but you have to promise me. Please don’t do something like this again. Ever.” 

Alexia looked into your eyes, deeply as if in contemplation, and then she closed them. A moment later, she sighed, sagging into your touch as if a weight had left her shoulders, before she opened them again. 

“I promise.” 

This time, you believed her.

Smiling softly at her, you whispered, while you placed a light kiss on her cheek. “Thank you.”

Settling into the moment, you rested your head against Alexia’s shoulder, her bruised hand in yours. In the brief silence before your father arrived to pick you up, Alexia spoke in an earnest tone that made your stomach flutter.

“I know you can handle yourself, but that won’t stop me from having your back.”

At her words, your heart felt like it would burst your chest open. And you should’ve known that this was where you’d end up—with her, it seemed inevitable anyway—because the years of you’d known Alexia flashed quickly before your eyes, and the memory stopped to this person beside you, haloed golden by the warm glow of her bedside lamp, and you were hit with a realization that took what little breath you had away.

You liked Alexia.

And, even more importantly, you want her.

[6]

When you got on the field in a Barça jersey for the first time after your return, you didn’t expect to be welcomed like you did. Jona subbed you on after the first half and as you left the tunnel, you heard the crowd chanting your name. The cheers made you feel excited, accepted and seen, but you’d be lying if you said that it didn’t pressure you at all.

It was originally intended for you to come on during the last twenty minutes, but seeing as Caro, Patri, and Alexia gave the team a comfortable enough lead, Jona decided to sub you on ahead of schedule. You didn’t see much action on your end though, something that you didn’t mind at all—a quiet defensive-third was the best kind. The midfielders kept the midline high to sustain pressure in the offensive-third, while the defenders maintained such a tight backline that any loose through-balls sent to the opposing runners were called offside. Of course, there were a handful of times when you needed to get out of your box to ping the ball back into the offensive, but other than that, it was quiet. When the match ended, you were satisfied that Barça had another clean sheet and four goals to add to the season tally.

For the celebration, you moved with your teammates around Estadi Johan Cruyff, and during the procession, you spied your parents, Eli, and Alba who was talking to a raven-haired woman you’d never seen before, clapping and cheering. Warmth filled you upon seeing your family in the stands again—such a scene was a luxury when you were in the States because plane tickets weren’t exactly cheap—and when you felt the familiar weight of Alexia’s arm slung over your shoulders, the fabric of her captain armband against the skin of your neck, it felt like a perfect homecoming.

Well, almost.

After you’d showered and changed to your casuals, most of the crowd had gone while some lounged about, one of which was the raven-haired woman Alba was talking to. When Alexia took her hand, you knew instantly, and your heart—damn your heart—dropped.

“This is Diana,” Alexia said after the both of them made their way to you. And if it wasn’t their intertwined hands that revealed what they were to each other, their gaze—saccharine when they met—made it all the more clear the nature of their relationship long before Alexia said the words, “my girlfriend.”

Diana beamed up at Alexia, her cheeks deepening in color before she regarded you again, sticking her hand out towards you to shake. Preceding the intention, you took her hand and when you did, Diana placed her other hand over yours, clasping your hand between her warm palms.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you. Alexia’s talked so much about you.” 

She did? Your eyes flitted to Alexia but when she shied away from that, you focused back on Diana’s face. She was stunning: with her high cheekbones carved to elegance, her brows following the perfect line of her temple, her full lips painted with a terracotta shade made deeper by the bronze of her skin, while her loose, straight, raven hair framed her face in such a way that accentuated the sharpness of her jaws. Her eyes were dark but still light enough to see the outline of her pupils, and they had an amiable shape that reflected her warm nature. And for some reason, her light brown eyes looked really familiar—

“Ah! My favorite cousin made it, after all! Although I’m not sure it was me you went to the game for!” Tori’s playful voice resonated in the near-barren corridor. Diana’s eyes flicked somewhere behind you—to Tori, you supposed.

“Don’t be like that, Tori, of course I came to see you, too!”

“Lies!”

Diana shook her head, laughing, as she took Tori in her arms. “Come here, you!”

In response, Tori said something in Portuguese that made Diana laugh. When they broke apart, Diana said, “Forget you? Never. Especially when I owe you one.”

“Owe her what?” Alexia asked with her brows creased with curiosity.

Diana took Alexia’s hand and squeezed it, looking up at Alexia with a gentle expression. “For giving us the chance to meet.”

“Damn right!” Tori exclaimed, putting both hands on her hips, as she grinned so wide that her dimple showed. Tori must’ve seen your confusion because she leaned in to whisper, “I brought Diana as my plus one for last year’s Ballon D’Or ceremony.”

You allowed your mouth to drop open before you smiled, letting out a small laugh that made your chest ache. “Ah, I see.”

“She kept complaining about going but now, aren’t you grateful I took you away from your precinct, Detective Beauregard?” Tori teased.

“She’s never going to let us live this down, will she?” Diana muttered dryly to Alexia but it was deliberately loud enough for all of you to hear. In response, Alexia threw her head back laughing. 

“You’re a detective? That’s amazing!” You said, impressed.

“Please, Tori’s exaggerating. I work in forensics. DNA analyst is the correct title.” Diana threw Tori a dirty look to which the other woman raised her shoulders in response. “It’s a whole different world compared to yours so—and please don’t let this get to your head, Tori—I am grateful I was able to step into it.”

Her eyes, still locked with Alexia’s, grew all the more soft.

“Get a room, you guys,” Tori said with a mock sound of disgust, and then she continued to mutter, “And to think that you’ve only been going out for four months… I don’t even want to think about how it will be like in another three months.”

At that, Alexia raised a brow and then, “Want to do some extra laps tomorrow?”

You and Tori knew Alexia was joking, but Tori being Tori, she spluttered, “That would be a hard no, Captain. I’ll just—Have a great night!” 

With that, she ran away, arms flailing behind her in an exaggerated manner as she hastily made her exit. The sight drew laughter from the three of you.

“We’re having dinner at Mamá’s, want to come over?” Alexia asked.

You shook your head, flashing a look at Diana, before you told Alexia,“Not tonight. I’m just about to head over to my parents’ as well.”

“Alright. But Alba’s going to ask about you, you know? I think she wants to hang  out with you.”

You laughed. “Tell her to text me. She’ll know what that means.”

“Is that something I should know about?” Alexia smirked.

Flatly, you retorted, “If it’s something that concerns you, I’d be telling you by now, right?” 

“You see what I have to deal with?” Alexia told Diana, almost whining.

Inching backwards, you said as dry as you could manage, “I’ll take that as my queue to leave, Alexia might start crying. She’s a crybaby, you know?” 

“Hey! I’m not—”

“No need to be embarrassed about it, Alexia. Be proud!”

Diana only laughed, saying, “Alright, kids, I think that’s enough for tonight.”

Nodding, you grinned at Alexia while she mouthed the word ‘bitch’ to you. In kind, you mouthed ‘smartmouth’ back. With a shake of her head and a smile, she gave you one last hug, and after a pleasant goodnight from Diana, the three of you parted ways.

You sent them a look over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of the watch around Alexia’s left wrist. It glinted as they walked together down the corridor, hand in hand, looking as in love as any new couple would. 

The sight made you smile, but it felt heavy, and as if the universe wanted to rub salt to the wound, you found Patri outside the locker room when you turned around with a look akin to pity in her eyes.

[7]

The next day, Guille stopped by at your place. He’d given you notice a few days prior but even still, the moment you saw him behind the door, you squealed like you were ten again from your excitement. After you hugged him tight—he made a choking noise when you did to tease you—you held him at arm’s length to see what changes the last few months had done to him.

He looked different. Gone were the long, dark curls; now sheared close to his scalp that left only about an inch of length, his hair retained their luscious shine, their color still as dark as night. 

His scar—the one just by the tail end of his left brow—that used to see little light from the obstruction of his hair, now stood apparent and without meaning to, the day he got it came back to you: the bruised knuckles, ice-cold fingers, and the warm blush of a lamplight.

 And your chest ached a little.

Leading the conversation to the living room, the two of you ended up ordering takeaways—mostly for Guille’s benefit because you weren’t about to subject him to your football diet—and as you ate, the two of you caught up.

Guille was close to finishing his dissertation—the biomechanics of concussion in sport and its neurocognitive implications—and he was both excited and fearful about what would come next. He then talked about his girlfriend, Iris, smittenly if you might add. She was actually with him in the city, but his mother insisted she steal Iris for the day for some quality bonding, and you laughed at the repertoire of stories he’d relayed in great detail about his mother’s teasing of their relationship.

“When am I going to meet Iris?” You asked with a teasing tone.

He rolled his eyes, “Well, since you’re actually staying in Barcelona this time, we can arrange that.”

A pause, and then, “Is Alexia staying here, too, or are you here by yourself?”

“No, it’s just me here.”

“Oh. I thought the two of you’d be rooming again like—” Probably seeing your change in demeanor, Guille cleared his throat as he ate his pasta a bit too eagerly. “Speaking of, how is she?”

The question was casual but you knew it was anything but.

“She’s doing good, if not a little stressed. Our first Champions League game is just around the corner after all and it’s against Chelsea, so.” You shrugged to complete your thought. You knew what he was asking but you’d rather not talk about that.

His eyes could burn a hole on the side of your head by the way he stared at you in the silence that followed. Then he sighed deeply.

“She still doesn’t know.”

Tension filled every inch of your body and you shrank tight as a coiled spring. You stood up as you felt a sudden urge to get away from him, taking the used plates on the coffee table as a pretense to move from the couch to the sink.

“What’s it to you if she doesn’t know, Guille?” You asked flatly, rolling up your sleeves after you turned the tap on.

“I just want you to be happy. Is that so wrong?”

“And who says I’m not?” Your tone was flat and when you glanced at him over your shoulder, Guille only gave you a pointed look.

Then he said softly, “She could make you happier and you know it.”

And there it was again, that look in his eyes that you just couldn’t stand. Gritting your teeth, you gripped the edge of the sink and your voice quaked when you spoke. “Please stop talking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like,” you tried to find the words but when they evaded you, you huffed and threw your hands up in the air. “Why are you making it sound like I have a chance?”

“Because you do! You’re the one who’s not giving Alexia a chance by not telling her.”

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

“She loves you.”

A pause.

“That’s bullshit.” You shook your head, letting out a small, disbelieving laugh. As much as your heart wanted that to be true, you knew otherwise.

“It’s really fucking not.” Guille countered.

“If she did, she wouldn’t have said what she did.” 

“People say stupid shit when they’re drunk.”

“That can go the other way, too. Alcohol has a way of loosening what’s been bottled.”

“Oh, come on!” Guille scoffed. “You’ve known her since you were eight. You’ve been through thick and thin together! Do you really think she wanted you to leave?”

With the reminder, the memory sprung up on you and you could hear Alexia’s voice, grating and wrenching your heart raw again when you heard the words from her lips. You whirled around to face him, eyes burning.

“You weren’t there when she told me, Guille!” You breathed out sharply and then you continued, in a lower tone filled with resignation, you whispered as you buried your face in your palms. “You didn’t hear the way she said it. You didn’t—”

You choked on your words. 

After all this time, it was still too painful.

Darkness filled your vision but the tears escaped nonetheless, branding tracks down your cheeks. You heard the rustling of clothes followed by soft footsteps. Before you knew it, Guille’s arms wrapped around your shoulders and his familiar, comforting scent made you sink into the embrace.

“You’re right. I wasn’t there. But if you could forgive me for being an asshole and what I did to you, why can’t you do the same with her?”

You didn’t say anything after that, only clutched at his shirt a little tighter.

Guille kept quiet, too.

The both of you knew just the reason why.

[8]

“Did you see the news?” Jona asked as he kept the door open for you to an empty meeting room, closing it as soon as you’d gone in. 

Sitting down on one of the cushioned chairs, you said, “I did.”

You saw it this morning and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t faze you. 

Jona nodded, taking the chair across the table from you. He put his clasped hands on the wooden surface and the way he tapped an erratic rhythm with his thumbs didn’t help your nerves.

“Lyon paid a hefty transfer fee for her and that makes me worried. I don’t know what Bompastor is planning to do with her but her transfer to the European league will be a concern for the club.” With a pensive crease appearing between his brows, he continued. “You probably know why I asked you to come in.”

“You want me to tell you what I know about her.”

He nodded, leaning forward as if to emphasize his point. “She’s a lethal forward and you’re the only one in the club who’s ever played with her. In fact, you two seemed very close during your time in Angel City.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back into your chair, frowning slightly. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

Jona blinked at you.

Then slowly, “Surely you must’ve trained closely together considering she’s a forward and you’re a keeper? Unless training was vastly different in Angel City, then I’m sorry for the assumption.”

“O–Oh, I thought you were implying—” You shook your head, uncrossing your arms as you waved the rest of your sentence away. “Never mind. But yes, that’s right.”

Jona gave you another questioning look before speaking again. 

“She’s going to be a big problem. And that’s why I’m going to change things up a bit. I want to put you in the starting lineup as soon as possible—put as many games with our current team under your belt. We’ll most likely face Lyon in the Quarters and that’s unfortunate but what is great is that you’re here: the best counter to what Lyon acquired. If we could eliminate Lyon early, we have a higher chance of winning this year’s Champions League. The question is, are you ready for it?”

“That’s what I’m here for, Jona.” You said seriously, ignoring the pressure that pressed in the periphery of your mind.

“Use me.”

[aemondapologistfrfr]

Here With You

gawyne x niece!reader

anon request - tytyty for bringing gwayne to my attention 

Summary: With war on the horizon your mother sends you to Oldtown to seek safety. Your estranged uncle escorts you back and makes sure you don’t have to want for anything. You’ve never felt more at peace than at his side as he leads you through the clean and welcoming city. Feelings bloom between the both of you and between secret kisses and confessions the two of you become closer than either of you thought reality would offer you. 

Warnings: 18+ religious aspects - reader likes to pray but nothing too pious lmfao, like a swear word maybe 2, mentions of the war, time skips, preg!reader at the end, secret kisses, humping, fingering, p in v, breeding kink(lovingly💞), emo asf at the end that i had to add an extra scene bc i couldn’t leave it like that!!!!! 

Authors Note: first time writing for this ginger knight and i hope i got him right 🫣 i kinda loved writing this 

Word Count: 8.3k i thought this was gonna be chill :)

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You’re kneeling next to your mother with your hands folded as you look up at the statue of the Mother. Your eyes are welled with tears as you pray for the strength to get through the journey to Oldtown. You know you’ll have your uncle and a small company but you haven’t seen your uncle in ages. You’re scared to travel with so many strangers and all of them men no doubt. You blink back your tears as your mother grabs your arm and helps you rise.

She leads you out of the sept and your guards fall into a protective formation around you. You both enter the carriage and allow the silence to wash over you as you look at the passing city that you won’t be seeing for some time. Your mother grabs your hands as you pick at your nails and brings them to her lips. 

“Tell me what is bothering you, sweet girl.” she rests your hands in her lap. “I can tell something is the matter.” she nods and searches your eyes. 

“I’m scared.” you whisper. “If it’s so dangerous, why am I the only one leaving?” your voice cracks. “How will all of you stay safe? Protected? I pray to the Gods daily, yet I’m still weary at how this is to end.” you whisper. 

“Do not worry yourself with such things.” she leans over and brushes your hair back. “Your brothers will see that we prevail. You’ll be home with us soon enough.” she offers you a reassuring smile. 

“I’m nervous for the journey to Oldtown.” you whisper looking down at your intertwined hands.

“Your uncle will be by your side the whole time. He has personally picked your company himself. I promise that he will keep you safe. I know this.” she nods. 

“That still doesn’t mean I know him. He is as a stranger to me as the men that he picked to accompany us.” you shake your head as the carriage stops. 

“Once you see him all of the memories will come back.” she looks you over before exiting the carriage. 

You follow her out into the main courtyard and hear your heart pounding in your ears as you see Oldtown knights and soldiers flooding the walkways. You grab onto your mothers arm and she holds you closer guiding you to the steps of the Keep. You keep your gaze down as you follow quickly behind her and sigh in relief when the familiar stone greets your eyes. 

“Sister.” you press against your mother when she suddenly stops.

“Gwayne.” she turns around with a smile. 

“And surely this isn’t my sweet little niece?” your breath catches as your eyes meet his.

“Hasn’t she grown?” your mother turns to you with a smile. “You remember Gwayne don’t you, sweet girl?” she adjusts your hair. 

“I’m afraid my memory doesn’t serve me.” your cheeks burn as his full attention is on you.

“Then might I introduce myself.” he holds his hand out waiting for yours. You place your hand in his and he brings it to his mouth to place a soft kiss on you. “Sir Gwayne, Princess.” he bows his head to you. “I’m here to escort you to safety.” you blink up at him and nod. 

Your mother ushers you into the castle while she continues to speak with her brother. You glance behind you and find him looking after you already. He offers you a small smile before you turn and walk up the steps. You seal yourself in your chambers trying to think of anything besides how you’ll be leaving your home at day break. 

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A week on the road

You’ve slowly become more relaxed with Gwayne as your traveling companion. He’s been nothing short of doting and you can’t help but to think of another life where you got to spend your life growing up in Oldtown with his kindness, his gentleness. He wakes early with you and sets up your candles and makes a small area for you to have your time and silence as you pray to the Gods. 

Gwayne stands at your back, ever the faithful watcher, protector. When you rise and come to his side he gathers your materials and packs them into the bag and clips it to his horse. By this time the men are awake and finishing breakfast before the lot of you start off on your journey once more. You stay glued to his side until your legs tire then he lifts you up the horse and guides you down the path. 

“Might we stay at an Inn tonight?” you whisper and Gwaynes neck is craning up to you before you finish your sentence. “I would like a bath.” your cheeks redden at the thought of how many days it has been. 

“Of course.” a small smile spreads across his features. “I would welcome a night on a bed. Not that our blankets aren’t comfortable.” he raises his brow at you and you let out a small laugh. 

“Thank you.” you nibble your lip before turning back to the road. 

Gwayne lets his mind travel to laying in a warm bed for once. He knows you don’t feel too many of the effects of sleeping on the ground because you’ve been draped across him every night. He stares at the top of the tent as you curl on top of him. The first night you both shared a tent it was because he wanted you close by, safe. Now he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to find sleep without you curled against him. 

He trusts his men but not with you, Gods he’s not even sure he trusts himself with you. The mornings are the hardest for him. Your night dress is bunched up, legs tangled with his, and your warm breath fanning across his neck. He always brushes your hair back to wake you and he’s greeted by the smallest whimper as you cling onto him tighter. 

“We’re off the trail.” he’s brought back to the present by your soft voice. 

“I am so sorry Princess.” he shakes his head and watches his men turn back at him and snicker. “We’re stopping at the next Inn.” he calls to his men and they sigh in relief and continue walking once more. 

“Can we still share a bed?” you hope you don’t sound too desperate. 

“Of course.” he looks up at you. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” you smile at his words and whisper a thanks before letting your mind drift to hot water and soap. 

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Your face falls when the Inn finally comes into view. If you hadn’t thought about a bath for the past couple of hours you would’ve requested to just keep going and stay in the tent once more. Gwayne lifts you off the horse and you frown as mud tracks on the bottom of your skirts. He winces at how upset you look and hopes a bath can distract you, but when he leads you into the Inn he watches your frown deepen. 

“At least there will be a bed and a bath.” Gwayne glances at you and sees your scrunched face.

“Yeah.” you force a smile and he sighs leading you up to the Innkeeper. 

The steps that lead up to the small room keep snagging on your dress and Gwayne cringes at every whine that comes from your mouth. When he pushes open the door he hears your gasp and ushers you inside quickly. He sets your bags down and turns to find you standing near the small tub, more like a large bucket before you turn and look up at him with round eyes.

“Just for tonight.” he cups your face and you nod once. “After we get to Oldtown you’ll never want for anything else.” he searches your eyes. “The finest gowns and the sweetest smelling soaps and oils. I’ll see to it.” he nods.

“Do you think they even have soap here?” he can’t help but crack a smile. 

“I’m sure they do. It might not be the best but it’ll do the job.” he watches you nibble your lip. “What’s wrong?” 

“Could you help me?” you whisper and he tilts his head confused.

“With what?” he searches your eyes.

“My bath.” your cheeks redden. “I’ll put one of my night dresses on but..” you shake your head. “I don’t know..” your voice cracks and you feel your eyes well with hot tears. “I don’t want to be traveling anymore.” he’s cupping your face the second your tears start to fall. 

“We’re almost there. We can travel through the night, if it would please you.” he nods. “I can carry you so you can sleep in my arms. Anything, just say the words.” you fold against his chest and he holds you as you let out soft sobs. 

“How much longer?” you mumbled against his chest. 

“Just a week.” he smooths your hair back and holds you closer. “You’ve been so brave.” he whispers. “The best traveling companion I could’ve asked for.” you pull back and look up at him with puffy eyes. “Go put your night dress on and I’ll go fetch some water and soap.” you nod and he watches you walk over to your bag. 

He clicks the door shut behind him and thuds down the stairs in search of what you require. He knows he shouldn’t be bathing you but who else would? Gods and now he’s thinking about you in a wet night dress. He stops on the stairs and closes his eyes trying to get the picture out of his mind. He starts down the stairs once more and thanks the Innkeeper when he hands him a bucket for water and a bar of soap. 

Gwayne shoves the soap in his pocket and walks over to have his bucket filled. When the man grabs the bucket from him he grunts and fills it until water is sloshing out the sides. As Gwayne makes his way back to the stairs he jumps when some of the water seeps into his sleeve and groans at how cold it is. He’s half tempted to say they didn’t have any water for a bath but he doesn’t want to upset you further. He pushes the door open and finds you sitting on the bed with your hands in your lap. 

“It seems as if this is all they could spare.” your eyes catch on the small bucket that has water dripping down the side of it.

“Okay.” you nod and rise from the bed. “I’m sorry I’m causing so much trouble.” you look at the uneven floors as you walk to the small basin. 

“You’re not, sweet girl.” he sets the bucket on the ground and offers you his hand to help you step into the tub. He watches your skin pebble as you sink into the empty basin and curl your legs up to your chest. “I just don’t think they expected to be housing a Princess.” 

“Did they give you soap?” you look up at him and he pulls the bar out of his pocket and watches your face fall. “I don’t want that in my hair. Can you get me something to tie it up?” you look from the offensive bar of soap to his crumbling face. 

“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.” Gods he should’ve never taken you here. This has to be worse than the tent. Surely you must loathe him by now. When he turns back to you he sees your cheeks are flushed and he steps behind you and starts to scoop up your hair. “I could braid it later if you’d like.” he whispers, trying to delicately pull it up to secure it off your neck. 

“You can braid?” you look up at him with a hint of a smile. 

“I was practically your mothers most trusted handmaiden growing up.” he cups your cheek and caresses your jaw with his thumb. “I can do your hair however you would like.” his heart swells seeing a smile back on your face. 

“I would like that.” you nod and watch as he grabs the bucket of water. 

“The water is cold.” he watches you close your eyes and nod. You hear his footsteps and fabric being ripped and you peek open your eyes and see that he tore apart one of his tunic. “They seemed to be out of cloths as well.” he offers you a half smile. 

“You didn’t have to.” you look up at him with scrunched brows. 

“Of course I did. It’s for you.” he cups your cheek before squatting down next to the basin. 

For the next couple of minutes he dips the fabric in the water and rubs the soap into it before bringing it to your arm. He tries his best to ignore your small whines about the temperature and get it done as quickly as possible. You push his hand away, shivering and rising out of the basin. He watches you stand there hugging yourself and when he offers you his hand to get out his eyes widen at your now see through night dress. 

“Let’s get you into something warm and dry.” he turns and grabs your bag. He pulls out a dry night dress and turns to you. “I’ll go stand by the door so you can change.” he lays the fabric on the chair and faces the door, shutting his eyes as he hears you shuffle around. 

He knows he shouldn’t be feeling anything he’s been feeling for you the past week. You’re his niece. Gods you’re just so sweet and innocent. Somehow unsullied from growing up in the Godless city of Kings Landing. He never wants to let you go back there. He just wants to keep you for himself. To protect you and keep you safe. He wants to braid your hair and give you hot baths with towers of bubbles and petals. Yet all he’s done is have you sleep on the ground and take you to an Inn that is probably worse than any building in flea bottom. 

“I’m still cold.” he turns and finds you in your dry night dress hugging yourself. 

“Let me tuck you in and I’ll start a fire in the hearth.” he nods and leads you over to the bed. 

“I want you to come to bed with me.” you pout. “You’re always so warm.” you curl against him and he swears his heart stops when your cold fingers press under his tunic into his skin. 

“I will once I get the fire going.” he squeezes you against him once before tucking you into the bed. 

You watch from under the covers as he moves about the room. The walls whistle from the breeze outside and you can feel the cold creeping back in. He quickly gets a fire going and gets rid of some of his layers before getting under the covers with you. He knows he shouldn’t and that his sister would probably have his head for this but he can’t help it. He’s just making sure you’re safe and protected. He smiles when he hears your even breathing in his neck as you cuddle on top of him. 

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A week after arriving in Oldtown

Oldtown is grander than you ever could have expected. Gwayne has been showing you around from sunup to sun down and you can’t recall the last time you were so happy. The great sept here has never made you feel closer to the Gods and you can almost hear them whispering to you in the breeze to be happy. Gwayne never lets you out of his sight and has even allowed you to continue to share a bed with him. 

Gwayne was sure the servants were going to cease to exist at the thought of you both sharing chambers but he had come up with something they couldn’t argue. You were still scared, unsure and he just wanted to make sure you’re safe. He told them if you weren’t by him you wouldn’t get any sleep and would be plagued with night terrors. When these excuses left his mouth he was wondering if he did it for you, himself, or the others within the walls of the castle. These thoughts leave his head when he sees you yawning and stretching in your silk pouting for him to come to bed. 

When he first brought you to his chambers he leaned against the wall and watched you inspect every surface. Your eyes lingered on the massive tub and then you turned to his bed and fell back onto it in a fit of giggles. His heart warmed and he stepped over to you and asked if there was anything else you would like to be brought in. You shook your head and pulled him into the bed with you and curled against him and fell asleep. He watched you as you napped that first day and vowed to himself that he would never let you go, never leave Oldtown.  

The moon has been high in the sky for hours and he’s been content to listen to you tell him about your life growing up in Kings Landing. Your complaints of not wanting to marry Aemond solidifies his decision to keep you here with him. You’re too kind to your two brothers, too kind for this world. He’s half tempted to steal you away now and take you far away and keep you all to himself. 

“So what do you think?” you blink up at him and he shakes his head cursing himself for letting his mind drift. 

“I’m sorry, sweet girl. What did you say?” you offer him a small pout. 

“I asked for a kiss.” he chuckles and presses his lips to your forehead. “No,” you whine. 

“Then where would you like a kiss? Hm?” he presses his lips to your cheek. “Here?” he kisses your other cheek. “Or here?” he kisses your nose quickly. “Where would you like a kiss, sweet girl?” he hovers over you on the bed and peppers kisses across your face as you giggle. 

“On my lips.” you watch him lean back and tilt his head. 

“I can’t.” he watches your smile fall. 

“Why not?” you search his eyes. “I want my first kiss to be with someone gentle and kind like you.” you search his eyes. “Please?” you blink up at him and the reality of his situation comes crashing down on him. 

He moves from above you and sits up on the bed next to you. He’s allowed himself to think too far into this fantasy world where he could have you. Take you away from here. Build a life, a family with you. He buries his head in his hands and focuses on his breathing until he feels you drape against his back. His shoulders relax when you bury your fingers in his hair and softly rake your nails against his head. 

“Did I do something wrong?” you whisper and he shakes his head. “Do you think I’m a whore?” he hears your voice crack and he turns around in an instant. 

“Gods no.” he shakes his head. 

“Am I not good enough for you?” his heart cracks watching you frown. 

“You are too good for me.” he cups your cheeks. 

“It’s just one kiss.” you blink up at him with glossy eyes. 

“Just one?” he feels his will breaking. 

“Please,” you scoot closer to him. 

“Close your eyes.” he whispers and you snap them shut. “Are you ready?” you can feel the heat coming off his body. 

“Please,” you lean forward. 

His hands engulf your cheeks as he softly presses his lips to yours. He starts to pull back before he can’t but you push forward and connect your lips again. He pulls back but you start to crawl into his lap, “Please, Gwayne please.” He pulls you back against his lips and wraps his hands around you back holding you closer. When he pushes his tongue into your mouth you let out a small whimper and melt into him. He doesn’t care, he can’t. Not when you’re begging like this and pleading for him. You both stay mended together until you have to pull back for more than just gasps of breath. 

“We need to go to bed.” he looks at your swollen lips and flushed cheeks. 

“No.” you shake your head. 

“Yes.” he clears his throat. “Under the covers.” he nods and starts to pull them back as you pout.

“If I go under the covers can I have another kiss?” you tilt your head and he groans. 

“And you must go to bed after.” you nod and scoot under the covers. 

He’s barely under the covers when you’re on top of him and pressing your lips to his. Everytime he lifts you off you press against him harder, whining into his mouth. He can feel every curve of your body, the way your nipples are peaked and pressed against his chest. Your night dress slowly bunching up as you absentmindedly rock against him. Every small gasp and whine is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. He pulls you off of him and presses you into the mattress next to him. 

“Go to bed.” he settles into the bed beside you. 

“Please.” you whisper. “Can I still cuddle with you?” you turn on your side. 

Gwayne sighs and pulls you against him. You smile and tangle your limbs with his as you do every night now. You press your lips to his neck and he squeezes your sides with whispers of going to bed or he’ll move to the couch. 

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A month after being in Oldtown

Gwayne waits patiently for you outside of the sept as he’s done every morning since bringing you here, yet he’s never been this tired. You spent hours after you were supposed to be asleep attached to his lips. Then this morning you stayed attached to his neck. He's sure a mark is blossoming under his collar at this very moment. Every morning he looks up at the sept as you scuttle up the stairs and then turns and stands guard as if he hasn’t broken every rule. Once the sun crests over the walls you’re skipping down the stairs and clinging onto his arm.

“I’m ready for our day in the forest.” you lean onto his arm. “Though I don’t know why we must go back out there.” you sigh. 

“I wish for you to see how enjoyable it can be. How beautiful and bountiful the land is.” he leads you over to his horse and helps you up before taking a place behind you. “It’ll be just us. No company of men. No tents, we can sleep in our bed tonight.”  he nods. 

“If you insist.” you lean back into him, enjoying the way his arms hold you as he grips the reins. 

“I do.” he leans closer and whispers in your ear. 

As Gwayne leads you through the city he smiles watching you so at ease and happy. You wave at the people you both pass by and they wave back offering you a warm welcome. As the city gates come into view he feels you tense as you approach them. He wraps an arm around your waist and holds you closer and you seem to relax at the comfort. 

“You promise we won’t sleep out here tonight.” you look up at him. 

“I promise, sweet girl.” he nods at the guard as they open the gates for the both of you. 

You turn back when the gates close behind you both and then back to the greenery all around you. You crane your neck and take in how tall the trees truly are. Gwayne watches as you let your eyes close and listen to the sounds of different life. The soft breeze blows through your hair as he continues to lead you down the path. When the horse comes to a stop you open your eyes and tilt your head at him. 

“May I offer you a walk?” you look down at him on the ground and his outstretched hand. 

“For a kiss.” he grins at your soft words. 

“That could be arranged.” he grabs your waist and helps you down but you wrap yourself around him, wanting to be held by him. “One kiss. I still want to show you around.” you nod and press your lips to his. He lets you get caught up in the kiss for another minute before he’s pulling you off and setting you down. “You are so beautiful.” he brushes his fingers on your cheek. 

He watches a blush rise to your cheeks before he grabs your hand and leads you deeper into the forest. You both come to a clearing and his heart starts to thunder. He looks down at you as you look up at the small opening in the canopy and back at the clearing bathed in sunlight. You walk through the long grass and wildflowers and turn with a pout when you see him still standing at the edge. 

When he starts to walk towards you he watches you turn once more and smell the flowers. Your hands delicately trail through the tall grass catching on a few flowers but letting them be. You turn and find him standing in the tall grass. You slowly walk back over to him and he engulfs you in his embrace. You can hear his heartbeat through his tunic as you rest your head on his chest. 

“I don’t wish to see you go back to Kings Landing.” he whispers. 

“Did my mother call for me?” he can hear the small amount of fear. 

“No, the war is still waging. You are safe here with me.” he holds you closer. “I just.. I want to keep you here with me forever.” you bury your head further into his chest. “Right here. I’d clear out the field and build you such a beautiful home.” he hums. “Far enough away where we won’t be disturbed but close enough where I can get you supplies, maesters if needed, the sept is there..” he trails off. “But I’d make you your own praying circle with candles and a bench. I’d build you your own sept if it would make you stay with me.” he nods. 

“I would do all these things for you. I would do anything you ask. I’d be your protector, I’d hold your secrets,” you’re holding onto him so tightly now. “I’d be your husband if you’d wish it. Give you all of the kisses you want. We could build a family.” he lets his mind drift to the thought of you round with his child. 

“Please,” he pulls you back and searches your eyes. “I want that so badly. Please.” your voice is so soft he can’t take it anymore. 

He presses his lips to yours and you wrap yourself back around him. You smile against him when he slowly lowers you to the ground and the grass envelopes you both. His lips press against yours once more and you wrap your legs around his waist enjoying the way he’s pressing against you. You feel so safe, so loved. You relish in the silence only hearing yours and his panting. He’s trying to show restraint but he’s rarely the one on top because he knows it would just take one small moan and he would devour you. 

He lifts up and looks at your lips before kissing down your neck. The high pitched whines leaving your mouth cause him to push his hips into yours and you hold him tighter with a small plea. He rolls his hips once more just wanting to hear your noises again before he stops but this time it’s a moan of his name. His hands find your thighs to untangle you but he’s met with your skin as your skirts have risen up your thighs. He digs into your soft flesh as he continues to kiss and suckle at your neck. 

“Move your hips again.” you whine jerking your hips up. “Please, please Gwayne,” you claw into his back. “Oh, yes,” you squeak as he grinds into you. “More.” you feel your body heating. 

“We mustn’t.” he pulls back from your neck and takes in your red cheeks. “We’re not even married.” he shakes his head and unwraps your legs from him. 

“Then let’s marry.” you whine when he pulls your skirts back down your legs. “Then you can build our house while I carry our child.” you nod. “Please,” his heart is thundering so loudly at your words. “Tomorrow at daybreak.” you nod. “I know just the septon to do it.” he watches a smile bloom on your face. 

“What about a gown?” he chuckles, watching you stand and pull him up. 

“I have plenty of gowns to choose from.” you put your hands on your hips. 

“Show me where you want the house to be.” he presses his lips to your forehead. 

For the next couple of hours he lets you lead him around the clearing telling him where you would like everything set up. He takes dutiful mental notes and nods at every suggestion. You steal small kisses from him throughout the afternoon and once the sun starts to sink he begins to lead you back to the horse. He helps you up and smiles when you lean against him as he takes his place once more. 

You smile and wave at the people again as you both pass through town. He takes you on a longer route back to the castle, letting you both off when something catches your eye. By the time you both make it back the sun is set and you’re now carrying a bag of new jewels and sweets. He asks a couple of servants to bring up some supper to his chambers for the both of you before he leads you up the stairs and seals you away with him. 

Once the doors are shut you’re on him. Kissing at him, pulling at his clothes and whining when he grabs your wrists to stop your wandering hands. He chuckles into your mouth when you press yourself against him. He grabs your waist and pulls you back and places one last kiss on your lips to rid you of your pout. Both of your heads snap to the door when there’s a couple soft knocks. 

Gwayne opens the door and accepts the trays from the servants and closes the door behind him. He turns and finds you clearing the table and setting up places for you both to sit. He spreads the food across the table and fills your plate and cup. You both glance at each other with smiles and thoughts of how this will never cease. Your mind drifts to asking the septon in the morning and being wed under the rising sun. You clean up the table and drift over to the wardrobe to pull out the gown you had in mind for the morning. 

He watches you float around the room readying your clothes for tomorrow. His heart swells when you start to pick his clothes, having a vision of what he’ll be wearing as you seal yourselves together for eternity. He watches you start to pull on the laces of your dress and he takes quick steps over to you to replace your fingers with his. Once the dress is on the ground he helps you step out of it before he turns to the wardrobe and reaches for your night dress. 

“Gods above.” he fists the fabric in his hands when he turns and finds you standing naked and your slip in the pile with your gown. 

“Take me.” you whisper, stepping towards him. “I just want to be close to you.” 

“We can wait another day.” his voice hoarse. 

“Gwayne,” you whine and he drops the night dress to the floor. “Please,” you’re directly in front of him now blinking up at him. 

He lifts you up and smashes his lips to yours. You sigh into his mouth and melt against him. One of his hands is holding onto your ass and you whine when he squeezes the tender flesh. His other hand is wrapped around your waist and splayed against your back holding you closer. He starts to walk you back over to his bed and reluctantly pulls back from your lips. He gently lays you back on the bed and starts to remove his clothing. 

“Your trousers.” you whine when he starts to crawl over you with them still on. 

“I’m not taking you tonight.” he shakes his head before pressing soft kisses against your neck. 

“Why not.” you arch up into him as his hands roam down your sides. “Please,” he starts to kiss down your chest and presses his forehead just under your collarbone trying to reel himself in. “Oh,” you gasp as you jerk your hips up against his. “This feels different.” you grind against his trousers. 

“That’s because you’re not wearing any small clothes.” he groans, grabbing your hips and stilling them. 

“Take them off. I just want to feel you.” you start to move your legs up and try to push them down with your feet. “Gwayne,” he groans at the breathlessness of your voice. 

“Okay, okay.” he shushes against your chest and untangles from you. 

He stands at the edge of the bed and watches your head pop up as he starts to unlace his trousers and push them down. He sighs in relief when he’s free from the fabric. Your cheeks flush when you take in his length bouncing against his stomach. He smirks as you slowly lay back down, spreading your legs giving him the perfect view of your glistening slit. He starts to crawl over you once more leaning down to kiss up your torso, between your breasts, and finally stopping at your lips. 

“Gwayne,” your voice trembling almost as much as your body at his soft touch. 

“What would you like, sweet girl?” he leans down, letting his lips brush against yours. 

“Just touch me, kiss me, anything.” you wrap your arms around the back of his neck and bring his lips to yours. 

Gwayne is positive he must be dreaming or dead because there is no way this is his reality. The second your legs wrap around his waist he knows this is real at the feel of his tip sliding through your wetness. You whimper into his mouth and start rocking your hips and his head spins. He tries to press you back into the mattress but he just ends up sliding through your wetness even more. 

“Take me.” you plead. “Please, just take me.” you hold him closer and rock your hips. 

He presses his lips to yours and brings one of his hands between the both of you. The second he slides a finger up your slit you cry into his mouth. You’re practically dripping and when he brings his finger down to your entrance you arch up into him and he’s greeted by a pool of your arousal. He brings a second finger down to circle your entrance before sliding them both back up to your bud. The noise that leaves your mouth after his first swirl has his cock aching. 

“Mm, more,” he circles his fingers faster and your legs squeeze around his waist. “I- I’m,” you feel such immense pleasure as you try to keep kissing him. You hold onto his neck and he watches your face scrunch as you pant into the small space between you both. 

“How does it feel?” he leans down to press his lips to your neck. 

“Good.” you gasp. “So good, ple- mm,” he chuckles into your neck and speeds up his fingers. “Gway-Ah,” you claw onto his back and pleasure slams through you. 

He lifts up as he’s still swirling his fingers to watch your face. Your lips are parted and your eyes are squeezed shut as you continue to whimper. He slides his fingers down and circles one of his fingers around your core. He dips a finger into you and groans as he feels you fluttering around him. He brings his thumb up to your bud and watches your face as he slowly pumps his finger. 

“Yes,” your chest heaves as he slowly works your body. “Please,” you roll your hips against his hand. 

He watches you squirm beneath him and his resolve is starting to weaken. Your soft whimpers and pleas are going straight to his cock which has been aching for some time now but this is about you, it’ll always be about you. He starts to press a second finger into you and you cry out his name. You peel your eyes open and find him already looking at you. 

“Kiss me.” you pant and his lips are on yours the next second. “I want you, not your fingers.” you whine into his mouth. 

“Tomor-“ he grunts when your hands wrap around his cock. 

“Please,” he can hear your pleasure in your voice as it soaks his hand. “Just the tip then,” you swipe against his leaking tip and he presses his forehead to yours. 

“Alright,” he wraps his hand around yours and removes it. “Tell me if it’s too uncomfortable and we’ll stop.” he searches your lidded eyes. 

“Please, please, I need it please,” you’re panting and squirming underneath him. He groans and takes his pleasure coated hands and strokes himself, mixing his pleasure with yours to slick his cock. “Mm,” you chew your lip as he starts to press the head in. 

“Fuck,” he softly curses as your cunny sucks in his tip. “This is as much as-

“Mor- oh,” you gasp when you jerk your hips pushing him further in. “Please,” your chest is heaving as he stills all of his movements. 

“We shouldn’t.” he pants but his cock is already inching further into your warm cunny. 

“Move.” you whisper, holding onto him tightly. “Gwayne, please,” you move your hips and gasp at the continued stretch. 

Your eyes lock with his as he continues to push into you. He watches for any sign of genuine discomfort or pain as he continues. He watches your lids get heavier and when his hips are flush with yours you let out a small whimper. You both stare at each other and breathe heavily until he leans down and presses his lips to yours. He starts to slowly pull out as he swallows down all of your whines. 

“You’re doing so good for me, sweet girl.” he starts to kiss down your neck as he pushes back in. “Taking me so well.” he starts a steady rhythm that has a continuous string of whimpers falling from your mouth. 

He presses his lips to yours once more as he continues to rock into you. Soon to be his wife. Soon to be carrying his child. His hips snap into yours with a little more force at that thought. Your walls hug him as he starts to move faster. The high pitched moans coming from your mouth only spur him on to move faster. He feels his pleasure approaching and from the way you’re squeezing him he knows you’re right there with him. 

“I can’t wait to start a family with you.” he mumbles into your mouth. “Keep you all safe.” he rolls his hips. “Keep you swollen with our children for a couple years.” your nails dig into his back as you nod your head. “Yeah? Would you like that?” 

“Please, yes, I’m,” you babble, nodding your head feeling your toes curl. “Mm I,”

“Shh shh, I've got you.” he kisses back down to your neck. “I’m gonna fill you up and give you the life you want.” he grunts. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me.” his words are filled with pleasure and outright devotion. 

With one last cry of his name you fall apart around him which causes him to follow with his pleasure. He slowly pumps his seed into you watching your face scrunch with every slow thrust. He presses his lips to yours and gently pulls out. He collapses onto the bed next to you and you turn and curl into him immediately. His hand rubs your back soothingly as he whispers soft words of praise. He watches your eyes shut and pulls the blanket over the both of you. 

“We’ll marry in the morning and I’ll start making plans to build you a home by the afternoon.” he presses his lips to your forehead before letting sleep take him over as well. 

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6 months later 

Gwayne stands behind you in the once overgrown clearing just beyond the city gates. You’re sitting at the stone bench he made for you with a couple candles lit in the small patch. Your eyes are shut and your usually clasped hands for prayer are instead tenderly holding onto your bump. You had insisted you could still kneel but once he saw you wince when he helped you up he wouldn’t allow it anymore. Now he brings out a feather pillow for you and helps you settle more comfortably. 

You rise from the bench with ease but he’s still next to you with a hand on your lower back and the other protectively on your bump. He places a chaste kiss on your lips, then your nose, and lastly on your forehead. He begins to escort you back to the house and the candles and incense caress your nose as he leads you over to the couch before he goes to prepare your tea. He knows you’ll say he’s overbearing but it’s his job. To protect you. To see to every single one of your needs. To dote upon you. To love you. 

“Gwayne,” he drops everything at the slight worry in your tone. 

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” he’s kneeling before you and looking over every inch of you. 

“There’s some people coming.” you look out the window and he sees a couple guards and someone walking in the middle of them. 

“Stay here.” he goes to the front door and clenches his jaw when he feels your hands wrap around his arm. “At least stay behind me.” he whispers and you nod. 

“Her Grace, Alicent Hightower, requests entry.” one of the men grunt out. 

You push Gwayne aside and pull open the door. Alicent takes you in and her eyes widen but you pull her into a fierce hug. Tears flow freely down your cheeks as you cling to your mother. Alicent holds you and is all too aware of your swollen stomach. Her eyes move from you to Gwayne who looks at the guards and back to her. He opens the door wider and shuffles the both of you inside and seals the door shut. 

“I have prayed for you everyday.” you sniffle, wiping your eyes. 

“And I for you.” she hums watching Gwayne help you sit back on the couch. 

“Could I get you a drink? Something to eat? How was the journey?” she’s aware of his nervous ramble, something he’s been doing since they were kids. 

“Tea.” she nods once and turns her attention back to you. 

Alicent settles back into the chair and looks around the home. Your touch is all over the place with small accents of Gwayne. The house is warm and inviting and she softly shakes her head because this is the home she wanted to have when she was a girl. Her eyes move back to you and take in the soft glow coming off of you. Pregnancy looks well on you, you’re so at ease. Your white curls spilling over your shoulder as you wear a sage dress. How is it that she's looking at her little girl but before her sits the Mother?

“My sweet girl,” she can’t help the tremble in her voice. “Are you happy here?” she chokes back her tears. 

“I don’t think I’ve been happier.” a smile spreads across your face and seems to illuminate the room. 

“Tea for you.” Gwayne hands her a cup on a saucer with shaky hands. “And tea for you.” he takes a seat next to you and offers you the cup. 

His eyes slide over to his sister and she takes a sip of her tea. The warmth settles into her chest, “Our childhood tea.” 

“It’s my new favorite.” you hum. “The babe seems to dance everytime I drink it as well.” you place a hand in your bump. 

“I..” Alicent shakes her head at a loss for what to say. You look between them and grab Gwayne's hand. 

“Our love was a surprise to us.” you whisper. “It took us both by surprise. I..” you shake your head. “He is so very gentle and sweet. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so safe and loved.” you don’t mean for your words to stab your mother but you see the impact of them. “I’m sorry.” 

“Do not apologize for choosing love and gentleness.” her glassy eyes snap up to yours. “I’m sorry.” she grabs her chest. “I just l..” she can’t blink away her tears as they fall. “I wanted a life like this long ago.” she whispers. “The Gods had chosen differently for me.” she offers you a weak smile. 

“The Gods did not choose that for you. Our father did.” Gwayne shakes his head and reaches out for her hand. 

“I want you to remain here with Gwayne.” she looks at you and swallows back her sorrow. “I’ll say you were lost to the war.” she shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. 

“What of my siblings?” your words hushed. 

“Do not worry.” she quickly wipes away her tears. 

“Mother,” you start to rise. 

“No.” she shakes her head and stands. She walks over to you and cups your cheeks. “My sweet girl.” she presses her lips to your forehead and offers Gwayne the same. 

“Stay here with us.” he grabs her hands. “I’ll build you your own home.” he searches her eyes. “Anything.” he starts to rise. 

“My fate has been decided long ago.” her voice cracks. “I find solace knowing the Gods were gentler with the both of you.” she nods and turns to the door. 

You look after her in confusion and send Gwayne after her. When he steps out of your home Alicent and her guards are already clearing the tree line. He turns back to you and seals the door and kneels before you. He wipes away the tears that keep flowing down your face. He engulfs you in a hug and you curl into his chest. 

ততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত

5 years later

You bite your lip to hide your smile as your little girl tugs at your dress. You shush her and clasp her hands back together as you continue to pray with a soft smile. Your two sons are next to you softly giggling and you hear Gwayne silently scold them. You open your eyes, abandoning prayer until they’re down for their nap. Gwayne helps you up and places his hand on your once again growing bump. 

“Soon you will need to be on your bench again.” he whispers, pressing his lips to your forehead. 

“Soon you’ll have to build another bench.” you smile up at him. “I don’t think two will suffice anymore.” you chuckle as your three children circle around the both of you. 

“Then expand our house, get more livestock, plant some more vegetables..” he trails off, pinching your children’s cheeks causing them to squeal and run around in the wildflowers. 

“Father,” your little girl tugs on his tunic. 

“Yes, my sweet little princess?” he scoops her up. 

“Could you braid my hair like mothers?” she smiles shyly. 

“Of course I can, Ali.” she wraps her arms around his neck before wiggling out and running off with her brothers. 

Gwayne helps you take a seat and takes his place next to you as you both watch your children frolic around the tall grass and flowers. The sun shines on your boy's silver hair while it radiates warmth in your daughter's red locks. You lean against Gwaynes side and shut your eyes listening to the laughter and the breeze. 

ততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত

masterlist  ⏾  wips  ⏾  taglist

bruh when i was writing the Inn scene i had to show so much mf restraint bc im a hoe for the ‘only one room and one bed’ trope but it wasn’t their time yet 🥲

and we already got another gwayne fic in the works let’s gooooo 

@ka1afbr @ninihrtss @daintylittlesunflower @primroseluna @alexxavicry @misspendragonsworld @papichulo120627 @ashovertheriver @gabriella-aesthetic @moonymoo1 @faenyra @uwuuness @lizzylovebooks280501 @nostalgiagoth03 @multilover19 @summer-and-sunflowers @eternalwinters @rere10 @sxlsvv @sarahrosw36q @tricksterreaper @somethingsaladsomething @naty-sunshine @supernaturalwitch89 @the-wife-of-fictional-men

[nordickies]

Remember when I used to make headcanon masterposts? Yeah, me neither, but here we go again! I don’t often get the chance to talk about Norway in depth, but he has been at the forefront of my mind lately. So I thought, why not bring my thoughts together in the form of a very long masterpost? This masterpost is packed with big and small ideas about his character that shape the way I personally write him.

I tried to gather everything I could think of, though I’m sure I’ve forgotten something along the way. I’ll happily update the list later. If people are interested, I’d love to finish similar posts for the rest of the Nordics as well as revisit some of the older ones!

So, without further ado, brace yourself and read the whole list below!

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Introduction

Norway’s human name is Sigurd Nordvik, and Mr. Norway (Herr Norge) is the title by which he is formally addressed. However, he doesn’t really care about official titles and prefers people to call him Norway or Norge. Sometimes his closest friends may use the human nickname "Sigge." In the past, he was called Sigurðr — or Siward in English. Sjur Ødegård has often been his go-to alias.

His chosen birthday is the 17th of May (Norway’s Constitution Day), but he has never been the type to celebrate himself. He prefers to keep the day as a celebration for his country and its people. He likes rotating the type of bunad he wears every year, and he heads to the streets to celebrate together with his people.

He speaks Norwegian and English, and due to his close relationship with his neighbors, he can speak Swedish and Danish too — though hesitantly, only when necessary. In the past, he spoke Old Norse, Latin, German, and French. However, he has since forgotten most of these languages and is no longer able to communicate through them efficiently.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Appearance

Sigurd has light grey eyes, reminiscent of mountain bedrock or morning fog. His head is long and narrow. He has a slightly bumpy, downturned nose, hollow cheeks, and a relaxed, expressionless face. His lips are thin, his eyes narrow, and his wavy, light blonde hair falls just to his neck, a little unkempt. A modest amount of facial and body hair adds to his understated ruggedness. His skin is pale but reactive, quick to flush in the cold wind, burn in the sun, or betray his mysterious image during heightened emotions. He's naturally quite thin and in fit shape due to his hobbies. He's tall, around 185 cm.

Sigurd doesn't outshine with his sense of fashion, dressing for convenience rather than looks. While he owns plenty of well-fitted suits and tailored longer coats for the occasions that call for them, he feels most like himself in chunky wool sweaters and hiking trousers, fit for the weather for the majority of the year. He seems to avoid bright colors, except red, but he loves detailed colorwork knits. He's frugal when it comes to many things and thus still knits his own sweaters. He claims he doesn't want to waste money on items he could easily make himself, and he certainly has similar sweaters in many variations in his closet. But, in contradictory fashion, he'll wear insanely expensive outdoor gear, technical boots, and windproof jackets without seeing any problem in subtly flexing through them.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Personality

Sigurd is a reliable, composed, and trustworthy person in any situation — the kind of friend you want to keep in your life. His honest yet genuine demeanor tends to leave a lasting impression, and he’s generally viewed in a very positive light. Though Sigurd is quiet and mysterious, his presence tends to spark curiosity rather than intimidation. Everyone wants to claim him as their best friend.

Naturally reserved, he can sometimes come across as distant or emotionally cold. However, he simply prefers to keep to himself, avoid bothering others, and not stand out too much. Sigurd makes a conscious effort to be respectful, often avoiding situations that could feel awkward for either party, so he tends to keep his social interactions formal and brief. Social settings overwhelm him easily, and if given the chance, he’ll quietly slip away before anyone even notices or makes a big deal out of it.

Emotionally, Sigurd is guarded. He struggles to express his feelings out loud, fearing they’ll be used against him or cause worry for others. He's used to being the sensible one, calming others down or offering a voice of reason. Sigurd being in a position where he’s the one needing help feels foreign to him. But once he’s drunk, he’ll open up more than usual, only to be hit with crushing embarrassment the next day for letting his guard down. He’s painfully shy around strangers and tends to overthink social interactions, worrying he’ll reveal too much. But to those who earn his trust, he reveals a gentler, more thoughtful side. He’s among the first to notice when someone is unwell, silently checking in—even if his concern comes out as awkward teasing. He cares deeply about his family and friends.

Still, beneath the stoic surface lies a playful spirit. Sigurd is a subtle trickster — fond of poking or teasing those he's close to, and dropping dry, sarcastic remarks with perfect timing. He pretends not to care, but he thrives on attention, especially after years of feeling like the forgotten player in their group. He secretly loves being talked about, praised, and even admired, though he quickly shuts down compliments. Still, he tends to view himself through his flaws rather than his strengths. Sigurd believes there are only a few things he’s truly talented at. When he falls short of his impossibly high standards, it feels like a crushing failure of his entire being. Despite his insecurities, Sigurd takes pride in his achievements. He’ll brag (modestly, but often) when things go well, especially if he wins something. He does his job well, always on time, and with quiet perfectionism that is often underappreciated.

Sigurd lives at his own pace, content without chasing flashy or grand goals. He’s outdoorsy, self-reliant, and focused on himself. You could say he's health-conscious due to many health-related issues in the past. But sometimes, he becomes overly fixated on it, especially during times of stress, to the point of overworking or limiting himself harshly. His relationship with money is also complicated. He’s used to surviving on very little, so even spending on small comforts can feel indulgent. He sometimes gets uncomfortable when people comment on his country’s wealth, fearing they’ll judge him personally because of it. As a result, he often steers the conversation away from the topic. Sigurd is snarky and elusive, the kind of person who could lie with a straight face if he wanted to. He's particularly skilled at keeping things about himself tightly under wraps, making him incredibly hard to read. He often projects calm and composure even when he’s unraveling inside. If anyone were built to be a manipulator, it would be Sigurd. But thankfully for those around him, he’s not malicious.

Sigurd’s emotional world is buried deep, shaped by experiences he rarely speaks of — tucked behind layers of dry humor and thoughtful silence. Perhaps because of this, he often drifts from the present, dissociating, his mind slipping into daydreams. Sometimes, he imagines fantastical scenes, far removed from the noise of everyday life. When faced with complicated emotions, Sigurd retreats into his head, withdrawing from others. Without a healthy outlet, his bottled-up feelings tend to leak out sideways — through excessive sarcasm, bullying, or self-sabotage. Left to his own devices for too long, Sigurd can grow apathetic and cynical, sinking into depression. That’s why he needs people who won’t give up on him, people who keep reaching out, even when his instinct is to push them away.

Sigurd’s emotional wounds surface in his relationships. He has trust issues, and his first instinct is to build walls when he fears getting hurt. Letting people in doesn’t come naturally to him. His past unions weren’t exactly unhappy, but they lacked mutual respect, leaving him feeling unimportant. His opinions and feelings were rarely considered in decision-making. Those experiences left a mark, making him doubt the idea of real love for someone like him. In his eyes, marriage between Nations has always been more political than personal.

Mysterious, humble, and sincere could all be words to describe Sigurd. He brings a calming presence but with a layer of sharp wit. His kindness is subtle but ever-present, tucked beneath layers of sarcasm, shy smiles, and a masked desire to be seen.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Lifestyle

Sigurd resides in Oslo due to the capital's role as the center of politics and entertainment, but he has previously lived in Bergen and Nidaros (Trondheim). When he has time off, he retreats to his mountain cabin to recharge. However, he sometimes has to deal with unexpected guests when his family also wants to enjoy a picturesque cabin weekend. It’s partly Sigurd’s own fault for wanting to be nice and offering the cabin for others to use whenever they want.

Sigurd's house is a bit chilly and serene, to the point where you can hear the old clock ticking through the halls or the walls cracking on the coldest winter days. The muted colors, a rocking chair, and large wooden cupboards all add to the tranquil atmosphere. He has a lot of old furniture he’s either kept or discovered in vintage shops. Both his house and cabin are filled with books and worn-down furniture he hasn’t dared to get rid of. He rarely buys new things as long as the old ones still work. When the silence stretches too long, he finds himself showing up unannounced at Björn’s or Magnus’ place (and raiding their pantries, calling it harrytur). The trio jokes that Sigurd is like a household cat — aloof and low-maintenance, but always returning when he wants warmth or food.

Still, Sigurd’s adventurous side doesn’t let him stay a hermit at home for too long. He’s well-traveled and deeply curious about other cultures. If he disappears for a while, he’s likely off-grid, hiking in jungles or trekking through remote landscapes. There’s hardly a place left on Earth he hasn’t visited — not even Antarctica. He’s terrible at keeping in touch or letting people know when he’s leaving, but they trust he’ll return home safely with new stories and the same worn backpack.

Sigurd has a strong, almost spiritual connection to nature. It means everything to him, and he’ll go stir-crazy if forced to stay indoors — even when he’s sick or injured. He genuinely believes in folkloric creatures like trolls, fairies, and elves, and he’s careful not to disturb rocks or trees out of respect for them. He’s passionate about environmental preservation and fascinated by Norse mythology and sagas. While he doesn’t publicly identify as a practicing pagan, he occasionally dabbles in folk magic. These interests, along with his deeply introverted habits and daydreaming nature, make him feel like someone stuck in another time. His brothers don't waste the opportunity to call him plain odd because of it, though.

Sigurd lives an active lifestyle. He skis, runs marathons, sails, and fishes — again subtly flexing with his high-quality fishing and hiking gear and regularly making trips to the northern wilderness. Back home, he goes for morning runs before sunrise, wearing reflective gear and a headlamp, preferring the peace of empty trails. In winter, he swaps running shoes for skis. Sigurd is sometimes seen as a kind of patron of sports, being the face of campaigns encouraging people of all ages to stay active. He loves attending sporting events and is always touched when asked to present awards and give speeches. He’s especially proud of working with youth sports organizations and anti-bullying campaigns.

Despite appearing like the poster boy for healthy living, Sigurd’s diet is another story. He survives on a strange mix of comfort foods — sugar-free cola, tacos, waffles, and frozen pizza, to name a few. He’s a decent cook but rarely strays from the few meals he enjoys. He’s not big on sweets, but he won’t turn down a piece of kransekake or anything almond-flavored. However, during hikes, he must carry a chocolate bar with him, which he'll open at the top of the mountain, resting for a moment and taking in the stunning view.

Sigurd also has a rich musical side — he plays the violin. In his youth, he would entertain others with his fiddle, providing atmosphere for celebrations. But most importantly, the instrument was a tool through which he could hone his skills and earn recognition. These days, he’s fascinated by electric violins. Sigurd enjoys emotional rock ballads and epic instrumental music. But once he’s drunk, he’ll sing along to Norwegian party songs with all his heart. He can become quite the loud party animal when intoxicated — but firmly denies it if teased.

Sigurd’s speaking voice is calm and airy, and he has a beautiful, soft singing voice. He has even been asked to narrate audiobooks of Norwegian literature classics. In quieter moments, he enjoys knitting and watching odd TV shows while curled up in his chilly living room. He developed an interest in roleplay and fantasy games in the 1970s and would gladly do it more often with the right group of friends. He’s also a cat person and adores kittens. He has two Norwegian Forest cats named Olaf and Mons.

As the youngest of the three brothers, Sigurd sometimes struggles with being compared to Magnus or Björn, becoming visibly upset and defensive about it. During his childhood, he had to fight for attention just to be seen and valued, but he rarely received the recognition that his brothers often did. Maybe that’s why he’s so fiercely competitive. Sigurd is always ready to join a friendly sports match — so long as he thinks he has a shot at winning. Even the most peaceful beach day tends to turn into a spontaneous contest, with Sigurd pestering someone to time his swim to settle once and for all whether he’s faster than Magnus or Björn. The same applies to chess, which Sigurd is insanely good at, or other strategic board games. Game nights in their family can thus turn rather chaotic very fast.

Sigurd isn’t particularly tidy either. After long fishing or hiking trips, he’ll barge into Björn’s place and flop onto the couch without a second thought, opening a bag of chips, still covered in travel grime. Naturally, Björn whines at him about it. But in true Sigurd fashion, he just shrugs and grins, teasing his way out of the scolding.

Sigurd’s view of his own immortality has shifted over the years, but his role as a representative of Norway has always given him a sense of purpose and motivation. He’s had bad experiences with other immortals, so he tends to seek meaning and comfort in his work — representing something he truly values. He wants to focus on what matters to him, finally pursuing his own goals instead of being held back by others. His job has strengthened his sense of self and purpose. While his responsibilities can feel limiting at times, he can recognize his immortality's nuances and appreciate the good sides of it.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Relationships

Sigurd is a reserved guy who doesn't have many deep friendships outside of his family. Most of the time, he hangs out with Björn — which is maybe a bit embarrassing for him. Sigurd doesn't like parties or big social gatherings, as he feels most people end up invading his personal space, thus making him uncomfortable. Also, his social battery runs out extremely fast. While he prefers to keep to himself, he has a strange kind of charm that draws people to him.

With such a massive coastline, Sigurd sees the Atlantic as his home and has good relations with fellow Atlantic nations. He has traveled far and wide, and generally, the Commonwealth countries have been friendly toward him, often allying with him on various matters. He sometimes goes on skiing trips with Switzerland, Liechtenstein, or Austria, as they bond over mountains and ski-related sports. They get along surprisingly well, as long as Sigurd’s silence doesn’t bother them. New Zealand is another outdoor enthusiast Sigurd gets along with — an unlikely friend from the other side of the globe.

Sigurd is usually the first to point out that Björn and Magnus have gotten old and aren't nearly as fun as they used to be. Perhaps he just doesn’t like being reminded of the passage of time or of how comfortably others have settled into ordinary lives. He feels like he’s only just now gotten his own life on track! The idea of having children or getting married doesn’t appeal to him at all. These days, he cherishes his freedom and self-reliance, which he desperately aspired for so long.

Sweden / Björn The core aspect of Sigurd's and Björn's dynamic is the love-hate relationship. They love to annoy the hell out of their söta bror, their sweet brother. They’ll nag each other nonstop and drive one another crazy all day, yet still spend the night talking, braiding each other's hair, and falling asleep in the same bed. At the same time, they constantly mock each other for being copycats, always blaming the other for mimicking their style or stealing their stuff. After all, what’s worse than being constantly compared to your sibling? Björn and Sigurd grew relatively close and spent a lot of time together growing up. They were just as competitive then as they are now; it’s definitely a trait that developed in their childhood. Both had to make do with limited resources, so competition was sometimes necessary, maybe even encouraged. Nowadays, they’ll compare anything: who has the better car, the greener yard, more birthday wishes on social media. They never seem to tire of the comparisons, though everyone else around them certainly does. But truthfully, they’d do anything for one another if it came down to it; their nagging is just a weird combination of their love languages. While they complain about the other’s incompetence and lack of brains, they still show up when needed, no questions asked. They just can’t bring themselves to admit they care; it’s too corny, not their style at all. They’ve been in various unions throughout history, though rarely by choice. Those unions have definitely left a mark, and there have been times when their relationship was seriously strained. While Sigurd usually ends up being the voice of reason around Magnus and keeps an eye on him, with Björn, he lets himself be unapologetically bothersome. Björn sometimes calls Sigurd slow and out of touch, like he’s stuck a few centuries behind. Björn can be nitpicky and meticulous, which drives Sigurd crazy. To Sigurd, Björn is a perfectionist who’s always trying to keep up appearances, even during the worst of times. Even now, Björn has a tendency to meddle in other people’s business; Björn might scold Sigurd for how he treats his little brother Eiríkur, but Sigurd will snap back and tell him it’s none of his business. On the flip side, Sigurd’s free-spirited nature and lack of structure drive Björn mad. Sigurd is strong-willed and hard to cooperate with once his mind is set on something. He’s opinionated but keeps things bottled up, which leads to spiteful and inconsiderate behavior when things don’t go his way. His antisocial tendencies and bluntness can be frustrating and even embarrassing for Björn, especially since Björn himself is so conflict-avoidant and tries to keep everyone happy. Despite those unions, however strained, they have created a strange dependency between them. Even when they’re at odds, they try to understand what the other is going through, comforting each other at their worst. Their interests and hobbies are pretty similar, so it’s no surprise they spend so much of their free time together. Neither of them does well in big crowds, and they both deeply appreciate the calm, casual atmosphere they share when it’s just the two of them. They can sit in silence doing nothing, and that’s more than enough. Though Sigurd still occasionally tries to inject a little adventure into his brother’s routine. Nature is their shared escape, and they go hiking, skiing, or kayaking when they can. ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Denmark / Magnus Magnus and Sigurd still share a deep emotional bond that's unique to them. They’re able to speak rather openly about their worries and offer each other genuine advice. Magnus relies on Sigurd and holds him in high regard, being the best friend Magnus would trust with his life. Sigurd, on the other hand, doesn’t quite share the same enthusiastic view. He keeps his distance when he can and doesn't always give in to Magnus’s wild proposals. Still, Magnus sees Sigurd as a constant in his life, someone who always has his back, no matter what. Magnus can get lost in his own world at times, forgetting things or getting distracted, so Sigurd ends up following behind to clean up the mess — just as he always has. It annoys Sigurd, but he knows Magnus doesn’t do it out of selfishness, and he’s learned to live with it. Together, Magnus and Sigurd are something of a comedic duo. Magnus's wild schemes test Sigurd's patience every single time and put them on some kind of adventure. Sigurd has learned to say "Magnus, no" almost instinctively to everything, but if nothing else, he keeps an eye to ensure Magnus doesn't get into too much trouble. Whenever Sigurd helps him out of a mess, Magnus showers him with gratitude—until he inevitably drags Sigurd back into his mess again. That’s probably why Magnus instinctively turns to Sigurd with every problem, even when it would make more sense to ask Björn. Only Sigurd seems to know how to talk him down and help him understand even the messiest of situations. Magnus tends to worry on Sigurd’s behalf — a habit Sigurd doesn’t appreciate due to past experiences with Magnus’s more controlling tendencies. But Magnus’s intentions are good; he simply wants to help and offer support. Accepting that help, though, is a real challenge for Sigurd. Magnus knows Sigurd has a tendency to bottle things up and fall into depressive episodes, and it’s something he’s quietly concerned about. He tries to keep Sigurd’s spirits up and remind him of the brighter side of life. They often visit each other’s places, though for entirely different reasons, and as a result, they end up spending a lot of time together. Sigurd often thinks Magnus’s way of doing things is ridiculous — but he gets a good laugh when he puts Magnus on skis or drags him up a mountain, watching him struggle through the harsh winter terrain. Magnus, for his part, is just happy to be entertaining. Sigurd cares about Magnus, too, in his own quiet way. He’s just learned to set boundaries so Magnus doesn’t walk all over him. He knows how much he means to Magnus, so he can’t bring himself to be too cold or dismissive. He’ll help when asked but won’t hesitate to scold Magnus to keep him in check. Magnus knows he wasn’t always the best to Sigurd in the past, so he tends to be pretty laid-back when Sigurd teases or mocks him. As much as Sigurd has had to put up with Magnus, he doesn’t hold a grudge—not even when he easily could. They’ve worked through their past issues more than once and, for the most part, moved on. And no matter how much Sigurd complains about Magnus’s constant presence in his life, he always answers the phone when Magnus calls—and always shows up when asked. ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Finland / Timo Sigurd and Timo get along remarkably well, sharing a number of common interests, like winter sports and music, that give them easy ground to bond over. Sigurd is unusually generous with Timo, often lending him gear or bringing him over-the-top gifts, which Magnus and Björn find unfair, as they’re not given such privileges. Sigurd insists that Timo is simply more trustworthy, and he trusts Timo to handle his stuff with care. Sigurd and Timo tend to drift to the sidelines during gatherings, content to sit with a cup of coffee and talk quietly. They have been through similar experiences they can both relate to, and thus far, they haven’t provoked one another too badly, making their friendship rather drama-free. Timo has always admired Sigurd, ever since they were young. There was something distant and mysterious about him that made Timo want to get closer, mimicking Sigurd in little ways, trying to be more like him. That admiration hasn’t really faded; Timo still sees Sigurd as someone effortlessly cool, someone worth looking up to. He follows his lead with almost blind loyalty, always ready to join him on hikes or fishing trips with eager enthusiasm. Sigurd, in turn, finds Timo’s stories amusing and his quiet resilience endearing. They’re not each other’s first pick when it comes to social plans, but when they do spend time together, they genuinely enjoy it. Sigurd appreciates how easy it is to be around Timo, how he laughs at his dry jabs about Björn or follows along with his plans without needing to be convinced. Sometimes, though, Timo’s passivity and eagerness to please clash with Sigurd’s snarkiness and competitive streak. He feels a bit guilty if he's being too sarcastic with him. Timo’s too kind to push back, and more often than not, the sass may go completely over his head. Because of that, Sigurd holds back more than he does with others. ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Iceland / Eiríkur Sigurd has never been good at parenting or taking responsibility for others, so he has a lot of regrets concerning Eiríkur. He has always known Eiríkur is his brother but has never been able to connect with him. That doesn't mean he doesn't care about the kid, but Sigurd just never found a way to claim that big brother status. They're very similar in nature, but that also means they're both bad at communicating and prefer to keep everything in. Nowadays, Eiríkur sometimes insists on his independence with the same stubborn pride Sigurd once had, insisting he doesn’t need anyone fussing over him. Sigurd respects that space, but his distance can unintentionally reinforce Eiríkur’s fears regarding Sigurd. The irony isn’t lost as each is trying, in their own clumsy way, to protect the other from disappointment. Sigurd's attempt to reclaim their lost bond is sometimes irritating to Eiríkur, even though he knows it shouldn't be. He just has lots of disappointing memories when it comes to his brother, which is the reason for his underlying insecurities between them, like the lingering fear that Sigurd might disappear again, as he has before. On the other hand, Sigurd has always given Eiríkur the freedom Magnus never knew how to give. He took Eiríkur on long trips and taught him necessary life skills that gave him the critical tools to survive on his own. Eiríkur adored Sigurd growing up, always choosing him over anyone else. He used to light up at the mere mention of Sigurd’s name and grew jealous if someone else claimed his brother’s attention. When Eiríkur was nervous or unsure as a child, Sigurd would tell him fantastical stories and restore hope in him, uniting them through their shared love for stories and imagination. When Sigurd was bedridden by the plague, little Eiríkur stood by him. He would sit by his bed, read books, and talk to him, as they'd tell each other stories. Eiríkur could bring Sigurd messages and meals while occasionally spying on Magnus and Björn, reporting back what they were planning. But other days, Sigurd was too ashamed or tired to even let Eiríkur into his room, giving the poor kid mixed signals on what he was supposed to do. Many times, Sigurd's own need for autonomy took precedence over his responsibilities to Eiríkur — desperate attempts to hold on to the few meaningful tasks that gave him a sense of purpose. Sometimes, the choices weren’t even Sigurd’s to make, as orders from above pulled him away. There were days when Eiríkur expected Sigurd to come and visit him, waiting patiently at the harbor, watching every ship that came in, expecting his brother to step off the deck from one of them. But he didn’t. Eventually, Eiríkur learned not to get his hopes up, but the disappointment carved itself into him, leaving a quiet scar that never fully faded. Sigurd feels immense regret for not being there when Eiríkur was small, left alone on a harsh island during his most formative years. But Sigurd was only a teenager himself then. Even if he had been there, he doubts he would’ve been the role model Eiríkur needed. Still, the guilt lingers, and he tries to make up for it in the present. They go camping and fishing when time allows, returning to the wild places where they feel most at ease. Around the campfire, they talk about the past. Eiríkur is endlessly curious about their roots and history, and Sigurd does his best to help, though time has eroded many of his memories. Sigurd wants to make sure his brother has what he needs, that he’s equipped to live better, freer, and more fulfilled than Sigurd ever was. But expressing love has never come easily to him, so instead of words, he keeps buying things for Eiríkur, always asking if he has everything he needs, which Eiríkur insists he does. Both Sigurd and Eiríkur have regrets and disappointments regarding their shared past, but they will always have that unique family bond no one can take away from them. ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

England / Arthur Both Sigurd and Arthur are old friends who go way back, bound by years of cooperation. Both are ambitious by nature and aware of what they want, yet not always the best at being emotionally present or vulnerable. In many ways, their similarities make their friendship feel effortless. Sigurd has always seen Arthur as a respectable peer, someone who understands and sees Sigurd’s effort. Over the years, Arthur has supported Sigurd during some of the most difficult periods of his life, offering help when people wouldn’t expect him to. While Arthur has managed to get on many people's wrong sides and people's opinion isn't always favorable of him, Sigurd has gotten rare glimpses of a softer Arthur that very few get to see. They often collaborate closely, especially in matters of work, and there's a warmth to their friendship that shows most in small gestures. Sigurd, for instance, never misses the chance to go all out with Christmas gifts. And while Arthur is often busy and hard to pin down, he never turns down the chance to share a drink with his quiet old friend. However, sometimes Sigurd is faced with an awkward position due to Arthur’s and Eiríkur’s disinterest in one another, as he doesn’t want to seem like he’s siding with one over the other. Arthur and Eiríkur just don't really get along, but for the sake of Sigurd, they try to at least pretend. ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Ireland / Saoirse Saoirse's and Sigurd's histories are deeply intertwined, shaped by tensions and collaborations between their former peers. Saoirse, sharp-tongued and quick-witted, didn’t exactly warm up to the Norseman right away. But even back then, she had a sense of humor that cut through his cold exterior. She also had a fearless spark that challenged him in ways few others could. When he pushed her, she pushed back. When he played rough, she returned the energy with twice the force. Saoirse, too, has always loved storytelling and music, talents that Sigurd has long admired from a distance. Her creativity and charisma drew him in, even if he didn’t always know how to say it. During their time in America, the two reconnected as adults, finding more common ground than before. The noisy rivalry of childhood gave way to a friendship marked by loyalty and a shared determination to survive in a new harsh situation. Nowadays, Saoirse teases Sigurd every now and then, especially when he’s in the presence of Arthur or Alasdair. This is to remind them he’s an old friend of hers too! Unfortunately, Saoirse has a knack for sniffing out gossip, so Sigurd has to keep his guard up around her to make sure his secrets stay buried, for now. ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Scotland / Alasdair Alasdair and Sigurd have known each other for as long as either of them can remember. From the very beginning, their relationship was shaped by the tensions from deep-rooted rivalries. First impressions were tainted by prejudice but also riddled by a persistent curiosity. As children, they played together despite the tension — sometimes too rough, ending in scratches and one of them running off in tears. And yet, no matter how many times they separated, that pull toward one another never quite faded.  In those early days, Sigurd was bolder, at times impossible to handle. A menace in the eyes of many, especially during the chaos of the Middle Ages. Alasdair, by contrast, was already brimming with pride and an unshakable sense of confidence, always standing tall even when others tried to cut him down. His fierce spirit and charisma fascinated Sigurd, while Alasdair was equally intrigued by Sigurd’s mysteriousness. But Sigurd's path got complicated. Tied down by the demands of centralized rule and weakened by the plague, he found himself trapped within constraining unions and a loss of influence that left him weak and apathetic. During the Kalmar Union, his failing health and desperation to retain a sliver of autonomy left him too afraid to meet many of his peers, feeling like a shadow of his former self. And yet, when Alasdair reappeared in his life, something shifted. The Scot’s energy offered Sigurd comfort and relief, giving him a brief escapism from his state. In another timeline, perhaps they would have worked together more, built something lasting through alliances, but history had other plans. Even when political duties kept them apart, they remained close via handwritten letters, with something unspoken lingering between them. During occasional meetings, whether by trade or diplomatic visits, their connection only deepened. A quiet, persistent yearning began to take root, romantic in nature but carefully concealed beneath layers of duty, uncertainty, and timing that never quite lined up. It wasn’t until the 19th century that they found themselves drawn together again — both of them older, hardened by experience. Sigurd, now part of yet another union, was fighting more fiercely than ever to carve out his independence, while Alasdair was navigating his own path through the tides of industrialization and being more tightly cooperative (or controlled) through his siblings. The two of them crossed paths more frequently, and this time, their bond became something unapologetically intimate, though still kept from public view. Their relationship became a quiet rebellion, a way to find solace while being drowned by decisions made above their heads. Neither of them asked for the roles they inherited, but in each other, they found a rare compassion and freedom. Even now, they continue to see one another — no longer as secretive as they once were, but still careful. Their relationship is unconventional, perhaps even unserious to some, but it works. Neither is in a rush to settle down. Sometimes, they both wish history had been kinder to them. But then again, they've never let fate stop them from trying. After all, it’s a rare privilege to love someone since childhood and still have eternity to figure it all out.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─