#I am also staring silently at the sea on a cliff edge and waves crash below and a storm looms on the horizon

[mushyroomyducks]

my cubito is finally dead I’m so happy I have been waiting for this for months:D

[solinarimoon]

Little Sea - Part I

AN: This is my first time writing outside of The Last Kingdom fandom, but I originally joined tumblr to find Hvitserk content.  So I hope my writing for him does it justice.  This is for @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie Congratulations on your milestone love!   This story is a Vikings/TLK crossover but Sihtric is basically placed into the Vikings universe.  I know in our heads these two belong in the same universe, so enjoy.  My prompt was a reimagining of The Little Mermaid fairytale. The story got too long so I am breaking it into two parts.  Sjór means sea in Old Norse, at least according to one website I found. I have more notes at the end of part two.

Warnings: Angst, unrequited love, suicidal imagery/implications, Vikings canon Ivar cruelty

My Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She swam, racing the currents in the sea.  The water’s hazy depths constantly shifted and mottled in a swirling dance.  Hues of blue and green mixed with inky darkness but faded to the rays of the sun’s light filtering through from the surface.  

The cold temperatures below the fathoms began to warm as Alba swam towards the surface.  Swishing her fins, she felt the drag of the water as she climbed higher until slowing and ultimately stopping herself just before breaching the surface.

His face stared down at her above the water.  His lips spoke words that she could not hear.  His face was calm and serene. Happy.

The only sound was the rushing tumult of waves breaking, crashing upon rocks at the base of a cliff.  

Alba flicked her tail trying in vain to break through the surface.  She wanted nothing more than to rise above the water and envelop Hvitserk in her arms.

The fear and the panic began to rise instead.  And without warning, Alba felt her terror intensify as her tail had been replaced with two legs.  Hvitserk’s face grew farther and farther away while she sank back below the dark depths.

~~~~~~~~

Alba woke with a start, sitting up in her bed and breathing heavily.  Her hands clung to the furs draped across her, pulling them aside to reveal two legs and feet.  The sight still seemed surreal to her. 

This was not the first night she had awoken from this dream.  It was occurring more and more often as she felt the pull to return to the sea.  Return home.  And as she watched Hvitserk continue to move further and further away from her.

Slowly, the young woman stood from her bed steadying herself as her legs wavered like someone returning to shore after living on a ship for weeks.  She draped a cowl of furs around herself and pushed aside the door leading from her small hut on to the beach.

Only a few paces brought Alba up to the water’s edge.  The waves lapped over her toes and Alba breathed easier.  Salty spray drifted across the cove where the waves were always harsh and ragged against the cliffs to the north.

Alba trained her eyes on the grey horizon, watching as the mist began to fade and the shadows melted away.  She breathed in the taste of the ocean’s air and for a moment felt content.

But that moment was broken when she noticed a set of forlorn footsteps approaching her.

“I knew you would be up and on the beach already.”

His voice was low and groggy as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders with a gentle squeeze.  Alba wondered if he had seen his own bed that night.  

“I wish I could help you find whatever you are looking for on the water, little Sjór.”

Alba turned her face ever so slightly to question him with a silent gaze.  And to see his braids looking disheveled. And a small bruise just under his jaw. 

“When we met, it was not unlike this,” Hvitserk paused when Alba turned her face towards him fully, furrowing her brow in confusion.  “I mean it was very different because I still have no idea how a half drowned young woman came to be lying between the rocks on the north edge of the cove, covered by nothing but a ragged boat sail,” his lips had pursed slightly trying to ward of the smirk Alba knew he was fighting.  Shuffling his feet in the sand and clearing his throat, he continued, “so it was different but you also still had that look I see so often. The one you had moments ago. Like you’ve lost something. And you’re waiting for it to return to you.”

Alba turned her eyes back to gaze across the water before dropping her face to the sand with a huff.  “Looking for your voice, perhaps?”

Alba looked up with her mouth dropped open in shock to see the young man grinning fully while she pushed him lightly away. Hvitserk let out a true laugh before wrapping his arm once more around Alba’s shoulder. Comfortable and brotherly. 

Scuffing a bare foot in the sand, Alba moved away from his side and began ambling down the beach knowing Hvitserk would follow. 

It was no use trying to hold that one sided conversation again. Part of the enchantment prevented her from revealing the truth about where she came from, about what she was…is…would be once more.  So even if they played a crude pantomime game, she still could not reveal if his guess were to be correct. 

Her time on land was almost spent. Her time with him would come to an end. Alba knew in her heart that Hvitserk was not in love with her.  And the binding nature of the enchantment would not bend. No matter how much love she felt for him. Or how much she had become endeared to him. That was not the problem. He did love her. But it was not true love. Not for him.  So she would return to the sea, but not today.

Alba sighed, straightened her shoulders and raised her head, breaking herself from her thoughts. 

She turned to look at Hvitserk walking alongside her, scuffing his boots beside her bare feet. Gently, Alba reached out her hand and tapped his neck where she’d noticed the small bruise. 

Hvitserk met her eyes with a mischievous smile. 

“Oh that, there? That is nothing, little Sjór.  Only a slight bite I received from one of the forest trolls while I was searching for mushrooms.” 

The pair laughed at his jest, her silently and him with gentle chuckles before he continued, sincerity beginning to lace its way into his words. 

“I was with Thora last night.”

Alba arched an eyebrow at him. 

“Yes, again.” Hvitserk chuckled lightheartedly. He missed Alba’s eyebrows relax and the smile on her face fall as she listened to him talk about the new woman.  

~~~~~~~~~~

Alba woke to the sound of rain pelting the thatch roof of her small cottage. Sleepily, she opened her eyes just as a streak of lightning illuminated the sky. She had seen the flash through the leaking cracks of her shutters. 

Several moments later the booming echo of Thor’s hammer against the clouds brought a slight curve to her mouth.  A rain storm was dangerous on the water. Perilous. But under the water, Alba and her sisters had been fond of watching the crash and roll of the tumultuous waves. The lightning scattering crystalline lights across the surface of the water. A beautiful orchestra of light and movement. 

A rain storm did not startle her. A rain storm felt like home.  Alba nestled further down into her furs, feeling their weight and warmth bringing her back to sleep. 

Except this thunderous booming continued on far longer than any true thunderclap. And it was now accompanied by a muffled voice. 

Hvitserk. 

No one else ever came to her door. Barely another soul knew she even existed or much less where she dwelled.

Alba opened the door to a torrent of rain blocked only by Hvitserk’s tall frame. 

For a moment, they stood staring at one another, the rain continuing to sleet down on them.

In the dark, Alba could barely make out the features of his face.  She searched his face, her eyes questioning.  But only for a moment before Alba grabbed his arm, ushering him inside and closing the door.  

In two strides, Alba moved across the room to gather up the furs from her bed and drape them across Hvitserk’s shoulders then settling him down on the short bench next to her cookfire.  Alba stoked up the flames from the low burning embers before turning on her knees to look at him. 

Beads of rainwater still tracked down the strands of his hair that had come free from his braids and he had made no move to wipe the dampness from his face.

He met her eyes as he spoke, “It’s Ivar,” he stated simply.

Alba shuffled closer to him and placed her hand on his arm, atop the furs.

“He is sending me as his messenger to King Olaf. In Norway,” Hvitserk paused to turn his head.  He clasped his hands together while bringing them up to rest against his mouth.  He was staring off towards the other side of the room.  His next words were muffled against his fist.

“I don’t know what my brother thinks he is going to do,” he chuckled then continued, “my brother the god king.”

Alba starred while Hvitserk worked through whatever thoughts were raging in his mind.  Increasingly in the past weeks, Hvitserk’s worry over his brother’s rule in Kattegat had grown.  Though he did not often openly criticize Ivar, it was clear to Alba that he carried many burdens for his younger brother. Burdens that left him questioning his path and his fate. And questioning the path his brother was forging.  

The young woman scooted herself closer to him and placed her palm against his cheek, lightly pulling his face back to meet hers. 

She saw the torment and frustration in his brow. It was mirrored on her own face.  She opened her mouth but could only huff and furrow her brow more. Sighing, Alba looked around the room, searching for everything and nothing before finally settling her eyes back onto him. 

“Even if you had words, little Sjór, there are none you could speak that would save me.”

At this, Alba felt her face shift from frustration to concern, her eyes frantically searching his face for more answers. 

“I must do as Ivar bids. And I leave you behind to deal with Ivar’s tyranny. His madness.” Hvitserk dropped his head into his hands, continuing to talk. His words came more easily now as his emotions boiled over. “And my love, Thora. I leave her behind but she does not have the anonymity you do to protect her. I fear for her. I fear what Ivar may do to her while I am away.”

Hvitserk hung his head and sighed heavily.  Alba felt her chest stutter as she realized she was holding back tears.  He truly did love Thora.  And Alba could not help herself from liking the young woman as well.  

Hvitserk had brought Thora to the beach to meet her one day.  And though it made her heart ache, Alba could not deny that she saw the love that was blooming there.  From the casual way that she saw their bodys lean into one another to the way Hvitserk watched Thora when she did not know he was watching.  While Alba was watching him.  That night, she had cried silent tears alone on the beach, while the ocean’s mist cried with her.  And the ache in her chest now was the same.

Trying her best to quell the sobs threatening to escape her lungs, Alba shifted herself once more to sit beside him on the bench.  Gently, she cradled him in her arms and stroked back the strands of his hair, now drying by the heat from the fire.  Hvitserk hugged her knees and closed his eyes for a moment, taking comfort from the care and love in Alba’s touch.  

“I will miss you while I am away.  I know you enjoy your solitude. But if you can, keep an eye out for my Thora. Ivar has made comments. Said things that make me fear she may be a target for his frustration.  She sees how dangerous Ivar has become. It threatens him.”

The more Hvitserk continued on, the more Alba’s heart continued to tear. Her prince's concern and worry was for another.  He was in love with another.  She let out a silent sob, but laying in her lap, Hvitserk felt the jolt of her body. The pain she could no longer hold back. 

Sitting up, he questioned, “What is it, Sjór?”

Alba closed her eyes and felt the tears cascade down her face as she shook her head.  

Hvitserk took her face in his hands, turning his body so that he straddled the bench. The furs around his shoulders dropped to the ground, forgotten.  

“Hey, hey look at me?”

Alba opened her eyes to see concern etched across his features.  Silently cursing her tears, she pushed his hands away and stood, wrapping her arms around herself and stepping away towards the door.  He was tormented enough and did not need to add her pain to his. A pain that she could not explain to him. 

“Sjór, I….” He started, standing to face her and grabbing her arms, firm but gentle.  His words fell silent as he watched the tears continue to track down her cheeks. 

Huffing in frustration, Alba wiped the tears away. The two stood silent except for Alba’s shaky breaths for several moments. 

Finally, Alba brought her fist up to thump against her chest. Over her heart. Gathering her courage, she took her fist, relaxing her fingers and placed her hand over Hvitserk’s own heart. And then brought her head to rest against her hand, feeling his breath and the questions in his stance. 

Taking a step back and removing her hand to wipe another stray tear, Alba met his eye. With more force she took her fist to thump against his chest. In the same spot, over his heart. 

Looking down to her hand, Alba tapped her fist against him once more then brought her hand up and pointed a single finger towards her window.  Towards Thora, towards his love. 

She watched as Hivitserk’s brow, a deep line of confusion, slowly relaxed.  A look of realization spread across his face. 

To then be replaced by something more unbearable. 

Pity. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Bare feet found their way along the soft mosses and lichen carpeting the ground up the paths surrounding the northern side of the cove.  Alba stepped slow and deliberate, feeling the air growing cooler.  The spray of the mist off the sea left salty pin pricks of water glistening across her bare arms.  

Low in the distance, the rumble of thunder rolled.  As she crested the height of the cliffs, Alba found the crash of the waves joining in the thrum of the oncoming storm.  The energy in the air was mounting.  Mirroring Alba’s rising anguish. 

Thora was dead.  A cruel and horrifying death.

Ivar was rampaging.  His madness was building and unstable.  

And Hvitserk.  Her sweet Hvitserk was gone.  If Ivar was to be believed...If what he said was true, he was lost.  Dead at the orders of King Olaf.

Alba fell to her knees at the cliff's edge.  Her hands gripped tight onto the sharp rock’s edge.  The rough surface painful and grating at the pads of her fingers.  She clung to the edge.  Her eyes staring down at the waves below.  The maelstrom of the waves calling to her.  To end her suffering.  End the anguish and pain.  

Alba stood, the wind whipping her dress as the rain began, drops gently splattering across the terrain.  The young woman looked up towards the clouds and closed her eyes, feeling tears spill over across her cheeks.  

Silently, Alba let the anguish wash over her.  Knowing he was lost.  And the sea was calling her to return.

Alba’s time on legs would soon be done.  She had not found her love returned.  And she could not stay.  The pull of the sea was calling to her stronger and stronger.  Her sisters called to her to return to them. 

Slowly, she dropped her face back down to the tumult below and took a step forward.

“Don’t!”

The voice stopped her movements.  The roll of thunder boomed again. Several tense moments passed before Alba heard the voice again.

“Please don’t.”

The voice was deep and soothing.  But Alba could sense something else behind the words.  Panic.  Desperation.

Weakly, she turned to face the nameless voice, her head turning back to look across her shoulder.  The rain was cascading in steady rivulets now.  Mingling with the tears staining Alba’s face.  Her dress had quickly become sodden and clung to her skin.

When her eyes came to the tree line, she saw him.

He was tall.  Dark.  His hair plastered to the sides of his face from the rain.  Hands raised to indicate he was no threat to her.

Slowly, tentatively the man stepped forward to stand beside her before he spoke again.

Alba’s eyes tracked his movements.  

When he was close enough to touch her, he spoke once more.

“Please.  Do not succumb to it.”

When Alba did nothing but stare, the man continued, “To your grief.  Please.”

It was the please that caught her.  The gentleness and the kindness in his eyes as he pleaded with her.

His arms caught her as she collapsed atop the cliff, allowing the despair to wash over her.

The man held her while she cried, silent sobs that shook her to her core.  Her fingers twisting and clinging to the folds of his shirt.  His arms steady and firm around her shoulders as he cradled her. He held her until she stilled while the rains continued their lament.  And when she was half asleep, ruined with exhaustion he carried her back down the path.  

He settled her down underneath his own roof, beside a comfortable fire to dry her clothes and hair.

The man handed her a small bowl full of warm broth.  

“Go ahead,” he coaxed, “you must get dry and eat.  You do not want to catch cold. And then you should sleep.”

When Alba stared at him questioningly, he added, “You have nothing to fear from me. I am called Sihtric.”

~~~~~~~~~~~ To be continued in part II

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[ninja-scenarios]

a humble assortment of fluffy Illumi scenarios 🤍🖤🤍

My headcanon is that Illumi´s nickname in a romantic relationship is “Lumi-chan”

I´m taking Japanese classes atm so this headcanon just feels really intimate and cute

Also I saw on Instagram how someone called him Illumi “one braincell” Zoldyck and honestly... yes. I can see that. I can see that very well.

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The first time it happened:

Illumi showed up to the café you had agreed on.

The green scarf looked cute and cosy on him.

“I am here on time. This is the right place.”

You had started laughing, carefree and light.  

“Don´t be so serious, it´s a date!”

Whatever he thought of it, you had already started excitedly browsing through the menu. Maybe this wasn´t so bad after all.

“What would you like to order, Lumi-chan?”

It took him a few moments to reply, as his system had shut down with the Microsoft error noise.

“Don´t call me that. It is inappropriate.”

You pouted, leaning back in your chair. 

“Why? It sounds cute. Don´t you like it?”

Illumi blinked. 

“That is not decisive. If other individuals take notice they could mistake our relationship. “

“It´s common for couples to call each other nicknames! This way they would only know that I like you.” 

Silence.  

You beamed. 

“Okay! Then I´ll just call you like that when we´re alone.”

Illumi didn´t respond. But when he turned to study the menu, maybe he held it a little too high to hide the blooming blush on his face.

`Only when we´re alone... why must she say things like that´

--- 

“Just five more minutes!” 

Your arms tightened around his broad shoulders, determined to prolong your precious time together. Illumi however was an unyielding force as he ascended from the couch with you clinging to him koala-style. 

“It is time, I have to leave now.”

He carefully placed you back onto the pile of pillows and blankets as if lowering something made of glass. Always so gentle with you.

Accepting your faith you nevertheless wanted to try your luck, winking cheekily.

“For real? Then... how about a goodbye kiss?” 

Illumi halted in his movements, only partially influenced by you clasping his wrist. Unblinking flawless pools of darkness stared back into your eyes, searching for clues as to why you wanted to part with something initiating intimacy. 

“You know, to take off the edge. To store some love so that I don´t miss you so much~” You flirted, twirling a strand of his ebony hair. Illumi nodded slowly, not really able to decode your words, yet understanding that what you searched for was comfort. 

So, naturally, he took your chin in between his fingers and kissed you.

In fact, he kissed you so passionately that you let out a small squeak in the back of your throat as his clever tongue infiltrated your mouth. 

Releasing you after minutes to inspect your face, with your kiss swollen lips and flushing down to your neck, Illumi went back into thoughts. Was this what comfort looked like? The watch however called his name.

“I got to leave. I´ll return right away when it´s finished.”

Reassuring himself one last time, he gave you a genuine pat on the head. Nodding internally, Illumi left, leaving you behind hot and flustered.

“What kind of parting kiss was that....” 

--- 

Warning: NSFW

Maybe it hadn´t been the best idea to sneak you in for a secret sleepover.

Illumi held your mouth tightly shut, controlling a steady amount of pressure as not to accidentally cut off your oxygen. It was meant to keep in your hot noises of absolute delight, panted and whimpered against the barrier of his fingers while he moved in a set rhythm. 

The Zoldyck estate was deathly silent. No music, no conversation. Every single noise violating a certain pitch could lead a household of power–hungry assassins your way.

Illumi knew he couldn´t let the two of you be too loud. But as the seconds ticked by, it became harder and harder to contain his own pleasure. You were gripping and squeezing him so tight, just the thought of it caused him to shut his eyes tightly as to rule out the overwhelming force of pleasure. 

While you were constantly riding up to a cliff, Illumi looked more and more like he was suffering. The intimacy brought him closer to the edge with each thrust, yet he knew he couldn´t let himself fall. You were so tight and wet and warm. He didn´t trust his abilities this time. 

You whimpered against his hand, warm breath hitting his skin and just a second later he realized that it had been his name. He shut his eyes from anew, a wave of shivers chasing down his spine. His cheeks glowed in the limited candlelight, head pounding as if in a throw of fever.

“Illumi” 

He growled faintly, narrowing his eyes at you in warning.  I must not, I must not -

Yet unbeknownst to him, you had a plan to make him do exactly that. 

As you brought his face up close to whisper those devilish words into his ear. 

“None of that, Illumi. Come now. Right fucking now.”

Your fingers weaved into his hair and before your lover could keep up, you pulled - Illumi´s eyes flashed open before he violently shivered. The sweet pain rushing through his veins right to his core.

With the force of a wave crashing into the stormy sea, Illumi´s body clenched and released and he came in a silent scream. 

Later, when the candles had burned down, taking the unbelievable heat of his body with them, Illumi dared to move. 

His dark eyes spoke of deep satisfaction, never mind the tiredness that weighed on his eyelids. You silently chuckled to yourself, stroking his hair and placing a kiss on his forehead. 

“Sleep, my darling.”

And against every reflex trained into him, Illumi let his eyes slipped closed. Here, holding your warm body close and tight, he let exhaustion take over.

[aphrodite-would-be-proud]

How would Mikasa react to waking up to a female!siren singing to her?

Interestingly enough did you know that the original designs for Sirens portrayed them as humans with wings in greek mythology, having bird features like feathers and claws for legs. "Winged maidens, daughters of the Earth" Helen in In Euripides's play

The goddess Demeter who gave them wings for a reason related to her daughter persephone, although if the wings were a blessing to search for her or a curse as punishment for their failure to protect her is...unkown. If someone managed to resist a siren's song, the siren's life will end.

The only people who managed to best their singing are the muses, who plucked their wings and made crowns from the feathers and Orpheus who drowned out their singing by playing the lyre.

It's not until people began classifying them with mermaids that they merged their looks and instead the Sirens took their appearance but kept their backstory, or got known as the "predator" of mermaids when in realty they just target sailors.

Also this request is lowkey a pun since Mikasa's name is originally from a battleship name and Sirens drown ships.

Mikasa waking up to a female Siren!reader

{ Mikasa x Female reader | tw: mentions of death tw: drowning | fantasy, falling in love, angst with comfort | canon universe }

{ "Aphrodite" 1893 by Adolf Hirémy-Hirschl 1860–1933 }

It's burning, her lungs are burning.

Was the first thing Mikasa realised as she drifted back into consciousness, her body felt heavy and her throat burned. Suddenly a heavy pressure was against her chest for a split second before coming back again, push after push, she felt air making it's way to her lungs.

And then the coughing started, pushing all the remaining water out of her body. Her vision returning as she could make out the voice of someone near her.

Looking above her, Mikasa's breath stilled for a moment when she saw a naked women, the most gorgeous women she's ever seen and when you smiled at her staring, her heart jumped.

Trying to help her sit up, you reached for her hand. She instantly reached for her blade before forcing her hand up, sharp edge inches from your face.

"Who are you and where am i" her voice was still hoarse, despite that it didn't lose it's threatening tone.

You look at her, the human you just saved from drowning, pointing the end of the weapon, you just retrieved from the floor of the ocean, at you.

Trying to think this through and not frighten her any further, you open your mouth to talk. The second she sees your sharp pointy teeth, she leaps four steps back.

This isn't going to work, you think watching her eyes widening while taking in the rest of your body. Moving the end your tail in the air, the big colorful fins disract her for a second for you to start singing.

One moment she felt utterly terrfied, cold and confused but the second your voice went through her like silk, it felt as if her brain numbed her pain and worries. Too hyponitzed to notice the sound the blade made as it hit the rocks under, her eyes softened as she walked towards you.

Her steps echoed through the cave, your singing coating her mind in milk and honey as she realised again how absolutely beautiful you are, how lovely your skin looked without anything to cover it, how mesmerising your tail was.

She wanted to see you up close, to touch you again, to have your hands on her chest again. She was hooked on your voice.

When you squeezed her shoulder she melted under your touch, when you stepped closer her eyelashes fluttered. She followed you to the edge of the cave, sitting right beside on on the cliff as waves crashed against the sharp rocks under.

You could sing her to jump and she wouldn't think twice about it. But you didn't, no instead the end of your tail wrapped around her legs, securing her in place and making sure no wave will dare make her fall.

The singing stopped, but the molten sugar her brain was swimming in didn't. You asked her what's the last thing she can remember, attempting to help before the effects of your voice wear off.

Her dark eyes stared into your glowing ones, just as confused as before but willing to co-operate this time.

What's the last thing can Mikasa remember...well she remembers her name. She also remembers the feeling of cold air and dry sand, she remembers walking miles down the beach at night, hoping the sea could drown her sorrows. With no Titans to worry about anymore, her worries for her friends grew more and more.

It's easy to protect them against a flesh eating gaint, but could she say the same when it comes to protecting them from their own minds?

She remembers the stars being her only company on the long walk, that was until she saw a figure leaning against the rocks in the sea.

Who in their right mind would attempt something so dangerous, she thought. They could die, were they attempting to...

and so she didn't hesitate in jumping after them, ignoring the freezing water while pushing her self towards the figure, hoping to pull them into land.

But she underestimated just how deep the water was, having only been in shallow parts before she didn't realise how dangerous it is when she couldn't feel her feet touching the ground anymore. The sea having no remorse or pity on her before dragging her down under, waves setting off her balance as salty water filled her lungs.

Burning, her lungs were burning.

Horror settled in her eyes, she could still taste the saltiness in her mouth, she could still feel the pressure of water dragging her down, too much, it was all too much.

And then your hands were holding hers, and the storm in her mind calmed down. She felt like she could breath again just by looking at your eyes, she was alive.

"You saved me" it was her turn to squeeze your hands, bringing them to her face. Your thumbs wiped away the salty tears before they could reach her lips.

You held her as she cried her heart out, part because of the horrible experience she just went through, another because of the ghosts of fears and responsibilities on her shoulders. As she sobbed in your chest, mentioning some names you've never heard before. Asking them to forgive her for not knowing how to help, for not being strong enough to protect him from himself.

You don't ask who Eren and Armin are.

Running your fingers through her silky dark hair, it calms her down. She doesn't let go of you and you find the warmth comforting, her grip is surprisingly strong as if she's worried you'll slip between her fingers.

Getting her composer back together, she silently thanks you. The moon is still up and the night is still young, and so she doesn't attempt to leave or move away. Instead she leans closer, her face inches from yours that you could feel her breath against your lips.

"Could you...sing to me again? Please."

You nod, she gives you the most heartwarming smile you've seen before closing the distance between you slowly, almost as if she's giving you space to pull away. You don't.

Her kiss was soft, delicate even, like she's never been kissed before and when you kiss back she becomes putty in your hand. Her mouth taste salty but you don't mind it.

When she pulls away, amazement in her eyes as if she just discovered a new secret to life, she whispers a small thank you.

[filmfanatic82]

AO3 Link HERE

Chapter 17: All I Know Since Yesterday... is Everything Has Changed

“As you wish.”

In an instant, the invisible force releases their death grip on Max, causing the trembling boy to fall forward onto his hands and knees. 

Trini swoops in, pulling Max into her arms. She cradles him close to her chest in an attempt to shield him a bit from the relentless barrage of wind and rain. 

“Trini…,” Max says with a hiccup, trying to catch his breath from the steady stream of tears. 

“Hey, Kiddo. It’s all gonna be okay. Promise.” Trini ever so gently wipes the rain away from Max’s face and then forces herself to give him a reassuring smile. 

“But--”

“Max, I need you to listen to me.” Trini locks eyes with Max once again. “Think you can do that?”

Max sniffles and with all of the confidence he can muster, gives Trini a nod in response.

“Good.” Trini pops open a hidden compartment on the chest piece of her armor and produces a small, glowing device. “See this? It’s called a teleporter. All you need to do is push that blue button, and it’ll get you outta here.”

“To my Mommy?”

“Yup,” Trini replies as a lump of conflicted emotions starts to bubble up in her throat. She forces it back down with a hard swallow and then carefully places the device into Max’s tiny hands, curling his fingers around it. “Right to your mom.”

“But…” Max’s brow furrows with confusion as the sudden realization sets in. “But what about…”

“It’s okay.” Trini cuts him off before he can finish his thoughts. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a superhero, remember?”

Max’s face lights up with an ear to ear grin. “You’re a Power Ranger!”

“That’s right, Kiddo.” Trini matches Max’s smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m a Power Ranger.”

Trini helps Max up onto his feet and gives him a hug that lingers just enough to signify that it might be the last one. “Can you do one more favor?”

Max nods again, this time with a little more conviction than before.

“Tell her I’m sorry. Okay?” 

Before Max has a chance to answer, Trini goes ahead and pushes the button, causing him to de-materialize into thin air. It’s easier this way. No prolonged good-byes or unnecessary tears.

Trini exhales a heavy breath of air and then turns back towards the ominous abyss of thick, yellow fog with a sudden and fierce resolution.

“You ready?” The voice calls out from just beyond the fog.

“As I’ll ever be.” Trini flips her visor down once again and cockily cracks her neck. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Trini waits for a response, but only the steady roar of the all-encompassing storm can be heard. 

One minute passes… 

Then another… 

And another… 

Still nothing. 

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

Breathe, Gomez. Breathe.

Trini swallows down the dry a lump of pure fear that has been growing within the back of her throat and continues to scan the edges of the yellow fog for any signs of movement whatsoever. Although she can’t see it, she knows it’s there. Silently lurking just beyond the dense veil. Watching her every move. 

“Fuck,” Trini mutters under her breath. She shakes away the sudden wave of goosebumps as she tries to keep her heart rate from skyrocketing out of control. 

Still nothing.

God, she would kill to have at least one of the guys by her side at this very moment. 

To feel them at her back, like a well-loved security blanket. 

Zack.

Jason.

Billy.

Tommi.

Or, most of all…  

Kimberly.

“Ah, there it is,” the mysterious voice says, grabbing hold of Trini’s attention. She whips around, frantically trying to pinpoint the source, but still is met with only a sea of never-ending yellow fog. “There... That last thought. She’s the one…”

“She’s what?” Trini says with gritted teeth. She continues to scan every last inch of her surroundings as the voice lingers in the depth of her consciousness. It’s oddly familiar… Too familiar for Trini’s liking. 

“The source of your wish. The one you wanted to suffer.” The voice cuts through Trini, sending a set of icy chills straight down her spine. She attempts to shake it off, but it’s no use. The voice has a strange effect on her. As if it’s somehow resonating both from within the fog itself and also from the deep, dark recesses of her very own mind.  

“I never said I wanted her to suffer,” Trini replies, even more on edge than ever before.

“Oh, but you did. You wished for her to experience the same exact heartache that she put you through. Isn’t that what heartache is? Suffering?”

That voice…

She knows that voice.

But from where?

“That’s not what I meant,” Trini fires back. 

“Yes, you did. It’s exactly what you meant. Don’t deny it… There’s no hiding the truth… Not from me. I know you inside and out, Yellow.”

“If you know me so well, then stop hiding and show yourself!” Trini’s voice quivers ever so slightly on her last word. She takes a gulp of air and attempts to steady her nerves. 

“As you wish…” 

Slowly, from amidst the sea of fog, a pair of haunting emerald eyes emerge.

“Tommy,” the name falls from Trini’s lips as her worst nightmare materializes right before her very eyes. 

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

It can’t be…

No.

Tommy died in the blast back in that cavern all those years ago.

She saw it with her own two eyes…

But there was never a body…

Fuck.

A sickly smile of recognition stretches across Tommy’s face as he moves out of the fog. He somehow hasn’t aged a single day since the last time Trini laid eyes on him, still possessing the same, slightly boyish looks of a young 18-year-old. But yet, unlike before, Tommy now is decked out in the Green Ranger armor. “Good to see you again, Yellow.”

“No… No, you’re supposed to be dead. I saw you… I…” Trini’s thoughts bleed into one another, causing her words to come out in jilted half-phrases. Her breath quickens as her anxiety takes the wheel once again. “No… You’re not real. You’re a Jinn.”

“Am I?” Tommy says as he takes another step forward, further encroaching on the space between them. “Or is that simply what you wanted me to be.”

Trini shakes her head, “No. I didn’t want any of… No. This doesn’t--”

CRACK.

Tommy’s fist collides with Trini’s helmet at an earth-shattering force, cutting her off mid-sentence. She’s instantly knocked off her feet and hits the ground with a sobering thud. 

“Fuck!” Trini yells. She rolls over to her side as wave after wave of pain radiates through the length of her jaw. Even though the helmet absorbed most of the blow, Trini’s face still feels as if she was hit full on with a metal baseball bat. 

BAM.

Before Trini even has a chance to register what is happening, Tommy follows up with a deep kick to the dead center of Trini’s spine. 

“Ahhhhhh!” Trini’s body spasms backward, limbs bending in unnatural positions as another harsher wave of pain crashes down upon her.

“What’s wrong? Don’t want to fight?” Tommy asks with a lingering hint of sarcasm. “But live to fight, Yellow. You crave it with every inch of your very being. You gladly play the martyr time and time again. Sacrificing yourself just so you won’t have to live with the pain…  Admit it. You secretly wished for this. All of it. The mysterious foe… The storm… The epic battle… A chance to play the hero once again… All while making her suffer… This is truly all your doing.”

Those words…

Her own doing.

It was her wish… 

Her desire…

No, don’t go there, Gomez. 

Don’t listen to him.

Trini scrambles up off of the ground, ignoring the mind-numbing pain pulsating through every inch of her body, and re-position herself into a defensive stance. She locks eyes with Tommy once again as her hands curl up into two clearly defined fists. “Fuck off.”

Without another moment wasted, Trini unleashes a ferocious onslaught of kicks and punches upon Tommy’s body. Collar bone… Then upper chest… then left hip… then right. And finally, with surgical like precision, she delivers a roundhouse kick, sweeping Tommy’s legs out from underneath him. 

THUD.

Tommy hits the ground with startling brute force, causing a strange shimmer-like effect to ripple across the length of his armor… Almost as if it isn’t really there at all. 

“What the…,” Trini whispers to herself, making a note of the pedicular illusion. She starts to move in again to attack, but then suddenly stops as her eyes catch hold of the--

Epithymía stone.

It lies amongst the mud and rubble, barely even noticeable, only a few yards away from Trini. She immediately makes a dive for it, momentarily forgetting altogether about Tommy, and snatches it up like a kid grabbing for fallen candy from a newly broken pinata.

“Yes,” Trini takes a moment to stare at the tiny yellow gem and-- 

BAM.

Another hit. This time to the back of her helmet. Trini holds onto the gem with a death grip as her body helplessly slides through the mud towards the edge of the cliff. She claws with her other free hand at a nearby boulder and manages to grab onto it just before her feet reach the point of no return.

“Give it back!” Tommy growls. 

“What?” Trini pushes herself up once again and holds out the yellow gem for Tommy to see. “This?”

“Yes.” The word comes out in a deeper growl than before. It’s inhuman in tone… Almost too animalistic to even be real.

“Come and get it.” Trini throws the Epithymía stone down onto the ground and then, without any ounce of hesitation whatsoever, slams her boot down on it, instantly crushing it to nothing more than a cloud of fine dust on impact. She holds her breath in anticipation, but--

Nothing.

What the fuck?

No.

No.

No.

That was supposed to be it.

The key.

The way to bring an end to this--

Trini stomps her foot down again… 

and again… 

and again.

“What’s wrong, Yellow?” Tommy asks cutting through the roar of the storm. “Were you expecting something to happen?”

“What did you do?” Trini spats out, now no longer able to hide her terror-driven rage as it courses through her body. 

“Me?” Tommy lets out a nightmarish laugh. “Oh, Yellow. You still don’t get it, do you? I’ve done nothing at all. I already told you. This is all of your design. Down to the last drop of rain… This is you… All your doing.”

There it is again.

Those words.

Why those words?

Think, Gomez. Think.

CRACK.

A blinding flash of lightning cut across the yellow sky, illuminating everything in sight… including Tommy’s metallic green armor. And suddenly--

The shimmer.

Trini catches it again. Only this time it’s more defined. Like… 

“A dream,” Trini says to herself. “This isn’t real… It’s all my wish.”

Another gut-churning smile slides across Tommy’s face, instantly confirming Trini’s suspicions.

“And then that means… You aren’t real either,” Trini follows up. She locks eyes with Tommy and then, with a newfound determination, delivers a lethal kick straight to his jaw.

SNAP.

The sound of Tommy’s neck breaking echoes over the raging chorus of wind and rain. Trini watches as his lifeless body crumples to the ground and then mysteriously vanishes into thin air as if it was never there, to begin with at all.

“Now what?” Trini mutters letting out a long sigh and taking a long, hard look around. There’s nothing there… Nothing but an endless sea of yellow fog.

If she’s right and this is all just a giant wish-induced dream, then how the hell is she supposed to end it?

Think, Gomez.

It’s a dream… 

And she needs to wake up.

But how?

Trini’s eyes slowly wander over to the edge of the cliff as the sudden realization sets in.

Fuck.

There’s the answer. 

Staring her down this entire time.

Fuck.

Trini gulps down another sobering breath of air, and for the briefest of moments, she closes eyes as another wish pops into her mind, temporarily blocking out all other invading thoughts and feelings. 

She wishes for nothing more than for Kimberly to be happy again…

“Here goes nothing…” 

And with those words, Trini sprints dead on towards the side of the cliff and swan-dives right over the edge.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Laughter.

Kimberly’s laughter.

God, does she love that sound. 

The thought drifts into Trini’s subconsciousness, pulling her out of the black void and into the light. Her eyes slowly blink open, attempting to adjust to the warm, morning sunlight as she stretches her aching limbs. 

Wait.

What the hell happened?!

One minute she was diving off the side of Angel’s Outlook and the next…

Trini immediately shoots up with a hard gasp of air as the sudden realization that she’s miraculously somehow back in Mamaji and Bapu’s living room crashes down upon her. She goes to run her hands through her hair, only to discover that--

It’s pulled back into a ponytail again. 

“What the fuck?” Trini says in stunned disbelief. She looks down at her clothes and notices that they are the same exact ones that she had been wearing the night at Tommi’s bar… The night when she made the wish.

Did it happen?

Any of it?

Shit.

If it didn’t happen, then that means--  

“Can you stop chewing with your mouth open? It’s disgusting.” the sound of Richard’s voice brings Trini’s thoughts to a screeching halt. There’s her answer. Plain and simple. 

Trini takes a moment to herself and just sits on the couch as a steady stream of breakfast chatter intermixed with laughter filters out from the kitchen and into the living room. It’s like a thousand bittersweet paper cuts to her soul. Invisible but painful nonetheless. 

None of it happened.

Not one single moment of it. 

It was just a dream.

No. Scratch that. More like a nightmare. One that lingers on well after it’s over. 

“Mommy? When’s Trini gonna get up?” A hint of a smile crawls across Trini’s lips at the reassuring sound of Max.

“Good question. I was just wondering the same exact thing. Maybe you should go wake Chuki,” Mamaji responds.

“Meredith…,” Bapu mutters, clearly not on board with the idea.

“What? Those that skip Thanksgiving dinner don’t get to sleep in.”

“Mommy, can I?” Max pipes up. 

“How about we wait just a little bit longer, okay? I’m sure Trini could use the extra sleep,” Kim responds only causing Trini’s heart to ache with a phantom feeling of something that in reality was never actually hers, to begin with. 

It never happened. 

Kimberly… at least her Kimberly… is nothing more than a tainted memory of a past life. 

A happier life… 

Trini lets out a sigh. She’s heard enough. Trini doesn’t have to venture into the kitchen to already know that there isn’t a place for her. At least not at that table.

Trini peels herself up off of the couch and then heads for the stairs.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Even after an excruciatingly long shower and much needed change into clothes that didn’t reek of stale smoke and whiskey, Trini still couldn’t quiet collect herself enough to face anyone… Not yet. 

Not when there’s so much emotional baggage left to unpack.

So instead, Trini retreated to the confines of her old bedroom where she took up residency in a beaten up bean bag chair and simply sat in silence, alone with nothing but an endless stream of weighted thoughts and feelings. 

“Trini?” Kim says as she timidly knocks on the bedroom door, making her presence known. 

Trini lets out a heavy sigh and slowly redirects her gaze away from the comforting blankness of the off-white ceiling and onto a set of vibrant chocolate brown eyes. 

Fuck.

That look.

That uniquely haunting look that only Kimberly, and Kimberly alone, can manage to produce.

A look that somehow says everything that Trini needs to know…

Kimberly doesn’t remember.

None of it. 

And why would she?

It didn’t happen… 

“Hey,” Trini responds. An uncomfortable stillness settles between the two of them as Kim cautiously makes her way into the room. Seconds painfully tick by one by one, as the silence only grows. And Trini craves nothing more than to pull her eyes away from the girl who will always hold a piece of her heart. To stop the cracks from deepening along her already fragile soul.

But can’t bring herself to do it.

Seconds turn into minutes as Trini tries with every ounce of her very being to maintain her composure. To keep up her nonchalant facade. The one that tells whoever is looking that “it doesn’t matter”. That she feels nothing at all. 

Breathe.

In and out.

In and out.

Kimberly… this Kimberly… She has a fiance and a son… She has a life.

“Trini, I--”

“It’s okay. I know what you’re gonna say and there’s no need to. I get it… Maybe not all of it, but… But it doesn’t matter. Not now. I should’ve stuck around for dinner last night, and I’m sorry. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to… I just…,” Trini says, cutting Kim off. She lets out another breath of air and runs her hands over her ponytail. The feeling is slightly foreign, but Trini tries not to let it show. “Anyway. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you’re here.”

With those words, Kim suddenly closes the distances between them. She pulls Trini up off of the bean bag chair and plants a deep and passionate kiss upon her lips. 

Fuuuuuckkkk…  

And time comes to a crashing halt. Trini kisses Kim back, pouring into it every single last emotion from the last few days. No words are needed. Kim’s lips are more than enough for Trini to understand that there’s a possibility that she isn’t entirely alone in this journey as she thinks she is.

Kim pulls back from the kiss and takes a moment to rest her forehead against Trini’s. “Mi Vida…”

Trini chokes back a hint of a sob as two fine trails of tears start to fall from her eyes. “You remember?”

“Everything,” Kim responds. A bittersweet smile crawls across her lips as she reaches up and cups Trini’s face with the palms of her hands. 

“Everything?” Trini echoes Kim’s words, unable to fully believe it and Kim simply nods back. The tears fall faster, bringing with them a comforting sense of pure relief and for the first time in what seems like an eternity, Trini feels as if she can breathe again. 

“Every single moment.”

Trini melts into Kim’s welcoming arms, burying her head into the crook of Kim’s neck as the all too familiar scent of lavender mixed with jasmine washes over her. And Kim wraps her arms tighter around Trini’s body until every inch of space between them dissipates… Until there is absolutely nothing left but just the two of them. 

Trini knows that there’s still so much left to sort through. Years upon years of buried thoughts and emotions that need to be dealt with in one way or another. Let alone the lingering question of where do they go from here. But, at this very moment, none of those things matter to her. Not now.

Only one thing and one thing only matters for Trini… 

There isn’t anything in the world that she wouldn’t do for Kimberly Hart. 

Anything.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Six Months Later…

Trini pulls her beat-up black Jeep Wrangler into an empty parking spot, shifts the car into park, and then takes a moment to stretch her overly-stiff muscles. 

She did it. 

Fifteen hours, 32 minutes, and 12 seconds, including three pits, stops along the way for gas, snacks, and the occasional bathroom break...

A new personal record.

And hopefully, one that will never need to be broken because, unlike all the other LA to Portland treks that Trini has done over the past few months, this time there would be no return trip.

She’s there for good.

A smile crawls across Trini’s face as she takes a moment to let the reality of the situation to fully sink in. It hasn’t been the easiest of journeys, and there have been countless times where she swore that this moment would never come, and yet, here it is. So seemingly uneventful. Just another late Thursday evening in Portland. 

Trini gets out of her car and then slowly makes her way across the parking lot towards Kim’s shop. 

This wasn’t her first time up and surprising Kim here. No. The first time was a few short weeks after Kim had called her in the dead of night to let her know that she had officially ended things with Richard. It had been a bittersweet conversation at best. One that left Trini hopeful and yet at the same time, absolutely terrified that there was a strong chance that there were no real prospects for them in the near-- or even far-- future. Kim needed time. 

Time to be alone.

And that’s what Trini had given her, until one day she woke up to a simple text that said: “I wish you were here”.

The next thing Trini knew, she was hopping a flight to Portland and had shown up unannounced at Kim’s barbershop. It felt like a small gesture at the time. Nothing more than a simple gut reaction. But according to Kim, it had meant the world.

And it had been the start… The start to something where neither one of them truly knew what the end result would be. But they were more than willing to go along for the ride. Inch by inch. One visit after another. With each time becoming more and more difficult to say good-bye.

“Trini!” Max exclaims as Trini makes her way through the door. He hops down out of the barbershop chair that he was up until moments ago, spinning himself around in and bolts for Trini. Trini braces herself just in time as Max launches his body into Trini’s arm at full force and gives her a bone-crushing hug hello. 

“Hey, Kiddo.” Trini wraps her arms around the raven-haired boy and pulls him in close. 

“Mommy said you weren’t coming until tomorrow night. We were gonna pick you up at the airport after karate practice.” 

“Change of plans,” Trini responds as she motions towards her Jeep in the parking lot. 

Max glances through the front window and then back at Trini with a look of sheer joy upon his face. “You drove?”

“Yup.”

“Does that mean…” Max trails off almost too excited at the possible prospect of what it could mean to finish his question. 

Trini gives him a nod in confirmation with a hint of a smile. 

God, she loves this kid. 

No. Scratch that. She flat out adores him. And would move heaven and earth if needed just to be with him…

“Yes!!!!” Max shouts as he starts to bounce around the shop, unable to contain his sheer excitement. And Trini can’t help but give into laughter at the sight of it. 

“Max, what are you… Trini?” Kim emerges from the back room and comes to a crashing halt as she lays eyes on Trini.

“Mommy! Trini drove here… And look,” Max says as he jabs his finger at the window. “Look at all of the boxes and bags in her Jeep. It’s all her stuff. She’s staying for good.”

Kim slowly shifts her eyes away from Trini and towards the Jeep, taking a moment or two to thoroughly examine it, and then back at Trini.  

“Surprise,” Trini says as she shoves her hands deep into her jean pockets and gives a bit of a shrug. “I know we said maybe in a few months from now, but I found a way to get out of the lease early, and I just couldn’t wait any--”

But Trini doesn’t get the chance to finish her sentence. Kim swoops her up and plants a passionate kiss upon her lips, slightly spinning her around in the process. Trini gets lost in the moment, unable to do anything more than simply laugh as a tidal wave of pure warmth and happiness washes over her. 

“Ewwww gross.” Max makes an exaggerated face and covers his eyes, causing Trini and Kim to stop spinning and pull back out of their kiss. They share a smile as Trini finds herself getting lost within Kim’s chocolate brown eyes. 

And suddenly…

Trini’s finally found her home again.

In the arms of the one person who has always been it for her.

Her end game.

Kimberly Anne Hart. 

Kim reaches out and playfully runs her hand through Trini’s short, messy locks as a slightly disapproving look moves across her face. “Go take a seat.”

“Seriously?” Trini says raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, seriously. You’re way overdue,” Kim replies, giving Trini a nudge towards an empty chair.

“Fine.” Trini takes a seat in the chair and flashes Kim a cocky smile. “Just don’t fuck it up, Princess.” 

“Never. Mi Vida,” Kim leans in and places a gentle kiss on Trini’s cheek. “Never.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @welshwoman1988!

To both the admin and my giftee Welsh_Woman (welshwoman1988), I doubled the word limit and I am so sorry. My words just ran with me and there was so much I wanted to fit in. I never have been able to write short one-shots and this was my first secret santa exchange EVER and I just got so excited. You said you liked Royalty AUs and I saw that you’d liked an image of wolf Derek snuggling with Stiles on a bed on your Tumblr and somehow that turned into this – I don’t even know how to be honest. I hope you enjoy your gift :D

Read on AO3

*****

Sails in the Night Sky

The biting chill of oncoming winter was brutal in the dark of night, obvious even through Derek’s warm, lined coat. He tipped his head skyward, the stars hidden from view by a thick covering of dark clouds. Rain was coming.

The echoes of the argument he’d left behind in the castle walls still filled his head like a thunderstorm. His ears still rang with his uncle’s tactless insistence that he not waste his time anymore wallowing in the peasantry, Laura’s halting, stalwart defence of both Derek and the less fortune. Then, of course, there was his mother’s quiet, warning that cut through it all with the sharpness of lightning.

“If you hate it so much then have them moved!” he’d snapped in the end, half afraid his mother or uncle would do exactly that. Even so, he’d surprised his family with his vehemence, because he’d always merely done as he was told, until that point at least. Hales ruled beside their siblings, with their partners in life having very little say in affairs of state, though before he’d died, his father had done his part for the public. Still, Derek was due to rule alongside his sisters and he had always been the more submissive of his fiery family members, but nothing had ever filled him with fire the way this had.

 Derek sighed as he continued on, turning his collar up against the cold and the echoes of his mother’s raised voice that still hummed in his ears. She managed to make him feel like an errant child even as the sounds of applause, the cries of awe and delight mixed with those of aversion in the night.

Nobody had ever seen a ‘circus’ before, never even heard of anything like it. It was new and exciting and the talk of the kingdom but also filled the more reserved, those that fought change, with bitter resentment. Derek knew Peter’s reason for stopping him from working his way down here night after night was a simple factor of control. His mother’s reasons, however, were more complicated.

He’d originally assumed her protests to the circus stemmed from the same resistance to change as a lot of the others, but earlier that night, when tempers had flared, his mother had simply replied calmly, “they are good people, they take care of their animals and each other and they make their money, little of it that they do, in happiness. It’s a more honest trade than most.” Even so, she’d levelled him with that sad, knowing stare and added, “But my boy, if you associate with what the people consider abnormal, they will soon realise that you aren’t their variety of normal either.”

Derek approached the white tent and thought of Stilinski. The showman had been born in the capital with little money, had met his wife in a foreign land and always dreamt of bringing the life he’d built with her back to the place he was born. He’d dreamt of making it work here, making a home where everyone was welcome, where everyone could fit. Derek only wished the kingdom that was his birthright could be the same.

The familiar sounds and smells, the sight of the large white peaked tent just off the main road out of the capital lifted him as they greeted him, as they’d done every night in the last few months.

The tent’s canopy looked like sails in the night sky, and despite his family’s earlier protests, Derek felt himself drawn toward them like a ship out to sea.

*

The noise was as immense inside the tent as ever. The smells of sweat and snacks, of an overindulgence of alcohol from the less savoury onlookers, the ones that brought the bitter smell of intolerance to the mix, tested his control. He’d been trained since his youth to cope with the myriad of smells and sights and sounds a crowd carried, they all had and so after a grimace it all settled and he edged around the back of the tent, where he could see a set of crudely constructed stairs spiralling round the perimeter, up and round to some platforms above.

Derek ducked under the rope blocking off the stairway and climbed. The crowd below was so thick that he hadn’t been able to even hope to glimpse the large, sandy ring that he now saw more clearly the more he climbed.

A girl with beautiful red hair tied at the top of her head spun in the centre, fire twirling from the batons in her grasp and she beamed like something out of a fairytale, as beautiful and dangerous as the fire she bent to her will. She twirled it expertly, swinging it around herself and dancing over the swirling rope of fire her equally beautiful partner wielded like a deadly, flaming version of the skipping ropes the children of the court played with. Together, she and the dark haired woman kept the audience on the edges of their seats.

He’d never seen anything like this until the first night he’d stepped in here. He’d never seen people that moved the way they did, he’d never seen this kind of setup. The way the audience howled and clapped with every risk they took, every sinuous movement suggested it wasn’t just a limit of his position either, none of them had seen this before, not even at the heart of the capital.

Derek reached the top of the stairway just as they took their final bows to the applause of the majority. He braced himself with one arm against the supporting beam of the tent, the tall mast of the ship of dreams that lay before him, as the two performers took their leave of the ring and a wave of silence cut across the crowd. He waited, then sure enough, a bright light swung up to point at the far side of the tent, where there was a platform twinned to the high crow’s nest that Derek was on.

His vision was better than that of probably any of the people below. From where he stood, with the mobile spotlight on the figure on the opposite platform, Derek saw him clearly. There was only a split second from the light hitting him, to his reaction but it all moved in slow motion thereafter. Long legs hooked over the bar suspended from above and the lithe body swung round, upside down, arching like a taut bow. The momentum of his movements sent him swooping forward like a gull across the waves. The ocean of people below gasped but were otherwise struck silent with awe.

The bird glittered as he swung forward, glitter catching across his cheekbones and long fingers that stretched out with his arms, urging his impetus further. The swing carried his flight right up to where Derek was standing, as speechless as the people below. When their gazes met, Derek saw the deep amber eyes reflecting the light, as dazzling as the glitter that painted their edges.

Time stood still, just as it had that first night, the young man was always so surprised to see him return despite the fact that he always promised to. Then the momentum of his swing, the movement of his flight carried him back. He twisted on the bar like it was effortless, long limbs speckled with moles that drew Derek’s gaze along the taut, lean muscle there. His breath caught and his mouth went try with every swooping turn of limb.

He didn’t perform every night and he didn’t cut away to meet with Derek every night either. Derek wondered what it said about him that the young man’s flight and their sarcastic conversations allowed his head to feel clearer than had been all these years. There was always a signal, if he landed on the platform Derek was on, he had time to escape with Derek, if not, he landed on the opposite side.  

Applause ripped through the tense silence like a thousand waves crashing against the cliff face and Derek took a step back as the man dismounted before him, taking a bow before the spotlight on him drifted away. Derek blinked at the sudden change in light.

The same dark kohl and golden brown glitter painted those eyes as every night. The pale glitter that lay like stars across his cheekbones glistened, mystically untouched by the sweat beading from his hair and across his throat into the deep ‘v’ of his nearly translucent shirt. His chest was heaving, his glitter-tinted cheeks flushed with exertion but he smiled as he panted, “you’re not really meant to be up here, you know?” It was the same teasing, slightly breathless rebuke and didn’t sound at all displeased. On the contrary, the young man studied him carefully, tilting his head as the lights focussed back again on the ring below and the next act ensuing.

“I thought not,” Derek agreed softly, an edge of amusement to his words, “but then I assumed someone would’ve removed me if they were so concerned.”

 The man’s lips quirked in a devastatingly charming way. “I asked dad to let you be. You must be growing on him,” he revealed, before he tipped his head on his way passed, gesturing for Derek to follow him.

The living quarters of the performers were to the rear of the grand tent, a cluster of worn but well cared for wooden caravans. They were far enough from the animal enclosures on the opposite side for the smell to pale in comparison to the aroma of cooking food and subtle perfumes wafting from the other open, empty caravans, left open to facilitate the comings and goings of the other performers.

He hesitated when the young man climbed into one that smelled only of him, watched as he perched on the stool squeezed between a dressing table and a mussed, sweet smelling bed. He usually entertained Derek’s presence as he tended the animal pens or did some other chores, or beguiled Derek with sarcastic wit just outside the noise of the big tent. He’d never led him back here before. The intimacy of seeing the place he slept, raised in the sheltered way Derek was, made him swallow thickly.

Those piercing amber eyes watched his reflection as he shrugged off the near translucent fabric of his shirt, damp with sweat. He tipped some oil that smelled of almonds onto a clean cloth and began swiping the glittering paint from his body. It had glistened like diamonds embedded in his skin under the light of the tent, but now as the man wiped it away from his chest first, then the column of his throat, all Derek could do was stare at the flesh the faux glamour had covered. Flawless, honey coloured and speckled with moles here and there that reached up across his neck, jaw and cheekbones.

“You’re amazing,” Derek managed at last, finding his voice, thick with awe. The breathy compliment was far away from their usual banter.

The man at the table gave him a wistful look. “Well, that’s a hell of a lot more pronounceable than my given name,” he said. His voice wasn’t accented in any particular way, which Derek thought peculiar of people that were clearly travellers when he’d first met him.

“You’re still not going to tell me your real name, are you?”

Again, the same wistful smile. “You’re awfully persistent with that. Usually people need to know, why the trapeze? Why such death-defying stunts? Why risk your life for so little financial gain?”

Derek frowned, unsure if the young man truly meant ‘people’ or other men or women he’d led back to his caravan just like this. The thought made his stomach squirm, when for months he’d felt himself special for sharing just an hour of conversation with the young man he only knew as Stileseach night. “I thought that was obvious. You love it.”

That stilled Stiles’s constant, almost frenetic movement. The glittering paint around his eyes had been wiped away with the rest now, leaving only a few rogue speckles of starlight behind, blending perfectly with the moles on one side of his face, probably only visible to Derek’s gaze.

“It’s my life,” Stiles said seriously, with the tone of a man slightly stunned by Derek’s answer. “Everyone needs the chance to smile these days, not only the rich.”

Derek nodded, thinking of the homeless that flocked the streets of the capital not far from here. The ‘circus’ as the people were calling it, it was all about the lights and the show in the tent but back here, there was a rundown comfort of home and people barely getting by. They weren’t making a fortune, despite the splendour they delivered night after night.

“You told me your mother taught you before she died?” Derek asked, moistening his dry lips. Even from the slight distance the steps up into the caravan and the door put between them, he saw the man’s eyes, shining with the glow of the twin lanterns there, follow the path of his tongue across his mouth.

“Yeah, she was a natural, she was the talent that built us up from nothing, you know?” he offered easily, face bright as he said it. Right from the start it had been clear that Stiles loved talking about her. “She came from a place far from here, my father met her when he fought in the wars. She taught him. They taught me.”

Derek thought of Stilinski, the man in richly coloured tailcoats and nodded in agreement. Stilinski had performed with his son after his mother died, but he’d grown older and so when his father-in-law died he’d taken his place as show-master. The man had a smile that crinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth and it was an expression you couldn’t help but return. It was the same light, the same vibrance of life that burned so bright in Stiles. The same light that burned in all of the people behind the circus, in all people who enjoyed what they did with all they had.

“Tell me your real name?” Derek asked again, still feeling a little giddy, wondering if it was the convergence of so many scents in one place or just the man before him. He was so close within his reach and half-naked and so, so beautiful and honest and real, magnanimous like none of the people of privilege his uncle and mother had tried to urge him to court.

Right from the first time Derek had let repression, boredom and inquisitiveness call him into the tent and he’d seen the way Stiles moved, right from the first time their eyes had locked he’d felt drawn in by him. He’d felt drawn in by the sight of a life that burned so bright regardless of the limitations the rest of the world tried to place on him, something so rare in the world he’d grown up in

“What would you do with it?” Stiles asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Derek frowned, brows drawing together and Stiles swivelled on his stool. “Call you by your name.”

“Like a secret promise?” The twinkle flared like fire, giving Derek a brief view into this man’s beautiful soul. “Surely ‘Stiles’ is enough? Everyone else calls me that. Or do you have another pet name for me in your head?”

Derek exhaled in annoyance through his nose, dragging his hand across the back of his neck. “I’m calling you a little prick, right now.” His words startled a laugh out of Stiles that completely changed his face, mouth wide with surprised joy. His entire body jerked with it in a way so free and uninhibited by society’s rules. It was perfect.

“You have a mouth, Prince Hale,” he said approvingly, laughter still in his eyes.

Derek jerked as if he’d been slapped, because in all the times they’d spoken and yes, even laughed together, all the times Derek had helped him haul water or muck out the animal pens, he’d never once used that title.

“You…you know?” he asked, feeling as if the ground had opened up beneath his feet, the sails torn from his ship as it was cast out to sea.

Stiles’s laughter faded into a resigned smile then and the man reached for the plain robe off the mussed bedding and pulled it on. “I know who you are. My father told me right from the first night you came here,” he said as he tied the belt around his robe, fingers lingering on it, as if he needed to keep them busy left they betray him. He had such strong, long, expressive hands. “You were very determined not to tell me yourself.”

Derek set his jaw. “I just…” He didn’t know what to say. He’d been so tired, so very tired of having expectations pressed on him, of having every aspect of his life dictated to him, albeit by a well-intentioned mother and uncle. He’d been tired of it all but when he’d seen Stiles, when he’d glimpsed his life here, it had felt like an escape. No, more than that.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Stiles added with quiet reluctance. “You shouldn’t come back, Derek.”

Derek flinched. “Stiles,” he tried, the odd nickname full of such earnest longing for him to understand. “If you’ve always known what I am then–”

“I always knew what you were, but I didn’t know who you were,” Stiles argued, storming forward to the doorway of the caravan. He glared down at Derek, more glorious in his rage than any of the mild-mannered, sweet tempered ladies and gentlemen of the court he’d encountered.

“I kept thinking, every time I saw you would be the time you admitted it, trusted me enough and it never happened.” His face held barely concealed anguish and Derek ached for putting it there. Stiles shook his hand, dragging his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “What the hell am I to you, Derek?” he asked, “just some entertaining diversion until you grow up and accept your responsibilities and whatever partner your mother finds you?”

“That’s not it,” Derek all-but snarled, because the inch of truth in that, at least the part about accepting responsibility burned.

Everyone here had responsibilities to the show, to each other, and if one of them didn’t step up it would fall apart. He wondered how he must look to Stiles, to be shirking his responsibilities when everyone here worked so damn hard for so little. But even so, it hadn’t been about hiding anything from Stiles, it’d been about hiding himself from that world, because he was terrified, because the Derek in that world was pathetic and lost and when he was with Stiles, he felt strong.

“I can’t be your sordid secret, Derek,” Stiles murmured, voice rough around the edges with pain, his eyes shining in the light the lanterns strung between the caravans offered. “I can’t be some mistress you come back to when your real life gets too hard and you want an amusing diversion.”

Derek’s head snapped back to him so quickly his neck protested. “Then why did you ask that I be allowed to stay?” he demanded heatedly. “Why invite me back here to the place you sleep if you have so little faith in me?”

“Because I hoped you were different!” Stiles snarled like a cornered wolf, eyes ablaze and his voice broke a little as he added, “Because I wanted you to be different. Because no one has ever looked at me the way you did that first night, the way you are right now. There’s never been a connection like that, at least not for me.”

“Not for me either,” Derek replied, his voice a softer counterpart to Stiles’s hurt rage, so gentle that Stiles’s fire seemed to simmer out a little.

Derek stepped forward, gripping the small balustrade and levering himself up to stand on the steps. There was a hairsbreadth between them and his hand covered Stiles’s on the doorframe. He could taste Stiles’s breath on his lips and see every fleck of brown, amber and whisky in Stiles’s eyes.

“That’s why I’m here,” Derek continued tenderly. “Yes, my life is…complicated. It drives me insane most days but that doesn’t change that I’m here because of you, not because of that.”

Because they had a connection.

Stiles searched his eyes and his fingers twitched under Derek’s on the wooden frame. There was so little air between them that Derek felt light-headed from the lack of air until Stiles drew back. He looked suddenly tired as he slumped onto the edge of his bed, avoiding Derek’s gaze.

“That’s why I showed you,” Stiles almost whispered, “showed you me without the glitter and the spotlight, just me. Nothing else. I wanted you to see that and come back anyway.” He risked a look at Derek out of the corner of his eye. “I wanted the connection to be real.” With a sigh and a little, self-deprecating smile he added, “my mother used to say that we travelled the world and they all applauded, but when the spotlight went out we were still foreigners, different, unwelcome strangers once the laughter faded.”

He sounded so lonely for a man that said that bringing happiness to others, regardless of social standing was all he wanted in life. But just as Derek had his secrets, Stiles had one other than his birth name. It appeared that Stiles wanted a home, one where he belonged. Derek ached to share that dream with him.

Derek did something he’d never done in all his life except for his mother and uncle, something society would gasp in dismay at the sight of and he didn’t give a shit. He lowered himself to his knees before Stiles and captured his strong hands in his own, drawing those doe eyes to him before reaching up to cup his cheek. He dragged his thumb across the moles there and drank in his heat. “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he confessed.

Stiles had travelled the world, had seen so much and for all his poverty, he was rich in ways the Hale family could only ever hope to be.

“I’ve never seen anyone who looks at the world the way you do. You see all men equal, you see the good in everyone in spite of all the ugliness you’ve seen across the world. You’re incredible.” Because he knew Stiles had heard the slurs and jibes of those that protested their presence here, detested the ‘unnatural circus’ that no one had ever seen the like of before. He wasn’t fool enough to think that worldview was something Stiles had only encountered here.

Stiles reached back for him, cupping the back of his head and stroking his fingers through his hair before gripping tight, as if he were afraid to let him go and find out he wasn’t real. “You belong in another world, Derek.”

Derek wanted to sink into him until there was no telling them apart from one other, wanted to absorb everything Stiles was. “Maybe we can find a way to make a new one.”

Stiles let out a little laugh even as his eyes glistened. “I must be insane to believe you.” His grip tightened on Derek’s hair and he tugged him in so that their foreheads pressed together. “But God help me I want to...”

Derek felt as shaky as Stiles sounded, his fingers trembling as they slid down to cup Stiles’s jaw, his warm, soft throat and the pulse thudding rapidly with excitement within. The longing Derek felt twinned within his own veins. He dragged his nose across Stiles’s cheekbone, inhaling softly at the almond, sweat, warmth, grassy scent that was Stiles before letting their mouths brush.

His stomach tightened and then melted at the contact, at the little hitch in Stiles’s breath, lips melding together soft and a little slick with the oil Stiles had used to clean his skin. Derek groaned when Stiles’s tongue touched his own like a question and sank into him, his thumb tracing Stiles’s chin and tugging gently so that he could taste him deeper.

Stiles’s free hand smoothed down Derek’s torso between the narrow space between them, in constant motion as if he wanted to map every inch of Derek but didn’t know where to start and was worried if he didn’t now, he never would. It was a frenetic greed and Derek kissed him deeper for it, to let him know he felt the same. It was a little clumsy, perfect, real, their noses bumping in their urgency to taste each other.

Derek’s hands slid down Stiles’s throat to his shoulder, the gentle movement smoothing Stiles’s robe off his shoulders. It pooled beneath them when Derek drew back and Stiles followed, his fingers aiding Derek’s on the ornate clasps of his cloak and tunic as they kissed, more urgently with every inch of skin revealed.

Stiles clumsily peeled away the tights he wore to perform, and when Derek stood back off the bed to remove his own clothing in the narrow galley between it, the clothes rail and dressing table, Stiles swiped the door shut. He gave Derek a wry smile when he tugged away the constricting undergarment he wore to hold him in place when he performed and reached for Derek almost instantaneously. They fell clumsily to the bed in a mess of limbs that rocked the caravan.

Stiles laughed softly, the sound stifled by Derek’s mouth. Derek answered it in kind, his amusement, arousal and affection mingling into a grumbling laugh growl that caught in his throat. It was a desperate, inelegant thing between them, urgent with need to touch everywhere and drink in every inch of heat.

Derek’s stubble raised a red flush over every freckle and mole and Stiles’s strong hands held onto Derek’s neck and shoulders so tight Derek felt his nails dig in. For all that, it was a slow build. A slow dance ending in them mostly grinding together, clasped too close, limbs locked together too tight with Stiles’s sheets pulled over them to protect them from the encroaching chill.

It was the best night of Derek’s life.

“Mieczyslaw,” Stiles breathed softly against the hollow of his jaw from where they were wrapped around each other in the sticky afterglow. He had one arm hooked around Derek’s shoulder while Derek’s curved around him, dragging affectionately through his hair.

“Hmm?” Derek asked, blinking his sated, sleepy eyes open.

“Mieczyslaw, that’s the name my parents gave me. It was my grandfather’s name. But there was two of us, so I was always Stiles and when he and my mother died…” Stiles shrugged but Derek understood, knew what it meant to have that name whispered into his skin like a kiss, like the greatest secret on earth. It was, Derek realised, to someone like Stiles who people judged at face value, someone who never let anyone in close enough to see, who had so little. This was the greatest thing he could give.

Derek pressed his lips to Stiles’s again, unable to find the words to show how much that meant to him. He felt as if the clouds had been swept aside by the whirlwind of Stiles’s life, humbled and thinking clearly for the first time.

It was like an awakening.

His home had all the creature comforts a man could long for. It had fine linens, servants to run hot baths with opulent oils, food and drink to heat his belly, but he’d never felt as warm as he did now, naked under a mountain of sheets with Stiles, watching the light of the still slightly swinging lamps paint his face with their glow.

He looked into Stiles’s eyes when their lips parted and felt affection so fervent it made him shaky with it. He felt admiration and knowledge that instilled him with shame, because all this time he’d felt trapped in his privileged life and Stiles and his makeshift family were knee-deep in heartache, struggling every day and never asking for more. While Derek had responsibilities at home, he also had love and security and a family who only wanted the best for him, for the world, even if they had a peculiar way of going about it sometimes.

He arguably had everything and Stiles and his family had nothing and yet they were happy. They wanted only to make others smile. Derek had been the instrument in his own misery before now, letting his mother and uncle manage him. He’d once believed that all there was to stepping up to his role was politics, unwanted opulent balls and sufferance. But seeing the magic these people created from nothing but skill made him realise what he could do with everything he had, what he wanted to do, because of Stiles.

“So how do we start?” Stiles murmured against his jaw.

“Hmm?”

“Reshaping the world, so that everyone has a place, so that we have a place together, where do we start with that?”

Derek stroked his hair thoughtfully. “I talk to my mother and uncle.”

Stiles tensed in his arms before pushing up onto his elbows. “And if they tell you to stay away?” he asked guardedly.

Derek studied him carefully, before glancing around the caravan. “Then I still have two sisters that can rule without me.”

Stiles looked as if he might protest for a moment, but Derek knew him well enough by now to know he never wasted time with half-hearted platitudes or anything other than what he truly felt or thought. He smiled and drew Derek in with fingers behind his jaw. “I think I’ve inspired a rebellious streak in you,” he murmured against Derek’s lips, his own mouth a little red with stubble burn.

Derek snorted. “You just gave me a reason to grow a backbone,” he said as he bore him back to the sheets.

“I have to tell you something,” Derek murmured against his belly when the world outside had grown quiet, the circus fast asleep.

Stiles stroked his hair, smoothing the mess of it their lovemaking had made behind his ears in a way that was so relaxing, so comforting Derek thought he might melt around him like a puddle.

“You don’t have like a secret wife or husband or harem do you?” Stiles asked sleepily and Derek nipped at the tight, lean muscles of his abdomen.

“I have to tell you something, about me, about my family but it’s not just my secret to tell.” He tilted his head to look up into Stiles’s face and Stiles brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Derek, I’ve been to so many places, I’ve seen so much…” Stiles moistened his kiss-bruised lips and then struggled up in bed, enough to reach for the bookshelf behind his head that acted as a headboard. He offered Derek a leather-bound book in faded midnight blue, worn at the edges but well cared for.

Derek frowned and went to open it, but Stiles’s hand stayed the motion.

“No,” Stiles said gently, “when you get home. Look at it then. My mother and grandfather made it, it’s…it’s sort of a family heirloom, I suppose.”

Derek shook his head. “Stiles, I can’t take this.���

“It’s a loan,” Stiles said firmly, holding his hand out in refusal when Derek tried to give it back. “Bring it back with you, when you return.”

So you’ll have to return, Derek couldn’t help but think he was truly saying and he kissed him more fiercely than he ever had before so he would know.

A while later, as he swept his cloak around him and crept down the steps of Stiles’s caravan, he leaned up to whisper against his lips, “I’m coming back.”

“You’re very eager to make me promises, Prince Hale,” Stiles mused, but there was a wary edge to his voice, as if he didn’t dare believe it was true.

“I never make promises I can’t keep.”

It was a long walk back to the castle. The city never slept, some were already up even as the sky started to glow with that subtle purple hue that signalled the encroaching dawn. Derek heard the telltale sounds of them readying for the day, the baker preparing his products, the fisherman hauling their catches off the docks but it all fell away into the lingering night as he walked.

The lanterns that lined the stone bridge that stretched from the city toward the castle, toward his home were extinguished long ago, not even a lingering hum of heat or scent of burning oil remaining. The world was quiet, calm out here on this bridge. It felt like he was floating above it all, with only the smell of the water running far, far below to caress his senses like a promise.

He paused on the bridge, resting his arms on the broad stone balustrade and running his fingers reverently over the worn cover of the book Stiles had given him. Stiles’s scent and the scent of his father still clung to it. This book was more precious than anything Stiles owned. All the sparkle and glamour were nothing compared to this.

He carefully opened the cover to see a small portrait tucked into the jacket. It was the kind he’d seen done in shops to commemorate events such as weddings or births. It was a good one, so must’ve cost more than a week’s takings. He caressed the edges of the little rectangle, a baby, perhaps a year old with Stiles’s bright eyes and little turned up nose and a woman with the same nose holding him tight, while Stilinski the showman, younger, less lined embraced them both.

My beautiful boy, your father and I love you so much. The note written across the back of the image was from Stiles’s mother, clearly.

Derek tucked it back in carefully and flipped through the book, filled with drawings and the same neat, curling scripture. His stomach plummeted as he read the words, studied the diagrams. His thoughts roared in his head and he froze at the sight of the carefully, painfully accurate drawings of things he’d never seen put to paper before. His fingertips scanned the pages and his hands were shaking as he closed the book carefully, staring hard at the foreign scripture now.

Bestiariusz, cut into the worn, soft leather in the same hand. He’d scanned it before but discarded it as Stiles’s family’s lost tongue, something his brain couldn’t comprehend at first glance, now though, in hindsight…

“What has your heart fluttering like a hummingbird, young nephew?” His uncle’s voice cut through the night and Derek, already on edge, whirled around, eyes wide. Had he been so worked up, had the blood been pounding so in his ears that he hadn’t noticed Peter’s approach?

Peter regarded him with a raised brow and slowly came to stand beside him, resting his arms on the stone alongside the book. He stared out across the water toward the horizon where the sun was still a way off.

“It’s amazing how early our senses can pick up the changes in the light, in the sky. We can sense the dawn long before the humans can,” Peter said thoughtfully, before turning his head to look at him. “Your mother and I told you to stay away from the circus because even as extraordinary as their feats of human skill are, Derek, they are still human. Even they could not comprehend what we are capable of.”

He stared hard at Derek then, expression tight as the king he was, looking on Derek as his subject now, not his family, not his loved one. “You’ve seen how the people of this land look on them. Some come to see their show, yes, many do in fact, but there are still those that fear their otherness. It only takes a few to rally the pitchforks and chase us through the hills like feral beasts. Our ancestors built this kingdom from the ground up after being chased from our homeland centuries ago. We will not make the same mistakes as them. The humans may one day be able to accept the circus but they will never be ready for our abnormality.”

Derek tore his gaze from Peter’s and looked at the cover of the bestiary. He moistened his lips, tasted Stiles on them and knew the caution his family had exorcised over the centuries had kept them alive, had let them thrive. Knew that they kept their secret for a reason, but he didn’t think he was entirely right. The initial jolt of shock and dread that had filled him on realising what the book was had settled a little the more Peter had spoken, the more Derek had realised how wrong he was.

“I think people change with the times. In some places, Stiles said that the circus was welcomed without pause, without backlash. He said that for every town that welcomed them with open arms there were those that chased them out, but that those were becoming few and far between.”

He thought of the woman who’d spent her life making this book. It was filled with sketches lovingly drawn, like art rather than scientific scrawl, facts and notes made like a bird lover might for the wildlife they tracked. Stiles’s mother had travelled the world, studying the supernatural with the same wide-eyed, worldly fascination her son carried even now.

Maybe the world wasn’t ready for their secret yet, but some people were, Stiles was and if he could share his secrets with Stiles while they waited for the rest of the world to catch up? Well then he was sure someone as strong as Stiles could help him ready them.

“What in heavens is a Stiles?” Peter asked with clear distaste and Derek couldn’t help it, he let out a little laugh, holding the book with reverence, like the wake-up call it was. He tucked it carefully inside his cloak. “His mother studied the supernatural, I think…I think the circus was her talent, her job but her studies were her passion. She indulged both, all over the world and saw…everything. So has Stiles.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “You told him…”

“I didn’t have to,” Derek said, feeling giddy with the lightneess that thought filled him with. “He knows. He knows what I am and he’s not afraid.”

Beside him, Peter stiffened. “You’ve been having clandestine meetings with a circus boy and you think he knows you?”

Derek didn’t rise to the bait, just answered with the truth he felt to his bones. “I think he could. I want him to.”

“Derek,” Peter began again.

“I want to speak to mother, about this, about everything,” Derek cut him off, “in the morning, I’ll…”

He trailed off. It was like the warning sirens that signalled the floods were going off in the distance, except this wasn’t a sound made by their horns. It was sound, smell, atmosphere, panic growing steadily more thick in the air as the wind changed and carried it in his direction. He and Peter both froze as it registered.

Fire. Chaos. The circus.

Stiles!

By the time they got there, the tent was ablaze, the white sails turned to great flaming beacons under the red dawn and the capital was in chaos. Derek surged forward at the sight of it, the smell of burning overwhelmed his nose so that he could not pick out Stiles’s scent, so he frantically searching the faces of everyone fleeing the fire. The smoke was thick in the air, he choked and spluttered. A crowd had gathered, some to watch the pandemonium, some flying forward to help the circus workers to rescue the animals, taking hold of reins of horses and helping to haul the cages of the more dangerous animals to safety. But he saw no Stiles.

“Derek!” Peter called warningly, and the unspoken order was clear. Do not make a scene, do not make what you are known. Derek gave him a single, lingering look, before bolting into the chaos.

He darted down the side of the fire, avoiding the licking flames that had all-but devoured the tent, which he hoped was empty. He strained but could hear no heartbeats inside, no cries for help. He hoped that was because it had been empty, not because someone had been trapped inside. He made for the caravans.

The fire seemed to have started in the tent and the smell of alcohol on the flames, when none of the circus workers entertained alcohol made him think of sabotage, but he had no time to dwell. He struggled to listen, to sense beyond the ferocity of the fire.

He didn’t hear a heartbeat, he didn’t see Stiles, but a screeching, terrifying unnatural whinnying filled the night and he bolted towards it. The striped horse Stiles had called a zebra once had been caught by its lead rope on a fallen section of cage. Derek flew toward it on instinct, catching the rope by the knot beneath the beast’s jaw and laying a strong, steadying hand on its neck.

“Hey,” he breathed softly, holding it tight as it struggled, eyes wide. “You’re ok. We’ll get you…” He trailed off at the sight of the body crumpled in the stall the zebra had been caught in. He dove down, keeping hold of the zebra’s rope and reaching for Stiles. He coughed and spluttered as he reached for his neck, the smoke growing thicker even as he checked for a tangible sign of life, not trusting his senses in the din.

There was a heartbeat, faint, sluggish, thick with smog but there. He knew a moment of dangerous hesitation, staring at the beast, now frozen with fear and the flames coming in tighter and tighter, Stiles’s body limp and smeared with ash and soot from the open cover the horses were stabled under.

At last, Derek dragged an ornate handkerchief out of his pocket. He pulled Stiles roughly upward, his body heavy and lifeless but no weight at all to Derek’s strength. He grunted even so, as he pressed his shoulder under Stiles’s weight and staggered to his feet, still keeping a grip on the zebra. It stood stock still, petrified and Derek tugged. “Come on,” he snarled, but the beast didn’t move. Derek pulled, looked around wildly at the fire as it roared higher. In a moment of panic, he roared, eyes burning, fangs flashing. The zebra jerked as if his fangs had struck flesh and bolted forward.

“Stiles? Stiles!” Stilinski’s voice called out as they made it to the where the whole city had gathered, the fiery-haired girl coming forward to take hold of the Zebra’s makeshift halter just as Stilinski practically collided with Derek.

Derek lowered Stiles carefully off his shoulder and into Stilinski’s frantic arms, spluttering and coughing and wiping smoke from his stinging eyes as Stiles’s lifeless body tilted to the ground, head lolling, face smeared black. He looked so pale, so unreal in the red sunlight.

The world around him was on fire, there was madness as everyone tried to put out the flames, as people tried to tend the wounded but it was suddenly deafeningly quiet as Derek stared at him, at Stiles and willed him to move. He lay still on the cobblestones, splayed out like a man drowned and Derek had never felt so helpless in all his life.

“Stiles!” Stilinski screamed, shaking his son’s shoulders.

Then, suddenly, there was a firm, strong hand on his shoulder. Derek didn’t even react, didn’t turn at the feel of his mother’s presence, at the voice of his queen, not until she said, ever so softly, “bring him.”

Derek jerked to face her, frowning at her unreadable expression. “The capital’s infirmary will be full tonight. Bring him to the castle, he’ll have more of a chance with us.”

*

Derek supposed the bittersweet thing about tragedy was that it rendered all men equal. His uncle and mother, the king and queen, and Stilinski the showman of the circus that had shocked the world were as equals now. Covered in soot and grime from the flying flames, it was hard to tell what positions separated them.

Derek’s uncle and mother stood close by as the physician, who was kept on hand mainly for show or for the human members of the household, worked over Stiles’s smoke-damaged lungs. He’d been spared any burns but his breathing was laboured and Deaton worked quietly on a medicine for Stiles to inhale as his unconsciousness stretched out further and further into the new day.

At some point Peter had been pulled away to deal with the culprit of the fire. Apparently it had been an accident, one of the drunken sots had been loitering, had stumbled trying to foolishly light his pipe and it had all escalated before he could stop it.

Derek thought absently, as he watched Deaton continue to burn the eye-watering medicine for Stiles to breathe in, that the capital had Deaton’s revolutionary medicinal practices to thank for growing so wealthy. The infirmary the McCalls ran under his tutelage had the highest success rates on the continent and Derek had no fear for the other circus performers and people that had worked to rescue them, only the man on his childhood bed, who still had yet to wake.

“Come, Mr Stilinski, a clean body is a clean mind,” his mother said gently to Stilinski, squeezing his shoulder gently. “We’ll get you fed and washed up before your son wakes.” Stilinski seemed almost catatonic, moving without really reacting, without tearing his gaze from Stiles.

Derek swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. “I’ll watch him, Sir. I won’t leave his side.”

Stilinski blinked as if coming awake from a dream and his eyes roved his son a final time, before lingering on the place Derek’s hands grasped Stiles’s wrist, at the bestiary beneath them that he evidently knew too well. He stared at where dark tendrils of pain were drawn away from his son into Derek’s body and it was also something he apparently recognised.

“I believe that,” Stilinski said, a man of few words, so unlike his son, but with no less sincerity.

*

“Hey…” The hoarse, haggard voice cut through the doze Derek had dropped unwillingly into. He jerked his head up from where it had slumped on the bedside and blinked suddenly awake at the sight of Stiles’s weary, beautiful face.

“You didn’t sneak me into your bed, did you Prince Derek?” Stiles mused croakily.

A disbelieving, exasperated smile tugged at Derek’s lips as he gasped out a laugh he was still too shocked and relieved to truly feel. “Your father put you there, with the King and Queen watching. He understands the needs that…pack have.”

Stiles closed his eyes but gave a tired smile. “Scandalous, the debauchery of royalty…”

Derek squeezed Stiles’s hand tightly, tapping his fingers lest he slip into unconsciousness. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles rolled his head weakly to pin him with that stare, the one that asked if Derek was stupid.

Derek smiled a little more honestly now, because Stiles was feeling well enough to be himself, at least. He didn’t lessen his grip on his hand, however. “The man who burned the circus down, he did it by accident, but he’ll be punished for his crimes.”

Stiles frowned. “Fairly?”

“We aren’t savages,” Derek said tightly, even though in his rage right then, he wanted to tear the man to pieces for his stupidity. It hadn’t cost any lives, heavens above, but so many were injured and not just the circus performers, but some people who’d tried to help and some businesses that had been closest to the fire had been caught by the heat. Lives had been irrevocably changed. He definitely wasn’t ready to rule yet, to see beyond his heart and think clearly. He had so much to learn.

“No,” Stiles said, fingers curling under Derek’s touching the surface of the book beneath their joined hands and somehow gripping Derek’s hand too. “You’re werewolves.” There was no trace of fear in his face, only awe, only affection for the sight of Derek by his sickbed, with him even when the glamour of the lights had burned out.

Derek had so much to learn and he wanted Stiles to teach him, to learn at his side.

Stiles licked his lips, chapped from dryness, the proximity to the heat but already healing with painfully human slowness.

“I suppose, if I’m surrounded by riches, I must be in your castle?”

Derek’s lips twitched. “In my bed, you were right, even in jest.”

Stiles’s eyebrows lifted. “So you spoke to your mother and uncle? Or did you really sneak me in here under the cover of night?”

“Like I said, your father put you there. It’s been three days since the fire and it’s daylight now,” Derek said deadpanned. “But yes, we talked some. We’ll talk more, no doubt.” Slowly, slowly, Derek drew his fingers out of Stiles’s grasp.

“You took my pain,” Stiles said, not seeming surprised. He lifted a slightly shaking hand to look at his skin, as if he would see the place that Derek drawn his pain from. Even through his weariness and discomfort Derek could see his awe, his intrigue and wondered how many questions Stiles would have for him, once he was well.

“I read about it,” Stiles continued, coughing with a wince the more he spoke, “didn’t…didn’t realise it’d feel like this.”

Derek held a hand out to rest on his chest as his body shook with great heaving coughs, a silent entreaty to rest his lungs and throat. He reached for the bowl of medicine Deaton had left and brought it over. “Here, inhale this, it’ll help. Deaton’s work is like witchcraft.”

Stiles quirked a brow, even as his chest heaved. “Like witchcraft?” He inhaled heavily, sending his lungs into a spasm of uncontrollable coughs. Derek leant in, hand resting on Stiles’s back between his shoulder blades, dragging the pain the spasms were causing until they at last subsided and the medicine began to do its work. It’d work better with Stiles able to inhale deeper breaths, allow his lungs to expand fully with it, Deaton had said..

 “He’s a druid, not a witch, though some wouldn’t know the difference,” Derek said carefully.

After a few deep, cautious breaths, Stiles managed shakily, “I know the difference.”

Derek nodded. “I know.” When he was sure Stiles’s breathing had steadied, he drew back, shrugging off his jacket. Stiles’s slips parted around a question that Derek held his hand out to silence. “Rest, just…don’t talk for a while, as difficult as that is.”

Stiles frowned but he didn’t seem too displeased with Derek’s teasing, just confused.

“I need to show you something,” Derek said, “I want to show you, tell you everything. We’ve got…we’ve got so much to say, I don’t even know where to start, so I’ll start with this.”

He stepped back and to the side, standing at the end of the bed and regarded Stiles carefully as he stripped to the waist. He toed off his shoes and then loosened his trousers, just enough that they hung on his hips. He heard Stiles’s heart thud a little faster, saw his cheeks flush in his sickly complexion.

Derek hesitated just a moment, fighting a lifetime of secrecy and subdued fear, before he let the change take him. His body stretched and snapped, twisting unnaturally, curving forward and shucking his loosened clothing as he did so. He braced himself on the foot of the bed and watched as his fingers changed into large black paws. When he lifted his head, if he stared hard enough, he saw the black wolf reflected in Stiles’s honey-hued eyes.

Stiles was staring, his gaze wide with wonder and astonishment but no fear. Not a scant inch. He’d obviously never seen this up close, in real life. It was likely something he’d only heard about in stories from his mother. But he was seeing it now, as real as the daylight streaming in through the window.

Derek gave him a moment, let him look his fill before he climbed onto the end of the bed. He realised, belatedly that it might appear threatening, standing over Stiles’s wounded body like this and so he wagged his tail gently, hoping Stiles would understand.

“Oh my God,” Stiles breathed, voice still hoarse. He carefully set the bowl of medicine on the side stand, the effort laboured but steady, before he reached for Derek. His long fingers, usually strong enough to hold his body up a hundred feet in the air sank into Derek’s fur, into the softest strands of obsidian silk and slid up. He caressed every inch of slender muscle that could rip him to pieces, foreign and unnatural, yet Stiles was not afraid. He was in awe.

“You’re incredible,” Stiles managed, with the same reverence Derek had offered him in the intimate closeness of Stiles’s makeshift home.

Slowly, Derek crept forward, going low on his belly without a care for his appearance until he was sprawled across the grand bed, across Stiles’s legs, warming his healing body.

Stiles stroked his muzzle, his ears with that same look of wide-eyed wonder that betrayed his thirst for the world despite how much he’d seen. It also betrayed his need for belonging and Derek ached to wrap himself around him as far as he could go.

Unable to articulate it in this shape, but unwilling to lose the gentle intimacy, Derek brushed his nose against Stiles’s cheek, his neck and when Stiles’s arms enveloped his neck, knotting in the thick fur at his scruff, he nuzzled in close and just breathed.

*

When the circus was rebuilt, it filled Derek with a bittersweet feeling to see the last of the white sails of the tent. It was a building now, with foundations that offered the animals and performers room to grow and flourish. It was a more permanent home to protect them all through the coming winter and the next, and the next. It’s was a sign of their permanent fixture and although that was bittersweet as well, Stiles had relayed to Derek the relief from his family at having somewhere to call home without giving up the life they loved.

It was Hale money that rebuilt it, a charity that Stilinski had hated and his jaw had ticked when Stiles had jokingly suggested he consider it a future dowry. In spite of this though, he hadn’t been able to argue with the security it offered his family, his son, the business of making happiness his wife had built.

It was a place of grandeur, with lights and glamour and crisp red dressings with gold trim to celebrate the vibrancy of its performers. No one could argue with its magnificence and it could seat hundreds more than the tent ever could. The fact that it was still open to people of all classes was what had saved it for Stilinski, Derek had thought.

In the few years since the fire, the circus had become an attraction that people had travelled the world to see, now they knew where to find them. They had become the gem of the country and Derek wondered if one day, this celebration of differentness would one day touch the entire world. Maybe then it would be safe to be what they were without fear. Until then, he considered himself one of the luckiest men alive.

He knew one day, when he took the throne that Stiles would have to take his final bow, give up performing but he thought by the time that day came, it would be long in the future, when Stiles was ready to trade this circus for that of the castle, one that would allow him to help the less fortunate smile in other ways.

The idea of ruling, when his mother and uncle finally stepped down was still a daunting task but he was beginning to realise how much opportunity there was to do good along with that responsibility. Stiles and his family had brought such happiness with nothing but talent and determination. He had resources in abundance that he could not waste, not now. Derek knew how much good he could do now, and he thought that was because of Stiles.

Derek was busier now than he had ever been, trying to use his position as best he could. Stiles always returned to his bed when the lights of the circus dimmed for the night, but still Derek tried to make at least one performance a week. There was nothing quite like watching Stiles fly.

Stiles didn’t scan the crowds for him, he was too professional for that, but whenever he took his final bow with the others, then he searched for Derek. Those bright brown eyes that held the magic of the entire show found Derek’s gaze in a sea of applause every time.

Now, like every other time, Stiles made a beeline toward him. As he drew closer to the crowds, Derek’s guard moved to envelop him, to wrap around him as if their lives depend on it. They knew, the world knew and while the public were confused at the freedom the prince’s betrothed was allowed, it was out of concern, not distaste. They could be forgiven for not knowing Derek’s senses allowed him to protect Stiles in ways they could not imagine, how he watched for even the slightest hint of malice from the surrounding people toward the man he loved.

Still, the guard made a good show of normalcy and they guided Stiles through the crowds until he was in front of Derek. Stiles’s breathless smile incited one from Derek’s lips. Without need for words, Derek took his hand and together they allowed the guard to usher them out into the cool quiet night.

They walked back in comfortable silence, with the guard a few yards behind, Stiles tired and Derek content to listen to the merriment of those returning home from the show. The stars were a thick smattering of fireflies in the midnight blue above and the castle a glistening beacon in the distance. The long stone bridge was an arm connecting one world to the next and the lanterns burned brightly along it. It was on his mother and uncle’s orders, their way of blessing, like leaving a light in the window so they may find their way home together.

It was as cold as the first night they had met and Stiles pulled the long coat he liked to call his prince’s costume around himself tighter to stave off the chill. His nose and cheeks were pinked from the cold and he was exhausted in that way that practically vibrated with satisfaction. He was happy, it was a tangible thing and Derek stroked his thumb across Stiles’s in a subtle, wordless whisper of a caress.

“What?” Stiles asked with a mischievous smile, stopping as he met Derek’s eyes. There was so much love there in that gaze Derek couldn’t offer any words to reciprocate. He just shook his head, wondering at the world they were building every day and where it would take them.

If the sight of the tent that night had been like sails in the night sky, then Stiles had been the moon, the stars, the force in the breeze carrying him home from where he’d been adrift for so long. Now, as he stood there on the bridge, he was filled with a rush of need to let him know exactly how much he meant to Derek, more than any words could offer, any official title. He hooked his fingers behind the column of Stiles’s pale neck and drew him in so that their lips could meet.

THE END

[naopao]

Hanakotoba 花言葉

My entry for @genyattazine​, featuring art by @heronfoot​! Pre-orders are still available, so please consider purchasing! All proceeds go to charity. :)

He laughs as he cradles the flower in his hands. He cups it to his power core, several degrees hotter than his system’s recommended temperature.

Before the weight of the tiny, fragile bloom colors everything that is to come, Zenyatta’s heart soars.

Or, a Genyatta hanahaki fic.

99 percent.

Zenyatta has never seen the ocean before. The others follow Winston through the huge, salt-worn door into the watch point, but Zenyatta excuses himself to walk the cliffs.

His sensors register the mild chill (13.2 degrees Celsius) and gentle breeze (16.7 kilometers an hour), a data set, one of an endless sea that fails to account for the experience of them. The humidity (73.5 percent), dampness along his chassis, the salt in the air from the waves below (33 parts per thousand) against the sensors of his intake chamber.

“It’s so beautiful here.”

Deep, modulated, tinny from his respirator. The sound soothes Zenyatta, and the awe, the appreciation in each word, makes him fond.

“Truly.” Zenyatta replies. “You have not been here in many years. How do you feel?”

Genji falls in step next to him. Known variables: the shape of his shadow, the hues he casts, the gentle hum of his machinery, many times more advanced than Zenyatta’s own. Between one journey and the next, in the minutiae of lessons and koan and sparring matches, Zenyatta has come to find comfort in them.

“I am not sure nostalgia is the word. Being at this watch point again…” The silence between Genji’s thoughts, his mindfulness, Zenyatta also cherishes. “...is bittersweet. I was not in the right place to appreciate its beauty before.”

“What is most important is that you have a chance to experience it now.” Zenyatta hums.

“You are right as always, Master.”

The cheekiness of his tone is not lost on the omnic, who laughs.

“Not always.”

Genji steps closer to the edge of the cliff. Zenyatta turns to him as a quiet hiss muffles the distant crash of waves. Genji’s eyes are closed, his posture loose, comfortable; his chest expands as he takes in the cool, salted air, free of his respirator.

He has seen Genji many times without his helmet. It is the first time he sees him in the glow of the late afternoon sun, wind fluttering his matted hair, black with a tinge of gray. The first time he exists for a precious few seconds in the moment, without the weight of his burdens balanced on his soul.

It is a whisper. A hiccup. A gentle, blooming twist, so deep within Zenyatta he cannot identify its cause. It is not the golden warmth of the Iris, though it is warm: small, but powerful, concentrated in a drop of pure energy. It pulses like a tiny overload, one too many data sets, one too many amperes.

Only later, in the privacy of his own room, does he notice it in the mirror.

Just above his power core, nestled between the top two pistons, is a hint of bright pink. Zenyatta shifts with great care, curiosity overriding what should be fear, unease, trepidation. With gentle maneuvering, he works the obstruction from his chassis. His orbs, which had been rotating in a smooth circle around his head, still.

Grasped carefully between servos and smaller than the circle on his palm is a lotus bloom, mostly closed, petals tinged green with youth.

Zenyatta stares for several cycles. Its composition, its measurement, its fragrance, reveal nothing of its purpose. Then, as if he has skipped forward in time, he returns to himself, orbs resuming their slow orbit before settling around his throat.

He laughs as he cradles the flower in his hands. He cups it to his power core, several degrees hotter than his system’s recommended temperature.

Before the weight of the tiny, fragile bloom colors everything that is to come, Zenyatta’s heart soars.

87 percent.

Be it luck or fate, Zenyatta’s room has a balcony. It is modestly sized, outfitted with a small table and two rust-flecked chairs.

The blooms within his body are rooted deep, and even with dexterous hands, he cannot remove them from their source. Each time they are different species of flora, and Zenyatta finds a gentle, curious joy in identifying them. Lotus. Bluebells. Gardenias when Genji had fallen asleep next to him, his gentle snores rousing Zenyatta from meditation. Cactus blossoms after a morning of sparring, when Genji had removed his helmet and sweat glistened down the skin of his throat. His fans still quicken when Zenyatta remembers it, the deep-seated pulse of warmth that had no outlet—alien, terrifying, and desperately coveted. Jesse hailed to Genji right as it happened, and Zenyatta had never been more grateful for the man’s boisterous salutations than when it allowed him a quiet escape.

Each flower after the first, which he had pressed flat and preserved in the pages of his oldest and fondest book, he transplants. They should languish, struggle in the climate, some out of season, other rooted in improper soil. Yet, each prospers in whatever environment Zenyatta gives it, sustained, perhaps, on something that cannot be measured. First in cans and old crates, whatever he could find, then in terracotta pots, brought back from missions when his companions had discovered his hobby.

It should terrify him when the plants multiply, each overgrown leaf and petal warm with fragrance, and maybe it does, somewhere far off, ripples that finally kiss the shore. Closer to his heart is amusement, the pleasant grip of affection. His brother had been right, more so than he thought. Born. Created. Raised. Programmed. Both produced physical manifestations of their emotions. Suffering.

Love.

63 percent.

Dr. Ziegler requests his assistance in the med bay.

She had managed all support operations in the early days of the recall, but as her duties increased with each new member, Zenyatta helps however he can. He often catalogued her findings and corroborated medical treatments, and during extended shifts, when the doctor stared unseeing into the cold glow of her holopad, he brewed her coffee sweetened with ten milliliters of honey.

Today, however, his sensors record a second voice as the door slides open.

The conversation dies to the sound of Genji’s respirator reattaching. He sits next to Angela near her desk, empty besides a holopad and a tiny vial of muted orange. It shouldn’t surprise him; they are close now, appreciation replacing the old bitter, anger that had soured their relationship a decade prior.

Her hand, steadily balanced on his knee, tightens once before letting go.

Genji does not look at him.

“Zenyatta, thank you for coming. We were just finishing up,” she says.

“Of course.”

Zenyatta hovers in the doorway, uninvited in all but word. A tinge of discord as familiar as his own chassis brushes against him.

“Is something troubling you, my student?”

The tightness around his eyes says what Genji will not.

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

Genji walks past him at 1.3 times his normal gait, hurrying with a vestige of calm. The door hisses shut. Angela sighs.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. He came in suddenly with an urgent matter.”

She pockets the vial while studying her holopad.

“My apologies as well. I did not mean to interrupt.”

Genji had not looked, had not felt like that in several months, not since before they had left the monastery. Had he been the cause? Interrupted a moment years in the making—

“Zenyatta.”

He meets her bright eyes. Only then does he notice what holds her attention.

Zenyatta tilts his head down, watching the steady crawl of vines, thorned and nicking delicate circuitry. From them, tiny buds of shocking yellow bloom against the tired gray of his chest. It hurts in a distant way, pinched like something caught between nodes, too deep to fix.

Her face is milk white, though her voice is steady.

“I have never seen an omnic with this before.”

Zenyatta nods. He lifts his servos, catching a finger beneath an unfurled rose. Small enough to rip away, to hide before anyone could see.

“It is still early in its progression,” he offers.

“Let me take a look at you.”

Zenyatta climbs onto the examination table.

She tells him what he already knows: potentially deadly, cured in one of two ways.

“I do not know omnic physiology well enough to perform the operation. Brigitte may.” Angela shakes her head. “Though I have the feeling that you will not be making an appointment regardless.”

“You know me well, Dr. Ziegler.”

“Well enough to make me worry.” She smiles though the pinch in her brow doesn’t ease. “What happens here is confidential. However, I would advise action. Whoever it is, they would not wish to watch you waste away.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

Her palm is warm on his shoulder, rougher than her unlined face suggests.

“Please take care of yourself.”

34 percent.

Zenyatta taps the last of the hibiscus into dark loam. The pot is large this time, proportional to the flower, a pleasing contrast to the more delicate plants in his collection. Soil clings to the joints of his fingers, but unlike the twist of roots within his body, it is easily removed.

“Wow. It is really coming along.”

A beat. A shudder.

“It is.”

32 percent.

Zenyatta stands with terracotta clutched in his hands, joints tight, slow. They are always such now. Mid morning sun brightens the garden into an ever-shifting kaleidoscope. Surrounded by the manifestation of his feelings while their cause stands scarcely a foot behind him serves as a surreal experience.

“I, uh, brought you something.”

The path of his orbs jumbles for a moment. It had been a several days since he had seen his student. Their last meeting reverberates silently between them, a topic not yet breached, not when Zenyatta struggles to protect the relationship they have.

Zenyatta steels himself, then turns to face Genji.

Clasped between the white and gray of his student’s hands is a potted, unbloomed tulip.

“Not as impressive as these exotic breeds, but it should thrive in this climate.”

“I did not know you were knowledgeable about gardening.” Zenyatta’s array brightens. Oh, how he forgets himself, unable to tamp down the swell of joy as Genji places it among the others.

“I’m afraid I’m not. I had to ask around the city.” Genji smiles softly as he glances back at him. “It should not surprise me that you are able to encourage the flowers themselves to try their hardest.”

29 percent.

There is no crawl. No twinge. The flowers burst from his chassis with near staggering force.

21 percent. He freezes only a moment, core trembling, but Genji is turned toward the balcony, admiring the blooms.

Zenyatta nearly trips as his hover module offlines. He knows there will be questions, but he cannot answer, not yet. He does not have the words. The time is wrong, wrong—

Genji calls after him, but Zenyatta doesn’t look back, cannot for fear of exposing himself. His feet clatter against the dark, metal hallways of the watch point, but luckily (unluckily), Genji does not pursue.

15 percent.

He does not avoid Genji. Not on purpose. Zenyatta does not eat, so he steers clear of the mess hall. Dr. Zeigler had banned him from active duty, watch point operations included, so Zenyatta spends most days in his garden. He tends it even as his power dwindles, mindful contemplation replaced with daydreams of half-baked confessions.

His gaze falls to the tulip that Genji had given him. It had struggled at first, a few cold nights throwing its health into uncertainty. Zenyatta had brought it inside, the added warmth giving it the chance it needed to bloom into a beautiful, glossy red that stands out among the rest.

The truth...

The truth is he is afraid. Could he really face Genji, soft eyes softer with pity for the old, scuffed omnic who had helped him when he was at his lowest? Genji would be kind. Maybe he would even humor him, and that would be the worst of all, a bandage over an infected wound that needed to be lanced and scraped clean.

But selfishness battles just as hotly. To look at Genji and feel nothing.

He would die from that too.

11 percent.

It has come time to talk.

Zenyatta expects hesitance, but as always, Genji surprises him. He arrives within minutes, wordlessly sits next to him on the tattered rug lining the center of the balcony. The flowers whisper, the garden bright and overflowing, gems, grand and small, glittering in the afternoon sun.

“I know you have been troubled these past weeks. My hesitance has caused you undue suffering.”

Genji doesn’t move.

“Often we assume that our feelings are known and cherished. A touch. A token. That action alone is sufficient.”

Zenyatta wants to laugh; of everything they have been through, this is where his resolve stumbles.

“We forget that it is necessary to voice these feelings aloud.”

The sea wind catches the flora, the heavy, overgrown leaves shuddering in the tepid air.

“Words are limited. They are fickle. An expression of them will never come close to articulating the feelings of the soul.”

Ten percent. The vines crawl and twist around his core. His synth glitches.

“Master—”

“Please, Genji.”

He clutches his chest, staggered by the not quite pain of energy rerouting. The scent of his garden revives him, each one catalogued, remembered, relived.

Nine percent.

Zenyatta looks at his orbs, deactivated and nestled within the nooks of the planters. He hasn’t possessed the power to control them in a fortnight.

“You have come far. Changed so much. You possess a strength that could save this world.” His core trembles as he speaks. “If something were to keep you from it...from finding happiness and purpose...I could not bear it.”

“I fear I may be such an obstacle.” Yet, he must press on, cling foolishly to hope.

Had he not been so close to shutdown, perhaps he would’ve known then. The shifting emotional energy from those nearby is lost to him in his final hours.

“It is impossible to describe how much I—”

Genji’s only give is his fingers sinking into his thighs. His student snaps forward, folding in on himself.

The sounds freeze Zenyatta’s words in his synth.

Loud, wet coughs rasp through Genji’s respirator, so painful it makes the vines around his core seize, makes Zenyatta ache.

He moves with what little energy he has left, hands flattening to Genji’s spasming back. A pathetic trickle of harmony warms his palms. His array powers off for a few, horrifying seconds. Not yet. Not now, with Genji injured—

Five percent.

The impulse strikes, the last, bent match in the book.

“I love you.”

His voice breaks hard over the word, doubling its syllables, mimicking an embarrassed stutter rather than an expulsion of the last of his power.

Everything is quiet. Still. Like being in the center of the monastery cloisters, where the howl of the wind and the sounds of life fade, the hum of his own systems muted within its immensity.

For a moment, he wonders if his audial receptors have failed.

Six percent.

The immobilizing tightness in his body eases, a fist slowly but surely unfurling. His servos slide off Genji’s back as he straightens. He registers a familiar hiss.

His array fizzles, then powers online in stages, monochromes to vivid color.

Genji’s looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. He wipes at his mouth, drawing Zenyatta’s attention.

The bright blue of petals smears over his lips.

“Zenyatta,” he breathes, awe warming into a smile that brightens his whole face. “The color suits you.”

Genji’s hand closes the distance between them, settling between his top two pistons.

The same petals coating Genji’s lips bloom along his metal. A swan song, it seems, as they wither and shrivel before his array.

“Forget-me-nots,” Genji says, then his smile grows mischievous. “You led me to believe you were a green thumb. Cheater.”

Zenyatta does not have the energy to laugh, but he cannot resist the cautious joy that manifests in his bugging synth.  

“A lie of omission. No one had asked,” he murmurs.

Genji’s hand shifts higher, the lightest touch against the gold chrome of his faceplate. There is no teasing lilt, no sheepishness. Quiet but clear.

“I love you, too.”

Zenyatta settles his hand over Genji’s, squeezing, leaning into his touch. They draw close, the smooth whisper of the garden reduced to the dry rattling of fall.

Just before their faces touch, Zenyatta speaks.

“You may find my french kiss lacking.”

Genji laughs against his chrome, heat and softness settling over the seam of his mouth.

“Whatever will we do?” he whispers, kissing him once more.

In the following days, after Zenyatta recuperates under Brigitte’s care (and many stern lectures), Genji helps him clean the balcony. They compost the decomposing remnants of the flowers, and repurpose them as a base for a new garden.

It is meticulous work, but rewarding. With the sun just beneath the horizon, they survey their progress. Planters line the ancient railings, each filled with properly spaced seeds hidden just beneath the surface. Local flora that would survive readily above the sea.

The only mark of color within is the tulip, fully bloomed, a promise of what’s to come.

[tony-luvv]

How would you feel about Aquaman x Tony???

Okay i have a lot of feeling on them but I’m going to use this ask as an excuse to buildANOTHER HEADCANON.  This is literally what happened when i put Arthur Curry and Tony Stark at the top of a empty word doc.

Sorry if this had a Little Mermaid undercurrent to it.

also let it be know, I’M PISSED AT HOW QUICKLY I CAME UP WITH THIS WHEN I STRUGGLED FOR HOURS TO WRITE SOMETHING ELSE. although this is more rambles than anything but STILL.

Putting this below, please read tags.

Arthur was the bastard son of the queen. He was half humanliving among the Atlantians. Arthur hated it. He didn’t want to be with thesepeople that barely tolerated him. He would have lived with his father, but theman died shortly after he was conceived. A tragic storm killed him.

So Arthur is spending time on the surface, going to placesaround the world. He befriended a small village tucked away in the north. Heran with the wild life of Africa when he wasn’t swimming with the sea life. Itwas fun and exciting, living the best of both worlds. When one became too much,he go back to the other.

Then he meets Tony.

It was completely by chance when he met the man. He’d beenon the coast of Malibu, enjoying the crowds of summer vacationers. Partyingwith the college kids and feeling like he wasn’t being judged at every corner.It helped that the humans didn’t know about the people below the sea. He lookedhuman and new how to act the part, so he was able to blend right in.

It was night fall, when the beach started to clear and theyoung party people were heading back to their hotels. Arthur didn’t have enoughmoney for a hotel right then, so he decided it be better to return to the seafor the night. At least it was free to him.

So in the ocean, floating beside some sea turtles below thewaves he was shocked to see a body fall into the water above him. From what hecould tell it was a man, he’d fallen with his back to the water and he wasslowly sinking further under the current, closer to Arthur.

Arthur knew humans couldn’t breathe under water so he movedquickly, snatching up the man and rushing him to the surface. When they brokewater the man didn’t react. His eyes were shut mouth slightly open and notbreathing. “Oh come on, don’t die on me dude.”

Using his superior strength, he got them to the cliff sideand pushed themselves up and out of the water, getting them to the top of thecliff in seconds. Vaguely he registered the mansion beside them but he didn’thave time to think about that, he needed to get the guy breathing.

CPR happens and finally the guy coughs up water. “Thankfuck, are you okay?” The guy didn’t respond. To busy coughing up water andtrying to get his breath back. Arthur just hangs close, keeping a big hand onthe others back. But when he notices the other man shaking he pulls him closer.Holding him close against the chill of the air. “We need to get you inside, isthat your place by any chance?” Weakly nodding, the guy curled closer into hischest. Still coughing but not as brutally as before. “Okay, hold on.” Quickly,he picked the guy up in a bridal carry and holycrap he’s light!

Anyway Arthur picks him up and takes him inside the mansion.He can see a couch off to his left side and so he wanders over, silently apologizingabout the mess he sits down with the man in his lap and grabs one of the throwblankets. Wrapping it around the guy and holding him close, trying his best toget the guy warmed up. He was shaking so violently.

“What the hell were you man? You could have died just then?You would have if I hadn’t been nearby to see you fall.”

Faintly he heard the guy say, “Should have left me then.” Beforepassing out.

What the actual hell?Confused as hell, Arthur decides he’s going to stick around for a while. Youknow just to make sure nothing else happened to this dude.

Speaking of, damn he’s gorgeous. Arthur finally took asecond to look at the man passed out in his arms. He was around the same age ashim, if not a little older. Maybe close to thirty? His hair was dark and wavy,clinging to his forehead from the water. His eyelashes were thick and prettylike a girls but oddly fit him. He had facial hair styled nicely if not alittle un-kept. But the whole look suited him. He was only wearing a tee andjeans but they were soaked from his fall in the ocean. And the mansion theywere in was cold, probably some AC turned on. He needed to move the guy and gethim in something warmer or he’s going to catch a nasty cold.

Lifting the man into his arms again, he offhandedly tooknotice of how light he was, even with the soaking clothes on and took the manto what he hoped was his bedroom. It took a while, wondering around until hefound a room that looked somewhat lived in (only because the bed wasn’t made)and deposited the man into a lounge chair. He saw closed doors that must be acloset, since the other door was opened to a bath room and wandered overthrowing said doors open.

“Ha! Jackpot.” Snooping around, he found a comfortable pairof sweats and a big fluffy hoodie. Coming back out, with little shame hechanged the man out of his soaking clothes and put him in the warm dry ones.Satisfied with his work, he got the man settled under the covers and found an extrablanket to put onto the others. “Well then, what now.”

He ended up staying the night, what the guy had saidbothered him and he didn’t feel right abandoning him so he stayed. It took areally long time but he found a change of clothes that were only a one size tosmall but were better than everything else and got settled in for the night.

--

The next morning Tony woke up warmer than normal with apounding headache and scratchy throat. “What the hell–” oh yeah. He’d taken a swan dive last night and someone saved him.Looking around his room it was obviously morning but the mystery hero wasnowhere to be seen.

That’s just great, nowhe can’t even properly kill himself. Howard was right, he’s nothing but afailure.

Upset and angry he left his bed. Making to head to thekitchen for something to drink. His throat was bothering him and he wanted somewater. But he was completely surprised to see his hero standing in the kitchenlike he fucking lived here. “You’re still around?”

“I am. Good morning princess, I made breakfast.”

“Am I supposed to thank you or something.”

“Well normally someone would when they get their ass saved.”

“I didn’t ask you too.”

Arthur shrugged, “Fine, don’t say thank you. Sit, eat.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“I am now. Since you’re to rude to say thank you, you arenow indebted to me. As my first demand, I demand you eat something lightweight.”

“I’m not a light weight and I rather not.”

“Too bad, someone as skinny as you needs at least five ofthese. Here.” Arthur shoves a plate into his hands before turning around tomake a plate for his self.

“If I eat this will you go away?”

Arthur smiled with a mouth full of eggs, “No.”

“Fucking figures.” But Tony still ate. They sat in silence,eating their food when Arthur speaks up.

“Arthur.”

Tony glances at him, but grudgingly says, “Tony.”

“Well Tony, I think I’m going to like crashing here for awhile.”

And he does, Arthur makes himself right at home. Doing as hepleases throughout the day, sometimes disappearing for a few hours but thenreappearing like he never left. Tony isn’t sure what to do about the giant manthat follows him around with food and has invaded his home. But Arthur hasn’tdone anything to make him want to call the cops so he just tries to ignore it.

After the ocean incident Tony had a small cold but Arthurwas the perfect nurse, no matter how stubborn Tony acted. They generally actedlike Tony didn’t try to take his life that night.

But then after a month of living together Tony has a badday. Things weren’t going right for him in the shop. He couldn’t get theprototype up and working, the media was reporting random shit about him againand it was the anniversary of his parents death.

Arthur found him sitting near the edge of the cliff, staringout over the water. He stood behind him watching the water with him. Thenquietly as not to spook him he asked, “bad day?”

Tony couldn’t help the sarcastic jab, “What gave it away?”

Arthur didn’t get mad or upset. He didn’t do anything Tonywanted him to do. What he did do was wait a moment, watching him before saying “Comehere.” Without Tony’s say, he pulled him up and away from the cliff and intohis arms. Cradling him like some damn baby. Tony couldn’t even hold on to thesmall amount of anger he felt when Arthur didn’t react how he wanted. He justfelt numb. So he just let it happen. With his head resting on his Arthur’sshoulder, he let the man carry him in the house and too his room beforeclimbing into bed. Positioning them so they were facing each other but Tony wastucked under Arthurs chin.

“I’m sorry Tony.”

No, no, no, no. Tony didn’t want to hear sorry, he didn’twant to be here. He did want this random man coming into his life and mixingthings up.

He didn’t know what he wanted. “Fuck you.” Tears cameunwanted to his eyes and he couldn’t hold back the sudden sadness and angerthat wanted to consume him. “Fuck you!” He was angry, so angry and this manjust came out of nowhere, taking care of him when no one else looked at him.The only looks he was used to was ones filled with greed, lust anddisappointment. But this fucking random ass stranger comes into his homeinvades his space and act like he’s always been there. Someone who looks atTony with kindness and snarks at him and hugs him randomly and feeds him and “FUCKYOU.”

Tony’s crying now, tears flowing down the side of his faceand into the sheets. He covers his face ashamed to be crying like this. Arthurdoesn’t say anything else. Just holds him through his breakdown. Staying withhim as a warm presence, not speaking but just holding him.

Tony falls asleep in Arthur’s arms.  He wakes up in them too.

Arthur’s still asleep, looking peaceful where his head reston the pillow next to him. It makes Tony reflect. Arthur’s seen him like this?Soft and vulnerable. It makes something other than sadness or anger swirl inhis chest. For once, he’s feeling something other than the numbness. Tonyenjoys it a little longer before going back to sleep.

When he wakes up Arthur is gone but his side is warm. Tonylays there and thinks.

When he’s done thinking he goes looking for Arthur. He findshim easily in the kitchen.

“Hi Tony, I’m making French toast–” Tony walks right up toArthur and wraps his arms around the man’s waist. Clinging to him for a moment.Arthur is clearly confused but he lets it happen, even lowers his arms to wraparound Tony.

The smaller man quietly admits, “I’m going to see atherapist.” It’s quite, neither men moving but still holding each other.

Finally Arthur moves, his head dipping down to kiss the topof his head, “Okay.”

-

It doesn’t magically get better. Tony still has bad days andArthur still disappears for a few hours. But they have each other now and they’regoing to take it one day at a time.

[janeofcakes]

Chapter 70

(At dinner, one week after John’s arrival on the island. Thus far, the meal has been silent. John has no intention of making conversation with his bastard captor and Jim has not tried to engage him. However, John can tell from the expression on Jim’s face that the silence will soon be broken.)

JM: So what do you think?

J: About?

JM: Your new home.

J: (chewing some peas) I am not home.

JM: You can’t seriously be this attached to that little flat.

J: It’s not the flat. It’s the company.

(Jim’s thin smile is unchanged, but John can tell he is angry. Furious, but hiding it well. John smiles outright and sips his wine, looking like a cat that got the cream. He makes no secret of the fact that he is delighted to have pissed off Jim.

Jim chews on his cheek and clears his throat.)

JM: Are you enjoying the books? I assume you’ve been reading them. Not much else to do, after all.

J: I am, actually. I could use a few more...if I could pop out to the library.

JM: (with a little laugh) Oh no, love, not yet. I’ll let you out of your room in a few days. Or after you get a good night’s sleep, failing that.

J: (swallowing his last bite) Sorry?

(Jim puts down his empty wine glass and looks at John with a sly, and thoroughly entertained face.)

JM: You have been here for a week and I have drugged you each and every night. That’s not what I call a good night’s sleep. Now, if you were to fall asleep on your own...after a night spent with me, I might consider letting you out of your rooms. (raising an eyebrow) Give and take, love.

(John stands and looks down his nose at the dark-eyed man, absolutely seething. John cannot even begin to express his revulsion and hate for this man.)

J: Let’s just get one thing completely straight. I will NEVER go to bed with you.

(They share a cold stare in silence until John breaks eye contact, picking up their plates from the table.)

J: I’ll do the washing up.

(John is nearly finished washing the dishes when he hears a noise close behind. His body stiffens as Jim puts his arms around John’s waist when he places the last wine glass on the drying rack. He braces his hands on the counter and exhales an angry breath.)

J: Let go of me.

JM: (whispering into his ear as he nips it) Why should I?

(John dries his hands on a small towel and then turns to face Jim. His eyes are full of anger and he puts his hands over Jim’s to remove them from his person.)

J: I may be your prisoner, but I will not do everything you tell me. I am not your slave.

(John doesn’t say sex slave, but the implication is there. Jim grins, honestly amused, and grabs the wrist of John’s scarred arm savagely.)

JM: You’re not my prisoner, John. You. Are. Mine. Need I remind you?

J: (jerking his wrist away) I DO NOT BELONG TO YOU. If you want to fuck me, you’ll have to keep drugging me because if you don’t, I will kill you with my bare hands the next time you try.

JM: Will you, John? Somehow I don’t think so.

(Jim is completely unconcerned and he smirks at John as though he knows some fabulous joke that John is not in on. John just looks at him with a kind of quizzically fury in his eyes. Jim backs away, taking his mobile out of his pocket and pressing speed dial. As soon as he get an answer, he puts it on speaker and fixes John with an intense stare.)

JM: Can you see Sherlock?

Voice: Yes.

(John’s eyes widen instantly and he takes an unconscious step forward. A sinister grin spreads across Jim’s face as he watches the emotions play out on his captive’s face.)

JM: What’s he doing?

Voice: He’s tied to a chair.

JM: Oh, kinky!

(John clenches his jaw.)

Voice: Lestrade and Hooper are with him.

JM: (with mirthless smile) Shoot him.

(John rushes forward, now standing very close to Jim. There is a desperate look in his eyes and in his voice that he cannot hide.)

J: No! Please. Please, don’t. (Jim looks at him expectantly. John closes his eyes in regret, knowing what Jim wants. He steels himself and looks Jim in the eye with a hard, determined gaze.) I’ll do what you want.

JM: (leaning in close with a smile on his face) I’m sorry. What was that?

J: (chewing on his lips) I’ll do whatever you want.

JM: (with a wicked smile, he talks into the phone) Scratch that. Not tonight.

(Jim ends the call and replaces the mobile into his pocket. He takes a small step forward so that his chest is touching John’s and takes John’s hands in his own. Their lips are millimeters apart, his breath warm on John’s face.)

JM: Kiss me, John.

(Jim presses their lips together and John kisses him back. He feels dirty and ashamed. His very actions, and everything he is about to do with Jim, are a betrayal of Sherlock’s trust and of their relationship. He can only hope Sherlock will forgive him if he ever gets off this island and out of Jim’s clutches.

When Jim breaks the kiss, he drapes his arm around John’s shoulders and begins guiding him to the bedroom.)

JM: Let’s retire for the evening, shall we, love? Now that your precious Sherlock is safe. (A cruel chuckle passes through his lips.) You can protect him every night, you know. And now you know how.

* * *

(After a shower and breakfast, John hesitantly tries the door that separates his rooms from the rest of the house and is surprised to find that Jim was true to his word. The door is not locked. He immediately descends the stairs to the first floor and moves about from door to door, finding the library, a sitting room, and a game room. He also finds that many doors are locked, but doesn’t bother much with them. He will try getting into those rooms later. Right now, his goal is getting out of the house and exploring the grounds.

John cautiously opens the house’s front door and walks out onto the porch. He takes a few slow steps into the outdoors in disbelief, nearly unable to believe this is even possible. As soon as he gathers his wits again, he runs down the stairs and the front path, and then turns back to look at the house. It is much larger and older than John had imagined.

He turns away from the house again and scans what he can see of the island’s shoreline, which is not all that far from the house. His intent is to walk the entire shoreline to get an idea of the island’s size and see if he can find a dock or another place where Jim could land a boat. He must have some way of getting off the island since he leaves John on his own every day and returns at night.

John walks all morning, stopping around noon to eat some pears and cherries that appear to grow all over the island. Shortly after, he comes to the highest point along the shoreline. He looks down the other side of his climb and sees the house below. His heart sinks as the realization sets in. He has walked all the way around the island and found no dock or any kind of landing point. Nothing. No escape. And no land in sight.

John trudges to the edge of the hill he’s just climbed and finds a cliff that descends at least 50 feet into rocks and water. He watches waves crash upon the rocks.)

Would you, Sherlock? Would you forgive me?

(John closes his eyes and breathes in the fresh air. He opens his eyes again and looks out into the sea. He lifts a foot and speaks softly, he words lost in the wind around him.)

J: I’m sorry, Sherlock.

Loud voice: Oi! Watch out!

(Startled, John loses his balance and falls backwards into the grass. He sits up quickly and turns his head to see a woman running toward him. He stands hastily as she nears him.)

MM: Shit! Sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay? God, I’m sorry, but you were so close to the edge and I thought you might fall.

J: No. I mean, yes, I’m fine.

MM: Thank god. (clapping her hand on John’s shoulder in relief) When I saw your balance go… I might as well have pushed you myself. Are you sure you’re okay?

J: Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. I just… I thought Jim and I were the only people here.

MM: You are. (John tilts his head, furrowing his brow. She lets out a little laugh.) I mean, I’m only here once or twice a week. I maintain the grounds. (offering her hand) Mary Morstan.

J: (taking her hand for a brisk shake) John Watson.

MM: Nice to meet you. Mr. Moriarty said he would have a house guest for a while.

J: A house guest. Right.

(Mary smiles and gives him a friendly nod.)

MM: Well, I’d better get back to it.

(She starts walking away, back down the hill away from the house. John watches her and then suddenly begins to follow.)

J: Miss Morstan. (She turns with a smile.) Uh, I’m not really… I mean, I was just having a walk, but… (smiling too) I could use some company. I mean, if you wouldn’t mind my tagging along.

MM: I don’t mind at all. As long as you don’t mind me working while we talk.

J: No. God, no. It wouldn’t bother me at all. I’d just like to have someone to talk to. Mor..Jim is always gone during the day.

MM: Great. Well, come along then. And, please, call me Mary.

(They walk down the hill together, away from the house. When they stop, Mary begins tending to some shrubs and other plants. John sits on a large stone and watches for a few minutes. The wind ruffles his hair and he looks out at the ocean. Mary glances up at him.)

MM: So how long have you been here?

J: A little over a week.

MM: Really? I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before. I’ve been on the island a couple times.

J: Well, I hadn’t ventured outside before today. Haven’t had the opportunity.

MM: Oh my god. I could never stay inside that long. I love it outside.

J: Miss, Mary, I feel utterly useless and rude just sitting here. Please let me help you.

MM: Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. You’re here on holiday.

J: (standing) And I’ll spend it as I please. Just tell me what to do.

MM: (wiping her hands on her pants and looking at him) All right, but just this one time.

J: Smashing.

(They work together all afternoon, talking constantly. John makes sure not to reveal anything specific about himself or why he is on the island. He also listens carefully to everything Mary says, trying to answer the niggling questions in his mind. Can she be trusted? Does she work for Jim as his gardener and know nothing or does she work as an operative? Is she dangerous or will she help him? Sherlock would know all of the answers in a moment, but it will take John much longer to learn the same things. Fortunately, he has nothing but time.)

J: (finishing his work and looking around) What are those trees over there?

MM: Prickly pear. Island’s full of them.

J: Pear? So you can eat the fruit?

MM: Oh, yes. They’re delicious. But wouldn’t advise handling them without gloves. They’re called prickly for a reason. (Mary stands and looks at her watch.) Time for me to pack it in.

J: Shit. Yeah, I need to get back to the house.

MM: (stepping close and offering her hand) It was nice to meet you, John. I had a lovely afternoon, and thanks so much for the help.

J: No problem.

(John shakes her hand and loosens his grip, but she doesn’t let go. They linger without words until John licks his lip and glances at the grass bashfully. Mary is showing some kind of interest and, if John plays his cards right, he might be able to learn what he needs to know about her faster than he thought.)

J: Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.

MM: (smiling broadly) You never know.

(She finally releases his hand and he turns away to walk back to the house. He’s about twelve feet away when Mary calls out to him.)

MM: John. (He turns.) Look, I’ll be back in a couple of days. Maybe we could meet for lunch around noon. We could have a picnic.

J: (smiling) I’d like that.

MM: Great. We could meet right here and don’t worry about the food. I’ll have enough for both of us.

J: What? No, I couldn’t…

MM: I insist. I owe you for your help. (with a serious expression) I won’t take no for an answer.

J: (laughing) Okay, okay. I’ll see you in a couple of days then.

(They bid each other farewell and John walks back to the house confident that he can find out what he wants to know from Mary. If she proves to simply be Jim’s gardener, maybe she can help him get off the island. Or at least tell him how she gets off and on the island. He would have asked, but it would give too much away. It is best she not know the true circumstances of his stay there.

John slows his pace until he has nearly stopped walking, looking up at the house as he approaches. Jim is in it. If he isn’t yet, he will be soon. John shudders at the thought of dinner and the evening with him. Jim will want sex and will threaten Sherlock again to get it. Oh god, Sherlock. How can he ever forgive John for what he has done? Will he want John to leave and never want to see him again? God, how he wants to see Sherlock again. To hold him in his arms and feel his warm body against his own. To feel his lips at his ear as he whispers how much he loves John.

John looks at the house sadly and sighs. He trudges toward it again as the sky slowly begins to darken.)

* * *

(About a week later in London, things have settled down quite a bit. Sherlock is now free from the chair he has been tied to and is functioning normally, especially considering his mind is fully occupied with trying to find John. He still believes John has left him of his own free will in a misguided attempt to protect him from further harm, but he has also decided he does not accept this separation and will talk some sense into John. Being tied to a chair for a few days has even given him a winning idea on how to make John come back to stay. He quickly dismissed that plan, however, not wanting to duplicate anything Moriarty may have done or made John feel.

For their part, Molly and Greg have spent much of their time trying to convince Sherlock that he is looking in all the wrong places because John was actually kidnapped by Moriarty. Mycroft has not made any appearances, knowing his brother would believe the opposite of anything he might tell him in an act of defiance.)

MH: He isn’t going to be in anyone’s records because he isn’t looking at flats!

S: Of course he is! He can’t stay in some kind of hotel or at a friend’s flat forever. John is the most likable person on earth, but there are limits. (He suddenly goes silent, his eyes narrowing.) You. One of you

MH: What?

S: He’s staying with one of you, isn’t he?

G: Oh, Christ.

MH: No! He isn’t staying with either one of us! Do you honestly think we would stand here and try to tell you he’d been kidnapped by bloody Moriarty if he was tucked safely away in our flats? What kind of monster do you take us for, Sherlock?

(Sherlock stands still as stone. He wears the expression of a man who was just savaged by his budgie. His eyes sweep over Molly’s countenance swiftly, dismissing the possibility that she is a very good liar. He glances at Greg, who just gives him a look of impatience, and cocks his brow. Without a word, Sherlock walks to his chair and sits, steepling his hands beneath his chin and closing his eyes. Greg rolls his eyes.)

G: Damn it, Sherlock! We don’t have time for one of your sulks. John is out there somewhere being tortured as we speak and we need you to help find him, so get off your sodding ass and…

(Sherlock suddenly leaps from the chair. Greg curses and nearly belts the detective, uncertain as to whether this is an attack or revelation of some kind.)

S: (stepping closer) Say that again!

(Greg and Molly exchange a confused look. Greg faces Sherlock and eyes him suspiciously.)

G: Get off your sodding ass and…

S: No! No! Not that. The bit about the note John left.

MH: (in disbelief) His note??

G: I haven’t mentioned in note in days. A little specificity would help.

S: “He didn’t say ‘Feel free to kill yourself with drugs’, did he”? But what did he say? What exactly did he say? (Sherlock pulls the now well-worn letter from his dressing gown pocket and begins reading it again. His lips move as he talks his way through it carefully, some words silent and others audible. Molly and Greg watch him with growing excitement.) “Dear Sherlock. I can’t be with you...can’t happen, H, again...I understand why you’re angry, E….shouldn’t have lied to you, L….Please don’t look for me, P. H E L P. What didn’t I see it before?

MH: Help? What? See what?

S: These letters, these four letters are darker than the others, but just barely so Moriarty wouldn’t notice John trying to leave a message. John must have known I would read it again and again, and would see the letters for what they are.

(Sherlock gives the note to Molly, who looks at it for a second and then back at Sherlock. She and Greg follow him around the room with their eyes as he begins to pace, stepping over furniture with no regard for its placement.)

S: And he refers to Moriarty as Jim. (He walks to the fireplace and stops, then spins around to face them.) The injuries. The injuries he supposedly inflicted on me. All of them made sense, except the one at my neck. What was it you said, Molly? That it was more like a knife pressing into my throat?

MH: (beginning to smile) Yes, that’s exactly what I said.

(Molly had said that while he was still high, but apparently some things made it through to him and now all the pieces are coming together.)

S: John would not have done that, not even in the haze of a nightmare. And he certainly wouldn’t have traipsed into the kitchen for a knife before finding me on the sofa. And Greg!

(Ill at ease at being under the microscope, not to mention the fact that Sherlock just called him by his actual name, Greg replies cautiously.)

G: Yeah?

S: The first thing you said after reading the note. (pointing at Molly) John would never say I was well to be rid of him.

G: (shrugging) He wouldn’t. He’d say it would protect you, but not be better for you. That’s like saying he didn’t give a damn about the pain he’d cause you. And he sure as hell would have apologized. He didn’t once in that whole letter.

S: Exactly!! God, I’ve been such a fool! Why didn’t I see it all before?

G: The concussion.

MH: And the drugs. You’ve been out of your right mind for days.

S: How long, Molly? How long exactly?

MH: Couple of weeks. A little more, actually.

S: (scrubbing his hands over his face) God knows what he’s done to John in the meantime.

(He dashes out of the room and down the hall to the door to the flat, pausing only to grab his coat and scarf. The others start after him.)

G: Sherlock! Where the hell are you going?

S: To find John.

MH: You’re in pajamas and dressing gown!

S: No time to change. I’ve already lost so much time to my own stupidity.

G: Sherlock?!

(He and Molly scramble to follow. Molly grabs a pair of shoes that must have been toed off at the door weeks ago. As they run to catch up with the detective, she exchanges a smile with Greg.)

MH: He’s back!

[theredwallrecorder]

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) pt 1

I am so tempted to use the lenny face to title every post I now make for this AU. *coughs nervously*

Anyway so after @thegoldensoundtwice hurt my soul deeply and irrevocably and there is no forgiveness for meanies I would like to retaliate with the first part of a literal monstrosity, which is a sequel piece meant to follow this and this, and also this vignette of a prologue. Because you can’t just hint at a hecka schweet covert afterlife woodlander rescue mission through the jagged pits of Hellgates without making it happen. And mates........... where MAKING THIS HAPEN

@raphcrow it is not yet to be, but it is coming. *sly. slow. wink.*

Please enjoy what I have affectionately been referring to as Redwall Hell: The Anime. Here’s the opening theme LUL  ~ Part two coming soon!

May the Great Vulpuz have mercy on us all.

- - - - - -

Hellgates was a realm nothing quite like Martin or his friends had envisioned. It was a dismal place, a land of earth, stone, and sand with no signs of life, creature or otherwise. The rough terrain was scored in places by scars torn deep into the earth, as if a great beast had unleashed its wrath upon the countryside. A pale-faced sun watched over the seemingly endless, desolate expanse, giving off a watery light that could easily have been outshone by a roaring hearthfire. A dull crimson glow emanated from the cracks and fissures etched into the monolithic stones, supplementing the weak sunlight, but it cast an eerie reddish pall over everything it touched. No sound could be heard, save the hollow whistling of the wind as it felt its way across the forbidding landscape.

Despite the apparent dryness of their surroundings, Martin and his company felt chilly, as though each of them had been confronted by a blast of frozen air. They travelled in a single file line, all their senses alert, each creature straining to catch a glimpse of... something.

“You’d think it’d be a mite warmer here, what with these veins of fire running through all these rocks,” Gonff’s voice broke into the silence. “It’s as if somebeast used the stones to ring their cooking fire, but the blaze that once licked at their insides never went out.”

“Burr, only ee foire burns lioke ee frost, zurr mouseythief,” Grumm observed, giving the rocks on either side of him a wide berth. “Oi’d loike to make ee proper foire for summ zoup, but there’m baint no sticks yurrabouts!”

Rose tentatively ran the back of her paw across the surface of one of the massive brimstone boulders. “I agree, Grumm. These stones look like they’d burn you if you touched one, but it actually feels like ice.” She paused as they reached the top of a small rise, thoughtfully surveying the terrain ahead of them. “Everything looks the same here, Martin. How do we know if we’re heading in the right direction?”

The warrior mouse reached the crest of the hill, coming to a standstill alongside her. “I don’t think there’s a way to tell for sure, Rose. This is a strange place. Still, we must continue on. The message the Lady conveyed to me was one of utmost urgency.”

Felldoh flicked his tail in a gesture of mild annoyance. “And I suppose it was so urgent she forgot to include directions?”

Martin shrugged, adjusting the shoulder strap of his sword belt. “I do not think the Lady of Hellgates would invite us to run a fool’s errand. There must be a way for us to figure out where we are going.”

“I’ve got it mates!” Gonff clapped his paws together, a look of mock seriousness upon his face. “I say we spin Dinny around in a circle, and wherever his nose points when he stops has got to be the right way to go.”

“You’m gurtly wrong thurr, zurr. Oi say we spin ee, more loike. This yurr moler culd sloice ee roipe cheese with yore snout as moi knoife, hurr!”

As Dinny and Gonff continued to banter back and forth, Laterose noticed that Grumm had been quietly staring off into the distance with curious intensity. She shimmied atop one of the brimstone boulders next to him and peered in the direction he was looking. “What is it, Grumm? Do you see anything out there?”

The spellbound mole shook his head slowly. “Burr no, miz Roser. Oi’m… oi thought oi heard ee voice callen from thataways. Twas most bootiful, loike ee soft velvet o’er glass.”

Martin stepped between Gonff and Dinny, effectively cutting short their conversation. “Is that true, Grumm? What did the voice say to you?”

Grumm’s deep molevoice was solemn as he intoned the cryptic message, “’Cumm, yore friend awaits for ee.’” He raised a hefty digging claw, indicating a line of low, jagged cliffs on the horizon off to one side. “Oi felt moi snout gettin’ tugged towards ee stoney ridge o’er yonder.”

“It may be that the Lady is trying to get our attention,” Rose offered. “Should we head in that direction?”

Felldoh observed the distant formation, voicing his thoughts aloud. “It could also be a trap. As of right now, we have no idea where we are in relation to our ultimate destination, and we have no way of knowing if the voice Grumm has heard isn’t some nasty trick meant to lead us astray.” He turned to the group, his tone edged with skepticism. “Have you noticed how we have yet to encounter anybeast here? Something can’t be right.”

“It seems my reputation as the Prince of Mousethieves precedes me.”

“Gonff.”

“Haha, sorry mates. Ah, I say we go see what Grumm’s velvety-voiced friend has in store for us.”

Martin shook his head at his friend’s joke and exhaled slowly, his keen gaze sizing up the distance between the group and the faraway cliffs. “Felldoh does have a point, but we have nothing else to go on but Grumm’s lead. If we head to the rocks, I think it would be wise to proceed with caution. Our only other option is to continue wandering aimlessly.” The warrior mouse held out an open paw. “All those in favor of investigating Grumm’s message, say ‘aye’.”

Four hearty voices rang out into the muted stillness. Martin glanced over at Felldoh, who shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Whatever it is, I think we can take it on. I’m in.”  

The six friends travelled swiftly, Felldoh acting as rear guard while Gonff scouted ahead. The gently rolling flatlands they had previously been navigating dipped to morph with a low-lying, mazelike area of stone canyons. Coarse, black sand shifted unsteadily beneath their footpaws as the sheer monoliths of stone hemmed them in on either side. The canyon walls were eerily reflective, the glow from their fiery light veins casting roguish shadows betwixt every unfamiliar twist and turn. Even the slightest sound came ricocheting back at the group with deafening intensity. It was enough to put everybeast’s nerves on edge.

Gonff had adjusted his tactics somewhat, skillfully forging on to inspect the passageways of each new change of direction dictated by the structure of the canyon. He would creep forward, peering into every crevasse in the walls, checking every shadow, keenly alert for anything out of the ordinary. He had just reached the mouth of a wide, curving tunnel when he froze, his ears turning this way and that. When the rest of the group had caught up with him, he posed them a question.

“Do you mateys hear that?”

Everybeast was silent for a moment. Not a sound could be heard.

“What should we be listening for, Gonff?” Rose whispered, whiskers twitching curiously.

“It sounds like ocean waves lapping against a pebbled shore… and so close. But how?” The mousethief’s voice was almost hollow with bewilderment. “Can there be a sea in Hellgates?”

The squeal of a gannet abruptly cut through the air, closely followed by the sudden rushing hiss and resounding crash of an unseen wave upon sand. The six friends stood stock still, exchanging looks of surprise and confusion.

Grumm and Dinny were the first to move again, their footpaws sifting uneasily through the dark sand. Dinny elected to voice their joint observation aloud. “Marthen, if thurr be ee gurt sea yurrabouts, ee soil beneath us’n’s baint roight. If’n ee ground could speak, et would say no water bees here, zurrs! Naught for moiles aroun’!”

“What?” Felldoh was flabbergasted. “Are you saying there can’t be any body of water around here, even though we can all hear it?”

“And smell it, too,” Gonff added. He paused as everybeast caught a whiff of the salty coastal air. “We’d be blunderin’ ninnyheads to ignore what a mole knows to be true about the earth ‘n’ terrain, though.” One of his paws began to stray to the knives hanging from his belt. “Mayhaps Felldoh was right, eh? Could be some trick lies ahead, waiting for us.”

Martin glanced up at the strip of sky above them. Not a cloud was in sight. He sized up the canyon walls either side of them. “Do you think you could scale these walls to try to get a view of our surroundings, Felldoh?”

The warrior squirrel stepped closer to the nearest canyon face and ran his paws over it experimentally. “I don’t think so mate,” he admitted with obvious disappointment. “The surface is too smooth… no pawholds. Good idea, though.”

“Perhaps the only thing we can do is forge ahead.”

The five turned to see Rose unwinding her sling from about her waist, her eyes alight with determination. “I just heard the voice that spoke to you earlier, Grumm. It urged us to hurry. Why, I’m not sure.” She turned to her molefriend, her voice softening. “I understand why you were so thoughtful earlier, though. I feel as though somebeast just warmly embraced me… but, in my soul, if that makes sense.”

The kindly mole smiled and nodded, “Burr aye. Twere just loike ee say, miz Roser.”

“You’re sure?” Felldoh pressed.

Rose came to stand beside Martin. “Yes,” she answered, her tone resolute. “No matter what lies before us, I know we must go forth to meet it.”

Martin took a deep breath, straining to see down the darkened passageway before them. A solitary point of pale light hovered at the far end of the tunnel, its presence both chilling and intimidating. Suddenly, he realized that Rose had taken his paw. Their eyes met, and she offered him a warm smile. “All right, Rose,” Martin began, giving her paw a tender squeeze before he reluctantly released his grip. With business-like efficiency he turned to address the group. “Everybeast, stay together. Keep within a few paces of one another if you can. Felldoh, come up here with me. You and I will go in first. Gonff, you take the rear. Shout if you notice anything worth shouting about. Slings out, mates, in case we have to move fast.”

Everybeast shifted to follow Martin’s orders with stern precision. In moments the company was ready to move, each pair of paws loosely grasping a lithe sling, tongues of finely woven twine eager and ready to deliver a salvo of deadly missiles. After he had silently checked in with each of them, Martin gave the signal, and the friends moved forward as one. As they drew closer to the end of the tunnel, the sounds of the ocean became louder, filling the silence with a cacophony of screeching sea birds and undulating waves. Wafts of salty ocean air assaulted their nostrils, carrying hints of sunbaked sand and half-dried seaweed. Without a moment’s hesitation, the party emerged from the dark tunnel, everybeast blinking furiously in the harsh light.

The tunnel’s end opened upon a scene ripped from the very fabric of time. A long pathway led out before them, lazily curling around a mess of fallen chunks of rock until it split to go in two directions. Its left arm began to slope gently downwards, the uneven, sandy surface descending into a deep recess carved into the clifftop. The right fork of the path levelled off, running parallel to the beach far below them before it made a sharp turn and disappeared, presumably weaving its way down to the ocean. A brilliant sun shone down on them from a cloudless, periwinkle blue sky, its rays glinting off the surface of the distant sea as if it were a flawless, multifaceted jewel. A group of gannets soared playfully above the waves, chasing each other to and fro as the race to catch a meal was on. At first, the friends seemed to relax, but the idyllic nature of the scene was instantly shattered the moment they each laid eyes on the walls of a massive fortress, its oppressive bulk seeming to rise from amidst the sands above the tideline roughly a league to the north of their position. A tattered, solitary flag peeked over one end of the battlements, its patchwork form waving jauntily in the sea breeze.

It took Rose a moment for her to sift through her mind, recalling distant memories. There had been a missing presence from her home, a desperate mission to find her beloved younger brother, a long trek across miles of forest and scrubland, culminating in the appearance of a towering fort erected along a rugged coastline… and like a thunderbolt the realization struck her. On instinct she reached for Martin’s forearm. He was as tense as a tightly wound rope, and she also felt a distinct pressure as Felldoh stiffened alongside her, his bushy tail bristling. The eyes of both warriors were locked on the figure seated upon a throne carved into the rock before them, the very seat from whence Badrang had once surveyed his slaves at work in the stone quarry south of the stronghold of Marshank. Rose felt the fur on the back of her neck slowly rising as her gaze met a pair of dark eyes twinkling with malicious intent.

The figure lounging casually on the chiseled throne was a fox of indescribable beauty, his white fur almost glowing in the light from the brazen sun. He was dressed simply in a cloak of cobalt blue silk, a delicate silver chain fastening the garment over his breastbone. His eyes, sparkling like two flawless sapphires, took in the small group with an eager intensity, as a miserly vermin would count the treasures in his hoard. A mocking sneer wreathed his unfathomably proud features, the gentle sea breeze ruffling through his headfur. Once he had drawn the attention of every individual in the company, the fox showed his fangs in a cruel smile.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Martin son of Sayna?”

[unrequitedmime]

Victorias' fist swung hard, and Elidia dodged without even blinking. Before she had another moment to think, Victorias' strong legs swiped across her cousin's ankles.  The Star grunted with frustration as she crashed to the training mat.  For the third time.  Victorias' breaths misted in the air as she huffed. Elidia watched those dispelled molecules for a moment and thought of dancing frost across a palace lawn.  "You're not even trying," Her cousin, usually so tender and gentle, was a jagged blade today as she scolded Elidia. Her ocean depths shone with disapproval as she frowned down at her Queen.  "I AM trying," Elidia snapped, finding her way to her feet.  She hated that she sounded like a child.  The Star let her eyes flutter closed, focusing on the caress of her eyelashes against her flushed cheeks. She took a deep breath, and her limbs turned to flowing water. After a few silent moments of Elidia focusing on nothing but the breath shuttering in and out of her lungs and the gentle wind singing its way through the field, she opened her eyes.  Ready.  She was alone with the trees and the green grass. The Star loosed a frustrated growl before spinning around, onyx eyes searching for her cousin. Victorias was a hundred paces away now, leisurely walking her way back to the palace. Her chocolate hair swayed like waves across her slender back as she sauntered as elegantly as ever.  The Queen did not use her magic to pull her cousin back into her grasp.  She wouldn't dare.  As if hearing her thoughts, Victorias halted her stride. As slowly as seasons changing, she spun to face her Queen. She was too far away for Elidia to distinguish her expression, but the Star knew those topaz eyes were staring defiantly across the space between their bodies.  Victorias needn't yell, only whisper. She knew the wind would carry her uttered words to her Queen.  "You need them. We need them."  The Queen's delicate jaw clenched as the wind echoed her cousin's words back to her. She needn't yell back, only whisper. The wind would carry the Star's song.  For the first time in a long time, the young and powerful Queen's voice was uncertain. Her syllables wobbled like boats on rough seas no matter how hard she tried to keep them steady.  "I- I wouldn't even know where to find them."  The wind delivered her cousin's soft laugh back to her. The laugh was disbelieving, almost teasing.  "Elidia," Victorias whispered, a sad smile on her lips, "You always know where to find him."  Elidia ignored the ache in her hollow chest. The ache echoed through that empty chamber in her heart, like it always did.  "He might not be with them."  "Even if he isn't, you can-"  "No," The Queen's voice was a whip, and she watched her cousin flinch across the field.  "Elidia-"  "Victorias," The lethal voice of The Star spoke now, voice hard and sharp, "Leave me be."  She expected Victorias to flinch again, but her cousin only stared at her from across the space for a few more moments. Eventually, she shook her head in exasperation and turned away. The Queen ignored the urge to chase her cousin and beg Victorias to find them for her.  Victorias paused, back to her Queen.  "Elidia," She whispered to the wind one final time, dark eyes on the palace before her, "Lovella needs them."  And then Victorias walked.  Elidia stared after her beloved cousin, one of the most important people in her life, for only one moment before forcing herself to look away. The young Queen's midnight gaze found the dawning horizon, and she let out a shaky breath, alone in the slumbering field.  Victorias was right.  Lovella needed them.  -------------------------------------------------------- Radin forced himself to watch The Star elegantly take a seat beside the young Princess of LinGuard.  Mage's face paled significantly in the presence of the most powerful Kera in the world, but her steady gaze remained on the clouds floating above them. Radin, across the table from his gentle sister and the most dangerous woman he had ever met, fought the urge to swipe Mage away into his arms.  He fought the urge to run. He fought the urge to shake Elidia for endangering his sister. He fought the urge to take Elidia's hands and weep in gratitude for saving his sister.  The King stayed in his seat, forcing his storm cloud gaze back to the pages of his book. The words blurred in front of him.  The King and Princess had been enjoying a soft and peaceful breakfast on a hidden balcony of the Lovellan palace only a few moments before. King Radin ached for the loss of that calm already. The Queen had only emerged from the billowing white curtains and quietly taken a seat, but Radin felt that those simple acts were crimes against him and his solitude. She had stolen it away.  The Queen lounged back in her chair, tilting her chin up to the sparkling sunlight. Radin, despite himself, glanced up to catch sight of her beauty. Her eyes were closed, and her delicate lashes almost tickled her high cheekbones. The Star's pale skin glowed in the light, and Radin's eyes trailed the delicate slope of her neck, down to her collarbones, down to her chest.  Her gown, as per usual, was midnight black. The low-dipping neckline clung to her smooth skin and framed her slender shoulders perfectly, sleeves ending just below her elbows. At her waist, the dress spilled down her legs like running water down a cliff's edge. When she breathed, the material of her gown sparkled.  Like stardust.  Although Radin felt nothing particularly kind for the Queen, he could admire her ethereal beauty. She truly was otherworldly. Sitting like that with her eyes closed and her harsh gaze hidden, with her usually lethal lips a soft smile, she looked almost harmless.  And then the Queen's eyes of darkness came to rest on the delicate face of his sister.  Radin had never witnessed someone so deadly.  "Good Morning, Your Highness," The Queen murmured, midnight eyes alight with interest and scrutiny. Radin half expected black smoke to spill from her lips.  Mage's bottom lip wobbled in the presence of such power, and Radin's grip on his book tightened. The Queen's dark gaze fluttered to the King's white knuckles, and an amused smile twitched at her lips. She did not deign look at the King, and instead glanced back at the Princess.  "Good Morning, Star."  For one moment, the same surprise that echoed through Radin's body was reflected on Elidia's face. Elias almost refused to call the young Queen by her preferred title, and Radin only did so after she had refused to answer to anything but.  Mage had never spoken with the Queen and still she had managed to address her correctly the first time. Not due to fear or policy, but respect.  Mage had grown as a young witch in a kingdom of powerless subjects, and Elidia was a Queen of the most magical nation in the world. The Star governed sprawling lands of all Kera; the fae, Luna's Children, Night Children, Sprites, goblins, sorcerers, elementals, warriors, and many more.  Lovella also governed witches.  Something in the Queen's expression softened as her own heart recognised the awe in Mage's voice. Mage's older brother was a King, but perhaps Elidia was born to be her Queen.  Radin ignored the pain that slashed claw marks through his chest at the thought of it. Mage had fought for her identity, for her magic. She deserved to worship whomever she desired.  "How was your rest?" The Star asked softly, dark eyes straying to array of food spread across the table. Her nimble fingers elegantly swiped up a croissant.  Mage gulped, "I... I do not remember it."  Mage had woken up only for a few moments after Elidia had drowned her body in darkness. And then she had fallen into a deep, deep slumber for two days straight. Radin had refused to leave her side, and only when she woke up yesterday evening did he allow himself to leave the room for a few minutes at a time.  The Star shifted in her chair to face Mage, "Do you remember anything of your possession?"  Mage flinched at the word, "I remember walking through the garden with Radin. I was wandering around the flowers and he was reading his book on the bench-"  "A King AND an avid scholar," The Queen's eyes glinted mischievously in the sunlight.  Radin chose to ignore her.  Mage took a deep breath, "I remember a fluttering wind."  The Star's half smiled faltered.  "Go on."  Mage sat forward to stir her tea, fingers trembling ever so slightly, "It... it whispered to me. Or it sung, or laughed. I- I can't describe the sound. But it was not just a wind, it was an essence. It heard it dance its way across the palace grounds, and then I was enveloped in its warmth. And-" Her voice cracked, "I don't recall anything after that." Elidia's usually calm expression was grim, "Did this.... wind... say anything?"  Mage glanced down into her tea, "She whispered my name." The Star loosed a shaky breath.  Radin blinked. He had never seen this Queen anything less than confident.  A moment of silence passed, and Radin shivered despite the gentle sunlight on the terrace.  The Star shifted in her seat, dress sparkling, and met the King's gaze.  "It's Gaea."  The name echoed through Radin's body, clanging against every single one of his bones until he was bruised.  Gaea.  Not just an entity, but a deity.  Everyone knew the stories of the Old Gods. They had created this world and every other world with it. They maintained the natural order and balance of the universe, beckoning the future and leashing the past. A legion of Gods existed, their power residing in different domains of the heavens and the essence of this world.  Seven Gods were the most powerful, the most vital to enlightening the very fabric of the universe, the most ancient; the Pleiades. The Pleiades bloomed alongside the creation of this world. Their essence, lay in everything that the world was.  Gaea was the Earth Goddess. With an expel of her breath, she created the lands and the valleys and the mountains. With a blink of her eyes she created the sun and the moon and the changing seasons. With a gentle kiss she created every tree, every flower, every blade of grass.  Her power lived on in the thriving lands, but her soul was destroyed in the Heavenly Wars alongside all of her Gods.  So how could it live on?  The Star answered his unvoiced question, "I can't explain it. She did not care to reveal her identity or elaborate when she whispered to me."  "Then how can you know?"  Elidia's dark gaze shuttered, and she looked to the Northern horizon. The King wondered what those midnight eyes were searching for.  "My magic knows."  Gaea. Heavens above. "What does it want?"  Annoyance flickered across the Queen's face.  "She," Radin did not miss her emphasis on the pronoun and felt like he was being scolded, "has not exactly explained that part either." Frustration gathered like storm clouds at Radin's temples, "So much for listening," His thunder quietly grumbled.  Mage narrowed her eyes at her King, the silver depths shimmering with warning. Radin knew exactly what words she would speak if she were brave enough to.  Do not spark her temper, you big idiot.  Elidia ignored both of them. Something in her face had shifted; a tide turning with her thoughts. The Star stared out at to the West now, deeper into the lands of Lovella. Her face was almost blank, almost uncaring, but not quite.  Radin recognised the rolling clouds in her eyes. Storms of mourning.  But who could this Queen possibly miss?  She cleared her throat. When she spoke, her usually elegant voice was hoarse, "There is a team made of the best hunters and warriors in Lovella. They will arrive at the palace tomorrow morning, and the day after we will leave for the Motherlands."  Radin blinked. We.  "Who is this team?"  "I just told you," Blank, bored, lazy.  "Star. I want an explanation." Elidia's midnight eyes narrowed at the sharp blade of Radin's voice.  "I owe you nothing, King." Her voice was frost and starlight and every crawling shadow.  "You always owe me the truth, as you owe everyone else the truth."  The Star laughed, a feline sound dancing with threats, "I owe no one the truth." "Star," Mage breathed, silver eyes finally glancing up at the Queen as her gentle voice sliced the tension to shreds, "Please. Explain to us."  The Queen did not look away from the King. When she spoke, her voice reminded Radin of drifting smoke.  "My cousin is one of the strongest warriors in Lovella, and even he is  haunted by the Motherlands. If we are to find out the extent of power  the cursed lands hold and the connection between Gaea and our Kingdoms, then we must explore the Nightmare Lands ourselves. The team arriving tomorrow are no ordinary group of travellers. They have been to every nation and executed countless missions in the most lethal environments. They have killed, and fought, and saved more than you will ever know. If we have a chance of surviving those lands, these warriors are our best shot."  "And how do you know of these people?"  A moment of stillness. Despite the Queen's endless facades, Radin saw the thoughts shine bright in her gaze for one moment.  She was deciding whether or not to tell the truth.  Radin let her decide.  "They are old friends. The people I love the most in this world." And with that, she rose and walked away.   The Star did not look back at the scraps of her vulnerability that had fallen across her abandoned plate like delicate breadcrumbs.  ------------------------------------------------- The Star did not sleep that night.  She tossed and turned in her bedchambers, the usually comforting darkness smothering her for hours.  As dawn began to break, she finally drifted into unconsciousness.  She dreamt of Nox.  ------------------------------------------------------- The Queen was the last to arrive, of course.  Elias had been standing by the grand window of the throne room, his deep blue gaze submersed in the rolling hills of Lovella. He imagined standing on those hills and running through those valleys with nothing but the woman he loved and the caress of the sunlight.  Cuda would love the thrum of the land in Lovella.  Elias swallowed back the lump in his throat at the uttered thought of her name. Those two syllables were almost enough to bring him to his knees. He had never loved and never missed another person as much as he did that doe-eyed wonder.  His best friend had found his way to Elias' bedchambers last night, when the moon was nestled high in its blanket of darkness, and whispered the words of the mission.  The Motherlands.  Radin had left at the first signs of the rising sun and had taken Elias' steady breaths with him. The Captain had been left with nothing but his aching heart and his thrumming fear in light of the dawning sky.  He had sat down at the grand oak desk in his chambers, carefully dipped the feather in ink, and written.  And written. And written. And written.  Every single word he had yearned to whisper to Cuda these past weeks were scrawled in loving loops across that crumbling parchment paper. He wrote of the breakfasts and the night skies. Elias wrote of the birds that awoke him every morning as if singing just for him, and of the sunlight. It felt different here in Lovella. It felt alive. He wrote to Cuda of his King's worrisome negotiations, of the Queen's unearthly power, of the twins careful gazes, of Rico's warm smile.  If he were to die in those wretched Motherlands, Cuda would know that the bits and pieces of him that she'd lost had belonged to her and only her all along. "Interesting time for a daydream," Radin's voice, as always, was kind and welcoming. It reminded him of falling leaves from autumn branches.  Elias glanced away from the land of the Kera and met the gaze of his King. His best friend's grey eyes stared back.  "Interesting geography," Elias murmured absentmindedly, turning away from the window and taking a place beside his King.  Radin chuckled quietly, and Victorias glanced over at the sound from her spot beside the throne. Her royal blue gown was elegant yet modest this morning, the lace bodice fitting perfectly to her frame and the silk skirts falling straight to her ankles in a gentle descent. She studied the two men carefully, topaz gaze almost piercing. Elias did not look away until she did.  Hellios and the Lovellan Captain stood on the other side of The Star's black throne, their whispered words shared only between their buzzing bodies. Hellios had shaven for the first time since arriving from the Motherlands, and his golden hair had been swept back into a bun at the cape of his neck. Rico looked as formal as ever, his starlight uniform immaculate. Mage had not joined them this morning; the Star had insisted she remain in her chambers to rest. Elias was not sure if it was kindness or dismissal.  Elias heard her footsteps a moment before the grand oak doors opened.  The Star did not say anything, nor look at anyone, as she slowly made her way to her throne. The LinGuard King and his Captain tried their best not to stare at the entity that had entered. Dark smoke oozed from her skin like ink through water, a predator crawling its way down her body and prowling around her hidden ankles. Her midnight gown was as dark as black could be, and Elias was quite sure that the frivolous layers of chiffon were snatching up pieces of light and twisting it away into obsidian silk. Her ash hair was left out today, and it tumbled down to her waist like the rolling hills of her nation that Elias had been staring at only moments before.  Victorias sucked in a sharp breath as her gaze fell upon her Queen, and she murmured her cousin's name ever-so-softly.  "Oh, Elidia."  The Star met her cousin's eyes, and Elias was surprised to see that the smile she forced to her lips did not drip with silver blood. That was a smile of fear, of pain, of longing.  The Star took her place on her rightful throne.  "Good morning," Her voice trembled, "Our guests are here. Shall we begin?"  ------------------------------------------------- The witch entered first, the lavender mist emanating from her smooth chocolate skin like pools of honey. It spilled down her short legs and drifted across the shining marble tiles of the throne room. Her hair, a cascade of tumbling curls, was loosely tied at the nape of her smooth neck. Elias studied the curls winding their way to her shoulder blades. They were made of golden waves and pools of spinning caramel, the colours flawlessly intertwined like two lovers in a bed. Her doe eyes, wide and brown, were fierce as she studied each member in the room. A wind brushed a few stray curls from her plump cheeks.  Within a moment, a tall and lithe woman made her way into the throne room, her movements elegant yet strangely timid, as if she was not quite sure if she belonged. Her black hair shone like dark oil, perfectly cut just above her thin and white shoulders. Her skin was almost the colour of pearls, so pale that the light sprinkle of freckles brushing across her button nose stood out stronger than any other features she possessed. Her ice blue eyes darted to each member of the throne room, similar to the assessment her companion made. Her soft pink lips tightened in a thin line when her gaze fell upon the King of LinGuard, but she glanced away before Radin noticed her disdain. Frost slumbered at the girl's thin fingertips, clinging to her skin like a set of gloves.  Behind these two women, their bodies vibrating with magic, entered another member of this strangely powerful team. Elias need no look closely to recognise the stark contrast between these burning, frozen women and the gentle haze of the man entering. His hair was a bird's nest of honey golden curls, and his brown spectacles, much too big for his face, rested low on his nose. He pushed them up with trembling hands, fingers long and thin and scarred. Despite his simple steps, his limbs seemed to almost tangle as he walked. His gangling legs seemed too long, and his arms hung almost uselessly by his side, fingers twitching as if yearning for something to fiddle with. His amber eyes glanced around the room for less than a moment before fixing on the Star, but Elias had a strange sensation that those deep depths had already gathered every scrap of information he had needed in that singular second. The boy, expression a cloud of distant thoughts, almost seemed to force himself to focus on the elegance of his Queen in her throne.  After a few moments, a presence slowly washed into his copper gaze as he seemed to finally find himself immersed in the real world. His eyes rested on the Star.  And he grinned a lopsided grin at the most powerful woman in the world.  "As beautiful as ever, Eli."  And just like that, Elias and Radin watched the tension of the air shatter into a thousand pieces.  Hellios loosed an exaggerated roar and bounded over to the two women like an excitable puppy, scooping them both up into his arms at once and spinning them around like play dolls. The women's apathetic facades melted away with the touch of Hellios' warm skin, and they laughed in surprise as the Queen's Second in Command wrapped them up in his loving embrace. Victorias floated over to the dishevelled boy with a head of honey and loosed an almost broken laugh as she buried herself in his thin chest and clumsy arms. The boy hugged her back as tightly as she held him, amber eyes fluttering closed for one moment as he smiled. After a moment, Hellios released the two women with his own joyful laugh, and the woman of frost spun towards Captain Rico. He stared at her from across the space.  They collided in the centre of the room like a wave to shore, wrapping each other up with a sigh that reminded Elias of the first Spring day after a long Winter. Only when their limbs entwined did Elias recognise the familial similarity between the Lovellan Captain and the woman made of daggers. They were two sides of the same coin; dark oil hair, soft lips, thick eyelashes. The only difference was that Captain Rico's skin was sun-kissed, warm, and his sister's was a snowstorm of white.  Elias and Radin watched the embraces like they would a puppet show, gazes glued to the echoes of bubbling laughter and the vulnerability of those loving smiles. These were not the dangerous Lovellan people Elias and Radin had come to know. These people were...  Completely, utterly human.  Elias had been so busy studying Rico and his sister that he had not even noticed the dazed boy make his way up the obsidian steps of the throne. Elidia did not move in her seat, and instead stared up at the tall, gangly man with a blank expression. As their companions laughed and sung around them, lost in their own whirlpools of delight, the warrior stared down at his Queen.  He offered a thin, trembling hand. Her midnight gaze, so dark and endless that Elias feared the boy might fall into it, stared at his outstretched fingertips for a very long moment.  After what may have been seconds, or minutes, or a millennium, her slender hand slowly fit itself into his.  That same crooked grin bloomed to life on his face again, and he did not hesitate before messily tugging the Star from her throne and into his clumsy arms. The most powerful, dangerous, lethal woman Elias had ever met- giggled- as she fell into the chest of her friend. Their embrace lasted only a minute, yet Elias had the impression that years of whispers were shared between the beating hearts of these best friends in those seconds. Elidia's eyes fluttered shut as she relaxed into his arms, and he watched her entire body release a shuttered breath.  If Elias had not been watching carefully enough, he would have missed the boy slowly angle his face closer to his Queen's ear. If Elias had not been watching carefully enough, he would have misread the words that the boy's lips murmured to the Star.  "He came." The black smoke drifting from the Queen's pale skin halted entirely as the words, the rolling clouds frozen in time for one moment. Elidia did not breathe nor speak, as if she did not trust herself to.  A long moment passed. The twirling smoke fell back into its gliding rhythm as the Star finally stepped back from her friend, fingers tight on his forearms. She smiled up at him, and Elias almost blanched away from the softness in those lips. That was nothing like the dagger grins and blood dripping smirks that the Star had let loose in the past few weeks. That smile blossomed across her beautiful face like a flower, petals opening to reveal the shining pieces of the Queen that perhaps knew what it was to love and be loved.  "I'm glad. He is our best Earth elemental. His assistance will be vital." The boy raised an eyebrow at his Star, and Elias knew he did not believe one word that fell from the lying Queen's delicate lips.  "Aren't you going to ask where he is?"  Something unreadable flashed across Elidia's face.  "No." The boy huffed a sigh, and her midnight eyes flashed up at him with warning before turning to face her court. He ignored the danger in her gaze, rolling his amber eyes.  As if feeling the heat of her dark gaze, every single Lovellan warrior ceased their conversations and embraces. In the sudden silence, they turned to face their Star, and for the first time Elias understood why the Kera of this country were so safe, so peaceful, so powerful.  They loved their Queen.  "Should we begin?" Elidia drawled.  The woman with the chocolate skin slowly smiled back up at her, "Took your time." ----------------------------------------------- He did not turn away from the Moon Flowers as she approached, though she knew he had heard her the moment her bare feet had touched the tiles of the Western rooftop.  She said nothing as she slowly wandered her way down the main aisle of her Greenhouse, her silken ivory pants fluttering in the soft breeze that greeted her every time she entered this sacred place. The moonlight shone bright through the tainted glass walls, and tonight the shine seemed to recognise him. The white, heavenly light caressed his smooth olive skin and wrapped up his hulking frame in a gentle embrace, as if welcoming back a long lost lover.  Elidia had spent the last two hours wondering if she should make her way up here, pacing in her bedchambers, forcing herself to read the plans that Victorias had written up for tomorrow, begging herself to focus on the reports from her team.  She could not recall one word on those papers.  It was almost midnight, and as the moon had risen higher in the dark skies tonight, the starlight had sung to her louder and louder. It danced through her room, tickling her bare calves, her collarbones, her lips. The stardust in her veins shifted in response to the song, dancing along to the sweet, broken melody. Elidia had ignored it for as long as she could, shoving away the shining tune with her own darkness.  But the stars knew who had arrived tonight.  They would not silence for her.  Elidia had always known that he would not show himself in the throne room this morning. It was too early and too grand an event for his comfort, and if there was even a sliver of a chance that he could miss the formal introductions, Elidia knew he would.  Despite knowing that, her chest had still ached when the doors had closed behind Ziggy this morning without the Cluster's fourth member.  She wanted to ask him where he had been all day, but her bones already knew. Oslov.  The Lovellan villages scattered throughout Elidia's nation were numerous and prosperous, each village a mosaic of different Kera thriving alongside another in the lands humming with magic. They varied in size, structure, competing domains, lifestyle, and wealth.  Oslov was known as the Grand City of Lovella; it's love child.  Elidia's own palace resided in Oslov, crested on the highest lands of the capital city and nestled far away in the empty fields.  He had always loved Oslov. She could not count how many times he had come to her in the dead of the night, waking her up with his gentle hands and soft voice, begging her to accompany him to the late night Oslov festivals. Sometimes she said no, swatted his puppy face away, and let herself fall deep into her slumber. Most of the time, though, her sleepy and mischievous grin was a mirror of his own as she roused herself from bed, barely having time to put her boots on before he'd pick her up and swing her down the halls in his excitement. Some afternoons, on the bad days, he would find her after their various training sessions and meetings as if he had felt her sadness in the rustling wind. Perhaps he had. On those days, he didn't plead or beg. On those days, he simply took her hand and lead her out the palace gates. On those days, she found her stardust in the Oslov streets with him, her magic dancing through the essence of the playing children and the gossiping women.  "This is it, Elidia," He would always whisper, "This is happiness."  Elidia knew he had spent his day walking those same streets for the first time in years. She wondered if he had thought of his ash haired Queen as he watched the playing children and the gossiping women this time around.  No.  Of course had hadn't. Because he had always lived in the present, and for some strange reason Elidia had kept herself in the past.  It was time for her to catch up.  She sucked in a breath, but before she could utter a word, he turned to face her.  Nox was as beautiful as ever.  His olive skin, tan enough to suggest his heritage danced its way back to the Roco Islands, was as clear and warm as ever. It glided across rippling muscles, a broad chest, a strong jaw, high cheekbones. It glided across his callused hands, but Elidia knew it swum as smooth as silk under those finger-less leather gloves. When had he started wearing gloves? The moonlight loved him tonight, and the stardust seemed to entwine  itself with the deep red waves and curls of his hair. A single curl had fallen onto his forehead, almost covering one of his eyes.  And heavens above, how she had forgotten how striking his eyes were; pools of shimmering honey on a golden face. His gaze was a tangled mess of vines, tumbling earth and rising suns. He was an Earth elemental deep in his bones, the power so strong that the heartbeat of his lands were reflected in the shimmering brown and green whorls of his eyes.  The word Hazel would never do it justice.  His heavy gaze swept up and down her elegant body, and she felt warmth drip down her limbs like molten gold.  She couldn't help the sad smile that danced across her pink lips. It was a broken smile.  The row of Moon Flowers to her left and right slowly bloomed to life as Nox smiled back.  It was a broken smile.  "I was wondering if you'd answer," His voice was deep, flushed with an emotion Elidia could not place.  I was wondering if you'd answer.  So the stardust had not sung itss own song to Elidia through her open windows. It had sung his.  "The stardust was making me sneeze. I needed the fresh air." Despite himself, he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. The unruly curls bobbled with the movement, and Elidia watched them sway in the light.  "Still the same Elidia, then," He guessed, gaze turning back to the two Moon Flowers behind him. Those were the first two flowers she had planted in this Greenhouse two years ago.  One for her. One for Nox.  Silly, young girl.  "No," She whispered softly, almost to herself, as she made her way to Nox's side. She stared down into the shining flowers, "I don't quite think so."  He glanced sharply at her, but her eyes remained on the glowing petals of her flower. She felt his assessment. After a thousand years, he loosed a breath and stared down at his own flower.  "I was hoping you'd be the one that stayed her same glorious self, but I guess we've all changed."  Elidia's laugh was bitter, "Growing up does that."  "So does heartbreak."  Her breath hitched.  Here it was; the gaping chasm between them. One that had stretched on with time and distance. In that chasm lay memories of soft gazes, the ache of wandering hands, promises they should have known they couldn't keep. They both seemed to stand right at the edge of it, staring down into the intoxicating warmth of that dark unknown.  They could fall right back in, if they wanted to. She knew they could. They could dive back in to each other right here and right now.  And then Elidia would have one more person she had to fear for, hurt for, ache for. She would have one more weakness, one more person that could bring a Queen to her knees.  She looked up at Nox, at that damned beautiful face she had memorised oh so well, at the one face she would never forget.  She jumped over that chasm and left it in the dust.  "I wouldn't know," she forced her trembling lips to whisper.  Nox, the most powerful elemental in Lovella and one of the fiercest warriors in the world, flinched at her words.  Something inside of her hollow chest screamed at her to snatch them back up and tell him the truth.  She did not.  She ignored her screaming bones and her rioting chest.  She turned and left the boy with nothing but glowing flowers and the echoed memories of her love to keep him company in the moonlight.

unrequited