#I would either pilfer hair dye

[general-gt]

I’d be so annoying as a borrower because I’m constantly dying my hair different colours and if anyone thinks being 4 inches tall would stop me, think again.

[phykios]

honesty and promise me, part 2 [read on ao3] [co-written with @darkmagyk]

Goth isn’t really Annabeth’s scene—hasn’t been since she was twelve, hiding in her room and blasting Evanescence or Avril Lavigne so she didn’t have to spend quality time with her brothers, or even talk to her stepmother at all—but Percy had insisted. She could almost picture his pathetic, baby seal-eyed face as he wheedled and whined at her over text, until she eventually (not at all reluctantly) gave in.

She’s only known him for a few weeks. It’s a little embarrassing how quickly her willpower had crumbled.

Thalia, for whatever reason, had decidedly not been game, even when presented with a large, post-bartending hangover coffee as an opening salvo. “This is a bad idea,” she had said, glaring at the sun so intensely that, were it not for her thick, black sunglasses, she probably would have vaporized it.

“We don’t have to go.”

“No, the show will be great. Pluto’s Daughter is great,” she said between sips of her too-bitter-to-be-real black coffee. “You and Percy, is a bad idea.”

“Protective of your baby cousin?” Annabeth asked, raising an eyebrow, her eyebrow ring awkwardly bumping up against her hair, sorely in need of a shave. She was thinking of getting a second ring. Her mother had once told her that they were the epitome of trash—but Thalia had two, and they looked so badass.

She scoffed. “He’s not the baby.”

“Then there’s no problem.”

Thalia narrowed her eyes, really considering Annabeth. Annabeth’s own eyes had been described more often than not as storm clouds, dark and heavy. If hers were storm clouds, then Thalia’s were lightning, electric blue, piercing, beautiful, and dangerous, with a temper to match. “Before you started seeing him,” she said, “I’d have said that you’d eat him alive.”

Annabeth smirked. “I have done no eating yet.”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, now I’m going to be honest with you. He’s going to eat you alive—and your self-esteem is never going to be able to recover. Honestly, I shouldn’t even let you two within ten feet of each other.”

She scoffed, taking a long drink of her own coffee, black but with just enough sugar to make it bearable.

As if a ballerina would ever intimidate her. A fucking ballerina.

The conversation hadn’t exactly ended the way either of them wanted, but Annabeth was still going to keep fucking Percy for the time being, and Thalia was going to let herself be dragged to the damn concert.

The night of, the bar has a line, but Thalia alternately sweet-talks and intimidates the bouncer, and he lets them in. Having tended bar for any place that would take her and not put her on the payroll, Annabeth assumes that she just has dirt on everyone in the service industry in New York City, so they skip a lot of cover charges, and get a lot of free drinks.

It's fucking crowded inside, too, packed to the brim with sweaty bodies and heavy boots. Just another day in paradise.

Thalia glances at her phone. “They’re at the bar, up front?”

“They?”

Thalia doesn’t hear her, apparently, just wraps her mesh covered hand over Annabeth’s wrist and pulls her through the crush of people. Annabeth has her eyes peeled for Percy’s typical blue hoodie or orange muscle tees, thinking that they would stand out like a sore thumb in this place, but she can’t see a goddamned thing.

Now, punks aren’t exactly known for their radical use of color, but this was another thing entirely, a sea of black and lace and leather. Looking for his black hair is a waste of her time. “So many bad bottle jobs,” she murmurs.

Thalia pauses for a second, frowning at her. “What?”

“Everyone here has decided that they just had to dye their hair black. How original.”

She is silent for a moment, squinting, then looks away. “I see them, come on.”

Her blunt nails dig into Annabeth’s arm as she yanks her even harder.

There, at the end of the bar, a tall guy stands, dressed to the nines—the nines of this particular scene, anyway.

He looks kind of familiar: curly black hair in a sharp undercut that Annabeth definitely admires, extremely tight, black skinny jeans that leave nothing to the imagination and really went out of style with My Chemical Romance, a t-shirt with a skull on it (because goths, obviously), and a leather jacket, covered in patches. She spots the Italian flag, several for Pluto’s Daughter and a handful of other bands, a pride flag, a couple of music notes, and one that says, “Not gay as in happy, queer as in fuck you.”

“Annabeth,” says Thalia, “you remember Nico.”

Annabeth blinks. The last time she’d met Nico, he’d been wearing a three-piece suit that had cost as much as her rent. Now the hand she shakes has black fingernails and a skull ring, leading up to a face with eyes lined heavier than either Thalia’s or Annabeth’s, with a septum ring and a line of studs up one ear. “Hey.”

“Where’s our prima ballerina?” Thalia asks as Nico offers her a glass of something brown.

Thalia likes—and cannot often afford—expensive booze, which means that Nico must be paying. Unwilling to be caught in another embarrassing little social snafu, Annabeth tries really hard to remember what it is that he does. Hadn’t he sold his soul to some law firm or other?

“He went to consign himself to a slow and agonizing death,” says Nico.

“What?” Annabeth asks, glancing between the cousins.

Thalia rolls her eyes. “He means Percy went out for a smoke. Nico doesn’t approve.”

“It’s bad for you! This is not a controversial topic,” he says. “I don’t like that he does it, I don’t like that he got you to start, and I’m not going to like it when I go to both of your funerals. But I am going to tell you I told you so.” Then, seemingly as if to undermine his point, he throws back the rest of his own drink, holding up the empty glass to the bartender. “Another,” he calls, “Godfather, if you please.”

If drinks were on Nico tonight, maybe Annabeth could use the cover of the goth crowd to order a glass of red wine instead. It would certainly be a nice change of pace from the shit-ass beer she sucks down on the regular.

“There he is!” Thalia calls, bursting into applause. “The hell took you so long? Wardrobe malfunction?”

“Yeah,” she hears Percy’s voice. “Someone stole my best pair of tights.”

Turning, Annabeth is suddenly very glad she hadn’t yet ordered a drink, because then she would have dropped it, spilling it all over not only the dirty bar floor, but also her second favorite pair of boots.

It’s definitely Percy, but she never would have spotted him. Having gone to a dozen or so shows with her and Thalia so far, he had always dressed pretty consistently in baggy jeans and whatever stupid dance pun t-shirt Annabeth hadn’t pilfered already to wear to breakfast: very normal, and just a little bit out of place for the goth/punk scene.

Tonight, he is not dressed like that.

She can’t focus on everything all at once, so she starts with his too tight t-shirt, with the logo for Pluto’s Daughter splashed across it, like the artist had taken paint and hurled it at the fabric from a mile away. Ripped and sleeveless, she can see every single ridge and line of his biceps, his forearms, his shoulders, even a bit of his decolletage. His pants are black, per the unspoken dress code, and baggy, but he has belts wrapped up and down his legs, emphasizing the size of his muscular thighs and calves. And that isn’t even the worst part. Neither are the studs in his ears, or the black liner around his eyes.

The worst part is the blue lipstick painting his mouth, making his eyes pop, making his troublemaker smile look that much more depraved.

The worst part is how that blue lipstick will almost certainly be all over her thighs by the end of the night.

Thalia’s advice was never going to win out, but now it has no chance.

Despite being dressed up like the goth ballet prince of her dreams, the hero of an angsty, middle school novel Annabeth might have dreamed up instead of paying attention in class but had been too embarrassed to ever write it down, he smiles at her, cheery and bright as ever, kissing her so deeply her mouth must turn blue. In the corner of her eye, she sees Thalia and Nico exchange a capital-L look, one that Percy can’t see, because all of his attention is focused on her. She doesn’t know what that means, but she’s too far gone to ask.

Percy moves away, still close, still oriented around her, but she has to clasp her own hands together to keep herself from reaching out and pulling him back to her, biting her tongue, rubbing the ring along the inside of her teeth to keep from letting the word “please” escape her lips.

She doesn’t think she’s ever been so instantly taken with any guy—ever. Not even the almost one night stand her sophomore year was college, nineteen and fresh-faced and totally unprepared for the heartbreak that would follow. Last time, Luke had suggested wine to help her get over her mystery man, so that’s what she orders now, taking too big sips and ignoring the slight concern in Percy’s too pretty eyes.

It’s all packaging, she thinks, packaging designed to make the product more desirable. Basic marketing and design. She knows him, and she knows what he can do with his teeth and his tongue and his hand and his dick. She recognizes it, sees it coming, so she won’t be affected by it.

“I didn’t know you were coming, Nico,” she says, wrangling her thoughts together. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Never miss a show,” he says.

“Flew back from London just for it,” Thalia says, bumping him with her shoulder.

“I flew back because my business trip was over,” he corrects. “…But I did take the redeye so I’d be here on time.”

Percy beams at that, so hard she can actually feel it. “Anyone else joining us I should know about?” Annabeth asks.

It’s so weird to look at them all together—all dark hair, strong jaws, cheekbones carved from stone, sexy and just a little bit intimidating. “Any other cousins, maybe?”

Nico glances at Percy, suddenly apprehensive. “Actually, Percy,” he says, “I’m pretty sure I saw—”

“Perseus Jackson!” A whirlwind of blue-green silk assaults her senses as a woman sweeps over to them, headed straight for Percy, almost knocking Annabeth out of the way, wrapping him up in a hug and ignoring everyone else. “How’s my darling little brother?”

Percy awkwardly pats her on the back, shooting a grimace at the rest of them. “Uh, hey, Kym. I… didn’t know you’d be here.”

“It was a last minute thing, I had a free night for once in my life and was casting about for something to do, you know how much I hate not working, and I thought I’d come by and support our dear Hazel.”

Nico raises an eyebrow. “Since when have you been into goth rock?”

It’s not an unwarranted question. She looks wildly out of place here, in her sleek, silk dress and the scent of Dolce and Gabbana’s Light Blue coming off her like waves, in sharp contrast to the sea of ripped jeans and sewed up shirts that surround them.

Kym, again, ignores him. “Mojito, Perseus? I know it’s your favorite.”

Annabeth’s eyebrows shoot up past her hairline. Percy? Percy half-a-cider-no-thank-you-I-don’t-care-for-any-more Jackson likes to drink mojitos? “Ah—” He grimaces, trying to extract himself from her grip, “no, thank you—"

“Oh, you’re no fun anymore.”

“I just don’t like to—”

“Well it’s not like this place will have any rum worth drinking anyway,” she sniffs.

Thalia rolls her eyes.

“Here, take a selfie with me.” Her phone is already raised, thumb poised for action.

“Kym, come on—”

But she pulls Percy close, shoving his head against hers, mouth already pouting. Thalia sighs, turning back to the bar.

After a moment of refusal, Percy sighs too, giving into his fate, and mustering his best vogue for the camera. They make an odd pair, her with her perfect Instaglam and him with his blue lipstick and smudged liner, but with the two of them pressed together like this, it’s easy to tell that this Kym is another cousin. Same eyes, same brow, same inky black hair, she looks exactly like Percy, only whiter.

Satisfied with her selfie, it’s only then that she notices Annabeth staring at her. “And you are?”

Percy sighs, rubbing his eye. “Kym, this is Annabeth. Annabeth, this is my sister Kymopoleia.”

Kym does not reach out her hand. “And what do you do?”

Thalia, from nowhere, slings an arm over Annabeth’s shoulder, whisky in hand. “Nothing that would interest you, leech.”

“I’m an architect,” Annabeth offers.

“My friend studies at Bartlett, in London. Did you go there?” Kym asks.

“No,” Annabeth says, biting back an automatic retort about Bartlett’s global ranking in Forbes. Ninth in the world, not even top five.

Kym curls her lip a little, like she knew what Annabeth would have said anyway. “What have you designed? Anything I would know?”

“She designs community gardens and stages for festivals.” Thalia says.

“Oh, so not a real architect, then.”

“The Man doesn’t have to approve of something to make it real. No, her name isn’t on file in some state office. She’s an anarchist architect.” Thalia says. Annabeth bits back a line of her own retorts.

Kym sniffs again. “Thrilling.” Then she turns back to Percy, writing her off entirely. “Perseus, it was lovely to see you again—will you be coming to Santorini this year?”

“Depends on my rehearsal schedule.” The words sound very rehearsed. He’s said this exact phrase a lot.

“Well get that sorted out! You know how mother likes her itineraries.”

He nods, beleaguered. “As soon as I can, promise.”

“See that you do.” Then with a final kiss on Percy’s cheek, off she flounces, disappearing into the dirty, grungy crowd, leaving silence in her wake like the wreckage after a storm.

“Okay,” says Annabeth.

Percy sighs, turning to the bar to order his own drink.

“Sorry about that,” says Nico. “If I had known she was coming, I swear I would have told you.”

“You can’t just go around saying the word ‘cousin,’ Annabeth,” says Thalia, returning to her own space. “It’s like Beetlejuice. Say it three times and you summon one of Percy’s douchey relatives.”

“They’re your relatives, too.”

Thalia scoffs. “Barely.”

“Oh yeah?” asks Percy. “How’s Hercules?”

“Hopefully dead.”

“At least he doesn’t show up out of the blue in wildly incongruous places,” Nico points out.

Percy takes a pull of his drink, and Annabeth does not watch his neck as he swallows. “Yeah, what was up with that? Since when has Kym been into goth rock?”

“That’s what I said!”

“She’s planning something,” Thalia mutters, glaring angrily into her drink. “I don’t know what it is, but she’s planning something.”

“So, I’m guessing this isn’t usually her scene?” Annabeth asks.

“Art is her scene,” Thalia replies, gesturing widely, nearly smacking someone in the shoulder. “The whole of the New York art world.”

Looking back around to the half-lit bar full of badly dressed goths, she thinks maybe calling this the “art world” might be a little bit generous.

“She’s kind of like an art world barometer,” says Percy. “Wherever she goes, the critics follow—like little baby ducklings.”

“Too bad she’s a fucking snob about it.” Thalia tosses back the rest of her drink, slamming the glass down on the wood, signaling for another with a toss of her head.

“Shame she has such good taste,” Nico muses.

“She has such good taste!” Despite her bravado, Thalia is absolutely a tiny bit of a lightweight, the whisky already going to her head, slurring her speech just a little. “Whole fucking family’s so goddammed good at art.”

“Not the whole family,” says Percy, shaking his head. “Kym can’t make art, she just appreciates it, like Jason. And Triton can’t do either.”

Annabeth has never seen Thalia so much as draw a picture or pick a song at karaoke, but she had been left out of Percy’s little list. In all Annabeth’s years of knowing Thalia, she never even thought that it had bothered her. “I mean,” she says, “if you like art, you could—”

As one, Nico and Percy both shake their heads. Insistently. Violently.

Staring at her empty glass, Thalia doesn’t notice. Nico replaces hers with his half-finished one, and Thalia drinks without missing a beat. “What about you?” she turns to Annabeth, blue eyes wide. That’s another thing that the cousins all have in common; their eyes are a variety of colors, but they’re all the same wide, almond shape, made more pronounced with heavy, grungy liner. “Got any artistic cousins?”

“No,” she says, wondering how little she can get away with saying. “I only have one, and he’s not.”

Everyone stares at her.

She capitulates, just a little. “His partner is an artist,” she offers. “Alex is a sculptor.”

Percy looks at her, half-smile on his face. “What does your cousin do if he isn’t an artist?”

His question makes it sound like there are only two types of people in the world to him: artists and non-artists. Given that Annabeth had been sketching buildings since the time she had the dexterity to hold a crayon, it might be true. “He’s in med school,” she says, “fourth year, at Harvard.”

“Ew.” He wrinkles his nose.

“Okay, smartass,” she says, “you talk to your podiatrist like that?”

“You still fucking that med student?” Thalia asks Nico.

“Dating him, actually.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Dinner,” Nico says. “Sometimes lunch. This is going to shock you, but you can actually spend time with the people you sleep with, and even develop feelings for them.”

They glare at each other for a long moment, then, as one, turn and glare at Percy.

“No,” he says, “I am not getting in between this.”

Nico, somehow, glares even harder. “Come on, you’re—”

“I’m not talking about this,” Percy says, his face a hard mask, lips set firmly in a frown.

For the first time ever, it occurs to Annabeth that this ballet dancer could be scary if he wanted to be.

That is… so not a problem.

The cousins continue glaring at each other, the family telepathy practically brimming with unspoken pasts. A part of her really, really wants to hear where it’s going. She wants to know what Percy’s feelings are on romance, just to make sure that they are on the same page. Casual sex, fun nights, the occasional concert—that’s where they are now. If the arrangement is going to change, she’s going to need to know about it.

Then, the lights flicker, dimming. A roar takes over the crowd, and when Annabeth can see again, Pluto’s Daughter is onstage.

There’s no introduction, no greeting, the band diving right into their first number, an intense, high-octane whirlwind of drums and bass and screaming. Percy screams right alongside them, hands raised and jumping, Nico and Thalia close behind, every unintelligible lyric learned by heart. Even Annabeth can’t help but get swept up in it, her typical aloofness melting away into the crowd.

It really is a great show.

“That was amazing!” Annabeth is almost breathless at the end of it. Her throat feels raw, like sandpaper, her cheeks aching from smiling.

Percy hands her one of those little plastic cups of water, knocking his own back like a shot, wiping his mouth with his knuckles. “Aren’t they awesome?”

“I had no idea you were such a fan,” she says. “Your Spotify Wrapped must be a mess.”

“I like all music,” he replies, glib. “Even rap and country.”

“Oh, how well-rounded of you.”

“But Pluto’s Daughter is special,” he says. “You know the drummer is my cousin?”

“Very funny.”

“No, really,” says Percy. “Hazel is Nico’s half-sister.”

She blinks at him. “You have too many cousins.”

He just laughs, throwing his head back. “Tell that to our parents.”

Whatever else he might have said gets lost as a small bundle of leather and fishnet emerges from the crowd, launching herself at Percy. “You came!” cries the drummer for Pluto’s Daughter--Hazel. “Oh, I’m so happy you came!”

In stark, stark opposition to how he had been Kym, Percy swings his little cousin around in a big hug. He probably has close to a foot on her, even in her black platform boots, their broad smiles so uncharacteristic in such a dour crowd. Annabeth hadn’t been able to get a good look at her up on stage, but now she’s flush with adrenaline, her dark skin glistening with equal parts sweat and glitter, baby hairs escape from the artful crown of bantu knots, septum ring shining in the dim light of the bar.

“Of course I came,” says Percy, somehow still hugging her. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Ms. Hazel Levesque!” Thalia crows, well and truly wasted. “There’s my gal!” And she rushes over to join them, almost bowling them both over.

A truly affectionate Thalia is rare, like a four-leaf clover or snow on Christmas. It does happen on occasion, if she’s gotten enough sleep or enough to drink, but the moment is usually fleeting, meant to be treasured, kept close to the heart. Annabeth can count the number of times Thalia has been sweet to her on one hand--never cruel, or mean, but just… brusque. Sarcastic. And yeah, sometimes mean, but never in a demeaning way. Just in a Thalia way. It’s one of the many, many things she loves about her.

The only downside to affectionate Thalia right now is that it leaves her alone with Nico.

She doesn’t not like Nico, she just doesn’t really know him. He’s swaying a little, not dangerously so, just vibing to the noise and the booze he’s already had.

“Hey,” he says, lurching over to her. “Got a question for you.”

“Okay?”

“I was. Working on those permits. For your show.” He waves a hand. “Whatever. You know that stage set up for that show in the West Village last winter?"

The first time she had met Nico, Annabeth and Thalia had been helping out one of her friends with their outdoor theater, and had needed a little legal assistance with getting the venue all squared away, as they were technically trespassing on some private property. It was nice to flex her creative muscles, though. She didn’t always get the chance these days.

She nods. “Yeah?”

"Your New York State architect license was on the paperwork."

Annabeth's blood runs cold.

Swallowing away her anxiety, she takes another sip of her water, hoping he’s too buzzed to notice. "What, was I supposed to try and impress Kym with my license?"

Nico snorts. "God, no.” Taking another sip of his drink, he goes to hug his sister, and Annabeth quietly berates herself for not taking care of that sooner.

Yes, her license is still on file with the state, because it’s so much more convenient to leave it like that, rather than let it lapse and reapply every time she has to do something bigger than a birdbath in a tiny community garden, and being registered still means she has access to the network and can apply for certain grants and it always looks good on her portfolio and she didn’t think the two worlds would ever collide, especially not in a place where Thalia, of all people, would ever find out--

“So,” says Percy, sidling back over to her. “Working on anything good?”

She blinks, the spiral of her thoughts coming to a screeching halt. “Huh?”

“Any cool projects on the docket?”

Projects. Right. “Sorta in between projects right now,” she says, tapping her fingers against the bar. “I finished up that community garden a couple months ago, now I’m just… waiting for the next thing coming along.”

He nods. “I feel that. The precarity’s a bitch, isn’t it.”

“Totally. Almost makes you want to work a 9 to 5 just for job security, right?”

“Absolutely not,” he says. “Wouldn’t give up ballet for the world. I could never work in an office; sitting for so long might actually kill me.”

It might--even now he can’t help but move, shifting around on heel to toe and back again. Everything about him is about movement. Even an office where everyone was on their feet, like hers had been, wouldn’t have been enough for Percy Jackson, she thinks.

“What about you?” he asks. “How would you fair in an office?”  

“Been there, done that,” she says, before she can even think it through.

“Really?” She sees him scan her. Normally when he does that, he’s thinking of her without her clothes on, but now, she’s pretty sure he’s thinking of the ink that runs up and down her legs, and how that might all look forced into some sort of pencil skirt.

 "Once upon a time,” she says.

 “Was that before or after you decided to become an anarchist architect?”

Long after she decided to become an architect, but before anything about an anarchist crossed her mind, though her freshman Poli Sci professor, or maybe that sophomore philosophy TA, would probably argue that she isn’t actually an anarchist now. “Before,” she says. “I once tried to be very very different.” Tried and failed, oh so very spectacularly.

 “How so?”

She looks at him for a moment. There are layers of mystery that need to be upheld. But she can’t spill her life’s story to Percy after only a few weeks of knowing him, no matter how easy and disarming he may be. She isn’t that girl anymore, and she doesn’t want people to know she ever was. Especially not these people: Thalia, Percy, Nico, even Hazel, who she hasn’t properly met. She can see, standing here, how very genuine and clear they are about themselves. They probably have actual skeletons in their closets, real, agonizing pasts, so much worse than her own.

She doesn’t want them to know she had an honest to god debutante ball. Murder would be vastly preferable. But still, Percy’s eyes are so bright, even in the dark light. His smile is so non-judgmental.

“I used to dream about adding to the skyline,” she says, eventually, “designing something so cool and so fresh that even after I died, everyone would look up and they would know my name.” For a second she thinks he might actually understand. And then she remembers Kym, and his utter distaste for his own sister, whose friend had only managed to get into Bartlett. “But I realized that kind of ego wasn't going to do me any good. And office work wasn’t going to take me anywhere I wanted to go.”

That bruise to her ego still stings, on occasion. That, and the loss of the only thing she’d ever wanted as much as something permanent. They were separate dreams, really, but two years ago, in that little Upper East Side café, they had seemed like one and the same. Failing so spectacularly in one had felt like she might as well throw in the towel about the other.

Percy in blue lipstick, eye liner, and a very tight shirt makes her think it might have been the right choice.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Assuming she never got another call. Though after that award she and Leo got earlier this year…

No, she reminds herself. She shouldn’t dream big anymore. She wasn’t going to get there, and she had to be ok with that.

He smiles, lopsided, sympathetic. “I know what you mean. Like, after so many amazing dancers, you have to be crazy to think that you can add something to the canon, something that’s never been done before. But here we are.”

“Here we are indeed.” She clinks her glass against his, and they drink.

He finishes with a long gasp, licking his lips.

“Wanna go be somewhere else?” she asks.

“Damn right I do,” he says, grabbing her hand, lacing her fingers together with his.

An hour or so and a few orgasms each later, they lie side by side on Percy’s bed, soft and sweaty.

“So your sister is kind of… intense,” Annabeth says.

Percy snorts so hard, Annabeth can feel it vibrating into her. “Yeah. That’s a word for it.”

“What was it like, growing up with her?”

“Oh, I didn’t grow up with her. I grew up here with my mom; she grew up in Athens with our father.”

“In Athens? Cool.” She’d done a study abroad in Rome, but she’d never made it out to Athens like she had wanted. Too much Pantheon, not enough Parthenon. “Have you ever been?”

He screws up his face, thinking cutely. “A few times. They’re not… great memories, exactly. In retrospect, it’s nice that my dad wanted me to feel included, but bringing his mistress’ kid on the annual family vacation to Santorini probably wasn’t his brightest idea.”

Annabeth’s eyes shoot up to her hairline. “Wow.”

“Kym was actually always pretty cool about it,” he continues, thoughtfully. “She likes to pretend she’s this ice queen alpha bitch type, but she’s got a secret soft spot. And my dad’s wife eventually came around--she even sends me a birthday card each year. My half-brother, though.” Percy blows out a breath. “He’s always been a douchebag.”

Dropping a kiss to his bare shoulder, she squeezes him. There’s a story there, but she knows better than anyone about not wanting to talk about bad family relationships. Percy likes Kym, though, and that makes her safe territory. “Tell me more about Kym. You said she was some kind of art collector or something?”

“No, she’s not a collector.” Percy bites his lip, considering. “It’s kind of hard to explain. I guess you could say that she’s, like… a professional socialite?”

Annabeth sits up, squinting down at Percy. “Are you trying to tell me that your sister is a courtesan?”

He sputters, completely taken by surprise, choking on his inhale. After thirty seconds, Annabeth is afraid she’s going to have to try CPR, before Percy starts to calm down. “No,” he wheezes, coughing. “No, she’s not a courtesan.”

“So, what does a ‘professional socialite’ even do?”

“You know, she… socializes.” Percy waves a hand in front of him. “She goes to parties, meets people, facilitates meetings--she socializes.”

Annabeth frowns. “What does that even mean?”

“I literally don’t know how else to explain it to you.”

“What, is she a spy?”

He opens his mouth to argue, then pauses. “Not… technically.”

“Not technically?”

“Think more corporate, less political.”

Okay, now she’s even more confused. “Huh?”

Percy sighs. “My dad runs this big shipping company that does business all over the Mediterranean. Pretty much the whole family works for him in some way: Triton is some kind of assistant executive, and Kym and my step-mom do, you know, outreach or fundraising or whatever.”

She’s silent for a moment, collecting the information presented to her. “Is this some kind of mob thing?”

He grimaces. “Maybe we should change the subject.”

“Is your dad a mob boss, Percy?” Objectively, she knows that the mob is a terrible organization responsible for many different types of atrocities, but honestly, the idea is kind of exciting, Annabeth hooking up with the secret lovechild of a mob boss. It’s romantic and sexy in a film noir kind of way.

“No, he just--does some light smuggling. I think.”

“How does one engage in ‘light’ smuggling?”

“Okay, so his business is totally legitimate, but he may also smuggle art on the side. Or oil. Or both. I don’t know and I’ve been told never to ask.”

And she thought her family was weird. She tells him as much. “That’s wild.”

“Honestly? That’s not even the wildest thing about my family.”

She flops back down on the bed, already exhausted. “Percy, I don’t know how many more revelations about your mob family I can take.”

“They’re not part of the mob!” He laughs. “But,” he smirks, looming over her with a familiar desire, “I can neither confirm nor deny that I had to swear a blood oath to the family when I turned eighteen.”

Rolling her eyes, she still easily submits to the heady feeling of his lips on hers, tilting her head back as he travels down her neck. “Okay, I did not sign up for any Don Corleone bullshit.”

“But you’d make such a great mob wife. Though we would have to kill the rest of my immediate family.”

Annabeth giggles, only partly at the ticklish feeling of his lips between her breasts. “I’d help you kill your douchey half-brother any day.”

He glances up at her from her belly button, long lashes fluttering. “That is legitimately one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. Full disclosure, Thalia has already called dibs.”

“That’s fair.” Then she pushes his head down further. “Now get to work, Godfather.”

[hitoshishins-hoe]

Heaven

Barbarian!Bakugou x Fem!Reader

—

Alright y���all! So I got a ton of great feedback on my fantasy au headcanons, and I was asked by several people on discord to write a one-shot based on my Bakugou headcanon, and so that’s what I decided to do! It is a bit long, and I may have gotten a little carried away, but I hope you guys like it! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

—

Warnings/Triggers: swearing, slightly ooc Bakugou (I love soft Bakugou ok), nsfw, loss of virginity, unprotected sex

Tengoku - Translates to “Heaven” 

Tenshi - Translates to “Angel”

Inari - Japanese goddess of prosperity

Word count: 5k

—

‘Forever’ was never in the cards for Bakugou. He planned on living fast, hard, and rich. Kicking ass, pillaging, taking revenge — but running into you made him realize maybe there’s more to life than just vigilante work. 

—

“Get your ass up shitty hair, we have a city to burn!” Bakugou slaps Kirishima awake from a deep sleep. 

“Bro chill! I can’t shift now! I have to save my energy to burn said city! Why don’t we travel by foot? There’s a city nearby, maybe we can sleep on an actual bed for once?” He stretches awake, now getting dressed. 

“Nah fuck that. We can go if you want, but I’m setting up camp, I’m not staying in some nasty fucking inn.”

Kirishima sighs, but agrees. It’s not like he had much choice anyway. After all, Bakugou was his only family in this world.

After eating breakfast, the two men packed up their belongings and began the trek to Tengoku, a small village about a half a day’s hike into the mountains. 

—

“Y/N! How are you my dear? What’s that you have there?” You look up from the small fragment of wood in your hand, having just finished carving the tail of a dragon. 

“Oh, good morning Tenshi! I had a dream last night about a dragon. He was red and huge, and he had a scar over his right eye.” You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck unconsciously. 

“Y’know, where I come from, those dreams that seem to be too real for comfort are just prophecy for the future.” She smiles warmly. 

Your (E/C) eyes catch a glint of sunlight at that. “Really? You really think I’ll meet a dragon someday?” You smile off into nothing. 

“Of course I do! You’ve wanted to see a dragon since you were about knee-height. And, well, every dragon has a rider, don’t they? Maybe a nice young man will come along with it. You’ve been here too long, go out and meet someone!” She laughs, knowing you’d grown up in the small village and had never left. You had no reason to. 

“Very funny, Tenshi. I’ll tell that to my dream-dragon.” You roll your eyes, focusing back down at the half-carved fragment in your hand. 

She laughs and makes her way down the small unpaved road that ran through the town, mostly lined with small tents with fresh produce, vendors, and entertainers.

–

Tenshi was the town’s founder, having come from ‘across the sea.’ She’d never tell anyone more than that. No one knew her name either, but everyone had affectionately coined the name ‘Tenshi,’ meaning ‘Angel’. She was well into her 80’s at least, and she acted as the chief and village grandmother to those who needed it. 

You on the other hand were an artist. Having been raised in Tengoku by monks, you lived a quiet life. Soon into your childhood you picked up the craft of carving. You’d found a small arrowhead along the creek that ran through town and starting working away at a chunk of wood you found nearby. From then on it became a hobby, then a craft, and now an art form. You started selling them to passers-by on their way to other destinations, and it brought in enough money to buy you a permanent room at the inn with plenty to spare. 

-

After Tenshi leaves, you go back to carving the dragon, each scale identical to the last. 

“How much for that one?” You yelp at the gruff voice immediately in front of you. You collect yourself and glance down at your half-finished dragon. 

“O-oh! This one? Well it’s not finished yet, I’m about halfway finished with carving and I still have to dye it! Can I offer you one of my finished pieces?” You gesture to the small table in front of you. 

The man just shakes his head, motioning to your hand. “I want that one. How long’ll it take?”

You think for a moment, and tell him maybe another 1-2 hours before the dye would dry once the carving was finished. 

He nods and grunts, making his way behind your table to the grass behind you. You look at him confused, but let it go since he’s not bothering you. 

You quickly glance behind you, offering the man a small smile. “I’m (Y/L/N) (Y/N) by the way.”

He looks up at you. “Bakugou Katsuki. Pleasure.”

You turn around sitting down in the small chair behind your table, hunched over while you carve. The man behind you doesn’t speak, and neither do you. It goes on like this for roughly an hour, until he breaks the silence. 

“Have you ever seen a dragon?” He asks you. 

You look up from your piece and sigh. “No, but it’s always been my dream, literally. I had a dream last night about a dragon. That’s what this carving is based on. There were lots of little details I remember about it. Like how there’s a scar along it’s right eye, across it’s chest, and on it’s left wing. Oddly specific, huh?” You laugh. “Our villages leader, Tenshi, says that sometimes those dreams that feel too real to be a dream are actually prophecy. Cool huh?” 

Bakugou’s eyes widen a bit, realizing you’d just described his dragon, Kirishima. 

“What is it?” You ask, noticing his change in demeanor. 

“I–” he pauses, mulling over his next words. His slack jaw turns up into a grin. “You want to meet a dragon?”

Now it’s your turn to look confused. “Y-you know one? Seriously?” You pause for a minute. “You’d better not be fucking with me.”

He chuckles “Whoa whoa princess, who says I’m fucking with you? He’s a shifter, not a full-blooded dragon but shit’s all the same to me. Finish up that carving for me and I’ll take you to him.”

Your eyes light up, feeling the sincerity in his voice. You immediately turn back to your unfinished piece, continuing on the hundreds of intricate scales. You two strike up a conversation after, both retelling stories from childhood, up to now. 

–

Through talking with him you learn that he really had it rough growing up, never having a true family, much like you. He was always moving towns, doing everyone’s dirty work with little to no pay. One day he was abducted and sold into slavery at the ripe young age of 15. The man he was sold to was one of the most foul men to walk the earth. The only nice thing was his slave-mate, Eijirou Kirishima.

The two teens quickly became friends. Spending every day and night in shared quarters really gave two people time to get to know each other. Shortly after Bakugou was purchased, Kirishima confided in him that was actually a dragon-shifter. No one else knew, or else he’d either be thrown into a bidding-war, or murdered. Some envied owning a shifter, while others thought they were a sin against the balance of life itself. 

Bakugou and Kirishima continued working for their owner for another 3 years before they decided to make their move. Over time they’d taken careful note of other slave owners in the village, their schedules, how many spaces they owned, family or no family. They also managed to pilfer small amounts of money, both from their own master as well as others. 

After some reassurance from Bakugou, Kirishima was able to shift and light the village ablaze. They created a network of safe houses so the other slaves were able to reach safety before all the slave owners were burned into oblivion. 

They never looked back after that. 

–

You look on with awe as Bakugou relays some of his and Kirishima’s adventures, as they continued to make their way through small towns, identifying rotten people, and “taking care of them.”

“W-wow,” you finally muster. You look down at your now finished piece, turning it in your hand. “You both sound incredible.”

He chuckles at that. “Yeah, well, what can I say. We’re both pretty damn cool.”

You laugh faintly, turning back to place your figurine into a small tin of crimson dye, allowing it to sit there for several minutes.

You both sit in silence as you pull the dragon out of the dye and set it on a drying rack. 

“You mentioned you grew up in this town, right? Why haven’t you left yet?” He asks, standing to his feet. 

You think for a minute. “I guess I haven’t really had any reason to. It’s quiet and everyone knows me here, ya know? Sure we don’t have the best food, or the best artisans, but it’s nice here.” You reply, turning to the table in front of you. 

“You realize how fucking talented you are, right? You could make four times what you make here if you were to travel to different towns.” He says sounding slightly irritated. “Don’t you want to see what else the world has to offer?”

You grow quiet, the faint smile fading from your face. “I never said I didn’t want to, but leaving everything I know, on my own completely, terrifies me.” You look down at your feet, letting out a shallow sigh.

“You can always tag along with Kirishima and I you know. I’d never oppose to a beautiful woman on my arm.” 

You look at him with wide eyes, cheeks flush. 

“Y-you just met me, you’d really take a chance on me? What if I’m a murderer or something?” You laugh nervously. 

He lunged forward at you, pinning you to the ground. You let out a soft grunt as you hit the ground, his hand pinning your arms above your head as he straddles your hips. 

“If you were a murderer, you’d never let someone get the upper hand, right?” He gives you a shit-eating grin as you huff in protest. 

“Besides, don’t you want to ‘live a little?’”

Your face cheeks deepen red in embarrassment, noticing the slight bulge in his pants so close to your heat. 

He notices your blush and snorts, hauling himself off of you, pulling you up with him. 

“How much longer on that dragon?” He asks, nodding to the drying rack. You dust yourself off, trying to hide your fading blush as you go to look at the dragon. 

“Ah, looks like it’s done!” You reply excitedly. 

You pick it up and look it over, proud of your handiwork. You then reach for Bakugou’s hand, uncurling his calloused fingers and setting the figurine in his open palm. He brings it to his face and inspects it, eyes lit with curiosity. 

“This is fucking incredible, (Y/L/N).” He says, awestruck. 

You let out a quiet ‘thank you’ and stand quiet for a moment. “You can call me (Y/N), you know. I’m not a fan of formalities.” You reply. 

Bakugou nods. “Yeah, me neither. Just call me Katsuki. And how much do I owe you for this?” He asks reaching for his coin pouch. 

“No no no! Don’t worry about it!” You exclaim, waiving your hands at him. “Please, as long as I can see a dragon I don’t need payment. It’s fine, really.”

He grunts out a ‘fine.’ And stuffs the figurine into his cloak. “Want to go see that dragon now?”

You nod eagerly, packing up your stocked items and throwing them into a bag. “Let me drop these off at the inn on our way there,” you tell him as you put up a “closed” sign on the table. 

You two travel down the now mostly empty road, dusk quickly approaching as you reach the inn. You run up to your room to put your stock away, jogging down the hall as to not keep Bakugou waiting. You grip the dresser in your room, panting as you’d worn yourself out a bit. “Katsuki,” you mumble, enjoying the way his name rolled off your tongue. 

“Yes?” You hear Bakugou’s voice from behind you. You yelp, running out the door before you could muster up an embarrassing excuse as to why you were saying his name in the mirror. 

He chuckles and follows you closely, eyes now wandering to your figure. You had on a plain dress, though it looked a tad small, only accentuating your curves. He wanted to devour you right then and there, but that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly, would it?

He eventually takes the lead, leading you to his small camp about a half mile outside the town. You two arrive about 20 minutes later, as the sun dips behind the mountains.

“Kirishima! We have a visitor!” Bakugou yells at the tent, a tall red-haired man poking his head out. 

“Dude, I-” He stutters, gesturing to his small protruding horns and scales on his face. You miss this exchange as you’re admiring the surrounding forest, since you’ve never been this far up the mountain before. 

“It’s fine, she’s fine.” He states gruffly, turning to you, oblivious to his state. His eyes soften as he sees you looking around the forest, admiring the sights. You notice him looking and look down at your feet, embarrassed. “C’mon, Kirishima will show you tomorrow, why don’t you sleep here tonight?” He nods at the small fire Kirishima had going. 

You sheepishly agree and make your way over to the tent, Kirishima now sitting by the fire. He extends an arm to you. “Hi! I’m Kirishima Eijirou! You can call me Kiri.” He grins, mouth full of jagged teeth. His smile is warm, and you return it in kind. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N), please call me (Y/N),” you shake his hand and sit by the fire.

“Hey Bakugou, I gotta, uh...eat,” Kirishima says. “Go eat then,” Bakugou replies, sitting down between the two of you. “Don’t wait up,” he mumbles under his breath, the shifter understanding immediately. 

“Well (Y/N), it was nice meeting you! I’ll be gone for the rest of the night, but I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” He smiles, running off in the opposite direction of Tengoku.

Shortly after Kirishima leaves, you heave out a sigh and flop backwards onto the grass, looking at the stars. Bakugou looks down at you, still amazed at how oblivious you are. He eventually lays his head next to yours, grunting as his head hits the ground. “Ow,” he grumbles, having hit it harder than he intended. You laugh at the whack  sound his head makes, spinning into a fit of laughter when he starts whispering profanities at the ground. 

“Hey, what are you laughing at, princess? You think it’s funny?” You wipe away a tear as your laughs turn into sniffles. 

“Maybe a little bit,” you laugh again. 

“Uh huh. You ticklish, sweetheart?” he smirks, your face paling at his threat. 

“Shi-,” you barely get anything out before he has you pinned, hands attacking your sides. 

“N-no! Please s-stop! I can’t take it!” You cry, the tickling so intense your eyes fill with tears.

“If you want me to stop, make me,” he smiles smugly. 

Having gained a new wave of confidence, you take your knee up to his groin and rub against his bulge, eliciting a moan from Bakugou, distracting him just long enough to flip your bodies so you now straddled him. 

Now he’s the one to be taken aback by your sudden change of attitude. “Where’d this come from?” He asks, his hands settling on your hips. 

You lean forward, your hands finding his chest underneath his heavy pelt as you bring your face just inches from his. “You were the one that said I should ‘live a little’, right? That’s what I’m doing.” 

He smirks, hands gripping tighter to your thighs. “Alright then brat, show me whatcha got.”

You lock your lips against his, his breath hot against your nose as you start to grind against him. He lets out a breathy moan, giving you enough space to slip your tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss. It’s not long before the bulge in his pants is now straining against the fabric.

You slowly remove his pelt, revealing a well-built but scarred chest. You move your lips to his neck, gently sucking on the skin just beneath his jaw. 

“Fuck,” he groans as you suck on his sweet spot. You trail your kisses down his chest, leaving love bites in your wake. 

“You done this before?” Bakugou looks down at you, your hands now grasping the waistband of his pants. 

“N-no,” you stutter. “I only know what the entertainers in town have told me.” he replies with a weak tch as you continue. 

You undo his belt and slip his pants along with his boxers down around his ankles, his cock springing free from the confining material. Your eyes go wide at the size of him, never having seen a dick in person before. Noticing your hesitation, he smirks down at you. 

“What, don’t tell me you’re gonna back out now,” he laughs tauntingly. “We’re just ge—fuuuuck!” His face tenses as you lick a long stripe against the underside of his cock. 

You slowly coax his hardened member into your mouth, throat clenching as you slowly start sliding it in and out. You start at a steady pace, using your hand where your mouth can’t reach. Bakugou moans as you grow used to the size of him, taking more of him into your mouth inch by inch. Bakugou slowly starts to buck his hips up into your mouth, beginning to face fuck you as your throat clenches with every thrust. Your eyes brim with tears as the tip repeatedly hits the back of your windpipe. Your core begins to ache with neglect as Bakugou’s hips begin to stutter.

“F-fuck, I’m going to come,” he breathes as he thrusts into your mouth a handful more times before your mouth is filled with his salty seed. 

You slowly slip his cock from your mouth as you gulp down the liquid, wiping your mouth as you do so.

He chuckles, smug grin returning to his face. “Not bad for a first-timer,” he says, flipping you both so that he’s now straddling your hips.

He leans in next your ear and whispers “My turn,” as he bites down on your earlobe, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

He kisses up your neck and jaw to your lips, pressing his body to yours. He momentarily breaks the kiss, his hands snaking under your dress, pulling it up over your shoulders, revealing your bare chest.

He trails kisses down your neck softly sucking, leaving love bites as you did to him. One of his hands makes its way to your already hard nipple, lightly tugging on it while his tongue swirls your other bud, eliciting a small moan from you. 

He continues his assault down your front, kissing your soft curves as his lips reach your waistline. His vermillion eyes meet yours as his fingers hook the band of your underwear and slide them down until they’re discarded on the ground, his lips never leaving your body.

He kisses your inner thighs, sending shivers up your spine, your mouth now agape as your core aches with want.

“Already so wet for me,” he coos, warm breath fanning your now bare cunt.

You moan, shifting your legs open wider, giving Bakugou better access. He kisses your now soaking heat, slowly prodding you open with his tongue. 

“Pl-please go slow,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his slightly damp hair. 

He reaches a hand up to your face, slowly stroking your cheek reassuringly. 

“Don’t worry princess, I know what I’m doing.” he replies, sliding his hand back down to your waist. 

“Let me know if you’re ever in pain, okay? I’ll stop immediately.”

You give him a curt nod as he slips his index finger into his mouth, turning his attention back to what’s in front of him. 

He slowly slides his finger into you, causing you to clench in discomfort. He stays still for a moment before he slowly starts sliding his finger in and out of your heat, already dripping with your arousal. After a short while he adds in a second finger, his eyes continuously flicking up to your face to gauge your reactions. 

Your eyes are clenched in pleasure, soft moans and mumbles of his name falling from your mouth. “K-Katsuki,” you start, slowly opening your eyes.

“Yes, (Y/N)?” He asks, still sliding his now coated fingers in and out of you. 

“Please fuck me,” your cheeks flush at your outburst. 

He smirks at that, sliding his fingers out of you, as you sigh at the loss of contact. He licks his fingers clean and pulls himself up to you, kissing you more fervently this time. 

You taste yourself on your tongue as you moan, Bakugou slipping his tongue into your mouth. He reaches down to himself pumping his cock several times, long since hard again. He lines up with your entrance, breaking your kiss momentarily. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, meeting your gaze.

You eagerly nod, as he does as well. He slowly slides himself into you, as you wince with pain. His eyes never leave you, even as your eyes close as you focus on the mild pain as he slowly stretches you. You start to relax as he bottoms out, stilling there for a moment to give you time to adjust. 

After a heavy sigh from you, he begins to move, slowly at first, barely sliding several inches in and out of you. 

“You can move, Katsuki,” you breathe. 

He grunts in agreeance as he picks up the pace, balls slapping against your heat as he nestles his face into the crook of your shoulder. 

It isn’t long before you feel a knot in your stomach, on the verge of coming undone. 

“Katsuki, I–” you moan, eyes rolling into the back of your head as he continues to pound into you. 

You come with a flash of white, clenching around him as your vision blurs. The feeling of you squeezing around him so tightly sends Bakugou over the edge not long after, a strangled moan leaving him as he paints your insides white. 

After several more thrusts he slips himself from you, collapsing next to you, quickly pulling you to his warm chest. 

You two stay like that for a bit, both lightly panting from your orgasms. You slowly curl yourself into him, his arm wrapping around you as your sigh. 

“My offer still stands. You can come with us, you know.” He breaks the silence, as you slowly look up at him. 

His eyes meet yours as you quickly turn away, cheeks pink with slight embarrassment.

“I feel like I’d slow you guys down,” you sigh, readjusting yourself as the cold night air starts to register. “Besides, I don’t know if I’d even be useful.”

He rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t ask you along if I didn’t want you there. I feel like you’d be able to help funnel people out while Kirishima and I handle the rest. You’re good with people, right? You’d be able to do a lot of fucking good, (Y/N). And besides, your work is too damn amazing to stay locked away here. Don’t stay cramped up in this little town the rest of your life. Do something, you know?” He says gruffly. 

You lay in silence for a moment, processing his proposal. You pull yourself to a sitting position, and Bakugou shortly follows suit. 

You turn to him, pulling his face to yours and kiss him gently. 

“You know what? Sure. Why not?” You grin, filled with fresh resolve. 

He smirks at that, pulling you back to his chest as he lays back down in the cool grass. He reaches for a discarded item of clothing and wipes the both of you up. He throws you your dress and you slip it back on, as he finds some clothing to put back on as well.

Using each other for warmth, sleep takes you both, sunrise still a handful of hours away. 

—

You awake with the sun, hazy oranges and purples dancing behind your eyelids as the sun drags up over the horizon. You pull yourself up, stretching as you yawn away your drowsiness. 

You look down at Bakugou, his mouth slightly agape as he slowly stirs awake. You smile, thinking about all the things you hoped to do. Sight-seeing, exploring new foods, selling your trinkets to new markets of people; the opportunities seem endless. 

“Hey! Glad to see you’re awake! I stopped by earlier but you two were still passed out, so I went into town and got some food!” You hear Kirishima’s voice to your left, his arms full of cloth sacks, presumably filled with food. 

“Good morning,” you reply, voice still thick with sleep as he hands you a bag. 

He sits to the right of you, Bakugou stirring on your left as you open the bag and start eating. 

Bakugou eventually sits up, rubbing his eyes as Kirishima hands him a sack as well, Bakugou muttering a low “thank you” as he still struggles to wake up. 

The three of you sit in silence for a while, as you all finish up your food. 

Bakugou is the first to speak up, setting his discarded wrappings on the ground beside him. “(Y/N) here’s going to join us, she can help evacuate people as we do the rest.”

“Sweet! You’ll fit right in!” Kirishima smiles, wrapping an arm around you.

“I do have to collect my things from town, and say goodbye to everyone, but I’m ready to go after that!” you smile back, taking a sip of water.

Bakugou stands up, taking everyone’s discarded food wrappings and throwing them into a sack as the three of you clean up camp.

As day breaks, the three of you make your way into town, conversing along the way.

Before long you reach Tengoku, the sun now high above your heads as you make your way to the inn. It doesn’t take long to pack your small number of things. You don’t have much more than a week’s worth of clothing, a hand-carved hairbrush, and a handful of figurines, as well as a couple of knives. 

The three of you walk back to the front desk, returning your key to the innkeeper, exchanging pleasantries and a tearful goodbye. 

You slowly make your rounds around Tengoku, wishing everyone well and promising you’d be back. 

The hardest person to leave is of course Tenshi.

At present she’s at the local shrine, paying her respects. The three of you stop at the bottom of the steps, as to not disturb her. 

“Can you guys give me a minute?” You ask hesitantly, placing your bag on the ground. The pair of men nod as you slowly make your way to the top of the shrine. 

“Hey Tenshi,” you start, gently placing a shaky hand on her shoulder. She opens her eyes and stands from her kneeling position and turns to you, tears welling in her eyes. 

She smiles softly, taking your hands in hers. “I was just praying for you,” she says, slowly rubbing circles into the backs of your hands. “I spoke with Inari this morning, and she told me what you set out to do, and I��m so very proud of you, (Y/N).” she gleams. 

You smile and bring her small frame to yours in a tight embrace, failing to hold back tears.

“You'll be back,” she says as you both pull away. “I know you will.”

You smile at that, knowing she knew better than anyone what the future holds. 

You make your way back down the steps, eyes still slightly puffy as you reach Kirishima and Bakugou. 

“You good?” Bakugou asks, handing you your duffel bag. 

You nod, assuring him you’d be fine. Kirishima hands off his bags to Bakugou and starts to stretch out his limbs as Bakugou drops the bags next to you. 

Your thoughts are pulled to Kirishima as you see him out of the corner of your eye stretching. You give him a sideways glance, slightly confused at what he was doing. 

Bakugou observes you and snorts. “Hey I promised you a dragon, didn’t I? He can’t transform if his damn limbs are stiff.”

You mouth an “oh” as Kirishima takes a deep breath and his skin begins to darken to a crimson red. 

A tail slowly protrudes from his lower back as he begins to grow in size. His arms lengthen to match his legs as they progressively become longer and thicker, ends coming to sharp onyx claws. His face elongates into a snout, his mouth lined with the same jagged teeth he adorns in his human form. Wings twice the length of his now massive body protrude from his back, varying shades of crimson and black, a scar running along the crease of his left wing. He shakes himself out, his scales catching the sunlight, reflecting tinges of black and purple. 

Honestly, you’re awestruck. You’ve never seen something so massive and beautiful in your life. Bakugou’s eyes never leave you, admiring your face of wonder. You slowly make your way around to Kirishima’s front, his eyes catching yours as he brings his face level with you. Your eyes immediately land on his notable scar over his right eye, and you reach out to it, brushing your hand over his face. You walk back around to his side, dragging your palm against his scaly skin as you walk back to Bakugou. 

“W-wow,” is all you can utter as Bakugou chuckles. 

“He is somethin’, huh? Let’s get going.” He replies, hoisting you onto Kirishima’s back. 

He tosses you the remaining bags and pulls himself up as well, settling himself directly in front of you. You take one more glance back at the shrine, Tenshi now waving at you. You wave back, flashing Tenshi a toothy grin. You then turn to face Bakugou, your arms snaking around his thin waist. His muscles tense under you as he slaps Kirishima’s back, signaling it was time to go. 

Without time to register, Kirishima shoots up into the sky, your hands finding purchase on Bakugou’s pelt as you hold on for dear life. As quickly as it starts it’s over, Kirishima leveling out amongst the clouds. 

It’s breathtaking. The heat of the day melts away as the air pressure drops, the clouds breezing by. You feel like you could float on endlessly, and with Bakugou at your fingertips and Kirishima securely beneath you, you feel like you’re in heaven. 

[sapphires-and-gold-fics]

Fictober 2019 Day 5: “I might just kiss you.”

Fandom: Game of Thrones / ASOIAF

Characters: Jaime Lannister / Brienne of Tarth

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Note: College AU. Why yes, this does take place in a library... Professor Tully of the Medieval History Department at Stormland University (Go Stags!) doesn’t like tests. The mysteries of the past had always been her specialty, and she loved giving her students a challenge that would not only force them to work with someone else to reach a goal, but give them some access to the restricted section of the library where the oldest and most valuable volumes were kept, encouraging both teamwork and responsibility.

Stormland University was home to the most extensive epistle and journal collection in Westeros, though budgets being what they were, the upkeep wasn’t as up to par as it should have been. They were still losing a volume or two every year to poor climate control or misuse. So this term, Catelyn only offered access to the restricted books in one of her classes - MH302 - UNSOLVED HISTORIES - as a way to control the use of the texts but also recognizing that this group of students could help perpetuate the historical knowledge kept there in the basement.

Brienne Tarth was a brilliant student, except in maths; she was actually good at maths, but begrudgingly so. And as a history major she was hoping to not need maths so much. Her compatriots in Professor Tully’s class were for the most part very bright as well, but there was only one other history student - everyone else was an art, political science or anthropology major, all trying either to meet the course requirements, or trying to gain some knowledge adjacent to their course of study. The only other History major was Jaime Lannister, a senior working on his 10th term because he’d messed around too much in his second term, and he’d missed his 9th term due to some personal thing. Catelyn had had him in classes before and had almost not accepted him for this one, but she wanted him out of him out of her hair sooner rather than later, and if granting him access to this course would speed up his exit, then that worked for her.

Brienne had been in classes with Jaime before, too. And it had never gone terribly well. He was always poking at her for being too tall to sit in the front of the class (could she help it that shorter people always arrived early and took up the back seats?), or he would ask to borrow a pen and then never give it back - little things that all added up to a headache. In her second year, they’d been in a class on medieval languages together - that’s where he picked up her nickname. She’d hoped he’d have dropped it by now but not Jaime. Jaime with “wench” was like a direwolf with a bone.

The pairs for the midterm project were picked at random in week 3 of the course. When Catelyn had said Brienne’s name immediately following Jaime’s, he’d poked her shoulder with one of her pilfered pens and said “Hey wench, that’s us!” She’d rolled her eyes and ignored him.

In week 4, Catelyn assigned subjects to the pairs, also at random, giving them four weeks to do the research and pull their project together. One pair was assigned a project on the fabled fashion of dragon-age armor. Another got assigned a project on the missing mythical weapons of Westeros - Excalibur and Oathkeeper, and the like. Still another got assigned a project on the mysterious death of King Renly Baratheon.

Brienne would have loved any of these, especially the latter. But it wasn’t to be.

Instead, Brienne and Jaime had been assigned the unknown fate of the lost maidens - following the trails of Sansa and Arya Stark.

Jaime had rolled his eyes, but Brienne being an excellent student had already marked out the necessary research periods on her calendar, and had reserved time in the restricted section of the library for her and Jaime. He dragged his heels and she had to pull him to the basement by the wrist, but they finally sat down and divvied up the project, taking over a large table at the far end. The library assistant for the restricted section was a bear of a man who glared at Jaime until he took his feet off of the table, but otherwise he was innocuous.

They’d been on the trail for two weeks (or rather, Brienne had) when they found a record of a person clearly matching Arya’s description disembarking a ship in Braavos. The harbormaster had even noted the presence of her narrow shortsword--

“Needle,” whispered Jaime, seemingly half-engaged.

Brienne looked up at him in surprise. She didn’t think he paid attention in class at all, but unless he’d been doing some independent reading, he couldn’t have known the name of Arya’s sword otherwise.

They had established from journals of the maester for the Night’s Watch that Arya had been secreted from the capital after her father the Hand’s execution, by a member of the Night’s Watch. He’d sent a raven ahead saying as much in code, yet neither Yoren nor Arya had made it. But the existence of those missives alone indicated that the Boltons had never possessed the real Arya, a fact that had long been argued in historical circles. Furthermore, there was slight evidence that she might have spent time in a prisoner camp at Harrenhall with some Braavosi, and it was that information that led them to examine the harbormaster’s ledger. She had most certainly not been present when her family was slaughtered at the Twins, else the Freys would have claimed it. The next logical step for her had been to go east.

Sansa had been a very different story - in some ways, she’d been easier to track. Unlike Arya, she would have been more inclined to trust the people around her, and that included people who were close to her family. The records from the Eyrie were incredibly brittle and Brienne didn’t like trusting them in Jaime’s hands, but he’d sworn to her and the library assistant that he would wear gloves and be gentle with the tomes. He kept this promise for three days by not touching them at all and instead playing a game on his phone. But then slowly he picked up the work.

In the middle of their second week working on the project, he met her outside the library with two coffees - one in hand which he gave her, and one clutched in his elbow which he shifted into his hand once it was free. She’d seen him fumble with books and such in his right hand before, but she’d also seen him playing the phone game with his right hand.

She didn’t think on it too hard, instead she thanked and then immediately admonished him for bringing coffee when he knew there was no food and drink allowed in the restricted section. He offered her a lopsided smile in return and just said “Sure, but isn’t it nice to catch up out here in the cold with something to warm you up before we go back to the basement?” She’d nodded reluctantly and thanked him again before swallowing a few gulps and then depositing the half-full cup in the trash by the door.

From that point on, he and Brienne pored over their separate books side by side, translating for one another when the words were too faded or obscure or, for Jaime, simply moving around on the page too much.

They had confirmation that Sansa had arrived in the Vale, but from there the trail seemed to go cold. There was mention of a girl about the same age, but the description was wrong. Brienne thought it unlikely that a maester would lie, but Jaime had never trusted maesters, so he kept digging. When the trail went cold, he wrote down a handful of words on a bright pink post-it and told Brienne he was going to go “look for something else.” She assumed that meant that he was going to go hide in the stacks and play his game again. It was no matter, really. They’d tracked Arya, and that was more than they’d expected - it would be enough to focus the project on her.

Jaime had been gone for 10 minutes before Brienne realized that his phone was still sitting on the table - wherever he’d gone, he’d apparently gone in earnest. She got up and stretched her legs and decided to go in search of him.

After another 10 minutes she found him on the floor in one of the dustier corners amid some familiar volumes from the Night’s Watch, his knees bent, with what looked like a very heavy thick text propped up on them. The light here was dim, and he was squinting to read the words on the page. He heard her approach and looked up at her only briefly before patting the linoleum next to him. She walked over and sat down, bringing her knees up as well.

“How can you read back here, it’s so dark!”

He hushed her. “I think I found something.”

“Jaime I thought we agreed that Arya went to Braavos. We don’t know that she ever made it north.”

He looked at her wide-eyed with mischief, “We did. I’m not trailing Arya. I’m trailing Sansa. And I think she made it. I matched up the approximate time frames, and it’s all here. The girl that’s mentioned being at the Eyrie after Sansa - I would swear that it’s the same girl that’s described arriving at Castle Black.”

“Jaime, brown hair and blue eyes - that could be anyone. Gods, it could even be any one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards - it could be a literal white walker.”

“And there’s nothing about her chewing on anyone - pretty sure this was a living girl. And not brown, chestnut. The maesters at both the Eyrie and Castle Black use that exact word. Chestnut - it’s practically auburn. Sansa stark had red hair… they could have used some kind of dye to dim it but the red would have continued to show through.”

“Wasn’t the maester at the wall blind?”

“Yes!”

There was a loud shhing sound from a few stacks over.

“Yes,” Jaime whispered, moving closer to her, “This is what I’m talking about. Someone must have given the maester that description with purpose. Perhaps it was Sansa herself. Perhaps she used the same words that Petyr Baelish used in order to protect herself.”

Brienne wasn’t convinced. “It’s a stretch…”

“Wench, she was escorted by a knight.”

Brienne’s breath caught. “Well that’s unusual. A woman at the wall on its own is not unheard of especially during that time, but a knight for an escort?”

“A very tall knight. No other description. I thought - and you’ll probably think this is a stretch for sure - but I thought maybe it was that knight who’d shielded her in the capital. The dog one - the Hound.”

Brienne shook her head. “That is a stretch...but not impossible. There was another person looking for her at the time as well. Also quite tall. Fashioned themselves a knight but they weren’t one… I always wondered what happened...”

“If it were the Hound they might have mentioned his face.”

“If it were the heir to the Evenstar they might have mentioned she was a woman.”

Jaime’s lips curled up into a sly grin, and he swallowed. “You’re right… and I think they did. Later on - in the texts we looked at before - there’s mention of a woman sparring with the men. If it was her, that makes--”

“--a lot of sense, yeah. Holy shit, Jaime.”

He gave her a rueful smile and looked back down at the book.

“All that time we were looking at the Night’s Watch stuff I thought you were playing Candy Crush or something.”

He tilted his head like a dog and peered at her, the realization of what she meant coming startlingly across his face. “Oh, the phone!”

He brushed at his pockets.

“You left it on the table - that’s why I came back here, I figured maybe you were actually onto something.”

“Ah… I’m sorry, Brienne. I promise I wasn’t distracted, it’s not actually a game - not really.”

His use of her actual name should not have thrilled her as much as it did. “It doesn’t matter--”

“--no, no. It does to me - I want you to understand, I’ve been paying attention the whole time, but I have to keep at it. My physical therapist says that my grip might not improve but if I can work on my dexterity in my fingers then I should actually be able to get back to typing okay.”

“Your… what happened?”

“My sister. She… well there’s no nice way to say it, she had her giant boyfriend beat me up and then while I was on the ground, she ran over my hand with her car.”

“Oh my god!”

“Shhhhh,” said the faraway stacks.

“Oh my god, Jaime.”

“Yeah...she kinda sucks.”

He was easing the heavy book off his knees but she saw his right hand struggling, so she reached over and helped him lower the tome to the ground. Their faces were very close while she reached across him and he caught her start to blush bright strawberry in the dim fluorescent light before yanking her hand back to her side.

“So… does that mean… I don’t mind - being the one to type up the report and stuff.”

He grinned. “Actually the practice might be nice. Can we just do it together?”

“Yeah of course.”

“Cool.”

They sat staring at each other’s hands. Suddenly Brienne started, and grabbed his arm.

“Wait, Jaime - you found her! You found Sansa Stark. And maybe someone else, too. Someone really important. Oh my gods, Jaime - this is… this is very good.”

“Well we did it together, right?”

“I mean yeah but if you hadn’t… gods, Jaime I might just kiss you! I can’t believe you found her!” She froze then, and the strawberry blush was back. So was his sly grin.

He forced himself to look at her eyes and not her lips, and then he brought his right hand over and slipped his weaker fingers under hers on his arm, using the slightest pressure, like he was trying to squeeze it. “Maybe we can save the kissing for somewhere where we’re less likely to get asbestos poisoning.”

“Jaime, I--”

“We have a week to finish this project. Let’s get through it. If we haven’t killed each other by the time we turn it in, have coffee with me - finally - and then I might just kiss you first.”

His eyes were wild watching the tides churn in hers, but she pursed her lips and grinned, nodding.

He exhaled, coughing at the dust that had settled around them. “Let’s get out of here, wench. I’d really like to live to see next week.”

They made note of the tome number and headed back to the table, his right hand in her left.