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heli0s-writes · 4 years

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It Is Knowing*

HI THANKS FOR EVERYTHING. It’s been a wonderful ride. Here’s the last part of Bag of Tricks. It’s tender and smutty and stupid. All mistakes are my own.

Please stop reading if you are not over 18!

Bag of Tricks Masterlist

He’s terrified.

Suddenly he’s looking at you one way, and then in a flash, the same dumb grin you always give him— the crooked one on the cusp of an ill joke— turns bright white.

It goes brilliant like star fire and during a storm inside a standard-issued cabin hideout, Bucky thinks he must be losing his mind.

And maybe he’s been losing it for a few weeks now, but he’s done a great job dodging the reality of your confession so far. Doesn’t matter what you mumbled—cracked out on exhaustion and sleep-talking—because in the end, you’re his friend and you love him the same way you love everyone else: annoyingly. Nothing’s changed about that.

He hazards another glimpse.

“Help?” You ask from the table, angrily scratching out blocks of an attempted crossword puzzle.

Do it in pencil, he tried to warn earlier, but you only called him chickenshit because you’re—yep—annoying.

“Foudre,” Bucky says carefully and you perk up at the sound of his voice. “It’s a… six-letter French word for thunder.” He clears his throat, gesturing toward the window splattered with rain.

“Oh-ho-ho,” you snort, “Smart boy, aren’t ya? FOO-DRUH.” An incredible bastardization of the term, and you sing around a chewed-up pen cap between your teeth. “My name’s Smart-Boy-Bucky and I know French, Russian, and Updog.”

“What the hell is Updog?”

Your face steels.

“Nothing much, how ‘bout you?”

And instead of going over there to kick your ass, all he can do is stare wordlessly as you break into a laugh—his entire body electric like a live wire.

He keeps telling himself there are only a few days before someone drops in to collect. He just needs a little bit of distance, some time alone to clear his head and get over this—thing.

But his brain feels like it’s melting while he waits, his stomach is probably developing an ulcer, and his heart is so fast and fierce that he can almost see the pulse in his sternum throbbing errantly.

Too many things are wrong. You’re his friend— and Bucky wants to throttle himself a little bit for ever letting you be his friend. You’re an unfiltered, oblivious dumbass and he doesn’t like that at all. You cry over animals and when he gets hurt because you’re an insufferable drama queen, too. He hates that. He does.

The sound of something enormous slamming on the ground makes him dash into the shared bedroom and—oh god, Bucky thinks he’s going to throw up.

First, the mattresses are on the floor.

Second, you’re. wearing. that. stupid. shirt.

The blue one. The one he used to love, hated for a bit, came back around to wearing, and now—yep, he officially hates it again.

“I think you’re too tall for the bunk.” You’re pushing the beds together, unaware of his clenched fists. “So if we sleep diagonally your feet won’t hang off—and can you believe it—” you point to the hem of cerulean brushing against your skin, “I packed three raincoats and no pajamas.”

At the sight of your creeping smile, Bucky loses it.

“Why are you going through my stuff?!” He shouts, gripping the doorframe with enough force to take the molding clear off. “Why are you touching my shit!?” And he probably sounds insane, flying off the handle like this, but he’s got a million grievances against you and this is just the tip of the iceberg.

“Mind your own fucking business!” He’s still unloading, unreasonably frantic at the sight of that terrible color hanging from your shoulders.

Bewildered, you plop down clumsily on your knees, gawking like a deer in the headlights.

Your bare legs, your fingertips on your thighs, the thin sleeves oversized and loose on your forearms, that smear of toothpaste on the collar, the hollow of your throat taut from holding your breath—it makes him want to grab you by the shoulders and shake you dizzy.

It makes him want to touch you. It makes him want you.

He’s sick. He’s dying. He’s so, so fucked.

“What…” Bucky quietly trails off, gasping helplessly as realization sinks in, “…what the hell is wrong with you...”

“Me?!” You shriek back, “What the hell is wrong with you? I’m over here worried about your crusty feet hanging off at night and you just swing in and take a dump on me?”

Bucky groans, miserable and guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “Shit. I’m—I don’t know.”

“Eat my ass, dude!” you sneer, already tucked under the blankets. “I’m going to sleep. Turn off the fucking light you’re going to stand there looking like a dumbass.”

A feeble sigh as Bucky pushes his hands into his face, gripping his hair, pulling his own head back until he’s glaring at the ceiling, listening to the patter on the roof.

“You’re the dumbass,” he whispers.

You’re the dumbass with the emotional regulation problem. The idiot with the temper. The head full of sawdust. But, if it only took three careless words from your blundering mouth to make Bucky fall entirely apart, you must be right after all. He is the dumbass.

He feels split open like the sky—torn up completely, unable to make out anything in his own turbulence.

Fuck.

The sheets shift until he hears them slide off. Then, a pattern of bare feet across hardwood. He must look disastrous in the doorway, bent out of shape in uncharacteristic disarray.

“What is going on with you?” You find his arm, fingers wrapping around his wrists, tugging until they peel off his wretched face. “Why are you so upset? I wear your clothes all the time; I’m always in your stuff.”

He chuckles defeatedly because you really are always in his space. Throwing yourself into in his room. Eating chips in his bed. Squirreling away in his brain. Everywhere. Always.

Bucky presses his lips into a thin line, grimacing as he looks at you. Wordless and vulnerable, he can feel his brow sinking lower, throat narrowing around a swallow as he attempts to fix himself. A stutter falls out, then another, crackling syllables like surfacing thunder but never quite forming a sentence.

The earth groans, shaking the cabin and his precarious soul.

“What is it? Why are you looking at me like—”

And then, under a streak of lightning, recognition splits across your face.

“Don’t,” he pleads to the silence, “Don’t say it.”

The seconds stretch into horrible eons of slow passing time. You tilt your head this way and that, eyes going from his face to his hands, limp at his side with your own fingers still grasping on.

“Jesus, Bucky,” you say gently, “You’re—my best friend.”

Bucky shuts his eyes. “I know. I’m not trying—"

“Bucky,” you interrupt, faster now. “Bucky,” suddenly elated and laughing. “Bucky—shut up.”

And then the entire room bursts into flames. Your lips are searing hot against his— plump and eager, leaving scorching trails everywhere they touch, and Bucky burns up like a solar flare trying to catch his breath.

“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, kissing him again. His cheeks, his jaw, his chin. “A real idiot.”

He’s terrified and dizzy, fumbling with a million possible outcomes and failing painfully each time. Relationships never quite work out for him; he’s dated a few girls and liked them a lot, too, but they’ve never turned out how he wanted them to. And this one—this one, he really can’t fuck up.

He’s got a bad track record, and with you, never knowing is much better than losing.

“Hey, you’re going crazy in there. I can hear it.” A sweet smile as your lips hover over his. The sweetest your face as ever looked. “Stop thinking, Bucky. Kiss me.”

Your lashes are so long and pretty. The dip of your cupid’s bow, a shape he adores. Even the tiny scar on your neck and the way your hair moves— wispy strands framing your face. Sounds of happiness tumbling out, hand firmly inside of his.

“It’s just me.” Joyful. Comfortable. “You know me.”

Your eyes glimmer—a familiar color calling him home.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, “Yeah, I do.”

Steve was the more competent linguist in their old days. Rolling French r’s, dropping ending consonants, silky smooth in pronunciation. Bucky’s tongue had always been more supplant to the Eastern European languages but, he knows enough of French—remembers enough from the war to recognize this:

Coup de foudre.

It’s the thing romantics exalt, the thing that half-strikes him now. The thunderbolt.

Love at first sight, even though it’s not quite first sight at all.

It’s not infatuated or starry-eyed. Not blind. Not feeling.

It is knowing.

And yeah, Bucky watches the way you pull him to the floor, euphoric and aglow, Jesus H. Christ, he knows.

This is it for him: your chaos, your entropy, your impulse. Your lack of personal space and foresight and good fucking sense. But—your kindness, too. Your care. Your heart.

Calm and patient as you settle down into his lap, the warm weight of you seems to be the only thing keeping him on earth.

“Can I touch you?” You ask shyly.

His voice is barely audible, hands unsure of where to rest, heart swollen in his throat.

Bucky flushes, and in the split second of your tongue sweeping over your bottom lip, he tells himself do it, you coward, just fucking do it—and god help him, he does.

He presses his face into your neck, kissing hungrily, anywhere he can, down to your collar and chest and then he’s lifting you up by the thighs and instinctively pulling everything off.

You’re both surprised and excited, blinking at his urgency, and then you start scrambling, too.

His shirt gets flung behind your back. Both pants disappear somewhere else. One hand goes into his hair, other guiding him between your legs where you smear all over his fingers.

Bucky stutters breathlessly like he might go into shock. “You’re all fucking— oh fuckin’ hell.”

You only arch into it, holding his chin between your thumb and forefinger, kissing the bristles of his jaw. You’re soft and warm and he’s utterly overcome. Little noises fall from one mouth to another. An awkward shift and your thighs slip off his, head knocking into him, but neither of you are bothered.

He feels perfect in your hands. A silly grin blooms on your lips before you tip forward and glide yourself over his length, rubbing back and forth, hips moving easily.

His abs clench in time with his fists, wet fingers digging into his palms, bit-back groans barely contained. You keep going, marveling at the way he’s sensitive, kissing his neck, letting him feel good. Bucky begins to protest, embarrassed at the way you’re moving, at how he’s unquestionably powerless.

“S-slow—hold on—“

“Let me do it, Buck.” He’s so hard it hurts. “I wanna learn everything you like.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Bucky holds himself to calm down, other hand steadying your teasing. Nothing’s happened yet and he might already blow his whole fucking load.

“Okay—just—will you give me a second--"

Using the position you’re already in, he lifts you up and brings you back down, a bit at a time until you’re landing on his hand with a gasp. He uses his fist as a stopper, letting you have it slow, feeling you shudder from inside your goddamn bones with every further inch until he takes it away and you shimmy down to the hilt.

Your eyes roll back. And you look perfect.

“Was it good?” He blurts, “With Thor?”

He doesn’t know why it slips out; he never thinks about it, honest. It was a hook up. One time—and he’s not jealous like that because you’re all adults, and it’s not like he’s a virgin or an ascetic, either. You freeze, but he really is an idiot because instead of apologizing or rectifying that outburst, he cuts you off.

“I can give it to you better.”

Because Bucky wants to. He really does.

He presses onward before you can respond, taking hold of what little courage he has, making you whimper, feeling prouder as he goes. Another one and you’re meeting him with a roll of your own hips. Another one, harder now, and you’re shaking on top, tipping him backward into the cushions, grinding recklessly with that exhilaration he adores.

“Bucky, you feel amazing.” Tongue-tied like a schoolboy, he’s keening after your words. “Can I have you all the time?” And Jesus wept who knew you could talk so sweet and filthy.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Bucky promises, his jaw hanging open in awe, “I’m yours. You can have me as much as you want— anytime.”

You bite your lip, skin of it pulled taut and snapping back bruised, light-headed and reeling. Glistening across your collarbones with his spit, body trembling like a high note. He feels it— just a little more— god, you look incredible— he’s gotta hold out for this— and then—fuck.

It’s wet and divine when you come. Slick and tight, dragging him under as you ride out your orgasm, pulling him in like he belongs in you forever.

And he knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Bucky could die happy seeing your face like this every day.

It’s rougher in the morning. In the shower, soaking together. Faster.

On the couch, next. With him asking you to put your hand here, move your leg there.

He wants to learn everything you like, too.

You eagerly change positions, giggling when your knee slips and you pitch forward onto his chest. The two of you take a moment to compose yourselves, pinching each other, kissing in-between. He commits to memory the way your lids flutter when he touches you. The way everything moves easy and wonderful, sometimes lazy, sometimes harried, but always fun.

Yelping when you bite too hard. Biting you back even harder. Positions neither of you have surprisingly tried before, but why not start?

Cursing. So much cursing. A lot of it good—fuck me, yes, more, don’t stop—but truthfully, most of it stays about the same.

Barnes, you got a juicy ass.

Will you shut up!

And he never thought a person was supposed to laugh so hard during sex, or if maybe that’s just your own brand of love, but he doesn’t want to find out with anyone else.

It’s the fifth time, and Bucky’s dick is about to fall off—how are you still doing this—just a few thrusts in when the banging on the front door frightens the both of you into your clothes.

Sam swings it open and Bucky is desperately tucking himself into his pants before—please, no.

“It smells like ass in here!” Sam hollers, “The hell have you two been—oh my god.”

“Shut up, Sam!” You respond from the corner of the room, head ripping through the neck hole of a sweater, legs wiggling into a pair shorts. Bucky is still shirtless, hoping he might spontaneously combust.

“Oh my god,” Sam whispers again, “Oh… my god.” He sputters on the verge of either eruption or death.

“You freaky little—” he hisses, before screaming, “Oh hell no! I’m here picking y’all asses up. Landed the damn jet like two miles away, walked my happy ass through the rain— you butt-ass-naked in here—” He stands ram-rod straight, hands on his hips angrily. “I’m tellin’ on y’all.”

“Telling on?! What are you, five!? You’re so annoying, Sam!”

“Annoying? What’s annoying is—I’m wet! And well— you wet too, huh?”

“I hate you.”

Sam snickers, high-fiving himself before crossing his arms, “Really though, believe me when I say this for everybody who’s ever met you two: finally. Now get y’all freaky asses outside so I can go home and drink myself into forgetting I ever saw Barnes’ dick.”

You pat him on the shoulder, “It’s nice, huh?”

Sam dry-heaves, “Uh-uh. That’s enough. Go wash your damn hands.”

A few minutes later, Bucky locks the door to a now silent cabin, damp with sweat and the smell of earth. It’s torrential still, two days bucketing and the ground is so wet mud goes up to his ankles. Luckily, and he wants to laugh at that, you packed two extra raincoats.

Thunderclaps shake the very ground he stands on. Bucky turns to look at you, marveling when electricity bounces off your eyes, lighting up your face. He reaches over.

A squeeze to your hand that says I’m yours.

One more, tighter. I love you.

You slot your fingers between his. I know.

You smile at the next streak in the sky. Me too.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel #reader insert #fanfiction #mcu

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crushng-a · 2 years

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Swaying fields of flowers as far as the eye can see. A brilliant starry sky with constellations he can’t recognize. When he watches it for long enough it seems like it’s breathing. If he focuses he can even match his own breaths to it, steady and sure.

Is this the dream, or is it the Invincible that’s all pretend now?

He wanders through the flowers and they never seem to end. The stars shift and reshape overhead sometimes. Is he being watched?

He drags his hands over the open, swaying blooms and tells himself they don’t shudder like they feel the physical touch.

When he closes his eyes, he’s usually on the Invincible II. It’s another boring day. When he goes to bed that night he’s back here. Where is he now?

Sometimes it’s not the Invincible. Sometimes it’s crumbling cities or oceans deep and dark as pitch or raging funnels caught on fence posts like lassoed ponies.

So this must be real, and those must be dreams.

Does the goldfish feel the same fondness for the owner, looking at their face reflected back through the glass?

Just don’t forget me.

He could be patient. He could. It’s safe here.

He’s going to lie down in the flowers again. His head hurts. When did his breathing get so fast? He hadn’t even been running.

Too needy and they don’t want to bother with you anymore. So be grateful instead.

His chest aches when he inhales, but he forces himself to hold it.

Breathe with the sky.

I’ll be here.

when charlie wakes again, there’s a canopy of branches woven around him. sway of each bough in time with the wash of an invisible tide. one enormous tree hangs overhead, roots drinking from the sky, thick, gnarled trunk stretching up for a finite eternity.

it’s raining. soft patter on the underside of emerald leaves, beads in iridescent violet and shimmering acid green, drizzling like honey, caught like gems. they glow faintly, bequeathing streaks of scorch in their wake — the leaves blacken and curl under their touch, flush with orange ember. even so, white sun splashes between the boughs, puddles of jagged light like driftwood in an endless lush sea. perfume of warm cinnamon and delicate citrus. (smell of burnt flesh.)

nothing touches charlie, each droplet rolling off the foliage and collecting in the gaping mouths of the blooms, powder blue and blush pinks. tufts of soft clover and wild grasses make his bed. how long have you laid here? sleeping beauty in a cage of overgrown brambles.

AND HOW LONG HAS HE LAID NEXT TO YOU? starlight eyes peek out over crossed arms, chin tucked in the makeshift pillow. gin's on their belly, soft muss of hair and wrinkled engineer's uniform, barefoot, jumpsuit cuffed to the calves.

"i didn't mean to leave you alone for so long," gin says. their voice is gentle, but something in the dirt trembles with it. "i missed you." honey and clove, fingers reaching out and tracing each of charlie's knuckles. it's precise — hummingbird wings, gossamer gold, skin on skin.

you weren't alone, anyway. you're never alone anymore. is that frightening? is that freeing? (here you are in the palm of my hand. there's nothing left to be afraid of.)

gin combs their fingers through dark, thick locks, stroking from root to tip. long, loose hair spills over charlie's shoulders in every direction, fluffy and tousled. he's beautiful. i never want to give you up. you'd let me keep you. i could leave you here until you were me, and you'd never once complain.

unreality clings like a choking fog. this dream feels like swimming in molasses. slow, heady, sweet on the surface and bitter all the way down. gin smiles, and it's bright like day.

"would you rather come with me? i can take you anywhere in existence." do you want to go?

the meadow is just a shadow, a fantasy. fleeting, evanescent. it'll vanish in the dark. so will you. perfect, hopeless thing. YOU’RE THE SUGAR IN MY TEETH! if i close my mouth you'll dissolve.

#[ ɥʇɐǝɹq ǝuo ʇsnɾ oʇ sʇunoɯɐ ɓuıʎɐɹd ɹnoʎ ɟo llɐ ] asks #[ suʍoɹp ʎʇılɐǝɹ ɹnoʎ uǝɥʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ ǝq ll‚ı ] charlie | charofthestars #charofthestars

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insomniamamma · 3 years

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Rain: Ezra X F!Reader w/Cee

A/N: Prickle ‘verse. Takes place after Prickle but before Clean Dirt. Can be read as a one shot. Reader is established crew with Ezra and Cee. This was written for @autumnleaves1991-blog ‘s Writer Wednesday. I am woefully behind. I legit don’t understand how some of you write fics so fast!

Warnings: Mentions of war, a little bit of angst, but mostly gentle fluff. Feelings.

"Hey, Ez," Ezra is engrossed in grading the latest haul, testing for clarity and hardness. The surface of CJ's World is cut through with oxbow rivers, fantastic hoodoos of striated sandstone slashed with valleys deeper than any found in Sol system. You're digging for fossils. These rusty carved out plateaus were once the bed of an ancient ocean. Through some trickery of mineralization and chemistry the fossils of CJ's world shine like the fire opals of Old Terra. Big or small, they all have value. "Ezra," says Cee, "She's doing it again." "Doing what, birdie?" Ezra takes off the loupe and rubs at his eyes. Rain pelts on the tent, even sheltered the humidity soaks through. "Look." Ezra draws open the tent flap and sees you, standing in the rain, your head tilted up, no gentle shower this, rain that pelts down hard, turns the view across the sharp-cut canyons to silver curtains. Your clothes are plastered to you like a second skin. The rain actually aids your cause, washing away loose sediment, making the fossils easier to get to. You bow your head and let the stinging rain hit the back of your neck, let it fall on your closed eyes, your outspread arms. You laugh at the sky.

"What do you know about Falnost?" Cee's eyes go distant for a beat. She has a memory to rival Central computers.

"Hmmm..about two thirds standard grav, class C5, would've rated lower if not for it's primary. Dustball." "Mmm-hmm." "She's not used to real weather," says Cee. "Observant as ever," says Ezra. The rain is not gentle. It is chilly and hits your skin like handfuls of flung sand, but is so different from anything you've known, so new that you can't help but stand there with a huge, dumb grin plastered on your face, even as your teeth chatter with the cold. Ezra comes and gets you. "C'mon, Artichoke, while the rain does feel slinky and delicious it is not worth hypothermia." "Sorry, Ez," you say and allow him to take your hand and lead you back to shelter. This has become something of a habit. Many worlds in the fringe are dustballs like the one you fled, algae and fungus growing on every bit of pipe that condensation beads on. On Falnost they had a deal with the ice-miners, discounted accommodations on world or on station in exchange for chunks of ice from your primary's lush rings de-orbited, burning and evaporating as they fell. The idea was that, eventually, there would be moisture enough in the atmosphere to trigger rains. Someday Falnost will have an ocean, but you won't be there for it, half your life spent harvesting rills of water from sail-traps, careful irrigation channels covered over with plastic sheeting, calorie vs water consumption ratios discussed every planting season. How many credits do we net vs wha† we have to spend? You got fucking sick of dreaming of an ocean your great grandchildren might paddle in. You skimmed enough to buy your way off world and since then you have seen things that you never would have believed as a child. The first time you heard thunder was on a world called Ingwy. Your first thought was artillery. Ingwy was a contested world, Karoclan and Lussia Collective skirmishing over land rights, while small stakes droppers like you and Ez and Cee swooped in to reap the spoils while the big corps and clans fought each other. It was the middle of the night and you were on your feet instantly, railgun in hand, screaming that there was incoming, to take cover. Someone had flicked on a utility light hanging from a cord that swung, illuminating the inside of the tent in sickening arcs, and there's another explosion, this one so loud you feel the pressure change in your ears, hear your own voice crying out in tandem, white hot light even through the thick weave of the tent. "It's just thunder," Ezra yells over the sound of rain slamming against the tent. "That was an explosion!" He presses gently on your arm until you lower the rails. "It's just loud," says Ezra, "It can't hurt us. We're safe here. Put the gun down." You set on the edge of your cot and put your face in your hands. "Kevva. You must think I'm the dumbest dirt-farmer this side of the Great Arm." The cot dips as Ezra sits beside you. "Not at all," he says, squeezes your shoulder, "I come from a backwater as well. First time I ever saw a proper ocean I nearly lost my breakfast right there on the beach." Thunder peals again and you flinch, shrink against him slightly. "Static electricity," says Ezra, "That's all it is. Builds up in the clouds and discharges into the ground." He keeps his hand on you as he speaks, fingers gently squeezing the juncture of your neck and shoulder, "The sound you hear is the air in the path of the lightning instantly heating and expanding. It makes a sonic shock wave, like any explosion." "Like the boom when ships lift," you say. "Just like that, Artichoke," he says, "Storm's already moving off, see?" The rain pelting the tent has settled into a steady drone. Thunder grumbles, a low, almost soft sound, not the air-rending explosion that shocked you out of sleep. "We should try to rest," says Ezra, gives your shoulder one more firm squeeze and a little shake, and when you look up, he's smiling, dimple just beginning to sink into his cheek. "Yeah," you say, "Okay." He kills the utility light and settles into his cot. You can hear the music from Cee's headphones, the tinny, fast pop she favors, threaded through the white noise of the falling rain. She slept through the whole thing.

The ancient life of CJ's world favored heptagonal symmetry, long-dead mollusks like seven-sided shields shine out of the rusty ground, the smallest the size of a fingernail, the largest the size of dinner plates. This is a good deposit. The small ones are fashioned into jewelry and buttons. "They take these great big ones and slice them micron thin," says Ezra, "Use them for window-glass in the temples of the Ephrate. They say it is like standing inside Kevva's very beating heart." "I can see why," says Cee, and so do you. The minerals that limn the shells shine translucent red with brilliant streaks of orange, yellow and even thin threads of green and blue. �� "They say that Kevva's first heart-beat ignited the explosion that became the universe," says Ezra. "You really believe that?" Asks Cee. "I don't know if believe is the right word," says Ezra, "We all grew up with these stories, why my grandmother..." You smile and tune him out. The back and forth banter between Cee and Ezra is a pulse that underlies every harvest. Cee has grown more talkative with each drop. Their relationship has a growing ease to it. You don't know exactly what happened between them before you joined up, but Cee's initial skittishness and Ezra's new healed scars tell a story you can guess the shape of. You let their conversation fade into the background, focus on the work of your hands, the meticulous scrape of soft sediment away from the hard glitter of the fossil, working around the seven sided edge, loosen enough up to get your fingers under the shell and you can pry it out, focus on the sounds of the world around you, no birds on CJ's world, but there is a range of bug-music, hidden in crevasses in the midday heat, all metallic clicks and creaks. Your rail-gun rests within easy reach, as always. You worm your fingers under the edge of the shell, wiggling it like a loose tooth, pops out of the sediment suddenly and you plop on your ass in the sandy dirt. "You all right there, Artichoke?" Ezra grins at you. "I'll recover." You dust yourself off and take your prize over to the tub that sits in the shadow of the pod. Further cleaning and grading can be done after dark. Nights are long at this latitude. You stretch in the sunlight. This job is a milk-run compared to other drops, but hunkering in the dirt still hurts your knees and you feel every bit of it when you stand. There's a familiar sound, like a rumbling stomach, thunder, you think and glance up. "Ezra!" Your voice is urgent and sharp and he's scrabbling up in a heartbeat, hand on the thrower at his hip, but when he stands there is only you pointing out across the vast expanse of sharp-carved valleys and hoodoos, lined in sharply delineated shadows and rusted cliffs where the light catches. The rainbow swoops skyward into grey cloud-bellies, a luminous curtain against the grey clouds, distant rain falling across the canyons.

"Ezra, look!" Ezra exhales, tension leaching out of his shoulders. His hand drops away from the thrower. "Oh, hey, a rainbow," says Cee. You lower your arm and just stare, transfixed at the glowing phantasm, brightening and dimming with the movement of clouds between it and the sun. "It's beautiful," says Ezra. But he's not looking at the rainbow. He's looking at you. Your eyes are wide, lit up with wonder, an unconscious smile creeping across your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes. The stiff professionalism that you wear as close as your body armor momentarily set down, forgotten. Ezra's heart squeezes. There you are, he thinks. He can count on his one hand the number of times he's seen you smile like this, open and carefree, rare and precious as the gems the three of you pull from the ground. Part of him wants to kiss you, but he suspects he would end up on his back in the dust with the barrel of your railgun jammed beneath his sternum, so instead he brushes his hand against yours and your fingers find his and squeeze hard. "I've never seen one before," you say, barely aware of Ezra's hand linked with yours, "I mean, I know what a rainbow is, but I've never seen one. Not in the real, just in vids." "They don't have rainbows on Falnost?" Says Cee. "They don't have rain on Falnost," you say, "Get's a little hazy sometimes after the ice-haulers make a drop, but that's about it." You shake your head as if just waking, the rainbow still shimmers, a bit duller now, and you are suddenly aware of Ezra's hand clasped with yours, the gentle pressure of his grasp. "Sorry," you drop your eyes, "I got distracted. We got work to do." Ezra gives your hand a squeeze and then lets you go. "Not to worry, Artichoke, rainbows are fleeting things. You look your fill while you can." And so you do. So does he.

#writers wednesday #ezra x reader #ezra x f!reader #ezra prospect x f!reader #ezra (prospect) x f!reader #ezra and cee

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and-the-ocean-burned · 3 years

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Heyyyyy soooo I'm back with more self indulgent fanfiction that no one wanted or asked for! No real trigger warning for this one, soo enjoy!!

Ronan rolled over in bed onto his side, sneering at the shadowy corner of his bedroom for a few moments, then with a frustrated groan turned back again. How long had he been laying here? How many hours had he spent sleeplessly tossing and turning in the ruins of his sheets?

He didn't know, all he knew was that he was fucking tired. Tired of this, and just tired.

He grunted irritably as he sat up in bed, idly massaging the nape of his neck with a clammy palm and a grimace. "Maybe Gansey was awake," The thought made Ronan feel a little better. He stood up, all of his muscles protested, his body was exhausted. Every attempt to dream lately had done nothing but gotten his ass handed to him by some fucked up nightmare. He was tired of them too.

He opened his bedroom door, and peered out into the pitch of the second floor of Monmouth. There weren't any lights on that he could tell, Gansey more than likely wasn't awake.

A stab of lonesomeness ran through Ronan then, his insomnia was easier to cope with when he was in Gansey's company. He'd listen to music with one or both earbuds in, and occasionally look over to his friend sculpting another streetlight for his mini diorama of Hennrietta, or scrawling notes in the margins of his journal, or gingerly snipping a leaf from his mint plant with the tiny filigree scissors Blue had given him as a gift. It was easier to forget why he couldn't sleep when he was with Gansey.

The refrigerator light tinted him ghostly yellow as he opened it to rummage through its contents. He pulled out a two liter of soda, and chugged several large mouthfuls straight from the bottle before twisting the cap on firmly, and placing the bottle back onto the shelf.

His nerves still burned, his body wanted him to sleep, screamed for him to sleep. He could feel the beginnings of thick black ooze accumulating at the back of his throat, in his lungs, he could taste it. Instead of acknowledging the dread pooling low in his belly, he scooped up the BMW keys, and trekked out the door and down the stairwell of Monmouth manufacturing.

Ronan didn't know of a cure for his insomnia, his dreams were wicked, terrifying things, and even if he had a good handle on them to start, it only took one small slip up, a single self deprecating thought, to have him submerged in a pool of acid, or helplessly pinned to the ground under a pissed off night terror, or perpetually stuck being walked away from by everyone he cares about. Besides Gansey, there was only one other thing that he knew helped.

St. Agnes's fearsome silhouette was starting to pierce the horizon as Ronan drove. He let out a tense, exhausted breath, just being close enough to see the church's three vicious spires already felt like it had helped some of the coiling tension in his muscles untangle itself.

He parked. This wasn't the first time sleeplessness had dragged him here by the throat, in fact, Ronan had lost count of how many nights just like this one that he'd found himself here in the archway of the old church. Probably as many times as he'd found himself here on Sunday mornings, he thought.

He dipped the tips of his fingers in holy water, and sat down on one of the ebony colored pews. He pressed his palms and fingers together, and rested his forehead against his thumbs, he prayed.

The moon poured its eerie light over his pale skin through St. Agnes' enormous stained glass windows as he sat silent, painting him a wild kaleidoscope of a boy. Eventually he drifted off, still perched like that, and began to dream.

He was outside, everything was all sunbeam warmth, and brilliant white light, and lush grass between his toes. He squinted to focus his vision, Adam was standing a little ways ahead of him reaching above his head to pluck something from a furiously overgrown plant.

Ronan recognized it, the wild blackberry vines growing at one edge of the woods that surrounded the barns. He broke into a sprint, stopping just beside Adam, who turned to him and smiled. Ronan's heart was an underground coal fire of affection for him, his whole body smoldered with it.

Adam offered one of the sun ripened berries to Ronan, who enthusiastically accepted, allowing Adam to place the small fruit on his tongue. He crushed it against the roof of his mouth. Something was wrong.

It tasted like rot.

The air around them dropped drastically in temperature, and the sky dimmed with malice. Adam drew back a bleeding finger, something was egregiously wrong.

Black began to dribble from the thorn pricked gash in Adam's index finger, not blood, unmaking. Ronan felt sick. He spit furiously. Black.

Adam's panicked eyes darted up to meet Ronan's, he let the berries in his hands tumble to the ground. The unmaking gushed now, rolling down Adam's wrist and forearm like thick black veins, and poured in several opaque streams from his elbow into the grass between his feet. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Ronan gasped, he couldn't understand what was happening in front of him, he was seeing it, but he wasn't processing it. He could only feel the sick adrenaline clawing up his spine, could only taste decay in his mouth, could only watch helplessly.

Ronan feverishly grappled for his wrist, tugging Adam towards him, and wiping at the cut hysterically. The black just smeared, and welled up from the gash again. Had it been that large before? That open? That deep?

He whined brokenly, clasping Adam's slippery hand in his own, tight. Hot tears stung his eyes, Adam cheeks were streaked with them too, only his were the color of midnight. His mouth hung open around a silent word.

"Adam..." Ronan didn't recognize his own voice as it left his throat, only knew it was his because he could feel how it cracked half way through. Adam looked at him then, agonized.

"Ronan-" Adam abruptly dropped his eyes to his chest where glistening black was slowly soaking through his faded tee shirt. Dread flooded Ronan. Adam was dying, being unmade right in front of his eyes, and he couldn't do anything about it.

Adam swayed, immediately losing his footing. Ronan braced him with a slick arm, they collapsed to the ground which was now a filling pool of unmaking as dense and black as asphalt.

A horrible noise escaped Ronan then, a strangled ugly beast of a thing. His face twisted up with the force of it, his hand clasped the side of Adam's sticky jaw. Adam's glossy, far away eyes flickered up to him, a line of black trickled from one of his nostrils. His lips parted, strings of tar colored unmaking clung to them, and coated his teeth. His breath was shallow, and bitter smelling.

Ronan wheezed for air, but there wasn't enough. There might never be enough again. "Adam!" He rasped again between more awful sounding sobs. His heart felt dangerously close to shattering.

"This is all your f-fault..." Adam gurgled, coughing once, twice, then trembled violently against Ronan. "You break everything you touch-" Ronan's heart felt like it had been ripped from his chest.

No! This is wrong! He hadn't meant this to happen, please! He would do anything! Just make it stop! Make it stop! Adam!

I'm sorry!

Adam's chest rose shallowly and sunk down once, and then he was very still. His face and body were marred by smudgy black. His eyes were fixed on something above them both, everything adam-like gone out of them.

I'm sorry…

Ronan gasped awake, his chest stung like a bitch suddenly filled with so much air, and his shirt clung to his skin uncomfortably. He couldn't stop trembling, his face felt wet. He caught a glimpse of his hands, black. His heart spasmed, then waking logic kicked in. They had just been in the shadow of the pew in front of him, they were perfectly unmarked upon further inspection.

Ronan swore, took a few deep breaths, and swore again, wiping haphazardly at his face with the backs of his hands. He was never dreaming again. Sleep deprivation be damned.

He could at least find some small comfort in the fact that he hadn't brought anything back from that nightmare with him. That did very little to settle him though, he was badly shaken. Paranoia nipped at the back of his mind, he couldn't help it, horrible scenarios clawed their way to the forefront of his thoughts. He needed to check on Adam.

Adam lived in a quaint little apartment space above the administrative office of St. Agnes. Little meaning that if Ronan stood straight up he'd hit his head on the ceiling regardless of where he was in the room, and quaint meaning that he didn't understand how Adam managed to find reasons to want to live there. But if he never had to have that argument with Adam again it'd be too soon.

The stairs up to the door of Adam's room groaned a protest with nearly every step Ronan took, and the door itself was slightly warped with age revealing uneven slivers of dull light from behind it.

Adam would more than likely be asleep by now, it was late, and a school night. Ronan wasn't sure how late it was, he'd left his phone back at the factory, but he needed to know Adam was okay, needed to see him with his own eyes.

He lifted his knuckles to knock, and all at once every ounce of his nerve left him. His hand dropped back down to his side. He couldn't bring himself to possibly wake Adam when his sleep was so important to him. Sleep was a commodity he got very little of, and therefore took seriously.

Ronan turned back the way he'd come, but a sudden bright light from behind him threw his shadow onto the floor. It rippled wildly against the silhouette of the staircase, inhuman.

Adam had opened the door so quietly that Ronan hadn't even heard it, and was staring at Ronan when he turned around. Ronan was very visibly relieved at the sight of him.

"Jesus, you look terrible." Adam said.

"Thanks Parrish, you look good too."

An easy smile spread across Adam's face then. "Sorry," he said.

Ronan shrugged, but his chest felt warm.

"What're you doing here? We have a test tomorrow, shouldn't you be getting some sleep or something?" Adam asked then, his eyebrows had deep wrinkles between them, and his eyes were narrowed, but Ronan knew from experience that it was more out of concern than judgement.

"I could ask you the same thing," Ronan replied with some heat to his tone, but it was all for show, he had no idea who he was trying to fool here. Adam's smile was a barely there thing, clearly he wasn't buying it either.

"I was studying, what's your excuse?" Adam replied evenly. Ronan was silent. Adam held his gaze for a tense moment.

"What was the nightmare about?" Leave it to him to see right through Ronan. He looked at Adam in a way that said Please don't make me say it. Please. Adam seemed to understand that Ronan wouldn't, or maybe couldn't talk about it. He stepped out of the doorway to allow Ronan in.

It was warm, and it smelled like moss and dew and motor oil, which was to say that it smelled like Adam. A slumping desk lamp illuminated the room with a pleasant dimness, a pile of textbooks lay open to random pages beneath it. Grades won out over sleep on Adam's list of priorities.

Ronan navigated the room with the ease of familiarity, seating himself on the edge of Adam's mattress, and resting his elbows on his knees. Adam followed suit, sitting down close enough that their sides and thighs were touching.

"So are we going to keep on acting like everything's fine?" Adam asked bluntly, but there wasn't any anger in his voice, the way he'd said it made the words sound factual. "Or are you going to talk to me about it this time?" The question should've been simple, after all he'd known this was coming, but it seemed like the most complicated thing in the world for Ronan to answer right now.

Couldn't Adam just leave it alone?

"The first one," Ronan tried to sound flippant, but all his bravado had left him at the door, and they both knew it.

Now Adam was a little bit angry, he stood up quickly, Ronan's wide eyes followed him. "Why do you even come here then?" Ronan looked both like a hurt puppy, and a cagey dog backed into a corner. He looked ready to cry, or ready to bite. Adam didn't back down. "You always show up looking half dead, or actually half dead, and we just never talk about it! Well I'm tired of pretending like I'm not constantly worried sick how you'll show up next, or if you'll show up at all! I know you Ronan, talk to me please!" His voice broke on please, he looked just as tired as Ronan felt.

I'm sorry…

"You died," Ronan's voice was barely above a whisper, his gaze had at some point fallen from Adam, and was now trained on something invisible in the middle of the floor. If he'd looked ready to cry before, he looked damn near like he might completely fall apart now.

Adam's heart and stomach sank to his feet, "What?"

"You died! In my arms! And it was my fault!" Ronan shouted, he hadn't meant to, but he couldn't help it. All of the emotions of the dream gushed like a fresh wound. "Do you feel better now that you know, because I sure as fuck don't!" His mouth was an uneven line, he hurt all over.

There was a heavy silence between them for a moment, Ronan's eyes burned holes through the floor while Adam's burned holes through Ronan.

There was silence, and then there was the sound of cotton shirts rustling almost inaudible against one another. Adam's arms wrapped around Ronan tightly, his hands possessively, protectively gripped Ronan's ribs and the back of his shaved head. Adam pressed his cheek tentatively against Ronan's, his scent encompassed every fiber of Ronan's being. He melted into the touch.

There was silence, and then there was the sound of Adam's soft, honeyed Virginia accent in Ronan's ear. "Whatever you saw, whatever happened in that dream, it wasn't real. I'm real." Ronan gasped in a breath, he shuttered against Adam. "And I'm not going anywhere."

There was silence, and then there was the indefinite sound of Ronan Lynch crying against Adam Parrish's shoulder. His tee shirt was wet with tears, and hot with Ronan's shaky exhales, which normally would be an incredibly uncomfortable sensation, but he couldn't be bothered to care. He stroked the short, stubbly hairs at the base of Ronan's neck. Ronan looped his arms around Adam's waist then too, and held him back just as tight.

They stayed like that for a long time, long enough that Ronan thought he could see the dawn starting to tint the room orange. He recounted his nightmare.

After Ronan's shaking had subsided, and his sobs had become more or less quiet sniffles, they'd somehow ended up laying in a mess of limbs and warmth in Adam's little bed. Adam dug into his pocket, procuring both his phone and a tangle of headphone wires that he fought with for a few seconds thereafter.

Adam tucked one of the earbuds away in his right ear, and placed the other gingerly into Ronan's left. Then with one thumb, he tapped his screen in a familiar pattern, unlocking his phone. Ronan's breath hitched as Adam selected a playlist of edm music, and Ronan's bare heart started sounding through the earbuds. He felt exposed, more vulnerable than he'd allowed himself to be in a very long time, but also safer than he'd felt in a long time. Known.

Ronan's other ear rested heavily on Adam's chest, he could feel the thud of Adam's heart against it, could hear his breathing as his chest fell and rose in time with the pounding electronic loops. His nerves tingled and burned.

He let his eyes fall closed, and sleep unfurl over him like a blanket. His dream was this, Adam, and Adam's lips, and Adam's smile, and Adam's freckles, and Adam's hands. Only Adam, and warmth.

#the raven cycle #trc #ronan lynch #adam parrish #pynch #the raven boys #pynch fanfic #pynch fanfiction #call down the hawk #cdth

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the-iron-orchid · 3 years

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BOOK VII: THE CHARIOT

Chapter 3: The Theater (~4530 words)

Warnings: Medical discussion of wounds/amputation, mildly spicy makeouts

Back to table of contents

Julian instantly places himself between me and the apparent direction of the awful sound, taking the stylized plague-mask from my hands and donning it once more. “Humor me a moment… but stay close.” He leads the way with a stealthy step, winding through the clutter.

We come to yet another set of heavy curtains, these of burgundy velvet. Brilliant light leaks through the thin gap between.

Beyond lies a stage, illuminated by a series of lamps and a magical spotlight. A figure lolls about on a huge prop bed that is eerily familiar to me, clad in a robe of sheer scarlet heavily (and strategically) embroidered with faux gold. The actor’s face is covered by another mask, this one white as porcelain. The eye-holes are surrounded by bloody crimson, veining outward. Painted tears like melted kohl streak down its cheeks.

“Left to languish alone in my bedchamber on my own birthday??? Oh, what anguish unbearable!” The actor throws himself dramatically down to the bed. “What am I to do, beg for scraps from my own table? How can they do this to me? After everything I’ve done for them!”

“Oh my god,” Julian whispers. “Honestly… it sounds just like him. Lucio, that is.”

Clearly this portrayal is not meant to be complimentary to the late Count. Beyond the stage lights, I can just make out a small but packed seating area, a rapt audience. The occasional jeer makes its way to the stage - not aimed at the actor, but at the Count himself, the very idea of Lucio.

The actor soliloquizes at length, outlining every perceived injustice and self-pitying thought the plague-ridden Count could possibly have had. The massive backdrop begins to slowly scroll by, turned by some unseen, creaking mechanism. Humorously, it goes from displaying a sun in the blue sky, through sunset and twilight, turning toward night as the ‘Count’ rants on.

“Well, it’s good to see the arts are flourishing again in Goldgrave,” Julian murmurs, then his eye widens behind the mask. “You don’t think… are they really re-enacting the night of the mur-”

A heavy sandbag drops nearby - and Julian abruptly vanishes. A coil of rope has snared his ankle, lifting him up and away. The only thing left is his greatcoat, piled at my feet… and now I know what drives the moving backdrop.

Looking frantically upward, I spot him - now hanging upside-down over the stage and its lone actor, who stares up at him in turn. Even as I am wracking my brain for some spell that might be able to help, Julian curls himself upward - an impressive feat of core strength - and pulls what looks like a small knife of some sort from his boot to cut himself loose.

I mutter a word, pointing at him from my place behind the curtain - a feather-fall spell, causing him to land lightly upon the bed, practically in the surprised actor’s lap.

“Doctor Devorak!” The actor cries. “Here to cure my boredom!” His quick recovery has the audience laughing along, even as the new arrival looks about wildly. Then Julian seems to gather himself, rising up on the bed, looming over the “Count” with menacing laughter.

“Oh, my poor, poor patient. The clock strikes thirteen for you tonight!” He spreads his arms wide, like some kind of malign raven, and the false Lucio falls back with a dramatic intake of breath. “Let that gasp be your last!”

“Oh? What are you going to do, smother me with your thighs? Sponge-bath me to death?” The audience howls with laughter.

“For the hundredth time… no.”

A mock struggle ensues, the two grappling on the bed, with the actor playing Lucio giving lascivious giggles throughout. He then flings himself from the bed and reaches underneath, drawing a prop sword that wobbles about with a comical sound. He jumps back upon the bed in a fighting stance, somewhat ludicrous in the disheveled dressing-gown. “Come now, Doctor! Give me a real fight… man on man.” He waggles his charcoaled eyebrows above the mask, and the audience titters. “We’ll see who’s gasping then.”

“If it’s a fight you want… oh.” Another prop sword appears in Julian’s hand, lowered from the rafters above. “...it’s a fight you’ll get! En garde!”

A duel ensues, punctuated by the absurd sounds of the comedic (and admittedly rather phallic) prop swords, and the audience eats it up. The actor knocks over a torch stand as they battle across the stage, the prop torch in it rolling away. Curtains of fine, rippling silk begin to flutter down around the stage, painted with flames, trembling like them. The lighting gradually turns yellow, then orange. Somewhere above, I can see a shadow moving in the rafters - a stagehand?

Finally, the not-Lucio is knocked back against the bed, Julian’s superior reach holding him at bay, one booted foot planted in the other’s midsection and the wobbling sword at his throat.

“Speak your last words, villain... but choose carefully.”

“I can give you money! Fine things! Gold, women, men, goats - anything!” the false Count babbles. “We’re friends, right? I can be very generous to my friends! You know I’ve always liked you best, Jules!”

“You can’t buy back the lives you took.” Julian sneers, pressing the ‘blade’ closer. “I only ought to have done this sooner.” He pretends to shove the blade into the ‘Count’s’ throat; the prop sword suddenly ejects streamers of crimson crepe. The actor sells the action for all he is worth, gurgling and choking, going limp.

Julian steps back from the ‘body’, leaving the prop sword to fall next to it. He looks even more bloodless than usual,. “Oh… well, uh, that was… easier than I thought it would be.”

He straightens. “The dark deed is done,” he intones. “Though I did this for Vesuvia… the law is clear. I must pay for my crime.”

“Guards!” comes a rather nasal shout from offstage, then another figure enters from the far side. With a questionable wig and teetering heels, this is clearly meant to be the Consul. “Hang the murderer!”

“...but not today!” Julian cries, and dashes from the stage, to uproarious applause. He bursts through the curtain, discarding the mask before scooping me up like a sack of potatoes, bundled greatcoat and all. He dashes back out at a run, scattering props and dusty feathers in our wake.

Outside again, we take shelter between two nearby buildings, catching our breath. Julian is still pale with shock, sweat beading his forehead. “Well, that was… certainly something. A real trip.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “I seriously doubt that anyone thought it was really me… but they don’t hold back, do they? Skewering Lucio in more ways than one.” He gives an uneasy laugh, then falters, watching as I attempt to calm my own nerves, my racing heart. I offer him the greatcoat, and he drapes it over his shoulders once more.

“That… really was not what I had in mind. Listen…” He takes my hands in his own, looking into my face. “Will you go back to the Raven with me? We’ll get something to eat… my treat, of course. And then, after that… we can… have a nice walk down to the beach, how does that sound?”

“Will you finally tell me what’s on your mind, then?”

“I… yes. Of course.”

We take a more circuitous route back to South End, just in case. We stop by Mazelinka’s cottage to drop off her items; she herself is not there, but an elderly woman waves to us from a vegetable garden next door. Chickens wander at her feet, scratching and pecking things from the ground. She proceeds to talk our ears off about everything from her opinions of the city’s rulers (poor), to the increasing cost of flour (ruinous), to what she suspects her adult grandchildren are up to, over in Goldgrave (no good).

Julian listens to it all with the greatest attention and patience. He normally has such an erratic, tight-wound energy to him, it surprises me. After we finally manage to make our goodbyes and move on, I tell him so.

“When you grow up with a dozen babushkas, it’s better to let them bend your ear a bit than to have them drag you around by it.” He laughs fondly. “They say it takes a village to raise a child… when it came to me and Pasha, it was definitely true.”

By the time we make our way to the Rowdy Raven, the light outside is turning gold and the tavern is starting to come alive. A thick stew served in hollowed-out loaves arrives at our table, along with tankards of the cider-like drink I’ve had once before. Around us, conversation runs the gamut from shady dealings to mundane workaday talk. Julian’s eye flies up to meet mine when two people begin discussing the play they saw earlier today.

“I don’t know, I thought the new guy playing the Doctor was pretty good.”

“The swordfight was fun, but I just don’t think it sounded like him. And he was kind of gangly.”

“Yeah, the last guy was burlier and had a deeper voice.”

“This one was really tall, I’ll give him that.”

I struggle mightily not to react, but the vexed look on Julian’s face dooms me, and I dissolve into snickering.

“You laugh,” he says, low but accusing. “I don’t look enough like Doctor Devorak to suit my audience, and you’re laughing.”

“I am,” I say, “because it’s hilarious.”

Julian snorts. “Yeah, I guess it is, actually.”

The food is good, but my growing anxiety about this looming talk of Julian’s causes it to sit heavily, and I pick at my meal. He, too, seems keen to avoid moving on, talking about just about everything else under the sun, stretching over another tankard for each of us. He speaks of some of his stranger medical cases, and the little-known fact that it was he who amputated the late Count’s left arm, back when Lucio was a mercenary hired by the previous Count, and Julian himself only a young apprentice.

“Oh, it was terrible. The arm was in such poor shape that there was no choice but to remove it; he almost bled to death as it was. And what he got was me, seventeen years old and absolutely terrified, with my mentor shouting instructions at me while they were busy tending to Count Spada.” He shakes his head and drains his tankard. “Mercifully, the man blacked out before I really got to sawing.” He seems to catch himself. “Sorry. This isn’t the best dinner conversation, is it?”

I laugh. “It doesn’t trouble me; Heron saw to it that I got practical experience in healing. I’ve seen plenty.”

Julian frowns. “Don’t you just, I don’t know… magic that stuff away?”

“Little things, yes. But it isn’t a miracle. Do it wrong, and you can cause more problems than you fix.”

He frowns. “Really? What can go wrong?” The gleam of professional interest is in his eye now.

“You still have to clean and prepare the wound. Heron once took a nasty slash to his arm, and had to use magic to close it before he bled to death. But the wound became pustulent, and he still almost died, magic or no… and he has a huge scar from it.”

“Huh. You keep mentioning this Heron - who is he, exactly?”

“He knew me… before. We grew up together. He’s my closest friend - more like a sibling, I guess. The only family I have left.”

Julian gives a small, bittersweet smile. “I’m glad you have someone like that.” He looks down at his tankard. “Well… I suppose we should get moving. The old docks are quieter, for sure.”

As we leave, he drops some coin on the bar, and Barth nods to us.

Julian is nearly silent as we walk through the city, cutting through nighttime Goldgrave. The sounds of revelry can be heard, colorful lanterns illuminating the playhouses and music halls. We pass them all by.

The thin crescent of the moon sheds only the faintest light as we approach the old docks on the rocky beach. But the stars, too, give some illumination, and during the summer the waves themselves have a faint glow. Julian stays slightly ahead of me, a black cutout that obscures the starry sky. The tension in him has been winding tighter and tighter during our walk; his aura practically hums like an overdrawn bowstring.

The gentle breaking of the waves provides a rhythmic counterpoint to the drone of singing summer insects. While the more westerly side of the docks sees activity all times of the day and night, this portion has been largely abandoned, fallen into disrepair.

Julian pauses on a pier that hasn’t seen use in years, the far half of it fallen into the sea. He looks out over the dark waters, scanning the horizon.

“Ahhh, the salt breeze. A good night for sailing, really.” He heaves a sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Jinana… we really do need to talk.”

“We’ve been talking all day,” I say drily, though I know this is not what he means.

“...yeah. I guess I’ve just been enjoying myself too much to get to the point.”

“I was enjoying myself, too.”

He turns, looking down at me. “Truly? Even when we were being attacked by rogue carts of fruit? Or my accidental stage debut as a highly-fictionalized version of myself?”

“Especially then.” I laugh. “I guess you could say that my life is normally pretty quiet. Dull, even.”

Julian scoffs. “How could being a magician ever be dull?” he asks.

“People think it’s all cosmic powers and summoning demons,” I tell him. “But most of it is just… making sure I’ve got enough powdered bat milk and dried crickets in stock. Using my magic to clean up messes or reaching high shelves. I study a lot. But out here… well, everyone seems to know you, don’t they? They really seem to like you.”

His expression goes pained. “They’re good, hardworking people, just trying to get by… and even if I am responsible for Lucio’s death, they didn’t have a lot of love for him, or for the Palace. But it isn’t safe for them to cover for me like this. If I’m being honest, I’m just putting them in danger by walking around like this. By being back at all.”

His long-fingered hands clench inside their gloves. “Jinana… I’m nothing but a disaster waiting to happen. A calamity about to unfold. And I don’t…” He swallows. “I don’t want you wrapped up in that.”

I think of waking up alone in the darkness, the empty house, the sinking feeling when I found him gone. “When you left this morning… you weren’t planning on coming back, were you?”

“I, uh - well all right, I panicked a little. A lot. But I would never have just left you there like that. I don’t… want to leave. But I just can’t see any way this can go on. Whatever it was, whatever it might have been.”

He walks out onto the remains of the pier, where stone pilings still support it, and seats himself at the end, by the water. His legs are so long that his heels nearly touch the surface of the waves as they come and go.

I follow suit, though my own legs merely dangle a ways above the water. I lean lightly against his side; he leans upon me in return, rather more heavily. We sit like this for a time as he stares out over the waves, at a low black shape that can just barely be made out in the darkness, an absence of stars.

“Do you know what that is?” he asks.

“Who doesn’t?” I answer. “It’s the Lazaret.” I cannot tell him about the strange fascination it has for me, the way it appears so often in my dreams… or how I met Nadia there, a wandering soul loosed from her body.

“The perfect monument to my failure,” he says. “Always reminding us of the horrors of the Plague, of how many we lost. Every one of those deaths, every single body we cremated there… each one is a mark in the ledger of deeds, condemning me. And there are so, so many.” He straightens, running his hands over his face, through his hair. “Ashes still wash up on the beach. The sand is grey with it. Almost nothing can live in the water until you get a mile out.”

“Julian… you did everything you could. The Quaestor said there were so many doctors that they started numbering them. Why do you think you have to bear it all alone?”

“Because I was close. I was so damned close to figuring this thing out. Blood was the key, it had to be… but I ran out of time.”

“Only because - “ I stop myself; I don’t know what harm it might do to him to be reminded of Lucio’s terrible ‘motivation’ for him. “Because you caught the Plague yourself. It’s a miracle you survived.”

“Is it?” he asks. “I don’t know that I’d ask anyone to live with this kind of guilt.” He shakes his head. “Look… I don’t want to drag this out longer than I have to, Jinana. It has to end, before it’s too late. Before you get hurt.”

“Are you planning on hurting me, then?”

“No! But I will, somehow, if you stay with me, I just know it. It’s how it is… how it’s always been. I’m the first one to admit my many, many faults, all right? I lose myself too easily… and then it all goes wrong, and I end up hurting people. One way or another. You deserve so much better.”

Perhaps I do… but here I am.

“I’m not afraid of you, Julian,” I tell him. “And pain holds little fear for me anymore.”

He looks back at me, grimacing. “Don’t be so cavalier with yourself, Jinana. With your own safety.”

“That’s certainly ironic, coming from you.”

“I’m only trying to protect you - “

“No-one needs it less.”

His face falls. “It’s all I have left to give. I’m not a good man, Jinana. I’ve done things - terrible things. They must be terrible, even if I don’t remember most of them - where else could all of this guilt and dread come from? I don’t want you following me down the path of destruction.”

“Do you think so little of me, that I would follow blindly?”

“No! It’s just… there’s a doom on me, and I don’t want it to happen to you, too. I don’t want you wrapped up in this at all.”

“I already am, Julian. Have you forgotten that the Countess herself sent me looking for you?”

“All the more reason you should stay as far away from me as you can. If she finds out -”

“I am in the best possible position to try and exonerate you!” The water beneath my feet begins to swirl and slosh, reacting to my growing frustration. “The Praefectus doesn’t think you did it! Even Valerius had to admit that he couldn't be certain you had killed the Count - only that you were on the scene. He said you confessed that you came to kill the Count - not that you had.”

“What’s the difference?” he demands. “If he’s dead and I wanted him that way -“

“The difference is everything!” I feel my hair and clothing begin to stir, unrelated to the sea breeze. I pause, taking a deep, centering breath before continuing, more calmly. “Because if you didn’t do it, there’s a murderer running loose. One that I’m tasked with finding.”

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but for a moment, no words emerge. Then, “It doesn’t matter. I can’t let you take the risk.”

“That isn’t your decision to make.”

“God damn it, Jinana! Can’t you see that I’m trying to keep you from being dragged down with me?”

“Can’t you see that I’m trying to keep you from being dragged down in the first place?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose between gloved fingers. “It’s very kind of you to try. But I don’t deserve it. And I don’t want you to get hurt in the process.” There’s a note of finality in his voice. “This is my problem, and it’s up to me to see it through. Alone.”

His thick-headedness is enough to make me want to scream, but the gods alone know what would happen if I did. The wild magic in my blood seethes, and I must keep my eyes lowered, in case it is manifesting in them.

Another silence falls upon us as I struggle to master my own innate power, as Julian looks out at the Lazaret with a blackly brooding stare.

I must let it go. I must let him go.

Gradually, I am able to relax, to let the building energy recede like the tide. Finally, I speak into the space between us once more. “I have just one question for you, then.”

He turns and looks at me warily. “All right.”

“Do you want me?”

He starts so badly that he nearly tumbles off into the water, just barely managing to catch himself. “What? That is… I mean… I must have… misheard.”

“I asked,” I say, enunciating very clearly, “if you wanted me.”

“Ah. Well. So I, erm, I didn’t mishear you at all.” I didn’t think he had. “That’s, uh, kind of a strange question to ask when I’m breaking up with you, isn’t it?”

I merely look at him as he hems and haws.

“Not that we had much of anything to start with, I mean. Just… one night, snatched from the jaws of time.” His voice goes strange and he swallows hard, so wound up that I fear he will spring away if I so much as touch him.

“Do I want you? That’s a, uh, tough question to answer, isn’t it? I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy. I want you to stay out of this whole mess that I’m in. I want…” His shoulders slacken, all of a sudden, like a string-cut puppet. “It doesn't matter what I want.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Julian.” My tone is firm, even as he squirms about with words.

“You’re a tenacious one, I’ll give you that. I like that about you. No matter what… you don’t give up. You keep on going. You’re like a beacon, a tremendous light… and I’m just some battered old moth that can’t help being drawn in, too weak to resist. Not strong enough to stay away.”

He gives a tiny sigh, unable to even look at me as he admits, very quietly: “I do want you. More than you know. That’s what makes this so hard.” His voice picks up volume as he speaks, the words rushing together as they spill out of him. “I know it’s only been a few days… but I feel like I’ve known you forever. Something about you puts me at ease, in a way that very few can. I want to be around you… and when I’m not, I can’t stop thinking about you. And it’s tearing me into pieces, because I know that I can’t be with you… but something in me just keeps pulling me back.”

“Then stay,” I say, and he whirls on me.

“You don’t understand, Jinana! Can’t you see how it will go? It doesn’t take a fortune-teller to know how the story will end.” He hunches miserably inside his greatcoat. “Whatever we could have had… it all leads to ruin and damnation. And yet I’m still selfish enough to want you. So selfish that I’m terrified that I won’t be able to stay away, clinging to you and drowning us both. There’s no future there… not one that doesn’t end in grief for you.”

I have grieved the loss of an entire life, almost thirty years. He knows this.

“What future do you want, then?” I ask. “I know the one you fear.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” The words grit themselves out from his clenched jaw.

“It matters to me. But I guess you just can’t see anything outside of your own little tragedy, can you?” A warning splash comes from the water below us; I must not lose control of my emotions, lest I whip up a minor tsunami.

He stares at me for a moment, then slumps again with a bitter little chuckle. “That’s what I’m best at, you know. The star of my very own one-man play, a tragedy in three parts. Look… we shouldn’t waste time and energy imagining what we can never have. We shouldn’t… hope. It just hurts all the more when it comes crashing down.”

“That’s no way to live,” I tell him. “Without any hope… what’s the point?”

“What, indeed?” He gives another humorless laugh, raising his eye to the black shape of the Lazaret. “What do you want me to say, Jinana? That I want a future, that I want to live? That I want something with you, something real?” He rises, and I follow suit, though I have no idea what he needs, what comfort I can possibly give as he paces nervously, shaking his head.

“Oh sure, I can see it all now. No more lonely sleepless nights. No more tears for Pasha. Friends and family all around.” One long arm makes a sweeping gesture, the hand on the end clenching into a fist before falling at his side. “Things I just can’t have. But you? You’ll survive. You were fine when I showed up, you’ll be fine when I’m gone.”

“Will I?” I say, and this stops him in his tracks. He pivots on one bootheel, his eye tracking me as I slowly close the distance, looking up at him.

He has no idea of the things I have survived.

“The future will take care of itself,” I tell him. “We’re here right now, together. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe one last night… is enough.” My voice cracks on the last syllable; I ignore it.

“Can I be that selfish?” he asks, plaintive.

“Do you want to be?” I ask.

The air sighs out of him, even as his body sways toward mine. “...Yes,” he whispers, and pulls me up to him, to the lightest brushing of our lips. Another kiss, and his shaking hands grip my tunic, one sliding up the back of my neck in a way that is now familiar.

“...just once more.” He kisses me again, his lips parting against mine. A strong shudder goes through him as I allow him access, and he moans softly into my mouth.

Perhaps it is unfair. Perhaps it is only my curiosity, and three years of lack. But even as I run my hand down his body, feeling him respond, I know that he will not deny me… and in that knowledge there is a sense of power that I cannot resist.

I do not think we will be disturbed here. The darkness is in league with us… or we with it.

#the arcana rewrite #arcana rewrite: tides of chaos #jinana aditya #julian devorak #anyway the smutty part will arrive in its own short chapter lmao

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frankensteinsss · 2 years

Text

Clair de Lune

Summary: On a rather desolate and solitary evening, Kuja decides to see the stars, and is caught by surprise when he sees a shooting star. Will he make a wish? If so, what does he wish for?

Word Count: 1.3k

All alone in an enormous, luxurious palace with only his solitude to keep him company, a man in deep concentration sat at an extravagant desk, writing with an elegant quill that was dipped in the finest of india ink. After finishing his last stanza, the man inscribed his alias at the bottom of the page, finishing another poem for quite simply, no one to read. Once he finished his fanciful signature, he gently placed the sharp, feathery quill in the bottle of ink, proceeding to get up from his desk. He felt entirely enervated to the point where he could fall asleep as soon as he rested his head on the immensely soft pillows he had—a blessing that never seemed to happen for the mysterious man—but the feeling of a desiccated throat prompted the poet to saunter downstairs for a glass of water.

He ambled outside of his sanctum, and walked down a long flight of stairs. He proceeded down the hallways of his grand palace, only to notice that the sun’s splendorous rays were not peering through the stained glass windows. It galvanized him to raise a well-trimmed eyebrow, not realizing how late the day had become. It only felt like he was writing for an hour or two. He wondered what hour the clock’s hands were on, but the thought subsided as he recalled that getting rid of his parched throat was the paramount objective.

He eventually arrived into the kitchen, and poured water into a glass cup, taking a few sips to quench his thirst. Once he was satisfied, he placed the cup down on a counter and thoughts of venomous, seething misery poisoned his once tranquil, tamed mind. There was an expression of sorrow displayed on his fair face as he aimlessly wandered around the rooms of the palace, not wanting to succumb to slumber yet. The idea of looking at the night sky waltzed right into his mind, and prompted him to exit his abode for a bit.

Once he stepped outside, he immediately felt the brisk, cool air breezing by, prickling his skin quite gently. He heaved a long sigh, the cold air feeling refreshing, yet frigid. He strode a bit farther from his home to catch a more clear view of the glittering, vast sky, and eventually found his Silver Dragon waiting patiently to take him wherever he desired. He approached the tame—yet massive creature, gently caressing the dragon’s head. The dragon responded kindly to the motion, leaning into Kuja’s hand. He then slowly let go of his pet, and boarded the mystical creature. And within a few minutes, all he could feel was the brisk, cool air, while his gaze was still fixated upon the wondrous sky.

The stars seemed to be a bit more clear now, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The night was a brilliant shade of splashing violets and blue hues, with sparkles adorning the sky, all having a different kind of brightness. It looked as though a talented artist had painted the sky with watercolors, and speckled many dots of white here and there. It truly was a masterpiece to behold, especially the stars that adorned the sky, all seemingly dancing to their own tune and creating their own melody. For an ephemeral moment, everything was peaceful. All of his woes vanished as he concentrated on the stars, figuring out their shapes. He soon found the Pleiades, also known as the Seven Sisters, a cluster of stars he remembered reading about in one of his books that resided in his enormous library. Nearby was the constellation of Orion, the hunter, pursuing the sisters the huntsman so very desperately wished to be with. Protecting the Pleiades was Taurus, the bull, and to the left of Orion was Canis Major, the constellation that had the honor of holding the brightest star in the entire galaxy - Sirius.

Then, out of the vast universe, a quick, yet brilliant streak of light raced past the other stars and disappeared, giving the weary stargazer a small shock, his star-struck eyes widening, as he remembered that this phenomenon was called a meteor, known as “shooting stars” to the inhabitants of Gaia. He reminisced to a time that took place long ago, his memory placing a repulsive creature right before him, costumed in black. It was the memory when he saw the phenomenon for the first time, asking his unsavory father what the “racing light” was; a question he soon later regretted asking.

“They are called meteors, Kuja. The brainless humans residing in Gaia are fond of calling them shooting stars, all the while making wishes upon the falling star, foolishly believing they will come true.” His father answered with such a candid and hostile tone, that the words managed to still echo across Kuja’s mind. He made it sound as though just a simple question was ignominious. “I find it pathetic. There are no such things as wishes—or miracles, for that matter, that come true in this universe.”

Kuja heaved another sigh, thinking of something to wish for if it even amounted to anything. He wondered if the wish even counted a couple of seconds after the star fell. But ultimately, he wished for a life filled with the wondrous flavors of an emotion he never seemed to harbor—happiness. He wished for a friend to laugh along with and for someone to understand him. He wished that he would have a life worth looking back upon, and for someone to tell him the simple, yet impactful words, “You’re not alone.” But at the same time, he wished his existence would have never come to be. Maybe if he never existed, his father wouldn’t have had to call him a failure. If he never woke up again from his tumultuous slumber, he wouldn’t have to resent each day drowning in the sea of his own solitude, constantly feeling inferior to others. It made his mind get corrupted with malicious thoughts thinking about the person who brought life to him.

He kept questioning himself why he even bothered complaining in the first place. He had all he needed and everything everyone ever dreamt about; a lavish palace, glimmering riches and the finest of jewelry. He owned the most beautiful of paintings framed with gold to accompany the walls, and statues holding candelabras to guide the way throughout his labyrinth of a palace. He possessed a whole library containing a life supply worth of books, and yet he constantly found himself drowning in his own sorrow, with no one on the other end to help pull him out of the sea of lament.

He soon forgot that he was looking at the glorious canvas of the glittering night sky, gazing at millions of gorgeous stars that failed to grasp his attention. A thought crossed his mind for a moment; perhaps it was the stars that offered to take his despair away. Perhaps the reason why they existed was to bring light to a person’s life, to give them a sense of relief, to guide the lost souls back home. Although there were plenty of scientific explanations that elucidated how stars were made, he pretended that all of that information did not exist for a little while. He rid all thoughts of his supposed “father”, all contemplations of the terribly painful week he had, and made himself focus on the story the moon, the stars, the nebulas, and the galaxies were trying to tell him. He felt… oddly at peace. All of the life-threatening thoughts plaguing his mind had silenced themselves, with only the wonders of the stars entrancing him. It was an eccentric and foreign sort of feeling; to have everything be silent for once, but he was content, to finally feel nothing but utter tranquility, with the glorious moon’s rays kissing his porcelain skin.

And in a way, his wish did get granted for a small fragment of time. He wasn’t alone, as the stars and the moon smiled down upon him, watching as he appreciated their celestial beauty, compelling him with the stories that they loved retelling; and casting a light in his darkened heart.

#kuja ff9 #kuja #ff9 #final fantasy ix #final fantasy #short story #fanfic #square enix #squaresoft

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starlocked01 · 3 years

Text

If This is Madness

AO3 Link

Dukexiety Week Day 1- Myths/Supernatural

WC: 7.6k

Summary: One night a lighthouse keeper finds the impossible on the shores of his little island. Fighting both loneliness and temptation, he forges a bond of trust with a selkie as mysterious and unpredictable as the depths of the sea.

Content Warnings: Swearing, Nudity, Kidnapping, Description of Physical Injury, Violence

@dukexietyweek

Unseen flecks of dampness peppered his face with each crash of waves against the rocks, and salt pleasantly stung his eyes and nose as Virgil cautiously picked his way through the slick, sharp stones, headed towards the small lagoon with his canvas, easel, and paints. Moonlight reflected off the low tide waves and he strained to see each next step. Virgil almost missed the obvious until he practically stumbled upon it. He hissed in a startled breath and hid behind the nearest crag. He rubbed his eyes hard and blinked several times, trying to rule out hallucinations or a trick of the moonlight.

A naked man sat with legs spread wide, staring out at the sea, taking large breaths every time the waves broke on its rock. Virgil blushed at the indecency and watched from his hiding place. After a few minutes, he realized the man was wearing a leathery grey spotted animal skin like a cape.

Holy shit...

Virgil had become accustomed to fishing and gotten over his aversion to dead sea life for the most part, but seeing this naked man wearing the skin of what looked like a seal twisted his stomach in an unpleasant knot. Virgil turned away from the sight and spilled his supper between the rocks. He wondered if there was a safe way to run back to the lighthouse and call the coast guard to pick up this tweaker, but when he glanced back the man was staring in his direction, alert and wary.

Shit, look away! Look away! Don't bother with me, freak!

Virgil covered his mouth and pressed further into the shadows, hoping the man would lose sight of him when the man threw back its head and let out an inhuman barking laugh that sent chills down his arms. Virgil watched as it stood suddenly and dashed away across the rocks, careless and surprisingly agile. Virgil breathed a sigh of relief and tried to turn back towards home, but found his feet uncooperative, chasing after the man.

What the fuck? Go back and call this in.

He told himself he was just trying to follow the man back to its ship so he could report how it'd gotten to the island. He stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the lagoon and found instead of a crazed man looking for an escape or undocking a boat, a giant, fat, grey seal flapping at the edge of the waves on the secluded sandy beach.

No fucking way…

Virgil didn't believe in legends. He didn't believe in stories of merfolk and sirens and malicious creatures larger than life with tentacles stretching out of the depths (although he was agnostic about ghosts). He certainly didn't believe in selkies. Except this seal had the same skin as the crazy naked man had been wearing as a cape.

Internally screaming at himself to run the other way, Virgil stepped closer to the seal and yelled the only intelligent thing that came to mind.

"Hey, you!"

Hey you? Brilliant, V.

The seal stopped flapping and rolled over to stare at him with those same piercing alert eyes. Virgil shivered as the animal seemed to recognize it had been figuratively caught. It barked the same strange laugh and Virgil was certain it was the same creature.

Virgil watched in fascinated horror as the man began to wriggle right out of its skin, transforming before his eyes. The man stood, picked up the skin, and slung it over its shoulder before grinning at Virgil and shouting back.

"Hey!"

"You can talk?"

"You yell at seals you don't think are capable of talking back? Freak," the man giggled maniacally and Virgil scoffed.

"What? No.. I- look- ugh who are you?" Virgil felt heat rising in his cheeks in embarrassment.

The selkie grinned and stepped closer, offering Virgil its hand, "Remus."

"Remus?"

"Yeah, that's my name," Remus bobbed its head pointedly at Virgil, "and you are?"

Virgil looked Remus over and noted its appearance, from the bruise-like rings around its prying dark slate-colored eyes to the wildly unkempt, grey-streaked hair and mustache. He tried to avoid looking farther down than the creature’s chest, fascinated by the strange ways its muscles moved beneath the skin, built for swimming as a seal. Taking the offered hand, he replied, "gay. I MEAN- Virgil. I'm Virgil."

Remus snickered, "hi, gay Virgil. What are you doing on my island?"

"I live here- what are you?" Virgil pointed back toward the lighthouse and shook his head, shivering in the stillness as the creature examined him with an invasive stare. Remus didn't answer him right away, instead stepping closer and poking him in the stomach. "Hey!" Virgil jumped back in alarm.

"I believe the surface drifters call us 'selkies'," Remus answered with an amused twitch of a smile, "the hookers and netters call us nuisances, but I think they should call me a catch."

Remus stepped closer once again, reaching for the string of Virgil’s jacket. The overwhelmed lighthouse keeper jerked and smacked at the encroaching hand, "would you quit that? Who knew selkies were so nosey?"

Remus shrugged and tried again, hand darting forward and rolling the string between its fingers before yanking hard and cinching the hood over Virgil’s eyes. Virgil stumbled forward and scrambled to yank his hood back. When he had, he caught a glimpse of Remus, half re-skinned, jumping into the waves and swimming away like a merman. Virgil groaned and ran calf-deep into the waters of the lagoon and shouted, "Oh Yeah? Well… Warn a dude next time before just showing up naked and uninvited! Ya damn seal!"

Virgil stood there as the waves lapped up over his boots and dampened his socks, and tried to sort out whether he wanted the selkie to stay away or come right back. He knew the fables- of insecure men stealing a selkie's ability to swim away and calling it love. How their trapped wives always found a way to escape in the end, whether happily or in tragedy. Thinking of Remus, he could almost understand the temptation. The selkie was exotic and grossly captivating even after their short lived discussion.

Virgil kicked at the water and trudged back on shore. If Remus never came back, it would be for both of their benefit. He sighed and turned to set up his painting supplies, hoping he hadn’t broken anything while running after Remus. He continued his painting of the lagoon, mindlessly adding colors to the water and the beach. After a while he took a step back to compare and was startled to find he’d started to sketch out a seal sitting in the shallows. He peered off into the waves, wondering if Remus had turned back and was watching him, but if it had, Virgil could only see it in his mind’s eye.

Less than a fortnight had passed when Virgil awoke to a surreal howling on the beach. The man stumbled out of his cot and over to the window, terrified of what could be making that noise. In the distance, difficult to make out in the waning sunlight, Virgil spied a gray blob on the sandy side of the island, waving a flipper in the air and bellowing. He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the light.

"Remus?" Virgil sighed and grabbed pants and shoes, silently pleading with the selkie to shut up for a minute. Shrugging on a light jacket, Virgil left quickly to scan the beach for the creature.

Virgil didn't have to look for long before confronted once again with the naked human-form of the selkie.

"Hiya Virgie! Did you hear my warning?"

"I appreciate the heads up.. Where’s your skin, dude?" Virgil tried to glance anywhere except where his eyes were drawn as the selkie stared openly.

Remus shrugged, "over on the rocks. It's fine."

"Fine. Right. Um," Virgil stumbled over his words for a moment before clearing his throat, "why don't you… go grab it and join me inside? We can talk for a while- if you want to that is. I was just going to make breakfast."

"Breakfast? It's practically nightfall," Remus tilted its head inquisitively.

Virgil shrugged, "I'm usually up all night since that's when the light is absolutely needed on." He pointed up to the lighthouse behind him and Remus followed his direction.

After a brief moment of consideration, Remus replied, "sure. I'd love a closer look at the spinny fire tower. Be right back!" With that it dashed away and left Virgil alone for a moment.

Virgil stared after Remus, utterly confused. It was obvious Remus was just curious about him and the lighthouse. There was no reason for him to think otherwise. So then, why did he want to read into the selkie's manor and excitement as affection? That didn't make any sense and the thought almost scared him. He had taken the lighthouse keeper gig precisely because he was satisfied with the relative solitude and protection from the complexities of human interactions. Was it something about the selkie making him feel this way?

“Hey, Virgil, is there a reason humans change color so much?” Virgil was snapped from his thoughts by the selkie’s question. He shook his head and watched the creature returning, wearing its skin as a cape again.

“What do you mean ‘change colors’?” Virgil replied, turning back to the lighthouse.

“Well, I’ve watched drifters who’s hair changed from muddy or sandy or night-sky-y to cloudy. And their skin sometimes goes from pale like yours to fiery or driftwood-y.”

Virgil stopped in his tracks, utterly confused, “what color would you call my hair?”

“Driftwood-y.”

“I call it brown. If it were darker?”

“Night sky-”

“Black. Okay. Okay, I see what you’re doing here. I guess.. Over time humans get old and their hair tends to go grey or white- cloudy like you call it. Out in the sun all day, their skin will burn or tan, unless they’re already dark skinned and it’s not as noticeable,” Virgil tried to explain as he led Remus back to his place.

“You go fiery really quickly when you see me,” Remus remarked, causing Virgil to blush and prove its point.

“Well, you look like a naked man. It’s indecent,” Virgil tried to brush him off.

“Do you like naked men?” Remus prodded, following Virgil into the lighthouse and immediately becoming engrossed with all of Virgil’s collections. Shells and dried out driftwood lined the walls and paintings sat on the floor against the stairs, the unfinished lagoon landscape hung on an easel in the corner. Virgil chuckled as Remus wandered the combined kitchen and dining room, electing to ignore the question.

This selkie, Remus, was so unassuming. So unafraid. Did selkies not have myths of dangerous, skin-stealing humans? He shook the idea out of his head and smiled at Remus’ energy, “hey, are you hungry, Remus?”

Remus looked up from a painting it’d been tracing with its fingers, “uh, yeah. What do you have?”

Virgil shuffled over to the fridge and opened it to show the selkie the options, “a bunch of stuff…. Would you like… tuna salad?”

“You make a salad out of tuna? That sounds amazing!” Remus beamed, looking for the fish eagerly.

“Uh, for one thing it’s cooked so it probably tastes different than you’re used to,” Virgil cautioned as he reached in and grabbed a tupperware bowl of leftovers, “also there are extra… human ingredients…”

Remus just nodded and grabbed the bowl as soon as Virgil opened it, sniffing once, recoiling from the smell, then dipping its fingers in and scooping a large bite into its mouth. Virgil watched amused as the selkie’s face screwed up in a mixture of unfamiliarity and disgust and gasped as it kept frantically eating while still making faces at the taste.

“Woah woah woah!”

“It’s disgusting. I love it!” Remus intoned between bites, shoving more in its mouth as Virgil tried to wrench the bowl from its grasp.

“You don’t have to eat it if you think it’s disgusting!”

“But I want to!”

“What is your problem?”

“I dunno, I’m a seal. Is that a problem?”

Virgil paused and stopped trying to grab the bowl, watching as Remus quickly finished the food, “no, it’s not a problem. I guess I just don’t know you.”

“Yet.”

“Yet?”

“Yeah. Yet. You’re gonna make me more of this sour fish slop.”

“I am?”

“You are. And you’re gonna tell me about the weird skins over there. Why are they so colorful? Did you color them?”

“Oh, the paintings? Yeah I like to spend free time painting. I have a lot of free time,” Virgil admitted, mind whirling at the thought of Remus coming back often, “I was trying to do some painting the last time you washed up here.”

“Washed up? This is my island,” Remus hissed, spitting tuna salad at Virgil’s face.

“Yours? Then why haven’t I seen you here before, Mister Selkie?” Virgil sassed back, wiping chunks of tuna off with his sleeve.

“Eh, I usually only really come back once a year. Got a lot of islands around here to search,” Remus smirked, setting the bowl down and leaning back against the counter.

“That doesn’t make it yours. I live here all the time,” Virgil scoffed.

“So if I come back tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Hmm…”

“Do you want to come back?” Virgil asked cautiously, “I don’t mind you showing up…”

“Sounds great, thanks for the fish!” Remus laughed and dashed out the door, leaving Virgil stuttering. He rushed after the selkie and watched as Remus wrapped back into its skin and dove back into the surf. Virgil sighed, staring out over the water where the seal had disappeared, watching the sunset dancing like flames in the waves. It was strange, but he found himself looking forward to more visits.

Virgil could never predict when Remus would show up. Sometimes it was early in the morning just when he was preparing to sleep and other times it was the middle of the night as he was tending to the light or painting in the lagoon.

Each time, Remus would announce itself and Virgil got in the habit of bringing it out clothing to wear. They spent the hours talking about the island with the lighthouse, Remus’ world and Virgil’s work. Virgil showed it how he painted landscapes around the island and Remus helped him find more secluded parts of the island. Virgil truly began to look forward to their time together as the visits became more frequent.

It was difficult, but he always resisted touching or even talking about Remus’ skin unless prompted. Remus had on request gleefully told him the horrific stories that its kind told their young about the drifters and hookers and land dwelling monsters that stole pups and young cows to keep them as captive slaves. Virgil was absolutely horrified but understood completely, resolving even harder to never touch the selkie’s skin. It was quite a surprise to him when he realized that Remus would just leave the skin by his coat near the door and never worried about it until it was ready to leave. Remus had never seemed incredibly protective of it, but Virgil marveled at the trust he’d gained in the few months they’d known each other.

The fourth day that week that Remus had shown up, Virgil decided to finally ask. He bit his lip and listened to Remus babble on about dead fish until the tension was too much and he blurted out, “why do you visit me so much?”

Remus paused mid ramble and tilted its head to stare at Virgil, “because I like you. You don’t drive me away for talking about seaweed slime and you show me cool human things.”

“Really, you like hanging out with the loner?” Virgil asked, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Mhmm and the others think I’m nuts for walking into a human lair. It’s great!” Remus giggled and slurped up a fish stick.

“Oh. You talk to me for clout. Cool, cool,” Virgil shrugged, trying to hide his disappointment, “kinda weird to hang out with a monster.”

“Wait, you’re a monster? Have I ever told you I’m a monster fucker?” Remus grinned, poking and teasing Virgil, “I mean, yeah, humans are supposed to be so scary, but you’ve really just followed the tide. Why would I be scared? Do you wanna hurt me?”

“I don’t- gah I don’t want to hurt you, Remus. Humans have selkie stories just like selkies have human stories, but ours are always about not fooling yourself into holding a wild animal captive. You’re not human, as much as you look like one of us without that skin. I’d never force you to be human.”

Remus listened intently, “wanna know why I actually stopped by here?”

“Why?” Virgil tilted his head, sipping his glass of water.

Remus looked out the window, “I’m looking for someone. I keep hoping I’ll find him on a beach somewhere.”

Virgil tried to ignore how much more his heart sank at the revelation, “who are you looking for?”

Remus chuckled sadly, “my brother. He left one day and never came back. I assumed a human had captured him and devoured or skinned him for fun or something. Then about nine seasons ago, I found his skin trapped on the rocks of this island. I searched this whole island for three days straight and never found anyone.”

“Oh my word, that’s horrible. Is he dead?”

“I dunno. I hope he’s somewhere out there. But if he’s alive and doesn’t have his skin? That’s bad. You know what your kind usually does to us. I always said I was the only one allowed to scare him. I don’t want him to be scared and alone out there.”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil replied quietly, remembering with shame how much he’d wanted to do the same things to Remus when it had first shown up.

“I wish you’d been the one to find him, Virgie,” Virgil looked up suddenly.

“I would have never touched his skin. I’m so sorry about your brother, Rem. I don’t know how you can trust a human after that.”

"You're easy to trust. Like you said, you'd never lay a hand on me."

"Thanks..."

“Wanna touch it?” Remus asked suddenly.

Virgil flushed immediately, “what??”

“My skin. Wanna touch my seal skin?” Remus grinned, grabbing Virgil by the arm and leading him back toward the door.

“Remus..”

“Come on, I know I can trust you,” Remus nodded and pushed Virgil toward the drooping grey mass.

Virgil struggled, not wanting to cross this line until his fingers brushed the skin. It felt supple and gave way beneath his touch and Virgil found himself burying his hand in folds, spellbound by the texture. Remus watched him in amusement, placing a hand to his back.

“See, I know you won’t hurt me. You would never hurt me or any of my kind. I like you, Virgie. You get it,” Virgil just nodded in agreement, slowly pulling back from the skin and turning to face Remus.

“You- you like me? Like, just as your friend?” Virgil croaked out, his voice failing him.

Remus giggled at that, “well, gay Virgil. I did kinda think you were cute for a monster. That okay or is that weird?” Virgil chuckled and nodded, hyper aware of just how close together they were.

“That’s okay. I like you, Remus.”

Remus spent the whole day for the first time, snuggling close to Virgil as he slept. It was a strange and unspoken change. They were both a bit different now but the change felt secure. Remus felt more like a companion than a myth. Virgil would never force humanity on it, but revelled in its trust and comfort with him.

Virgil thought often about Remus when it wasn’t there and started including it in his paintings on purpose. The selkie took every opportunity to stop by that it could. When it did, Virgil would sometimes study Remus’ skin while the creature watched.

Virgil thought often about Remus, but the one time he wasn’t was the one time he really ought to have been.

The supply ship made its normal monthly delivery and Virgil was kept busy talking with the captain and the small two person crew as they all unloaded his rations and supplies. He thought nothing of Remus’ trumpeting call as he restocked the pantry until he remembered that the ship hadn’t left the dock yet. In a panic, Virgil ran outside, scanning the beach for his companion or the crew of the ship. His heart dropped when Remus called out again, this time a rather human sounding scream for help.

Pulse racing, Virgil ran for the dock, screaming for Remus. When he rounded the path and spotted the ship, he stopped in his tracks. The two deck hands had Remus wrapped in small nets, halfway out of its skin and gnashing ferociously at the leering men.

“We got a mermaid! A real mermaid!”

“Do I look like a fucking girl? Let me out of here and I’ll show you a real mermaid, you kelpie!” Remus barked and struggled violently.

Virgil shook out of his shock and charged down the beach, “let it go! That thing isn’t worth anything to you!” Virgil winced as Remus looked hurt by his words but he persisted yelling, soon catching the captain’s attention to the scuffle.

The captain watched as his crew fought the small lighthouse keeper and shook his head as the single man started to get the best of them. He sauntered down the dock and blew his whistle, shrill and sharp until the fight came to an abrupt halt.

“You idiots. Some jackass wraps himself in a dead skin and you think you found a mermaid? How did I get stuck with superstitious fools? Let the man go before I let Mr. Feny whip both of you for me,” the two quickly dropped their nets but Virgil glared at the captain with suspicion before running to help Remus get untangled. The captain watched with a gleam in his eye as Virgil tended to Remus, but turned to mutter to his crew, “get ready to sail. We’ve got a plan to make. That thing is better than a mermaid.”

Virgil and Remus watched from the beach as the ship set out into the tide, Virgil laying protectively over the selkie until the ship was out of sight.

“What were you thinking?” Virgil turned, meeting Remus’ frightened gaze.

“I needed to see you. I- you didn’t tell me you had other bitches showing up here!” Remus quickly became defiant, scrambling away from Vigil on the sand.

Virgil sighed, “today was a delivery day. They bring my food, paints, kerosene, and other supplies for the month. You’ve never come on delivery days- I assumed you saw the boat and knew better than to show up. Are you okay? Did the ropes hurt you?”

Remus grumbled but slowly showed Virgil the angry red lines on its arms and sides. Virgil hissed and helped Remus to its feet, leading the wounded creature back to the lighthouse.

Early in the morning just before the sun had risen, Virgil lay next to Remus, exhausted from the break in his routine and the excitement during the delivery. The selkie lay curled in Virgil’s arms as had become their habit on days when it stayed as Virgil slept. He gently brushed over the rope burns on its skin and wondered if he’d be able to better convince Remus to leave to go heal away from any human when they each awoke later in the day. Remus shifted with a hurt grunt next to him and Virgil quickly moved to run fingers through its hair to soothe it back to sleep.

He was on the edge of drifting off himself when the door to the lighthouse slammed shut. Instantly, Virgil sat propped up on one arm, hyper aware of every creak and crack around him. Remus shifted again, mumbling for Virgil to shut up and go to sleep.

“Shhh sleep. I’ll be right back,” Virgil promised, leaning down to nuzzle Remus’ hair momentarily. Remus grumbled and rolled over, hogging the blankets from the man as he sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his trusted baseball bat. A loud creak on the stairs startled him and confirmed that they weren’t alone in the lighthouse. Virgil fought back a million unlikely guesses of shadow demons, octopi ninjas, and vengeful seals as he stood and silently cracked open the bedroom door.

Lamp light flickered somewhere down the curved stairwell and Virgil cursed to himself. But who would break into a lighthouse on an otherwise deserted island? Had some ship run aground and the crew were just looking for him to call for assistance? Virgil let himself hold on to that explanation despite the panic screaming in his brain that it was too quiet for survivors of a crash to be looking for him. He crept down the stairs, bat ready in hand to fend off anything less than friendly.

Virgil stared- more than a little confused- when he found the crewmates of the supply ship creeping up his stairs. The meaner looking one gasped when he stepped into their light and the other grinned, taking advantage of his confusion and recognition to grab Virgil and clamp a grimy hand over his mouth.

Rage seethed under Virgil’s skin as he kicked and tried to smack the men with his bat. The man holding the torch chuckled and caught the bat midswing, wrenching it from Virgil’s grip and smacking him hard in the leg. He grinned as though Virgil’s moans of pain caused him great pleasure.

“That’s what you get for stealing our catch, you fuck,” he whispered and spat in Virgil’s face as he expertly tied the lightkeeper’s hands. Virgil hissed and tried to kick and struggle as the two men carried him down to the dining room where the captain stood guarding the door.

“I swear he tried ta bite me,” the man gagging Virgil complained. As soon as he removed his hand, Virgil snarled and yelled for help, earning himself a sharp kick in the side. He layed curled on the floor, panting for the breath stolen by the sailor’s boot as the men tied his legs and the captain chuckled darkly.

“So, Mr. Feny, I suppose your selkie friend is upstairs,” the captain’s teeth gleamed in the steadily growing light of dawn and he fingered Remus’ skin like he were appraising its value, “shame he didn’t swim off right away. You made this far too easy.”

Panic clutched hard at Virgil’s chest as he heard Remus stumbling down the stairs, sleepy heavy in its voice as it called for him, asking what was going on. He tried to warn it to run, but one of the sailors kicked him again and the captain stepped forward, boot placed threateningly over Virgil’s windpipe.

Virgil watched helplessly as Remus tripped and barked out curses in its native language, careening down the last curve of the stairs and right into the waiting nets of the sailors. Remus screeched and bit and fought as the two men wrestled him down to the floor of the dining room, crashing into Virgil’s paintings in the process. The captain kept Virgil at bay, smirking as their quarry fought hard but soon succumbed to the ropes and bruises. Virgil gasped as Remus met his eyes with a helpless and betrayed expression.

Virgil croaked out a pathetic, “I’m sorry- they won’t-” before the captain pressed down his foot, choking off his air. Remus was picked up by the two crewmates and carried out the door despite its struggles and howls for salvation.

“Funny how exotic pets tend to run off when we think they're happy, eh?” the captain of the supply ship laughed and nudged Virgil in his bruised side before exiting the lighthouse without another word.

Virgil sobbed as Remus’ terrified cries echoed back to him and grew slowly further away. He struggled against the ropes, biting at the hastily tied knots until his hands fell free and immediately moved to shove the binds off his legs. He cursed the man he had thought was at least friendly, unable to see anything but Remus’ terrified look of betrayal as he slowly pulled himself up and over to the stairs. He cursed himself for setting the radio up near the light, wincing as he pulled himself up the first stair. If he could just contact another ship…

Fighting pain and the ever growing tide of panic pulling back to form a giant wave of despair and doubt, Virgil pulled himself up the stairs as fast as his broken ribs and swimming head would allow. Once he reached the light, he winced at the brightness as it swung over his face, ducking down to crawl over to his radio set up. Virgil groaned as he pulled himself up into his chair and flicked on the equipment, praying anyone would be within range and willing to break course to help him.

Virgil thought for a moment before beginning to tap out his message on the telegraph, trusting years of translating Morse to guide his fingers. He kept the message short, starting with an S.O.S. and his location, adding that someone had been kidnapped. He repeated three times before pausing to listen for a response.

Virgil waited with baited breath and nearly sobbed again when the reply came.

In vicinity. ETA 5 minutes.

Virgil was so relieved, he nearly forgot that he would have to explain who and why Remus had been taken. His heart hammered in his chest as he spotted the responding ship and rushed down to the beach to meet them, wincing with every step.

The ship that pulled into the dock was somewhat bigger than the supply ship, manned by the captain and a three person crew. Virgil stood at the end of the dock, shivering in the weak sunrise as the captain, an honest-looking man in a red coat, jumped off and rushed over to him.

“Oh my god, you look terrible! What happened, sir?” the captain grabbed Virgil by the shoulders just in time as everything that had happened that day suddenly washed over him and his knees gave out. The captain supported Virgil and ordered his crew to help the man aboard so they could care for him.

Virgil stuttered as they brought him aboard, not sure how to explain the selkie’s existence or his need to rescue the being he’d come to see as a companion. A crewmate the captain referred to as Mr. Hart took care in tending to Virgil’s wounds and murmuring words of comfort. The navigator quickly assessed possible routes the fleeing ship could have taken, pondering over which would be the most logical for avoiding getting caught with a missing person. Another crewmate busied himself around the ship, preparing to set sail again as soon as the captain gave them a bearing.

“Listen to me, sir. We’ll get them back, but we need to know who took them and where they went. I promise. Captain Roman Shoal does not break his word,” Virgil looked up to meet Roman’s dark grey eyes and found great comfort in their fierceness, “Patton, go help Janus. I think our lighthouse keeper is in shock.” Patton nodded and jumped up to help pull the ship out of the dock.

“You’re not going to believe me,” Virgil muttered. Roman laughed gently at his first spoken words since being brought aboard.

“Try me. I’ve seen a lot more unexplainable things than you’d expect,” the captain grinned and offered Virgil his hand. Virgil took it and decided to just blurt out the truth like ripping off a bandaid.

“My supply delivery ship crew jumped me and tied me up so they could kidnap my… companion. I don’t know what they wanted with Remus-”

“Remus?” the captain looked as though the name were a spirit come to haunt him.

“Yes, Remus. I know this sounds crazy, but the people who took Remus knew that- that-” Virgil tried so hard to say it out loud, to acknowledge the impossible, knowing the moment he said that Remus is a selkie he’d be thrown back on the island as another mad lighthouse keeper.

“It’s a selkie. Right? They stole a selkie- shit! Logan! We need to make the best time we can heading northeast from this position!” Roman stood, barking orders at the navigator while Virgil stared agape at the man.

“How did you-”

“I’ve known Remus before. It is an idiot to get itself into this predicament,” Roman barely spared Virgil a glance, but the piercing gaze made something click in his head.

“Oh… are you-?”

“Luckily, if these kidnappers are stupid- and they sound quite stupid- I know exactly where they’ll be headed. We should be able to catch up before they get to the market. How much of a head start do they have on us?” Roman asked insistently.

Virgil sighed, “I think at most an hour? I had to get free and get to the radio,” he gulped, “sir…”

“Please just call me Roman.”

“Roman, um… how exactly do you know Remus?” Virgil hazarded the question as the ship began to speed off after the kidnappers.

“My sibling has always been far too trusting of humans. You called it your companion? So was it with you willingly or am I going to release Remus to the waves and let the pieces of your body follow?” Roman answered with a hard edge to his voice.

Virgil shook his head, “I never touched its skin until it offered and actually forced me to touch it. I never wanted to hurt Remus… I tried to convince it to flee the island after the men attacked the first time earlier yesterday, but it was hurt and didn’t want to leave.”

Roman nodded, satisfied for the moment, “fine. You rest here while I find Remus. If it wants to return with you, that’s no skin off my back.”

Virgil watched, quiet as the crew maintained their pursuit. He wondered at the selkie captain and idly if the others were also mystical sea creatures pretending to be human. Roman spent several minutes explaining their exact heading to Logan and encouraging Patton and Janus in their sailing of the ship before he made his way back to the injured lighthouse keeper.

“So what’s your name and how do you know Remus?” Roman asked in a low voice.

Virgil nodded to acknowledge the fairness of the questions, “Virgil Feny. As you guessed, I tend the lighthouse. I met Remus when it showed up on my beach one night and claimed it owned the island I live on.”

Roman snorted, “yeah, that sounds about right. Remus trusted you?”

“After a while. Like I said, I never tried to touch its skin when it came to visit. I also never asked it to come back at any specific time. I didn’t want a pet and certainly didn’t expect a partner,” Virgil whispered the explanation. Roman nodded in approval.

“How did you lose your skin?”

“That is a long story.”

Virgil started to reply when Patton whistled for Roman’s attention. Both the selkie and the lightkeeper looked up to where the man was acting as lookout.

“Spotted the ship, sir. How should we approach it?” Patton called back in a low tone despite their distance from the other ship. Roman stood and began to pace, contemplating that issue.

“They’ll be too wary to stop when hailed. They might have even been in range when Virgil signaled for help and could be expecting us,” Roman mused aloud.

“We could throw up the Coast Guard colors. Make them think twice about running?” Janus offered.

Logan scoffed from his place at the wheel, “why would kidnappers obey martial law and stop for the authorities? Especially if they heard the distress call.”

“Well if I were on their ship I’d hide the- man and stop for the Coast Guard to throw off suspicion,” Janus rolled his eyes, “running from the authorities when caught red handed is beyond unintelligent.”

“Gentlemen,” Roman tried to interject.

“There has to be a way to save him! I mean look what they did to poor Virgil, the guy they took has got to be in so much pain,” Patton whimpered, empathetically imagining all kinds of tortures. Virgil and Roman both paled at the suggestion but Roman shook his head.

“No. They think they have a.. Selkie. They’re going to try and sell the man at market. We have to stop them before they sell a man to the highest bidder.” Roman spoke measuredly and watched his crew’s reactions. Patton looked confused while Logan seemed incredulous at the very notion.

Virgil noted Janus’ carefully trained neutral expression with suspicion. He wondered again just how Roman had lost his skin. Just then the ship lurched and he was thrown to the deck, groaning at his jarred ribs and swiftly darkening bruises.

Patton quickly jumped to tend to Virgil again, righting him against a barrel and tearing his own shirt to bandage Virgil’s torso.

“Don’t mind the captain. He’s always been a bit eccentric about stories,” Patton whispered to soothe Virgil. Virgil just nodded, knowing the truth. The others continued to bicker over options as they came closer to their quarry.

“You know what I say? Let’s give them a fight. They’ve obviously got their hands full with their prisoner since we were able to catch up so quickly. Let’s make them regret their rash little stunt,” Janus grinned wickedly, hand resting on the saber tied to his waist, “we can steal back what they’ve stolen.”

Roman stared with contempt at the ship they were quickly gaining on, “it’s what they deserve. Let’s go. Raise the colors.”

The other three men jumped into action, Patton moving to run a flag up the mainsail while Logan steered in such a way that they were suddenly gaining very quickly on the smaller vessel. Janus stepped up to a chest along the wall near where Virgil was sitting, winking at the lighthouse keeper as he pulled out several loaded guns to distribute among the others. Virgil was heartened by the rescuers’ enthusiasm, but felt lightheaded as his injuries, lack of sleep, and steadily holding tidal wave of panic met with the rocking of the ship.

He awoke to a loud shout followed by a gunshot. The ship lurched again as it was anchored to the listing supply ship. Virgil ducked, suddenly terrified of being seen by the supply ship crew or getting shot. He cursed himself as he cowered from the angry yells and clanging of metal pieces.

Suddenly a large warm body landed in Virgil’s lap and he faintly heard Roman yelling at the crew to pull away. Slowly, he opened his eyes, surprised to find Janus in his lap, moaning in pain and clutching his leg.

“Wha- what happened? Where’s Rem-”

Janus hissed, “The selkie is fine.” he nodded up towards the helm, "and I totally meant to shoot myself- god damn it!". Virgil’s breath caught as he looked up to see Roman belting orders with Remus clinging to him and sobbing into his shoulder. Roman had wrapped his sibling in his coat, holding tight to his waist as though the selkie would disappear into the waves if he let go.

Virgil turned back to Janus who was also watching the selkie and the captain, “wait you got shot!” he turned with a groan to look for Patton, but finding the man busy helping Logan steer the ship away from the point of engagement, Virgil turned back and began to rip as clean a strip of cloth from his own shirt as he could get. “Show me the wound, you need to be bandaged.”

Janus hissed again, trying to pull away from Virgil but unable to move far, “I’m fine!” he snapped. Virgil pushed up the man’s pant leg and gently felt the bloodied skin around the wound. The bullet was definitely still lodged inside. He frowned and tied the scrap of his shirt firmly around to slow the bleeding.

Janus sighed heavily, unable to look away from Roman and Remus, “thank you. Roman has been looking for that one for a very long time...”

“Remus mentioned finding his skin. At least they’ll be able to be together again,” Janus whipped around to stare at Virgil.

“No. No, he can’t leave- I can’t-”

“You knew about Roman,” Virgil replied with a confirmed understanding, “he’d be happier with a choice.”

“We’re happy now- you don’t even know us,” Janus scoffed as he climbed to his feet, “just watch your mouth, lighthouse keeper.” He turned to limp back to his post, brushing Roman’s shoulder as he passed them.

Virgil moved to stand, only to be tackled back to the deck by a blur of red. He looked up and found Remus’s slate-grey eyes grinning back at him.

“You came for me! And you found Roman! You’re the best monster boyfriend ever!” Virgil cried from relief, pain, exhaustion, and joy. He wrapped his arms tightly around Remus feeling much the same way it had looked like Roman was, terrified Remus would disappear if he let go of it. When he looked up again, Roman was standing above the both of them, a confused mess of emotions playing out across his face.

“I hope you don’t mind a quick diversion before we return you home, Virgil. I would hate for that crew to try again without properly alerting the authorities. And as you saw, my first mate got a bit clumsy and needs medical attention,” Roman spoke quietly, trying to ensure neither Patton or Logan were listening in, “Remus assured me you don’t mean us any harm…”

“You always treat me like I’m stupid. Looks like I picked the better human,” Remus retorted, hugging Virgil tighter and squeezing his bruises.

"I just- I missed you, Rem.. and years later, we find you.. and you're throwing yourself at a human. I just can't believe it," Roman shook his head in disbelief.

Virgil sighed, "yeah. Please report those jerks and get Janus help. I'm so sorry he got hurt-"

"Nonsense. We would have risked a lot more to get this knucklehead back," Roman waved Virgil's apology off before leaving to direct the ship towards dock.

The sun had begun to set and nearly dipped below the horizon, lighting the water in flames before Virgil spotted the beacon of the lighthouse still spinning. He felt immense relief in just recognizing home.

The ship pulled up to his tiny dock and Virgil nearly tripped over himself, running to grab clothing and Remus’ skin. Roman and Remus also disembarked while the crew rested after such a harrowing day. Virgil found Roman and Remus standing on the beach, staring out over the ocean and talking quietly. Virgil stopped several yards away, curious.

“You could come back. We’ve missed you so much, bro.”

“I’ve missed you more than you’d know. But I have a life up here.”

“That bitch trapped you, didn’t he? You deserve so much better for yourself!”

“Look- yes, Janus hid my skin at first-”

“So take it back and leave him!”

“But I threw it overboard. I lost it on purpose. I hope you never understand, because Virgil seems a decent man. In fact, give it to him.”

“I’m sorry, give me what?” Virgil interjected, holding the clothes out for Remus. It happily grabbed them and its skin, dressing right there on the beach and tying its skin around its neck like a cape.

“Oh! Virgil! Um-” Roman stammered a moment, “I was offering to let you have my skin. You could become a selkie with it. I don’t need it.”

“Yeah! I could show you my world! Exploring shipwrecks and fighting squids over fishies- it would be so much fun! We could come back here for you to keep painting and all that stuff too,” Remus grinned broadly, offering Virgil its hand.

“I- I don’t know,” Virgil shook his head, “what about you?”

“My ship will be around. I know where to find my sibling now and that it’s okay and in caring arms,” Roman shrugged, “I wanted to stick around for a week or so, make sure those ruffians get jailed for attempted kidnapping. If that’s alright, of course. We have rations and won’t interfere with you.”

Virgil laughed quietly, “that is much appreciated, sir. Thank you for everything today.”

“It wasn’t a problem. Figured I’d be saving this knucklehead sooner or later,” Roman grinned and took his jacket back from Remus, “have a pleasant evening, Mr. Feny.”

“You too, sir!” Virgil called back before tugging Remus close to his side. The sun slipped below the water line and Virgil rested his head on Remus’s shoulder, taking comfort in the soft skin draped there. Roman had retreated to his ship, leaving the pair effectively alone.

The beacon spun overhead, glinting off the waves and fighting with the set sun for brilliance. Virgil stood silent, barely held steady by Remus who also leaned on him for support. The day had been all too much to process. As though reading his mind, Remus pulled Virgil down to the sand, laying down and offering to hold him. Virgil wrapped himself in his companion, feeling the world shrink to just one patch of the beach, the whisper of water draining through the sand, a spinning lantern warning other beings away, and the warmth in their embrace.

#dukexietyweek2021 #dukexiety #virgil sanders #remus sanders #selkie au #roman sanders #janus sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #this one was so long pls don't expect this long every day #i'm literally so excited #my boys!

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fukurokoma · 4 years

Text

I said I was going to start working on the tendo x reader x semi shit I’ve got kicking around in my head.. but I’m a fucking liar lol so have a 2.8k preview of bokuto x reader x akaashi smut that I ended up working on instead. warnings: contains mxm oral sex, references to drinking, use of a blindfold, and I think that’s all for now

It’s sticky and warm, sweet liquor lacing your tongue and two light eyed boys peering at you in mirrored cunning. The haze of warmth that dusts across your cheeks stains moonlight and sun in kind, fingers caressing glass rims and condensation coating fingertips. Outside you are sure you departed glumly oncoming rain and grey skies but you feel the warmth of mid-June saturate your skin with a light sheen of sweat at the nape of your neck despite the late December day.

Beneath your fingertips, slick with water that has too quickly grown warm, your skin feels heated, warm blood burning beneath the surface. You lick your lips absently, throat parched no matter how many sips you seem to take of the whiskey lemonade mix that Bokuto continues to pour.

He appraises you with a jovial smile, a gesture so natural on him though it would seem obscene, amplified on anyone else. To his side Akaashi is considerably more restrained, the expression he wears tempered docile yet deceitfully sweet. Affection burns in his eyes, but unsurprisingly there is something more behind it, a low simmering foreshadowing.

Akaashi wears a great many of his intentions on his face like a warning.

You regard them with caution shadowing your expression, a wry and curious smile twisting your lips.

“What are you two planning?” you ask and though you aim for lofty and offhand you miss the mark by some ways, landing within anticipatory and eager. Shame threatens to burn your cheeks hotter still and teeth bite into the plush measure of your mouth to restrain a broad smile.

Akaashi’s lips twitch into an almost shade of his own and he lifts one deft brow, glancing to Bokuto. Fans and flutters of tousled silver sway with the playful tilt of Bokuto’s head and the deep neckline of his shirt slips along his shoulder, exposing more of his sunshine skin. The loose cotton rests temptingly along the slope of his collar, the shadowed line quietly begging for lips and teeth and tongues to adore it.

Your eyes are not the only ones to appraise the artistic sweep of skin pulled taut all the way up his elegant neck. But Akaashi is closer, the orchestrater in most proceedings. As Bokuto sweetly murmurs, “It’s a surprise,” his skin is touched by Akaashi’s mouth of galaxies, his tease of teeth that leave constellations in their wake. When minutes have passed and Bokuto’s fingers are twisted in silken strands of midnight sky the rosy bloom of Akaashi’s mouth will reveal a milky way in lilac and gold, brilliant and branded.

But before such artistry is applied to Bokuto’s throat Akaashi spares a moment to infer low and roguish, “Don’t look away, don’t touch.”

You swallow the last of your drink thickly, a loud gulp that’s distinct and clear in the tense silence of the room.

The hiss of a sharp breath being drawn through gritted teeth cushions the clatter of your glass meeting the cluttered bedside drawer and Bokuto’s eyelashes flutter, resting in soft feathers upon his cheeks, closed. You can see the pearly white point of Akaashi’s teeth dragging across Bokuto’s skin, the wet pink of his tongue soothing red streaks and points. His talented fingers slip beneath striped cotton and map designs of undiscovered universes in the spaces between Bokuto’s ribs, low between his hips.

Bokuto croons hums of content in quiet, dulcet tones.

He is subdued under Akaashi’s careful ministrations, an orchestration that slowly builds, lost in whatever plays behind the shadows of his eyes. He’s all sensation and music, his pulse thrumming in a steady tempo his body already knows the steps to. But Bokuto is pliant, almost entirely still and unequivocally patient but for the hand he slips into Akaashi’s hair. The thread of midnight locks between his golden fingers is tentative, fingertips pressing tight when stardust fingers slip past his button and zipper to delve inside.

You cannot discern Akaashi’s precise actions through the stretch of denim that conceals his hand but Bokuto’s whimpers and groans do little to leave you wondering. His initial gasp, filtering from previously bitten lips at first touch sounds sharp in the silence, piercing through the thickening haze of mounting tension in the atmosphere only to lend itself as accelerando, the first of many small notes and vocal nuances, not all his own.

The softest whimper slips past your teeth and where you had initially not considered the gravity of Akaashi’s instruction earlier the itch you feel in your fingers now to touch has you slipping your hands beneath your thighs to prevent yourself from unintentionally doing so, hoping, hoping, hoping, that the telling sound managed to slip past unnoticed. From where he was once tucked into the crook of Bokuto’s neck Akaashi’s eyes are dark mischief when he smiles saccharine sweet at your reposition.

He does not say a word on the matter, though the angle of his mouth speaks loudly enough in lieu. It is Bokuto who remarks upon your delicate sensibilities, pleasantly singing in a way almost mocking, “You’re in for a long night, baby.” And he does as much with a lopsided smile dripping across his lips, his eyes already heavy. “We’ve barely even started.”

The soft pant of his breaths is a delightful distraction from the increasing thrum of your pulse and you drown in it, focusing on all the little noises that Bokuto makes and suppressing the groan his warning had thus prompted. Each sound Bokuto makes is familiar and evocative, reminding you of times before, enticing you until you realize you are already perching so far forward that it comes as no surprise when Akaashi’s smug chuckle bleeds into the room.

Though with him the small gesture alone says enough the distinct twist of his wrist that has Bokuto whimpering into Akaashi’s hair is a warning. You do not misunderstand the implications of his timing in the slightest though you do not straighten your spine either. Akaashi meets your defiance with an angled frame to his mouth and catches his teeth against the lobe of Bokuto’s ear.

After his tongue has soothed the initial sting Akaashi plays idle with the hair at the nape of his neck, continues to stroke him languidly as he comments, “You like listening to our ace, don’t you?” He keeps his eyes on Bokuto as he speaks, a low simmering affection searing across his features while he grazes his nose along the side of Bokuto’s neck

But then as if to prove his point Akaashi lures a weak moan from Bokuto’s throat, has his hips twitching in their seat with a sly smile. The lazy arch of his brow when he finally does cast his gaze back to you is damning, charmingly so. The blush you had so narrowly avoided earlier takes cue, illustrating your cheeks with a sting of heat, and the warmth adorns Bokuto, too, crawling up his neck in a pretty, pretty pink.

Words momentarily escape you and Akaashi does not wait long for a response before he deems it too late, chuckling darkly to himself. Bokuto joins him with a vaguely looming smile, inadvertently admitting that he is in on the plan and you are not all that surprised when he gathers the presence of mind to untangle his fingers from Akaashi’s hair and retrieve the silk tie in his pocket.

He hands it over with a small smile, the curve of his lips implicit amusement, mirrored in kind in the lazy half stretch of Akaashi’s own. Satisfaction in double doses is tucked away in the solitary quirked corner of his mouth, Akaashi’s hands abandoning Bokuto who pouts in brief dismay, and you nervously pressing teeth into already bruised flesh, waiting for the silk to be drawn over your eyes.

Presumption proven true, once Akaashi approaches he gathers the blind over your eyes, tying a neat and efficient knot in the back. There is a kiss lain atop the crown of your head and then his presence is gone once again, the room little more than peeks of setting sun streaking beneath the smallest gaps of silk and skin.

But then Bokuto’s broken voice fills the room once more and you can see as clearly as if your eyes were open.

You cannot ascertain whether the illustrious plays that come to mind as you tune specifically into each and every nuance of sound are true, but the potential of them does wonders. Every airy little noise Bokuto makes spurs fanciful possibilities behind your eyes and you imagine just how Akaashi might be touching him in order to lure such sounds from his mouth.

It becomes only somewhat easier to discern their actions by the rustle of clothing and the hushing that Akaashi infers after what feels like much, much later. Bokuto does not fall silent, and you acknowledge somewhere in the back of your mind that silence is not what Akaashi would have wanted anyway, but he restrains any pleas or sugar coated requests where he might otherwise not have.

What breaks him is a noise distinctly wet and you realize it to be Akaashi’s mouth as Bokuto’s voice breaks on the most satisfied moan you’ve likely ever heard. It’s not hard to imagine the relief etched into his features, eyes shut and his face blissful while Akaashi works pink lips down his cock in that slow, fluid, manner that he likes to start off with.

This you know for certain, particularly when you hear the pleased rumble that sounds in Akaashi’s chest. You are sure then that Bokuto’s fingers have taken solace in his night sky once more, the sun adoring the stars and the stars doing the same in kind, the push and pull of gravity at its finest in play.

Although your world is limited to darkness as you listen to the ascension of Bokuto’s breathing, from shallow barely audible breaths to short, fast pants and low whines as you hear Akaashi’s execution grow sloppier, wetter, slick, and surely so well paced his jaw must be absolutely aching; the darkness that enshrouds you burns red.

You feel along with it your skin beginning to burn, so gradually at first it’s barely noticeable but fastly becoming a heat you long to cool that scorches along your cheeks, chest, the back of your neck. Beneath your thighs your fingers twitch, teeth worrying your bottom lip as you feel the restlessness crawl into your limbs and unfurl.

Your teeth bite down unashamedly, hard, blunt enamel that is sure to bruise and leave you a reminder of your devil may care boys, but you don’t care for the pain that’s bound to come; you could listen to Bokuto for days.

There’s a stutter in Bokuto’s breath, a low whistle as he exhales and you hear the distinct pop of Akaashi’s lips, the ragged inhale he greedily takes. Even if you can’t see it all unfolding, the sweet torture of it all is damning enough that you can’t quite stop the curse that befalls you, the way it lends itself to further speech, a sweet lilting inquiry of, “Is he taking good care of you, Bo?” escaping before you think better of it.

Bokuto releases an affirming groan and you can just imagine the way Akaashi’s mouth is sliding back down his length as he does so, as he shakily replies, “the best,” in a voice that’s entirely wrecked and breathless. You picture the haze of arousal that Bokuto must have in his eyes, the liquid honey that would be visible only in glimpses between his thick lashes, his eyelids oh so heavy the more Akaashi set to work, coaxing each luxuriant sound from his swollen, needing lips. Bokuto just loves to be kissed, loves making out like he’s still a horny teenager, with his hands grasping everywhere and his god forsaken hips rolling in sinful, tempting teases.

And Akaashi, Akaashi, your sweet, selfless lover, lavishing affection on your shared boyfriend, his lips just must be the richest shade of red, stark contrast to his pretty, golden moonlight skin. Just the thought of his swollen, pouty mouth makes you want to kiss him, lick into his mouth and taste Bokuto on his tongue. But you are under no false illusions here, aren’t about to push your own luck.

Instead you venture a push for Bokuto’s, softly inferring, “I bet you wish you could kiss him right now, hm?” You swallow thickly, envisioning it for yourself, narrating it for the both of them to picture what you’re picturing. “You’d just love to taste yourself on his lips, in his mouth.”

“I can imagine it so clearly, Bo: the way you’d trace our moody boy’s lips with your tongue, the way your fingers would curl into his hair… the way you’d tug it ever so softly so you could get your mouth on his neck. And he’s so sensitive there, isn’t he? He would just melt underneath you, you and your eager hands, stroking, pulling at clothes, drawing him against you, drawing him against your hips. Those hips of yours Bo...”

The quietest of moans escapes you at the thought, you know what sins his hips are capable of and you can hear them, him, getting restless now. You can hear his breathing scatter, the tempo uneven, staccato. Everything sounds frantic now, low whines and rustling fabric, and the wet, wet, sound of Akaashi’s mouth slipping, the muffled sound of him groaning. You realize Bokuto must have tugged on his hair.

A little gleefully your back arches forward even more, longing to be closer to the both of them as you entreat, “You’re close aren’t you, Bo?” You wonder if he’s watching you when you lick your lips, teeth pulling the lower momentarily into your mouth. It doesn’t matter if he is or not ultimately. Even from your place on the sidelines you don’t mind being an inactive player. You just want, want, want. You want so much that you don’t hesitate to ask for it. “Go on Bo, please, I wanna hear you cum. I want to listen to you fall apart.”

Perhaps they’re feeling merciful, or perhaps Bokuto couldn’t hold off any longer. It takes only a handful of moments more for you to hear Bokuto’s downright offensive vocal assault crescendo, the guttural pitch of his voice teetering your flimsy acquiescence. It would be only too easy to work yourself to orgasm after listening to Bokuto moan and groan, and swear, swear so filthily your only regret is not being able to have seen just how Akaashi got him so good that he expels an emphatic ‘fuck.’

He sounds so good, sounds so absolutely ruined that for just a moment going against your orders crosses your mind. But Akaashi catches you just in time, a shift on the mattress alerting you to the approach of one of them, though it's not apparent which of them until there are coarse fingertips along your jaw, Akaashi’s velvet tone instructing, “Open your mouth, kitten.”

Before a smile can fully shape your lips they part acquiescently, your deference subdued effectively, and rewarded with the feeling of Akaashi’s mouth shaping to yours succinctly. His tongue touches your own, the taste salty, inherently Bokuto, and his fingers glide along your jaw, the nape of your neck, to sweep into your hair.

He kisses you breathless, absolutely stupid, tearing his mouth from your greedy own far too soon. He’s gracious enough to expend, “What a good girl you’re being, still sitting pretty on those naughty little hands of yours.”

Bokuto is quick to point out, “Her mouth is worse.” His voice has a playful edge to it, but lacks no audacity.

You smile saccharine sweet, counter, ‘Mine?’ with all the trappings of innocence, spare the contrary arch of your brow, only just visible above the silk blindfold.

Bokuto scoffs, as if he takes offense to your claims. Yet not a moment later do you feel Akaashi’s fingers depart your hair to traverse down your body.

Though he attempts to take his time there is no preamble in the way he traverses the length of your torso, skipping pointed detours he would normally favor to slip his fingers past your waistband.There is no hesitation in the way that Akaashi spreads you open, running his fingers against your dripping cunt while he infers lowly, “Our wee kitten may have a point Bokuto-san.”

#haikyuu smut #bokuto smut #akaashi smut #bokuaka x reader #why am I such trash for poly ships?!#i started working on the most random suna x reader x terushima thing yesterday as well 😩#hq smut

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yeeharley · 4 years

Note

oooh may's relationship with harley? idk i just love may okay, i want more may in my life. i want someone to love me like may loves peter

“I hAve EMptY BrAiN DIseaSE” (comes up with brilliant idea i never ever even considered)

• peter brings harley back to his apartment to meet his aunt three months after they’ve started dating, which- yeah, okay, maybe they waited a while (longer than most couples, anyways).

• he just wanted to make sure. wanted to make sure harley was right for him, wanted to make sure harley felt like peter was right for him, wanted to make sure this wasn’t going to be a two-week relationship that fizzles out like a firework in the rain.

• (it isn’t, of course. somewhere in the back of his mind, peter knows that he’d known that harley was special the day he’d met him. they’re happy, gentle with each other, squabbling like an old married couple. sue them for being careful, really)

• (in peter’s opinion, the alternative- introducing may to harley too early on and letting them both down- is much worse)

• they walk home from stark tower on a stormy tuesday in october, all bundled up in their coats and each other. there’s rain dripping from the rooftops and the air conditioning units onto their defenseless heads, seeping into their curls and creating the perfect conditions for an absolutely miserable first meeting.

• the boys aren’t miserable, though.

• of course they’re not.

• harley keeps shaking his head like an overgrown golden retriever, shooting cool droplets into the air and splashing them all over peter’s face and neck. he’s grinning that all-teeth grin that peter loves so much, red lips and perfectly white pearls, and even though the sky is practically purple at this point, peter doesn’t want to rush.

• that changes when the first boom of thunder sounds out through the near-empty streets.

• harley sobers up the minute peter twitches, glancing around like he’s about to be attacked. his fingers are clenched into fists, and the drawn line of his jaw is so hard that he looks like he might break his teeth.

• they walk much faster after that first boom, harley with his head tilted over peter’s to protect him from the rain, both of their long legs keeping perfect stride with each other.

• (peter doesn’t like feeling small, and harley knows that, in most circumstances, having someone his size looming over him like this would be an absolute recipe for disaster- especially with how tense he is. with harley, though, peter feels safe.)

• (he’s told him. he knows.)

• they climb up the fire escape, side-by-side, shivering like wet cats. the door on the landing is covered in green paint the color of peter’s flannel, and harley’s the one to knock, shaking a few flakes of paint to the metal floor. he holds onto peter, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach, and winces as a cold raindrop lands right on the ball of his nose.

• macy keener had loved harley and abby.

• macy keener had also loved johnathan.

• macy keener had been a very distant figure in harley’s life for the entirety of his childhood. his memories of her are full of yellow bottles full of rattling pills (mommy has to take these so she’s not sad, harley had told baby when she’d asked why macy always had bottles in her purse).

• that’s why he doesn’t really know what to expect of peter’s aunt.

• he knows his uncle had died a few years ago, when peter was fourteen. he knows that peter was there. he knows that peter held him while he bled out on unforgiving pavement.

• he knows that his parents had died a very long time ago, when peter was a toddler. he knows that they died on an airplane, and that their names were mary and richard. he knows that peter doesn’t remember them very well.

• but he doesn’t know anything about may parker.

• so that’s why, when the door of the apartment opens to show a very short, very pretty woman with a dishtowel in her soapy hands, a wedding ring on her finger, and frizzy hair in a cloud surrounding her head, he finally realizes what tony meant when he told harley that peter was just like may.

• they look. so similar.

• wow.

• may invites them in, biting her lip when she sees the way peter’s shivering beneath the thick layer of his hoodie (harley’s hoodie). harley waits for her to towel off her hands before holding one of his out, shaking hers, and asking if he can help with dinner while may situates a trembling, chatter-teeth peter at the kitchen table.

• linoleum creaks under flimsy wooden chair legs. may pulls a steaming lasagna out of the oven and nearly burns her hands. peter lays shaking fingers out on the table and gesture for harley to take his hand, and he does, and they hold onto each other while they eat and may cracks jokes and the lasagna is fucking disgusting but it’s the best thing harley thinks he’s ever tasted.

• if the keeners had been shattered glass, the parkers are warmth and light. if the keeners had been night, the parkers are day.

• harley feels like the sun, though, in that cramped little queens kitchen.

• he’s radiating warmth like icarus.

• but, of course, peter’s the one who flies too close to the sun.

• may and harley don’t speak again for a month- not because the first meeting had gone badly, of course, but because there’s just not much need for a line of communication between them when peter’s there.

• peter’s the reason they meet again.

• peter’s the reason harley gets a phone call at three o’clock in the morning on a wednesday.

• peter’s the reason harley picks up his phone to hear a sobbing, entirely incoherent may on the other end of the line. the only thing he can make out is that he needs to come to the parker apartment before may abruptly hangs up.

• harley wants to lie down and die right there.

• but he can’t.

• he makes it to their apartment in record time, jogging through dark streets, and fucking kicks the door in when nobody opens it. whatever. he’ll get tony to buy them a new one, and it needed a new paint job anyways.

• he sees them right away.

• the little bathroom adjacent to the kitchen- not the main one, but the one sans shower- is paved with the same yellow linoleum as the kitchen itself.

• harley can’t see any of that yellow linoleum.

• harley can’t see any of that yellow linoleum beneath the thick coat of red liquid that spreads out from the base of the toilet.

• harley can’t see any of that yellow linoleum beneath the thick coat of red liquid that spreads out from the base of the toilet, where peter, pale and choking on his own breath, is lying spread-eagled on the floor with may crouched above him.

• he’s kneeling beside them before he can blink. groping for the injury- a neat hole beneath the left side of Peter’s ribs- he strips his flannel off and presses it into peter’s skin, flinching at the tortured yell he gives out.

• he’s crying. peter’s crying, shimmery trails cutting through the grime and blood on his face. he can’t seem to speak, instead whimpering his way through the pain and gripping harley’s hands like they’re the last thing he’ll ever feel.

• may’s crying, too.

• harley knows his eyes are watering.

• while he presses down on the wound, trying his best to hold peter down where he can’t aggravate what looks like a bullet hole, may reaches across her nephew’s body and takes harley’s wrist in her unoccupied hand.

• her fingers barely connect next to his wristbone.

• “he’s going to be okay,” she whispers, voice hoarse from crying for help.

• peter lets out another sob and tightens his grip on harley’s hand. his curls are choked with blood, so much that they’re more red than brown, and there’s a little speck of dirt at the corner of his right eye.

• “i know,” harley says, reaching down to brush the dirt away.

• (he’s lying)

• (he doesn’t believe it until he’s sitting in a plastic emergency room chair, holding may’s hand in his own, peter’s blood smeared over his skin, and a surgeon with those same streaks of red all over his scrubs approaches them and tells them that peter’s stable)

• (he doesn't believe it until his and may’s hands are joined over peter’s motionless body in his hospital room, where he’s been moved from the ICU)

• may is still crying.

• harley feels like he’s about to float away.

• peter’s chest is rising up and down, one, two, steady, steady, steady steadysteady

• may smiles through her tears as the beeping of peter’s many machines fill the room.

• harley smiles back.

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labyrinth-runner · 4 years

Text

Having a Ball

An Obi-Wan x Reader Winter Tale, also a secret santa present from @starwarssecretsanta for @peacefulwizardfox

Word Count: ~3k

Warnings: None

Summary: It’s a fluffy wintery fic with some snowball fights.

Big thanks to @the-mandalorian-clone-lover for letting me bounce this off her.

The air was cool as it went right through your robes. A shiver went down your spine as you wished you had dressed in more layers. Obi-Wan had warned you that the planet was cold, and you remembered it being such when you were younger, but you had figured that you had grown in your training and could block out the cold by now. Such was your mistake.

Being here on this planet gave you the illusion that everything was normal. The world was a blanket of white, untouched in most places. In a word, it was peaceful. It was this serenity that made it one of the Order’s favorite places for brief meditative retreat. However, when you saw the list of people who had signed up for this trip, you were beginning to think that maybe it wouldn’t be as relaxing as it had been advertised.

You were excited for this retreat, though, having heard stories about Master Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker’s antics. Very rarely did you get to see them in action these days, with the war spreading you all out so thin, so you were keen to see the infamous duo get up to some of their shenanigans.

“Let’s set up camp for the night,” Master Windu advised.

Looking around, you noticed that there were no tents. A quizzical look settled into your features until you saw what your lodging was to be.

The Jedi around you held their arms out, palms facing out, fingers splayed. Their eyes were closed in concentration as they reached out to the world around them.

Shapes began to take form out of the snow, ice rising from the ground as a building rose up in front of you. Closing your eyes, you joined them in lifting it up so that the door was accessible.

“Now that that’s done, time for the fun,” Anakin whispered to you as he knelt down to pack a ball of snow in his hands.

You raised a brow at him as he wound up and threw it, hitting Obi-Wan square in the face. Snow clung to his beard as he reached up to wipe it off, giving Anakin the dirtiest look as the younger Jedi snickered into his hand.

“Master, you’ve got a little something on your face,” Anakin said innocently.

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed as a clump of snow rose from the ground and hurled itself at Anakin, who ducked, causing the snow to hit you instead.

The crowd grew silent as you casually reached up and swiped the snow from your eyes to see a blushing Jedi Master sputtering an apology. Calmly, you reached down to pack your own snowball before returning the favor.

“SNOWBALL FIGHT!” Ahsoka yelled as everyone broke off into a free-for-all.

Snowballs whipped back and forth across the white expanse of space as haphazard forts were quickly erected to provide shelter from the cold ammunition being pelted every which way. You dove behind a snow bank, but the snow moved under your weight, sending you tumbling down a hill. The roll continued until you found yourself going from a slight tumble to a sheer drop into a cave.

Looking up at the space you’d fallen through, you realized you wouldn’t be able to jump up unaided. You let out a sigh, sending a puff of air in front of your face. Turning to look at the cave, you noticed light shining through the icicles, indicating another entrance on the other side of the cave. Faintly, you heard the whistling of the wind through the cavern, and what sounded like your name. Having nothing left to lose, you trudged towards the light, hoping to reach the end quickly and before the sun set.

You weren’t so lucky, finding yourself exiting the cave just as the rich reds and pinks in the sky gave over to the purple indigo of night. “Oh, kriff.”

“The days are definitely shorter here than on Coruscant,” a sharp voice cut through the stillness.

“Master Kenobi?” you called out.

“Here, darling,” he said as he slid down a slight bend to land in front of you. “You know, everyone’s worried about you.”

“I didn’t mean to make people worry,” you blushed, “I took a tumble and ended up in this cave.”

“I told them that, but they didn’t seem to believe me, or your tracks for that matter,” he said as he fished out a blanket to wrap around you. “Well, it’s too late to go back like this. The temperature will drop soon. We might as well stay here for the night.”

Here? The two of you alone in a cave? Your mind was reeling. You had had a crush on the Jedi Master ever since you were both padawans, but thankfully your missions kept you apart, which helped keep your feelings at bay. However, having to be so close to him like this, especially after he had come to rescue you, was reigniting that spark that you had thought was gone, but had in fact only been dormant for so long.

The two of you went back into your cave and he reached into his pack for his emergency fire kit, building a small fire that was kept at bay by a ring of stones around the small crackling source of heat.

“So, what made you sign up for the retreat?” he asked as he dug around for some rations in his pack.

“I thought it might be a relaxing break from being shot at,” you replied as you took one from him, cracking the ration over the heat.

Obi-Wan chuckled, “Relaxation. There’s something I haven’t done in a while.”

“Anakin seems intent on making it hard for you to do that,” you teased.

“He’s got a good heart,” he replied. “And some of his ideas are brilliant. Just don’t tell him I said as much.”

You giggled, “Your secret is safe with me.”

“If I remember correctly, they always have been,” he said with a small smile.

“Oh?” you asked, feeling your mouth suddenly go dry.

“I know attachments are frowned upon, but I will admit that I always miss your smile when you’re away,” he winked. “It’s infectious.”

“Careful, Master Kenobi, your Jedi charm tricks won’t work on me,” you said, playfully nudging him, but you were blushing.

“Oh they won’t? I remember it being different when we were younger. You were always blushing at everything I said and blaming my accent if my recollection is correct,” he looked into the fire before turning to you for a moment. Softly he asked, “What happened to our friendship?”

“You lost your Master and then we were thrust onto different paths,” you replied, slipping your hand along the rocky bottom of the cave to tentatively touch his hand. When he didn’t pull away, you interlocked your fingers with his. “I always believed ours was a friendship that could pick up from wherever we left off.”

A slight tint settled above his beard, but you wondered if perhaps it was a trick of the light reflecting off the cave walls. “Oh, is that so?”

“I know Master Yoda says that we are all luminous beings, but whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same,” you replied, looking into the fire, “A connection like that runs deep enough to withstand the test of time, wouldn’t you agree?”

Obi-Wan looked at you, really looked at you, and for a moment he was just a man. He wasn’t a Jedi, and neither were you. You were just two souls bound together by so many commonalities that one might not know where he ended and you began. The way the light glinted off your face casted you in an ethereal glow. Luminous being, indeed, he thought as he took you in. Although your words were true, he would never have had the courage to admit them on his own. Instead, he just gave your hand a squeeze.

“We should rest. You sleep first while I take the first watch,” he said, letting go of your hand to wrap his arm around you.

A slight sigh breezed through your lips, but you let it go, as you had always been trained to do. The physical touch would be enough to reaffirm that perhaps he saw you in the same light as you saw him. Resting your head on his shoulder, you closed your eyes to get comfortable. Soon enough, you found yourself drifting off into a meditative state, not quite ready to commit to actual sleep at this point.

Obi-Wan let out a sigh as he looked out of the mouth of the cave. Every time that he thought he was over his attachments, something would happen to reassure him that perhaps he wasn’t the perfect Jedi that everyone thought him to be. He had mastery over his emotions, but that didn’t mean he was devoid of them. It wasn’t something that he could just lock in a box and forget about. It was a constant battle every day with a beast that would remain conquered for only so long. It was a battle of wills, waiting for him to fatigue and slip up. In truth, sometimes he wanted to slip. He wanted to give in and take the easy way out every once in a while. He wanted to feel everything; to give into temptation on occasion. To love and be loved in a way that consumed, just to feel. But, a part of him feared being burned. Feared making a mistake he couldn’t take back. To give himself to someone so completely would mean that the loss of that person could be enough to ruin him.

To love anything at all is to be vulnerable. That kind of vulnerability was something a Jedi couldn’t afford, so he put up walls. Walls that even Anakin couldn’t break through, and yet you always had a way of slipping through the cracks. It was almost as if letting those walls down would be acceptable if it were only to let you in.

The sky outside was getting lighter, but it wasn’t sunrise. A smile curled the corners of his lips as he gently shook you awake.

“Darling,” he murmured as you groaned, “Darling, look.”

You blinked your eyes open, trying to focus on your hazy surroundings as your vision swam. “What am I looking at?”

Gently he reached out to tip your chin up towards the sky and you understood.

Wavy lines of color streaked across the sky, lighting up the night. “You know, the ancient texts referred to auroras as being the spirits of a planet dancing in the night.”

“Qui-Gon always said they were the physical representation of a planet’s aura,” he said thoughtfully as he took in your awed expression.

“Regardless, they’re beautiful,” you murmured, “Definitely not a view you can see on Coruscant.”

“Mmm, they are beautiful,” he said as his eyes softened on your face. “I wish I could see it more often.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him staring at you, sweeping his eyes along your features as if he were trying to memorize you.

“Afraid you’ll forget me?” you asked as you turned towards him.

“I doubt I could ever manage that,” he replied with a small smile.

“Am I forever burned into your memories?” you asked playfully with a bright smile.

His heart skipped a beat as he reached out to brush a strand of hair out of your face, gently sliding the pad of his forefinger along the outline of your face as he did so. Your smile slowly slid off your face as you took in the intent nature of his gaze. His eyes flicked down to your lips before slowly making their way back up to yours. The seas of his eyes were tumultuous, like a churning sea as you stand on a cliff in a storm.

Obi-Wan licked his bottom lip as you reached out to gently cup his cheek. You dragged your thumb through the soft bristles of his beard, feeling your breath catch at how he leaned into your touch. You let your hand slide along his jaw towards his chin as your thumb dragged along his bottom lip, gliding from the dampness left by his tongue. Your eyes settled on his lips, entranced, before lazily looking up at him with a hooded gaze.

The fire was slowly dying in front of you, casting you both in the shadows of the embers. A log on the fire shifted, sending up sparks that playfully danced in his eyes. You swallowed a lump in your throat as you both stood on the edge of this precipice, toeing the crumbling limits, afraid of what might happen should you fall.

A flutter in your chest caused you to take that step, falling over the edge and dragging him with you. You pulled him in for a kiss, relishing in the way his supple lips pressed firmly into yours.

His beard tickled your face as his hand slid to cup the nape of your neck. His velvety tongue slipped over your bottom lip, the first demand you imagine he’s ever given, and one you were very happy to acquiesce to. His tongue danced with yours, a tango to a music only the two of you could hear.

He explored you like you were uncharted territory, but in truth, he was also exploring himself. Testing his limits. Determining how far he was wiling to go. It was a journey you would go on with him, but you let him take the lead out of respect.

You broke from the kiss and rested your foreheads against one another as you panted slightly for air. “Good night, Master Kenobi. I’ll take this next watch.”

“Good night, darling,” he grinned, his chest still heaving slightly from the exertion as he rested his head in your lap.

You let your head fall back as you let out a silent laugh at what just happened. Biting your lip, you shook your head before turning your attention back to him. Gently, you ran your hand through his hair, stroking through the auburn locks as you took in his sweet face of content. Part of you wondered if that was the first time he did something he wanted to, regardless of the consequences, in years. You draped your arm over his chest as you let yourself picture a normal future for the two of you. It was a daydream you hadn’t had in a long time, but one that you took out of its box every once in a while, if only to shake off the cobwebs.

If you weren’t Jedi, you’d be married. You’d live on a peaceful planet full of serene moments where you could feel the force at work in the galaxy. Maybe you’d have a farm, or maybe you would just live in town. Perhaps you’d befriend the neighbors. Perhaps you’d be in a remote area with no one around for as far as the eye could see. Obi-Wan would tend to the animals, and you would help him build the life he could have had if he wasn’t a Jedi. Perhaps you’d have children running around, a perfect mix of the two of you, or adopted to give them a better life in a loving home. No matter the scenario or the variables, the common denominator was that you’d be happy together.

You watched with passive interest as the sky changed from an inky indigo to the same shades as your dying fire until the sun had risen in the sky again. Gently, you nudged Obi-Wan awake.

“Obi, it’s time to go home,” you murmured.

He stretched languidly before collecting his belongings. You did the same before heading out of the cave and into the bright morning light.

“We can follow my tracks to get back to camp,” he said as he held his hand out to you. “Shall we?”

With a smile, you placed your hand in his and together you traversed the snowy hills until you were back to camp. You caught sight of the others breaking down camp.

Anakin was the first to spot you, eyes falling on your conjoined hands. You quickly dropped Obi-Wan’s hand when you noticed where the Jedi Knight was staring.

“Bout time you two showed up. We had to do all the work breaking down camp without you,” Anakin teased. “It’s not very Jedi-like to shirk your duties.”

“I’ll remember that, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said with a wag of his finger.

“We’re glad the two of you are safe,” Ahsoka said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Yeah, would’ve hated leaving you here,” Anakin grinned.

Mace gave Anakin a withering look, “No one is getting left behind.” You could have sworn you heard him mumble ‘unfortunately,’ before he turned to Obi-Wan to add, “The next time you decide to wander off, take Skywalker with you.”

Obi-Wan shot Anakin a look that said, ‘what did you do?’

Anakin just shrugged, placing his hands up in a placating manner.

“Load up, everyone. It’s time to go home. I hope this trip was as enlightening as you all thought it would be,” Mace said before heading towards the ship.

You shared a smile with Obi-Wan Kenobi at Master Windu’s words before adjusting your pack on your shoulder and following the others onto the ship.

Enlightening, indeed.

#obi-wan fanfiction #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi #g/n reader #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi-wan kenobi x reader #Fluff #winter #star wars #swsecretsanta2020

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tae-cup · 4 years

Text

A Mile in My Shoes | KSJ Oneshot

Pairing: Platonic!Seokjin x Reader

Summary: You hate Kim Seokjin, that arrogant bastard, and he hates you just as much...right?

Genre: Body swap!au, enemies to friends, Fluff, angst, Solo artist!Seokjin, Solo Artist!Reader

Warnings: N/A

Rating: PG, content wise, teen for language

Word Count: 9k words

Network: @castlebangtan

A/N: Yay! 100 followers celebration finale!!! Thank you everyone! I’ve got some other stuff cooking as well so hopefully I’ll be more active!

Other: Masterlist

Kim Seokjin. You hate Kim Seokjin. Why? Well, it was sort of his fault.

The flashing lights of the award ceremony, the buzz of the crowd, the packed audience, did nothing to subtract your attention from the person on stage. With a bedazzled white t-shirt and violet purple hair, Kim Seokjin sang on stage. His charisma was no doubt exquisite and his singing technique was divine...but he was a total ass.

It suited him, being the number one pop star in the past year; and he was still growing. He was a prideful creature and had been sweeping the award shows, your awards being stolen from right out under you. You were sure that he was out for you ever since the misunderstanding a few years ago.

You weren’t actually sure why he still hated you. You had worked your ass off to try and fix what was wrong, but he had ignored you. So, technically, the feud that continued was childish and completely his fault.

Alright, maybe you fed into it a little, but you were still annoyed and quite honestly tired of it. Jin was a handsome man. His personality was anything but.

You rolled your eyes as Jin did a hip thrust, to the screams of his fans. The cameras were still focusing on you throughout the experience, your feud well known. He came right up to the edge of the stage and looked you in the eyes as he spoke.

“Did you see my bag? Did you see my bag? My bag’s filled with trophies. How you think bout that? How you think bout that? Haters are already giving up. My success is already so golden-”

You tuned him out, a small fire of rage boiling in the pit of your stomach. Why was he still holding onto this stupid feud? If anything was clear, Kim Seokjin hated you, and you hated Kim Seokjin.

The after party was a nightmare. You sat at the bar, drink sloshing around lazily in the glass. Heavy bass drummed against your frame. Kim Seokjin was the center of attention, his broad shoulders and puffy lips high above the crowd.

“How are you feeling, Y/N?” A reporter shoved a microphone into your face.

You groaned, not responding. You had a terrible conscience. If someone asked you a question, you felt obligated to answer truthfully, maybe that’s what got you into this mess. It was just easier if you kept quiet. The last thing you wanted was to add onto the feud even more.

Seokjin surveyed you out of the corner of his eyes. You always stole the spotlight, even when he had swept the awards. You were still the one getting interviewed the most, getting the most press. They all wanted to know your reaction. He hated you for that. At the same time, he admired your self restraint.

“Jin, what do you think about winning all the awards you were nominated for?” A reporter appeared. The broad shouldered man waved to the security.

“Who let paparazzi in?” He muttered under his breath as the reporters were escorted out.

A part of Jin really missed being a newer artist, like you. He couldn’t just write and produce his own songs anymore, he had a team for that. Everything needed to be approved by the higher ups and he always had to be happy. Meanwhile, you had made a name for yourself by saying what you wanted and making the music you wanted. Sure, you didn’t win awards, but at least you had that freedom. And he was jealous of that.

He brushed away the revelation and weaved his way through the crowd. The party had died down a little and his little posse had trickled out. His little gang of friends had left or were doing something else.

Taehyung was with Jungkook ordering and consuming copious amounts of food. Namjoon and Yoongi, well known producers, were huddled over a notebook and whispering lyrics to each other. Hoseok and Jimin had each gone home early.

Hoseok claimed he needed to practice, being the main dancer for Taehyung, and Jimin claimed he needed to check on his pets. You were sitting alone at the bar, ready to fall asleep, but your night wouldn’t be complete if you didn’t have a run in with Jin.

“Drowning your sorrows?” Jin plopped into a seat, leaning against the bar with a smug smile.

“Who says I’m drowning? I’m doing just fine.” You threw back the last sips of the drink.

He eyed the empty glasses littering the counter. The bartender was slowly going through and cleaning them up. Jin was a little worried, but he...he didn’t like you, as a person. You were self centered and hypocritical, but perhaps he was the same.

“How many of those have you had?”

“Unimportant.” You gestured for the bartender to pour another and the man looked warily at you.

“I think you should stick to water, miss.” The bartender smiled gently.

“Nah.” You shouted, not realizing how loud your voice was. “Just do your job and pour another.”

Jin sighed and put a hand over your glass, gently peeling your fingers back. “No, he’s right.” He said sternly and handed the glass back to the bartender, who looked thankful.

“You’re an asshole, Jin. Just let me be sad without gloating for once.” You deflated, slouching in your seat. He scoffed and looked away.

“You’re just being a sore loser. I won every category I was nominated for. How many categories did you even get nominated for, let alone win?” He bit back, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Fuck you.” You pointed at him, finger pressed hard against his chest.

Then you stood from your seat, shouldering your bag, and stormed out. Your phone pinged with unseen messages, all from your manager.

Jin rolled his eyes, but he did regret his words slightly. It had been so long, he wasn’t even sure why he was mad at you anymore. Why were you in a feud with him anyway? The man checked his phone. Three schedule reminders popped up and he grimaced. It was already 1 A.M. and he needed to be awake in five hours. He stood and bowed, saying his goodbyes to his friends, and leaving the bar.

He waited outside for his driver to pull around the block. It was quiet, the muffled pounding of the bass inside the bar leaked out. He wished he had your guts once in a while, to just say what he wanted. He wished he could be like you, just for a moment.

A light streaked across the sky, a comet passing by. His eyes widened in awe as the meteor shower began. It was...beautiful.

Meanwhile, you were lazing drunkenly over the window sill in your living room. The house was dark, the curtains open to allow for moonlight to trickle through. Some may be scared of the dark, but you always liked it. The peace of being alone, surrounded by nothing to distract you except your mind was appealing to you. Why? Who knew. You ran your finger along the dusty window sill.

You glanced at your phone. Your agent had messaged several times.

Why didn’t you win anything, huh?

Next time, you better win an award or…

They’re going to pull you from the label.

They thought you were going to be big, Y/N. It’s such a shame.

So many people were rooting for you. Maybe in another life.

You groaned and powered off your phone. How annoying. Your career was going down the drain, you had followers, but your music wasn’t getting the right platforms. It seemed that no matter how much you tried to get recognized, no one else cared. Your only worth was your feud with Seokjin.

“Goddamnit, Jin. Would you lend me just a bit of fame? Just a little? Let me breathe, give me a break.” You hissed under your breath.

You took a few steps back and collapsed onto your mattress. The meteor shower began, the brilliant streaks of white lit up the sky. It felt like the world was laughing at you, blessing you with such a beautiful sky on the worst night of your life.

This was not his house. Jin sat up straight. He felt different for sure, but then again, he did drink a bit last night. The man stood, wobbling slightly. How much did I drink? He thought, stumbling to the bathroom. Did he catch a ride with someone? He didn’t remember much. What did he do?

“Hello?” He called out hoarsely, only to yelp in surprise.

His voice was high. High and female, definitely not his voice. It was also...familiar. Jin threw open the door to the bathroom hurriedly. He rushed to the mirror, only to shriek in surprise.

That’s not my face….OH MY GOD THAT’S NOT MY FACE. He internally screamed, stumbling back. You were staring back at him. He rubbed his arms and looked down at his body. He felt his cheeks heating up. Yup, this was...this was a woman’s body. But how?

He slapped his hands over his cheeks. His face, his beautiful face! Okay, so that was a little vain. Jin studied himself. No, You were certainly...not hard to look at, that was for sure. He patted down his body. Then there was a ring from the bedside table and he vaulted over to pick it up. Your phone was ringing, his number flashing boldly.

“Y/N?” He whispered.

“Oh my fucking god, seokjin, what did you do this time?” His voice hissed over the line.

“This has to be a nightmare. Oh god, please wake up.” He cried slapping his face.

“Hey! Don’t ruin the merchandise!” You shouted.

Then another realization hit him. You could ruin his career. He needed to accept that this was happening and get his priorities straight. You were in his body. You had all the power...and you hated him.

“Nice clothes, Jin.” Your sarcastic drawl crackled through the speaker. Even he could hear it, despite it being his own voice.

“They’re all custom fit.” He bragged, marching over to your closet. “What do you have in here? Trash? Oh, this could easily pass as a paper bag. Was beige in style when you picked it out?” He said snarkily, throwing some clothing behind him and onto the bed. He ignored your protests.

“Jin! Get! Out! Of! My! Closet! Also you better not have touched my body you perv!” You shouted so loud that your voice broke off.

“What? I’m just doing some reorganizing. Besides, you think I want to touch your body? You flatter yourself.” He said, throwing another beige item out of the closet. He pretended he didn’t hear you scolding him from over the phone.

“It’s like you only shop during fall and then go into hibernation.” He commented. “Which is likely, considering how many albums you’ve released.” He muttered, but oh boy had you heard him.

“At this point, I don’t care, Jin.” You grumbled over the line. “I’m about to be dropped anyway.”

The beige sweater in his hands tumbled to the ground. Sure, he knew you had been struggling, but was it really that bad? He was at a loss for words. The man took a deep breath in.

“Why?” He asked, concern evident. He slowly put down a pair of blue jeans.

“I’m not as successful as they thought I would be.” You explained, defeat in your voice. “If I don’t win an award at the next show, I’ll be dropped. Also, why is Taehyung crashed on the couch?”

His eyes widened. A lot of the group crashed at his mansion after a long night out. It was easier than driving them all to six different locations.

“Shit.” He muttered. “Okay, just, just act normal, alright? I’ll be there soon and maybe we can explain this to them.” He whispered, hanging up and searching through your closet for a decent outfit.

This was not how you wanted your morning to go. You stood, dressed casually and waiting by the front door anxiously. Your arms were crossed and you tapped your foot. Taehyung stumbled around behind you.

“So you’re telling me that you’re Y/N and not Jin?” He asked.

“Yes.” You said shortly, having already explained it a million times. “You’ll see when he gets here.”

Taehyung took a seat at the counter, his blonde hair falling in waves around his face. He drummed his fingers on the marble surface. His dark eyes glanced you over.

“How much did you drink last night, Jin? Are you feeling alright?”

“For the thousandth time, I’m Y/N, not Jin!” You huffed angrily.

“Okay, okay, you’re Y/N then.” He held his hands up. “But just let me know when your little act is over, okay?” He winked.

You resisted the urge to scream in rage at his lack of understanding. With the twinkle in his eye and the mischievous look on his lips, you couldn’t tell if he was messing with you or genuinely not believing your story. Your lips twisted into a deep frown and you stalked over to him, ready to talk some sense into him when the door flung open. You turned around, face shifting.

“Aish, a frown really doesn’t look pretty on my face.” A voice came from the doorway. Your voice. You were used to looking up at Jin, now you looked down. Was that really how you looked? You felt self conscious suddenly.

“Are you trying to give me wrinkles before 30 or something?” Jin sighed, leaning against the door. “Besides, why didn’t you lock the door?”

“That’s my fault.” taehyung piped up, suspiciously looking between you.

“Yah! Taehyung you really need to be more careful about that! What if someone tries to break in while I’m asleep! And technically, you’re breaking in.” Jin huffed.

Taehyung’s eyes widened. “No way, that’s totally something Jin would say. Are you shitting me?”

“I’ve been trying to explain this to you for the past 30 minutes, Taehyung.” You paced angrily.

“It’s not breaking in if I have a key.” Taehyung smiled lazily, flashing the golden piece of metal. “But are you being serious? That you’ve...switched?”

“Why else would I be talking to him.” You gestured to Jin with your head, annoyance staining your features.

“This is why I don’t scowl.” Jin chimed in, walking over to you and smoothing out your face. “It looks awful.” His fingers brushed against your cheek.

“Awful? I’m offended. This is my body you’re talking about.”

“Technically it’s mine. So don’t go commit arson or something while you’re in there.” Jin crossed his arms.

“Trust me, I have bigger things to worry about and do.” You shot back.

“Will you guys just shut up?” Taehyung slapped the counter, causing your attention to shift once more. “How the fuck are you guys going to change back? Jin, you have a million interviews this week about the awards show and Y/N has, I don’t know, songwriting to get to?”

“Ah, fuck you to, Tae.” You frowned.

“Am I wrong?”

“No.” You mumbled in response.

“Anyway, I think I can fake it until we can figure this out.” You said, lifting your chin. “It won’t be too hard to act like a narcissistic ass who pretends not to be.”

“Hey!” Jin shouted his protests. A ping from a cellphone caused you to jump. Jin recognized it and began to search his pockets before realizing he was you.

You seemed to get the memo and you pulled out the phone in your pocket. It buzzed with a calendar reminder.

“An interview in an hour?” You said quietly. Then you dropped the phone onto the counter. “Oh my god, there’s an interview in an hour.”

“It’s really weird to see such expressions on Jin’s face.” Taehyung mused.

“Shit shit shit.” You, wait no, Jin said. “That’s the one to discuss the music in my album and talk about the awards show. Since it doesn’t seem like we’re going to solve this in an hour, don’t fuck it up.”

“Excuse me, it’s my album now and I will say what I like.” You pursed your lips.

“I don’t expect you to understand the lyrics and songs in my album.”

“The lyrics written by your team of lyricists? Yeah, I won’t think twice about the meaning of ‘girl you look so fire’.” You air quoted.

“You think you’re so much better because you write your own lyrics, huh? Well, it’s ridiculous. Stop trying to be an outsider when you’re very much in the public eye.” Jin stated, but his words held a ring of truth.

You were, indeed, very popular, why did you feel the need to be ‘special’ and pretend to be all unique and weird? It drove him mad and he counted it as another reason he disliked you. You didn’t respond to his statement, instead remaining silent.

Yes, you were fuming inside, but it was only because you felt like kicking yourself. There were so many times you had been offered premium spots, but you had turned it down, thinking it was too mainstream or times when you could have made a chart topping song and instead you chose the more casual songs.

“Fine.” You admitted defeat. “I understand where you’re coming from. I’ll try my best not to fuck this up.” You said earnestly. “But in return, please just...don’t look through my desk.”

“Why not?”

“It’s personal. Should there be another reason?”

“Fine.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

The interviewer was an idiot. He only ever asked you the most obvious of questions. There’s no depth or deeper meaning he’s looking for other than for you to gloat and cause more drama with...yourself.

“You completely swept the show this year.” The man lightly clapped and you mimicked it.

You were already sweating under the pressure of the lights and the knowledge that you had to sound like Seokjin. Not only did you have to sound like Seokjin, but you also had to give the right answers.

“That’s amazing. You’re one of the fastest growing artists of the century. It’s incredible, really. How does it feel, knowing that millions have their eyes on you?”

Suffocating. It’s so hard to breathe. Was this what it was like all the time? You almost felt bad for Jin, but at the same time you wanted to roll your eyes. The interviewer was just trying to butter you up so that you could spill any juicy secrets.

Sadly, you don’t think he would buy the ‘I switched bodies with my arch nemesis and now we’re here.’ secret.

Speaking of which, how did you get into this mess in the first place? And how were you going to get out of it? Was it something to do with your wish the other night? The meteor shower? But according to all the body swap movies you’d seen before, he must have wished for your life as well. Which seemed absurd. Why would the Kim Seokjin want to forfeit his life to body swap for some nobody artist like you?

“It’s honestly such an honor, you know?” You tried your best to respond like him. You could almost see him face palming. “It’s surreal. I still can’t believe it’s happening.” You continued. “Everyone remember to stream Dynamite!” You plugged, flashing a dazzling smile.

It seemed to be the right move because the crowd went wild.

“Now, Jin, you haven’t mentioned Awake, your latest song. I know Dynamite and Mic Drop have been huge successes, really, but Awake you rarely mention. Maybe you can give some insight into your thoughts behind the song? I know I want to know.”

Okay, maybe you were wrong. The interviewer was smart as shit. And now you had to analyze Jin’s lyrics. You had heard the song a couple times and it honestly wasn’t that bad. You could make something up and continue on with the interview. You remembered he mentioned once a while ago that it was completely written by himself, no lyricists, nada. So you supposed you should honor that.

“As you know,” you started carefully. “Awake is one of the few songs completely written by me.” You kicked yourself for your wording, but forged onward. You took a deep breath, thinking for a moment.

“It’s about...it’s about struggling with insecurities. I’ve always felt like my voice wasn’t good enough, my music would never make it, that I don’t cut it in the industry. I feared I would just be another pretty face stuck onto generic pop music.” You found yourself rambling, releasing some inner frustration you had in yourself.

“Awake was my form of release. I pushed all my negative thoughts and energy into the song. My doubts, my fears, and what I long for. It speaks of my...my desperation to continue, even when I felt like things were bleak for me. Something inside told me to keep running, keep creating, and I did. That’s why I’m thankful I’m able to be where I am now.” You concluded. “And that’s why Awake is such a personal song to me.”

Obviously, a full lyrical and psychological breakdown of the song had not been what the interviewer was expecting, but he seemed pleased nonetheless.

“Wow, so it must mean a lot to you?”

“Yeah.” You answered half heartedly, feeling emotionally drained from that speech.

“So I heard from the daily idol that-”

His words muffled and you answered his questions monotonously. Why had you gone into so much detail? It was like a switch had been flipped. The lyrics weren’t bad. In fact, the song was good and you could see yourself easily sobbing over it, but it just had to be written by Jin. It was such a shame, yet at the same time, it showed that Jin could write meaningful lyrics if he wanted to.

The only reason he needed a lyricist team, you concluded, was pure greed and laziness. That only gave you more reason to dislike him, but, as the song said: My happy times asked me this question; You, are you really okay? it asked me. And after all of that, were you really okay with hating Kim Seokjin?

Your phone pinged. You glanced down at the screen to see one text from Jin.

Did you mean what you said?

Jin was really hoping you hadn’t completely fucked his career. He was also hoping that your agent would stop texting you for one minute. Instead, he was bombarded with questions like ‘are you writing?’ ‘What are you doing to improve?’ ‘You better win more at the Grammys, got it?’ ‘Are you going to lose to Seokjin again?’ ‘Why aren’t you answering?’

He wanted to slam his head into a wall. Why would you ever put up with this? He mindlessly scrolled through earlier texts. At first, it seemed the relationship started off alright, but every now and then toxicity would come through on the agent’s part.

Soon enough, it just devolved into you not answering her texts and her berating you. From your attitude, however, her berating was as good as yelling at a wall. Even he knew that you wouldn’t budge. But...you loved your career. That was obvious enough. You loved your job, you loved making music. What would happen if that got taken away?

Well, it wasn’t happening on his watch. He refused to be the reason you lost your job. So he did what he promised we wouldn’t. Jin searched your desk drawers. He had a feeling he knew what it was you were hiding, but he wanted to make sure. It was better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission in this case.

He rummaged around before he pulled out an old and tattered, leather bound, notebook. Inside were songs and lyrics dating all the way back to when you would have been in middle school. The handwriting got progressively messier, but your lyrics were...beautiful.

As he read over them, he was swept into another world. From cloudy skies to hazy summer afternoons, he read through your journey. The songs were cheesy at first, but then they slowly delved into darker subjects.

You wrote your mental health struggles, your relationship issues, your anger, everything was placed in this one leather notebook. It felt wrong to hold this much power, this much information, in his hands. Yet, they were technically your hands. Did he feel bad? Yes. Was he ever going to bring it up? No, because he valued his life.

“Y/N? Open up, I’ve got to brief you on the photoshoot!” A voice shouted from the front door.

Jin looked up, startled, and gently placed the journal where he found it. Then he rushed to the door.

“Who are you?” He barked.

“It’s Lisa, who else? Now open the door, we don’t have a ton of time!” Her voice was hurried, so he reluctantly opened the door.

“A photoshoot?” He breathed, confused.

“Yes, the big photoshoot for your comeback. Did you hit your head or something? This is all you’ve been talking about for the past month.” The girl, Lisa, rolled her eyes.

“More like switched bodies with my worst enemy.” He grumbled.

The blonde haired girl narrowed her eyes and he remembered his place. You were doing a good job at pretending to be him and it hadn’t even occurred to you, it seemed, to try and ruin his career. So the least he could do was to return the favor.

“What?”

“Sorry, nevermind.” He waved it off. How did you usually act with people? He never could tell. You were always snarky with him, but after reading your lyrics and walking around in your body, you didn’t seem to carry yourself that way.

“Well, as your agent, I really need you to get it together, alright?”

“You’re my agent?” He gaped. After seeing the way she treated you, it was all he could do to stop himself from rushing at her.

But he wouldn’t have the same strength he had when he was in his usual body. It was a little concerning how casual and easy it felt to be in another person’s body. It was like it was growing on him and he didn’t like it one bit. Jin was getting comfortable and the feeling of unease had been lost on him.

“Indeed I am. Y/N, are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine. Really.” He managed. The man settled himself on the couch while Lisa went over the requirements.

“So we’re looking here for a more mystical approach. I know it’s a lot different from your usual no nonsense approach, but this could be good in repainting your image and getting you into more drama. A little birdy told me Jin is doing the same concept, so hopefully you’ll attract some buzz.”

“Shouldn’t I…” He wasn’t sure how you spoke or treated your agent, so he fought for the right words. “Shouldn’t I look into distancing myself from the Jin drama?”

To his surprise, your agent furrowed her eyebrows. Lisa seemed appalled by this.

“Y/N. We’ve been over this. Jin is keeping you relevant, keeping you in the public eye. Your feud causes people to draw sides and therefore, we get more publicity. So don’t you understand? Jin is the reason you’re anybody.” the woman sniffed. “Focus on getting as many followers as possible before I set up the formal meeting to settle it, okay? Trust me, this is a mutually beneficial feud.”

Jin frowned. You had all these beautiful lyrics, songs that meant something. Was the feud really that important?

“So I’ve got some reference photos here.” Lisa threw a pile of photos onto the table. Jin just stared. How did they get these? They weren’t even released yet.

“Where did you get these?” He still had to get used to the higher tone of your voice and it was quite honestly disconcerting. It felt like he was nervous all the time.

“You know I have my connections.” She winked.

Jin picked up a laminated photo and turned it over in his hands. He didn’t know what to say, this was all insane.

“Hello?” The woman snapped her fingers several times. “You okay? It’s like you’ve been replaced or something. Hellooooo? Y/N? Are you in there?”

“You don’t know how right you are.” He mumbled.

“What?”

Jin blinked rapidly, trying to regain your sense of personality. Right, right, how did you usually act? He hoped he hadn’t just royally fucked you over. Sure, this may not be his body, but he felt a sense of responsibility, being the temporary caretaker.

“Ah, nevermind, nevermind.” He waved it off with a little laugh. The woman narrowed her eyes at him, but continued on.

“You’ll arrive on set at least two hours prior in order to get you all set up. Then we’ll shoot. You’ll have a fifteen minute break and then we’ll do it again. Then you’re free. I know it’s a lot harsher than you’re used to but-”

“That’s all?” He was happy to be in your place at this moment. You had it so easy!

“Yeah, as I said, it’s a little intense but-”

“Pshhh I’ll be fine.” He reassured her and though she looked skeptical, she just nodded and gathered her things.

“Be there, 6:00 P.M. Goodbye, Y/N.” She dipped her head and slipped out the door, slamming the wood behind her. The wall shook.

“What a sourpuss.” He let out a sigh of relief and deflated, leaning against the couch. His phone buzzed.

Taehyung’s number flashed on screen. He mentally prepared himself and then picked up the call.

“Hello Y/N, or should I say...Jin!” Taehyung’s mischievous voice crackled through the speaker.

“God, I don’t need another reminder.” He grumbled.

He had successfully pulled off the ‘I hate everything about this’ look. But in truth, he didn’t hate this. It wasn’t so bad and it was a nice vacation.

“Yeah, yeah, anyway, I did some research and well, the truth is, I found nothing.” Taehyung admitted. Before Jin could register this reality, the man on the other side continued. “But there’s gotta be a time limit. Maybe some other kind of limit. I’ll look into it.”

“Get on it, Kim.” Jin barked, growing tired of the conversation. “If you have nothing else important to say, just hang up.”

“Wow, so mean, Jin, to one of your closest friends too! Maybe Y/N was right about all that asshole stuff.”

“See!” You echoed from the background of the call.

“Is that Y/N? Y/N! Get on the phone right now, we need to have a talk about this!”

“Don’t you have a photoshoot in a bit?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Aw man,” Your voice came through clearer as Taehyung passed you the device. “I was really looking forward to it.”

“Looking forward to stealing my concept?!”

There was a long pause and you let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, Jin. I didn’t know until last week and it was too late to change.” Your voice was soft, gentle, and, dare he say, guilty?

He smoothed the wrinkles between his brows and paced between the couch and coffee table.

“It’s fine. You obviously don’t control your life.”

You actually felt hurt by that. Your expression went stony and cold, your grip on the device tightened.

“Yet you’re the one with every single part of your day scheduled down to the second.” You pulled the phone away bitterly to look at the piling notifications.

“It helps keep me on task.” He defended lamely.

“Why? It just seems...stressful. You have no free time. Honestly, it’s reckless, that’s what it is. One day you’re just going to collapse. You’re such an idiotic ass, you know? And don’t think I can’t feel the soreness in your muscles, Jin, because I can-”

His hands clenched into fists. Who were you to judge his lifestyle? Sure, he’d made fun of your wardrobe, but he hadn’t tried to insult you as...a person.

“-If I stop moving, I feel restless. It’s better to just wake up and gogo go until I can’t, then fall asleep. Do it all again. If I stop moving, it feels like death. Was that what you wanted?”

“No Jin, I didn’t mean to pry I-”

“Just stop talking. I never thought I’d see the day I was sick of hearing my own goddamn voice.” He said coldly and hung up.

You didn’t understand at all. And how could you? Sure, you were in his body, but it wasn’t like you had the years of training instilled in your brain or the knowledge that he accumulated through the time he’d been a star. He checked the time. The photoshoot was soon, and he planned to be there right on time.

“Why did you give me the stupidest smile.” You groaned, arm falling over your eyes in embarrassment.

“Hey, I work with what I got and I worked you hard. This just must be all you got.” Jin huffed, leaning back in his chair. “And what was up with that speech about Awake?”

“I meant every word.” You said firmly.

He was quiet for a moment, not having a retort. You didn’t like dragging things out and it was bound to come out sooner or later.

What terrified you was how easy it was to be Jin. It was like trying on clothes, but these fit better than anything you’d ever worn. Sure, it had been disorienting in the beginning, but now you’d learned so much about Jin. How he liked his coffee, what shoes he wore for which events, what his favorite shirt was, how he treated his staff, etc. The more you found out about Jin, the less you had to hate about him. Still, his ego was insufferable.

The whir of the fan in the room rotated and filled the silence. The greenery of his house was nice, but you preferred the ‘I’m poor and want to be fashionable’ feel your apartment had. Thus, you had agreed to meet with Seokjin to discuss the situation at his, your, place. You didn’t want to think about him rooting around your things, but honestly at this point, you might as well be naked around each other. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen it by now.

“I keep thinking about that night, Y/N.” Jin mumbled. “Why were we switched that night?”

You remained silent, pulling your arm away from your face and staring at the white ceiling. There was a crack in it that ran all the down the hallway. The paint was fading as well, giving away to the garish blue you had covered a year ago. There was still a stain in the left corner because Jennie had once projectile vomited up there when she had too much to drink. You shuddered at the memory.

“Maybe it had to do with the meteor shower.” You shrugged.

The new depth of your voice wasn’t disconcerting anymore and seeing him walking around in your body was fine, as long as he wasn’t screwing anything up, you could care less.

“Maybe.” He hummed in response.

“You know I still hate you.” You said, but you weren’t sure.

You wanted it to be that way, desperately, but nothing could be the same after whatever this was, was over. You wanted to go back to hating Seokjin’s guts.

“I do too.” He responded, but there was a lack of bite.

“I hate you. I hate your arrogant ass, your ego, and your guts.” You rolled over, locking eyes with him.

He was gazing at you, amusement in his features. You thought that you should look amused more often. Since the feud broke out, you usually wore a scowl or frown.

“But I hate myself more for being jealous of you.” You pointed at him. “Don’t you understand? Having an ego is a blessing. Being arrogant is a privilege. Normal people don’t get to just go around, brag about their accomplishments and be rewarded for that.”

He laughed softly, the high pitched noise tingling your ears. There were parts of him that showed through, even when he was in your body.

The first was his mannerisms. They were always more egotistical than what you usually went for. It was like he physically couldn’t choose wording that sounded humble.

The second was his smile. He still smiled the same way, lips peeling back to reveal pearly white teeth. It looked so unnatural on your face, but it suited him, always had.

The third and final one was his laugh. He would still laugh the same squeaky windshield wiper laugh. It was contagious.

The man stood and took your finger, which was still pointed at him, and slowly lowered it. He wrapped his hands around your own and held on tightly.

“Now why would you be jealous of me?”

You forgot his eyes. Despite them being yours, his eyes did not change. In his eyes, you saw sincerity, an emotion you once thought too complex for him.

“I’ve lived in your body for well over a week, Jin. You have a busy schedule and I’m exhausted at the end of every day, but...there’s security in that. You don’t have to feel like you’re hanging onto the end of a string that’s about to break 24/7.”

He nodded, seemingly mulling over your words.

“I’m jealous of you, Y/N.” The man said. It was so odd seeing words forming from your lips that you had not made. “I’m jealous of the way you can do what you like, the way you can speak your mind and no one cares. I’m jealous that you can make the music you want. Y/N, I’m jealous because your lyrics are beautiful, meaningful, and you’re allowed to sing them.” He continued on gently.

“You saw my lyrics?” Your throat went dry.

Those lyrics were your safe haven. They had been invaded by foreign eyes, yet you didn’t really mind it. He was in your body, living your life. He would have found it sooner or later.

“Yes, I did.” He dropped your hands. “I’m sorry, I know I said I wouldn’t-”

“No, Jin, it’s...it’s okay.” You smiled. Your gaze wandered, trying to looked anywhere but him.

“Now where do we go from here?”

“We just do our best, I think, roll with the punches.”

“The awards show is only a week away.”

“Then we do our best.”

“And if we don’t ever change back?”

“Jin,” You caught him firmly in your gaze. He froze and you wondered if that’s really what you looked like when you blushed. “We’ll do our best and everything will work itself out, I’m sure of it.”

“I trust you, then.”

The makeup artist brushed another streak of gold across your cheekbones. You held perfectly still.

“Almost done!” The artist squeaked, brushing over your chin now. The fine tips of the brush tickled your face and the gold dust floating through the air made you want to sneeze.

The roar of the crowd was a dull thud in the background next to your heartbeat. You were up next, the act before you just finished up. You could see the stage and the lights set for your turn.

You had spent the past week memorizing every detail, memorizing the lyrics, practicing your instrument of choice. It had been hectic, but it would be worth it. You were going to show the world you were a changed person. You took a deep breath, shaking out your arms and legs as the makeup artist drifted away.

You tried not to sweat or breathe too heavily as the large screens lit up to announce the next artist. As much as you wished it was your name showing up on that screen, it was not. Your name would be later in the program. No, right now, you were Kim Seokjin, superstar, worldwide handsome, and the most awaited performance of the night.

“Kim. Seok. Jin.” The announcer said, letting the stadium fill with cheers. You could only ever dream of this success and you thanked Jin for lending you his body.

On the stage, a grand piano rose to the top. It was empty, just waiting for someone to play it. You knew he was watching in the audience, waiting for his song to play, waiting to see how you sang it. You were thankful his vocal capabilities carried over to you through his body. You walked on stage and it was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. The audience was rightfully confused.

The past week, you had been brainstorming a way to make his piece stand out against the generic pop songs of the others. Blaring music just didn’t seem...it didn’t seem right for this song. It deserved a slower, more subtle production. So you set about learning it on piano. You had practiced until well into the morning every night and you were exhausted, but you knew it by heart.

You sat on the bench, the wood creaking loudly. It was like the audience had faded away and you were alone, practicing over and over, singing until you couldn’t any more. You smoothed out your pants and took a deep breath, hands hovering above the keys. Then you looked at the camera and gave his signature wink. Which led to a roll of laughter and shrieks from the crowd. Then it went quiet once more. You could have sworn you heard his laugh.

You played the first chord. Then the next. No going back now. Contrary to the audience’s belief, no dancers would come out halfway through, the music wouldn’t suddenly kick in. No, this would be the breather, the quiet song amidst the chaos. You took a deep breath, begging and praying for his godly stable vocals.

“It’s not that I believe it, but that I want to try holding out. Because this is all that I can do.” You began to sing Awake.

The song that helped bring you closer to its creator, the song that reminded you of the beginning of this mess. Yet, it no longer felt like a mess and more like a blessing. You had never thought it would be going on this long, though. Maybe Jin was right, maybe this would be forever? You played the next notes, hands dancing over the keys in a practiced and steady rhythm.

Three Years Ago

“Oh, Jennie, please can you grab my lyrics? I left them on the desk, they’re really messy so you should recognize them!” You called to your friend. She nodded and hurried back inside to fetch the papers.

At BigHit Entertainment, you planned to be a producer, nothing else. You wanted to produce music, make tons of money off royalties, and retire early. That was the plan, until they suggest you try out to be an idol.

You didn’t work well in a group, far too stubborn, so they set you on the solo track. You were currently writing your first album and your debut was coming up fast.

The entirety of your body ached. Your legs were sore from running and your feet hurt from standing all day. Your arms screamed in pain when you tried to lift anything due to the amount of dance practice you’d been in.

The thing that was the worst, was your throat. You weren’t a singer, okay. You sang a bit, but not a ton, and even with vocal lessons, singing for upwards of four hours a day was taxing on your body. The things that really helped were your friends and sleep.

Sadly you got neither of those things. Without being in a girl group, you barely knew anyone and you had maybe four hours of sleep a night with studying and practice. Besides, you had maybe one person you could consider a friend; Jennie. And you had another you could consider a rival.

Kim Seokjin. Multi-talented, sculpted like the gods, and arrogant as shit. He only ever rolled his eyes when you were around and he never had anything nice to say to you or anyone else. He kissed ass as well. Just another thing you hated about him.

Okay, so hate was a strong word, but you very much disliked him. He just never seemed to like your guts, no matter what you did. At first, it had been intimidating, but now it was just annoying.

“Well, well, well, Y/N.” Speak of the devil.

“Just get it over with.” You groaned, turning to face the handsome prick. “What do you want?”

“Just some company.” He said innocently. “I’m waiting for the bus to the dorms as well.” He explained, brushing a hand through his hair.

“Sure. Well, I hope you enjoy silence, because that’s what I love best.” You dug around your bag and withdrew your earbuds.

You plugged in your phone and popped in one bud just as Jennie came running back. She was barely sweating, even after running up and down the stairs for your notes. Cardio was intense for the more dance based girl groups.

“Here you go!” She said, oblivious to the tension around you and Jin.

“Oh thank you.” You shot her a weak smile.

“Bye!” She waved, rushing out the door to her waiting members.

You watched her leave, begging her to stay with your eyes. Once her van was pulling out, you sighed. Great, now you were stuck with Jin. You glanced down at the papers. Oh shit. These are not your papers. You cursed under your breath.

“Whatcha got there, Y/N?” He broke the silence, peering over your shoulder.

You immediately slapped the papers to your chest. What if he thought you were stealing? When could you sneak back and put them away?

“Let me see.” He whined, craning over your shoulder before finally stepping in front of you. “Is it lyrics? It’s okay, I just want to hear!”

“N-no!” You stuttered, folding up the papers. “Just schoolwork I forgot.”

He narrowed his eyes, the playful look gone. Maybe you should have just told the truth.

“Show me what you have in your hands, Y/N.” He said darkly, his voice smooth and monotone.

You felt like a child about to be scolded. When you didn’t respond, he reached forward and plucked it out of your hands.

“Oh I see. So now you’re just stealing from me.”

“What? No!”

“Then why do you have my lyrics in your hands?!”

“I was going to return them I swear!”

“Yeah, right.”

Before you could explain yourself, he strutted outside. “I won’t forget this, Y/N.”

A paper fluttered to the ground and you rushed to pick it up, but he was already gone. The paper was in a puddle and you hurriedly scooped it up. The ink was already ruined. At the top of the page, the words Awake by Kim Seokjin were bleeding down the page.

The audience was hushed, confused by the somber tone. Still, many people had smiles on their faces or perhaps a little tear in their eyes. You continued the song to the end. The melody carried over the quiet stadium like a ghost. The haunting appeal drew more in every second. Televisions from around the world tuned in to watch, eyes glued to the screen. So this is what it feels like to have the world’s eyes on you.

Backstage, Jin watched the performance silently. His eyes remained on the screen, even through his makeup and wardrobe. His own sweet voice pierced the room. Was that how he sounded? He always joked that he was ‘the best singer’ but in his heart, he never believed it. The man smoothed down the dress. It complimented your body well, and he was reminded that this was indeed your body and not his.

Whenever someone called ‘Jin’ or ‘Y/N’, both of you would turn around. It was actually pretty funny to watch. Your agent cursed.

“He’s going to sweep the awards again with a ballsy performance like that.” Lisa muttered.

“I never knew my song could be sung like that.” He murmured. Then he straightened up, playing your part dutifully. “It’s too slow, honestly.” he rolled his eyes and Lisa snickered along with him.

“Half of the staff are sleeping.” Lisa mused, before turning back to check over her list.

Jin took a deep breath. “Lisa.” He turned to the woman, who didn’t even look up. “I want to end the feud with Jin. It’s unnecessary and hurting my career and reputation beyond repair.”

The woman blinked a few times. Then she laughed.

“That’s hilarious. If you can somehow convince Jin to let that happen, then by all means, be my guest, but I’m sure he also realizes how necessary you are to building his career.”

“I’m sure he’ll agree.” He said coldly, lacing his fingers together. Lisa narrowed her eyes before turning back to her list.

“Like I said, only if you can convince him, because I won’t.”

The piano slowly faded to silence. You held your breath, standing and bowing. It was quiet for a moment, then a roll of applause fell over the audience. It felt like waves crashing over your body. You smiled sheepishly, blowing a kiss to the camera for fanservice points. Then you exited the stage where Jin, I mean, you, were getting ready to go on next.

He eyed you as you stepped out. Then, just as you were about to slip by, he grasped your arm.

“Good job.” His voice was quiet. You nodded at his words, taken off guard. He dropped his hand and you softly whispered back.

“I never stole your music, you know.” You said, saying what had been on your mind for the past three years.

“I know.” He said, his grin fading.

“Good.” You said stiffly. “Good luck out there, Y/N.”

He shot you a cocky smile and strutted out on stage.

“For best artist of the year, the nominees are…” The announcer stood on stage, a golden envelope in hand. “Kim Seokjin.”

A roar of applause came from the crowd and fangirls squealed loudly. You winked at the camera and then face forward. A short montage of Jin played on screen.

“Y/L/N Y/N.”

You watched a compilation of yourself and applauded their work. They made you look pretty nice. There was a similar ripple of applause.

“Kim Taehyung.”

The same occurred, but he remained stoic throughout the montage. His eyes flicked warily over between you and Jin.

“And Jeon Jungkook.”

Rinse and repeat.

You held your breath.

“And the winner is…”

You made eye contact with Jin across the way. You were seated directly in front of the stage and he was seated further to the left. He smiled and nodded. You felt your heart rate accelerate. Was it you? It was the last award of the night, it had to be you. And yet, you would never feel that rush of applause, never get to make that speech, because of this stupid curse. Maybe it was your fault for wishing it.

“Y/L/N Y/N!” The announcer shouted and you watched Jin stand from his place.

You watched him step up the stairs careful not to trip on the dress, and take a stand at the microphone. In his hands was a trophy, it’s cool metal gleaming. How many times had you wished to hold that trophy? To feel the weight of it in your hands.

“Hello.” He spoke, the mic rang a little and he chuckled. “It is such an honor to be receiving this award. I would like to thank my parents, for supporting me,” Now that was a bold faced lie, but you let him off the hook.

“My agent, for helping to boost me to success, and all the hardworking staff at BigHit for making this dream come true.”

It was the usual speech. Boring. You would have made it far more memorable. You tried your best not to let jealousy blind you in this moment.

“But my real speech here is for anyone who feels they can’t do what they like. You see, I know a girl who writes beautiful lyrics, lyrics that take you to another dimension and music that does the same.”

“Yet, our industry does not reward simply passion for the craft, it rewards your dedication to your company and the ability to follow directions.”

“We, as artists, need to learn how to inspire confidence in ourselves and others, so that we can make the music we want to.” He took a deep breath. “Your greatest fear...maybe even your greatest enemy,” He found your eyes in the crowd.

“May be your greatest weapon.”

And in that moment, he took a step forward towards the mic and you felt a tugging sensation. You blinked and you were standing at the mic, your eyes trained to the crowd.

You were you again. And you got to enjoy the standing ovation, the swell of the crowd like a rising tide. Yet, your eyes still went to him. You didn’t hate Kim Seokjin anymore.

You admired him, you were jealous of him, but you found yourself liking him. That laugh of his, which you would have thought annoying, was now a tally mark of reasons why you enjoyed his company.

You found him in the crowd, despite the dimness of the lights. He was still seated, getting his bearings. A smile easily made its way onto your face and you met eyes. The man simply smiled at you and raised his glass.

Maybe I, I can never fly I can’t fly like the flower petals over there Or as though I have wings Maybe I, I can’t touch the sky Still, I want to stretch my hand out I want to run Just a bit more

Some people I wanted to tag! @youarejesting @moccahobi @yoongi-sugaglider

#kim seokjin #bts #bts x reader #seokjin #jin #jin x reader #enemies to friends #fluff #angst #A Mile in My Shoes #Platonic!Seokjin #tatawrites #castlebangtan #100 followers celebration #body swap au

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

To Travel Through the World and Not Be Alone (Good Omens Fic)

Last week I asked for some more fluffy prompts, and @sparkkeyper suggested Crowley getting flustered and turning into a snake. Well, it looks like I’ve used up all my “Short Fic” mojo for the time being, as the result was over 10k and is available on AO3.

I really, really tried to make this one light and silly, but my brain does not operate that way, and so...a somewhat emotional deconstruction of the trope I guess?

Aziraphale stepped out from the dubious shelter of a sharply angled rock, shaking the last of the rain from his wings. Since leaving Eden the weather had certainly become much more variable. Days so hot his skin ached, nights that left him shaking with cold, a dryness that got into his mouth and eyes, and then – quite unexpectedly – more rain! Not as much as the first time, of course, but unpleasant enough.

The demon, Crawly, had been walking by his side, as he generally did, nattering on about the way sand moved in the wind and something about camel noses, but he trailed off as the rain began to fall. Aziraphale had lifted his wing to offer a bit of protection, until he noticed the rock in the distance, just tall enough for two man-shaped beings to crouch behind. Perfect, he’d thought and quickly gave Crawly’s hand a tug, intending to lead him over. Instead, the demon had all but run from him, vanishing into the night without another word.

Odd, that.

Stretching his arms in the bright morning sunlight, Aziraphale took a deep breath. Lovely, really, the slightly moist smell of the air after a rain. He suspected it would be even more pleasant once they found a place a bit more like the Garden itself – lush and green, rather than this endless expanse of sand, stone, and stunted trees.

He could see the humans up ahead, packing up their camp. The shelter they’d found had been no better, and Aziraphale hoped the cold and the damp hadn’t done any harm to the Woman or the child she carried within her. Quite a lot was riding on that yet-unborn human. There was still a chance the whole of humanity could end, now, here, in the blink of an eye. But the Man put a hand on the Woman’s shoulder, and she smiled, shaking her head, and helped him pick up their supplies.

As they moved out, Aziraphale began to follow after, but stumbled as some sort of black shadow twisted away into the brush, moving too quickly for him to make out. His body helpfully supplied a massive dose of adrenaline, which sent Aziraphale’s heart racing.

Steady on, he warned himself. It would take some getting used to, these human instincts, but there was no reason he couldn’t control himself. He was, after all, an angel. Aziraphale forced his breath back into a steady rhythm, expelled the unneeded chemicals from his system. That was better. He squinted at the line of dried-out bushes, then tilted back his head to scan the sky, but whatever had cast the shadow seemed long gone.

Well. Probably nothing important.

Already, the humans were fading into the distance, but it wouldn’t be difficult to keep up. Day by day, the Woman grew larger about the middle, and their pace slowed. The real danger was not accidentally overtaking them, or stumbling across them at rest and revealing themselves.

Both he and Crawly had received orders to observe the humans until their child was born. Not to protect, or disrupt, or involve themselves in any way – simply to observe. As for how to deal with each other – they’d been given no instruction whatsoever.

And so, for the past week, they’d passed their days traveling together, trailing behind the humans unseen. Aziraphale had expected it to be a time of silent contemplation, but Crawly had apparently never heard of such a thing. He constantly pestered Aziraphale with questions, tried to make conversation about topics that, if not technically forbidden, were certainly better left alone. He crouched sometimes, digging around in the sand, never saying what he was looking for. It was an annoyance, but whenever he was out of sight, Aziraphale found himself worrying. What is he getting up to now? And when will he be back?

He found he didn’t like being alone. Which was absurd – he was an angel – a Guardian. Being alone for long stretches of time was part of his job description, his very being. And yet, in the same way his body was programmed to overreact to every shadow, it also needed to have other bodies around, to see them, hear them, possibly even to touch them. Unfortunately, until the Woman delivered her child and Aziraphale was allowed to reveal himself to the humans, his only option was the strange demon who talked too much and wandered off without warning.

Just as Aziraphale was certain he would lose sight of the humans – and was making up his mind to leave without the demon, and let him find his own way – Crawly materialized, stepping out from behind a sand dune and shuffling over to Aziraphale.

“It’s about time,” the angel said in a low voice, ignoring the unwelcome wave of relief. “I hope you’re not planning to leave me waiting for you like this all the time. And where, precisely, did you go?”

“Not far.” Crawly shrugged, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Anyway. You don’t have to wait for me.”

“You’re planning something, aren’t you? We agreed not to interfere until the child’s birth – these humans been through enough, Crawly, and they don’t need you—”

“Sssss’not that.” His lips twisted as if he’d eaten something sour, then pressed flat again. “Didn’t go anywhere near them. Promise.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he believed that, but up ahead the humans had already vanished into the heat-hazy distance, apart from the flare of the flaming sword and a long line of dark footprints. “If you say so. Keep up now, Crawly, there’s a good fellow.”

After two more weeks, their path began to run alongside a stony ridge. The base of it was cool, a little damp, and small flowers grew there, shielded from the sun. The humans had paused up ahead, and so Aziraphale stood watching them, grateful for a chance to rest in the shade.

Crawly, on the other hand, was causing some sort of trouble again.

“Look at these!” He tugged at one of the plants. “Have you ever seen anything like them?”

Aziraphale glanced down. Tiny flowers, just a speck of white or red on a thick stem growing out of a mass of green, low but thick. “We had much larger ones in the Garden,” Aziraphale commented. The humans were gathering rocks, it seemed, tapping them against the exposed stone of the ridge.

“Yeah, but look!” He’d been going on like this all day, digging at plants, collecting funny stones, running over to show each to Aziraphale, as proudly as if the demon had created them himself. It didn’t seem to be harmful or wicked behavior, but Aziraphale couldn’t decide what to make of it. “No water, no sunlight, barely even any soil to root in. You wouldn’t think anything could grow here. But they—oops.”

“You killed it, didn’t you?”

“No, just – look I pulled off the flower. The rest is fine.” Crawly wandered over just as the humans seemed to finish their task. The Man took the Woman’s hand – how odd, to walk like that, yet it didn’t seem to slow them down – and together they headed eastwards. Aziraphale stepped out of the shadow of the wall, and bumped directly into the demon. Crawly skittered back, clearly struggling with his own adrenaline, though Aziraphale had mastered that particular unwanted reaction ages ago.

“Terribly sorry,” the angel said, brushing his hands down his robe. Crawly’s dirt-smeared arms had left a mark, but he found he repeated the action more times than necessary. “But, please, Crawly – learn to pay attention to where you stand.” Another brush of his hands. It was soothing, in a way.

“I meant to be standing there.” The demon scowled. “I was going to show you…here.” He thrust the flower towards Aziraphale.

It was a bit unusual. Formed into a little cup, petals strangely thick to store the rare water of the desert. A sturdy little plant, a survivor, but beautiful in its own way. He plucked it from Crawly’s fingers, in order to study it from every angle. Their fingers brushed each other in passing, and Aziraphale found he was rather more aware of the contact than justified for such a minor thing. “It’s…quite nice, I suppose.”

“Good.” Crawly stepped back, fingers twisting in his robe. “Um. You can have that.”

“I see. And…what am I meant to do with it?”

Crawly shrugged. “Whatever you want. Just thought, you know. Flowers. Very angelic. Let’s go.”

He hurried along the ridge while Aziraphale looked at the flower again, fighting back a smile. Did it look better after their now, after their brief exchange of words? He found himself admiring the way the petals faded from dark to light.

“Oi! Angel!” His head jerked up. Crawly had stopped at the same spot where the humans had paused. “Come look at this!”

Tucking the flower into his sleeve, Aziraphale quickly stepped beside him, glancing over to see what the fuss was about.

“Oh, that is…” but words escaped him. Somehow, the humans had made marks in red and yellow, white and black across the stone. Not just marks, shapes.

Aziraphale could see two rough, humanoid figures standing hand-in-hand, one holding a brilliant yellow line. The sun illuminated the rock ahead of the figures, and cast a deep shadow behind. Other, simpler marks indicated parts of their journey – a hint of storm clouds, the line of the Garden Wall, a lion, crouched, ready to pounce.

“I think…” Aziraphale’s gaze traced it, east to west. “I believe this is what they call art.”

“Huh. Thought it was gonna be, y’know. Fancier.”

“Well, they’re just starting out. I’m sure we’ll see improvements soon.”

“Right.” Crawly was digging around in the dirt again, and stood quickly with a lump of charcoal. “Just need to make a few adjustments.” He rubbed the dark, crumbling stone against the ridge, making a black streak some distance behind the two figures.

“Crawly! What are you – you can’t – that isn’t allowed!”

“Oh, what, now it’s forbidden to make marks with rocks? Heaven is nothing but stupid rules these days.”

“No – yes – you’re distorting something the humans created!”

“I’m making it more accurate.” He stepped back, studying the newest figure. Thin and black, legs splayed in a funny way, arms spread by its sides. “That’s me, following behind. Hand me some red ochre, gotta do my hair, too.”

“This is, without a doubt – we’re supposed to be observers, not – not making ourselves part of the – what are you doing?”

Fingers now coated in ground-up lime, Crawly was dabbing another figure onto the stone. Brilliant white, and with a bit more care taken to the limbs, this one stood close beside the black one.

“Adding you, of course. Little me can’t be up there alone.” He glanced at the two human figures, then rubbed at his own one last time, extending the white figure’s arm to end…just where the black’s did.

Hand-in-hand.

“What do you think?” Crawly asked, rolling his neck as if he’d just finished some strenuous task.

“It’s…” Aziraphale stepped closer. “I mean, you really shouldn’t…” His mind raced, trying to think of any response that would be even remotely appropriate. This was a…a gross breach of protocol, surely, and Aziraphale had to…put his foot down, make it clear such things were not acceptable.

Instead, rather without his direction, his hand drifted over to clasp the demon’s.

Once again, it seemed the work gained more beauty the longer he looked at it. And Aziraphale found he was very aware of Crawly’s hand, just as he had been of his fingers. Crawly squeezed his hand, an uncertain, welcoming gesture, and Aziraphale felt a strange tingle, a rush of warmth roiling up his arm, filling his head. He squeezed back—

“Sorry. Gotta.” Crawly dropped his hand and bolted away, back up the path they had just walked down.

“Don’t be ridiculous, that isn’t even—!”

Vanished.

Aziraphale waited a long moment, wondering if he would return. It gave him ample time to study the wall, the little flower. His own hand.

Then, with a sigh, he followed after the humans alone.

When Crawly returned, just before sunset, he didn’t mention running off. Or the art. Or the flower that Aziraphale had carefully set aside on a rock where he had stopped to rest.

Probably best to forget it all, then.

More weeks passed, enough that Aziraphale lost count, and the humans came to a river.

Not perfectly clear-blue water running merrily over rocks and under sweeping trees, as they’d had in Eden, but a large brownish affair making its way between steep banks covered in reeds. There were some trees, larger than the ones in the desert, and fruits hung from them for the humans to gather. It was painstaking work, as they grew too high, or over thorny patches. Some fruits were too ripe, others not quite ready. The Woman was also in no state to be climbing trees, so the Man did most of the work, tossing fruits down for her to catch.

“I know we said not to interfere,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his palms together. Another habit that seemed ingrained in the body, but it seemed to help his worries. Perhaps he’d keep it. “But surely it wouldn’t hurt to – to lend a hand, would it?”

“Wuzzat?”

The angel turned, ready to repeat the question, until he saw something that put the humans out of his mind entirely. Crawly had tied his robe up around his knees and was walking along in the river.

“What on earth are you doing, you – you strange creature?”

“It’s hot,” the demon griped, scooping up some water to pour over his head. More of it got on his robes than anywhere else.

“Well, now you’ll be hot and covered with dripping wet clothing, does that really sound more appealing?”

“Don’t know, haven’t tried it.” Crawly reached into the water again, drenching his sleeves. He frowned as they emerged. “No, that’s…heavier. Not very comfortable. But…a little less hot.” He squeezed his sleeve, water dripping back into the river. “Could take the clothing off entirely,” he mused. “That might work.”

“Now you’re being absurd. It isn’t allowed!”

“It isn’t?”

“No! There are – Crawly there are rules.”

“Only for the humans. And look, they’re not wearing nearly as much as I am.” He tugged at his dripping garment again. “I can wrap some leaves around my bottom if that will make you feel better.”

“It’s not about making me feel better! It’s – it’s the principle of the thing. You and I should be setting a good example for the humans, not…not…” He waved helplessly as Crawly arched his back to dip his hair into the water.

“This is a good example! Problem solving! Using the available resources to make yourself more comfortable. If the humans bothered to look back and see us, they might learn a lot.” He flipped his hair forward, spraying droplets everywhere. “You wanna join me?”

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale rubbed his hand at the back of his neck, where itchy sweat was beginning to accumulate. “We have more important things to worry about right now, like—” He glanced back to where the Man lowered himself from the tree, seemingly entirely unharmed. The Woman smiled and handed him a piece of fruit, which he accepted gratefully.

“You know the humans are fine without you.”

That, surprisingly, hurt. Aziraphale found, more and more lately, he had a strong desire to join the humans. To walk beside them, to hear what they said, to laugh when they laughed. When he watched them walk away together, he felt…oddly empty.

An emptiness that vanished when he turned back to Crawly. Much as the demon grated on his nerves, Aziraphale found he enjoyed his company. When he spotted Crawly crouching in the shade of a tree, long fingers scratching at the ground, or scrambling up a ridge of stone to see what was on the top – there was always a bubble of anticipation, an eagerness to see what he’d found, to see that shining excitement in his eyes.

He felt it now, as Crawly waded deeper into the water to investigate a log floating in the current.

“I mean, m’not saying you should give up or anything, but…you can’t spend every day worrying about them. They’ll be fine.”

“Of course I spend every day worrying. I’m a Guardian, it’s my nature to want to help and protect those around me.”

“Ohhhh, is that why you’re always nagging me? Or is it because—”

Without warning, the log split into an enormous, tooth-filled jaw, lunging forward to snap at Crawly. With a yelp, the demon tumbled backwards, kicking water at the revealed crocodile, scrambling back towards the shore.

Aziraphale rushed forward, colliding with Crawly, wrapping one arm firmly over his chest to pull him back to safety; the other hand he flapped at the snapping creature. “Shoo!” he called and, just to be safe, put a note of angelic command in his voice: “WE ARE OF NO INTEREST TO YOU.”

The crocodile snapped its jaws one more time before turning away, lowering itself again to float downriver.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, trying to settle his mind. The adrenaline had flooded him again, but this time it had helped, giving him the speed he needed to react. Perhaps these instincts could be useful, if properly regulated. Unlike Crawly, who still clutched at Aziraphale’s arm, heart racing so that the angel could feel it. He pressed Crawly back a little more firmly against his own chest. “I hope you’ve, ah, learned your lesson.” He wasn’t sure what lesson exactly they should take from this, but he needed to continue his policy of blanket disapproval of all demonic nonsense.

“That thing—” Crawly started, but his voice pinched off, too tight to speak.

“That thing could have bitten your leg off,” Aziraphale chided, brushing Crawly’s torso with his free hand, making sure everything was intact. “I’m not sure if I can heal a demon at all, and I certainly can’t regrow limbs. You must learn to be more careful, my dear fellow.”

His eyes met Crawly’s enormous golden ones, and a heat rose in Aziraphale’s face that had nothing to do with the sun and the desert.

“I, uh…” Crawly very nearly blinked. He tilted his head back a little further and his breath brushed across Aziraphale’s cheek in a startling way.

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale let him go, though his arms seemed slow to obey.

Immediately, Crawly scrambled away, jumping into the thickest part of the reeds.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Crawly! Is it too much to ask that you comport yourself with a little…” But when he looked along the riverbank, there was no sign of the demon.

Aziraphale took a good long while to search – until the humans had finished their mid-morning meal and begun walking again – but all he managed to find was the usual wildlife: rodents, reptiles, a few birds.

“Typical,” Aziraphale muttered. Such strange behavior had become increasingly common as they traveled, and the angel had learned by now that if Crawly didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. Best to just keep walking while the demon got over today’s mood; Crawly always managed to catch up in the end.

Sure enough, well after sunset, a dark-robed figure slunk over to the spot Aziraphale had chosen to rest in. “Angel,” he mumbled in greeting.

“And where were you this time?” He felt another wave of relief, but sternly reminded himself not to encourage the demon. “Honestly, I half thought some river creature had devoured you, and it would serve you right for – for disturbing it…”

Crawly didn’t say anything, merely dropped onto the ground and stared at the light of the humans’ fire, far ahead. Not even a glance at Aziraphale.

When the silence had drawn on too long, Aziraphale lowered himself to sit beside Crawly. “I…am glad you’re unhurt, you know.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t know what to make of that, so they sat in silence for the rest of the night.

“Aha!” Crawly crowed, leaping from one rock to the next, pale skin flashing in the sunlight. “I knew this was going to be better!”

“I’m sure it is,” Aziraphale said as neutrally as possible, trying to keep his eyes on the path ahead.

“You can’t even imagine! I feel so much lighter! I can finally move!” He dropped into the river with a splash, Aziraphale turning quickly to make sure Crawly was unharmed. But, no, he stood in the shallows, tossing water all over his bare skin. “This is…Angel, you have to try this!”

“And why, precisely, would I want to do that?”

“I told you, it feels good. Washes off the sweat and – I dunno. Like the heat can’t touch you through the water. Just come down, I’ll show you.”

“Crawly, get out of there. I’m not about to see you be devoured by wildlife again.”

“It’s ffffine.” But he hopped out, dashing up the path to a fruit tree. Before Aziraphale could say anything, he’d pulled himself up onto the lowest branch.

“Crawly! No, get down, you’ll break your neck and…and…”

“Why do you worry so much?” He pulled himself higher and higher, vanishing among the leaves. “I’m a demon, I’m not going to fall unless I want to.”

“I’ve told you, I’m a Guardian, it’s my nature—”

But surely Crawly couldn’t hear him all the way up there. A head emerged from the crown of the tree, gazing out into the distance as the wind stirred his bright red hair, sending streamers in every direction. He glanced down at Aziraphale and waved and, quite at a loss, the angel waved back.

He almost wanted to join Crawly. Not with the nakedness, though his robes were getting to be something of a burden, ending each day heavy with dust and sweat. But it seemed peaceful up there, cooler. And ever since the incident with the crocodile, Aziraphale had been feeling a strange urge, to be near the demon, to touch him, to ensure that he was safe.

Perhaps it was related to the instinct that compelled him towards proximity to the humans. That made sense; lacking options, his mind was trying to reach out for the only other being available. Though that didn’t really explain the strength of the urge, or why it seemed to grow daily as they spent more time together.

Crawly’s head disappeared. Branches rustled, leaves falling along the riverbank, and suddenly he dropped onto the lowest branch, grinning like he had a secret. “Look, I know you’re hot, Angel. Just admit it.”

“Certainly not! I am perfectly content as I am,” Aziraphale lied, trying to subtly flap the collar of his robes to let in a little air. “Perhaps it is your…Fallen nature, but I am completely immune to the effects of the environment.”

“Are you? Here, catch.” Something flew towards Aziraphale’s head, and his hands barely snapped up in time to grab the oddly shaped, greenish fruit. “I think that’s a pear,” Crawly continued. “Also, pretty sure it’s ripe.”

Golden eyes sparkling with excitement, he grabbed the branch with two hands and leaned back a little with an eager smile.

Aziraphale studied the fruit, turning it over in his hands. Well. No point in being rude, was there? He raised it to his lips and took a bite.

The inside was soft, but not too soft, with an oddly gritty texture. More importantly, it flooded his tongue with a mildly flavored liquid, sweet and refreshing. He’d gotten so used to his mouth being dry, Aziraphale had stopped thinking about the discomfort, but this – this was exactly what he needed. He eagerly took a few more bites.

“Oh,” he finally said, glancing up at Crawly, who still watched from his perch. “This is absolutely marvelous.” He wiped the juice from his chin and smiled.

Crawly grinned back, swinging his legs with a bit too much excitement, but it was an infectious excitement, bubbling up in Aziraphale’s chest with every bite.

Until, suddenly, Crawly’s expression fell, as did he, dropping from the tree to scramble about on all fours, racing back the way they’d come. “Don’t wait for me,” he called when he managed to get his feet under him, and by the time Aziraphale had even turned around, he had vanished again.

Well. At least it was quieter now. Aziraphale took another bite of his pear and continued his walk.

He was, by this point, getting used to Crawly’s unexplained disappearances. He never arrived later than the following dawn, and sure enough he caught up just as the humans were settling down to sleep. Once again, he didn’t say much or even look at Aziraphale, merely crouched on the ground, watching the distant firelight.

The next morning, however, was a different story.

“Ow! Stop that, it hurts.”

“Well, I do apologize, but I need to know what’s wrong!” Aziraphale rubbed his finger again across Crawly’s now bright-red skin, peppered here and there with some truly nasty looking blisters. It was extremely hot to the touch.

“Sssstop!” Crawly tried to wriggle away, but he was firmly trapped: Aziraphale sat on his back, legs pinning the demon’s hips in place, one hand lightly on his shoulder, but ready to press it flat into the dirt if required.

“If you don’t stop moving around, I’m not going to be able to help you.”

“You aren’t – this is torture, that’s what it is. Bloody sadistic angel!”

“It would appear you have burns covering every inch of your skin. How on earth does that even happen? What were you getting up to yesterday?”

“Nothing! Just – you saw. Walking around. Wanted some space’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“Ngk. Might have. Stretched out on a rock to bask for a bit at noon. Felt good.”

Aziraphale sat, considering the boiled red of Crawly’s back and his own slightly pink hands, the itch at the back of his neck. He’d been working on a hypothesis, and this would seem to be his first clear bit of proof.

“Crawly, I believe you’ve been burnt by the sun.”

“Didn’t go to the sun,” Crawly grumbled.

“This is no laughing matter. I understand burns can cause permanent damage to humans.” He brushed his fingers down Crawly’s spine, carefully avoiding the blisters, but even that was enough to send the demon squirming. “Does this hurt?”

“Yes it hurts! What have I been saying? Are you even listening?”

“I am,” Aziraphale assured him, looking for any spot that was still mostly pale. “How about this?” He pressed fingers into the side of Crawly’s ribs, just under the armpit.

“Ssssssss…not as bad, but yes.” At least he’d stopped struggling, but still Crawly’s fingers curled into the dirt, scraping deeply in the brown clay.

“If I’m right, the burn is the worst in areas that received the most exposure to the sun, and only light or incidental in areas that were shaded or protected.” There weren’t many of those. Crawly was a very thorough basker.

“Wait, really?” He started to twist around to look at Aziraphale, then cringed and looked forward again. “You think human skin can be burned just from being out in the heat?”

“Perhaps. I’m still gathering evidence.”

“Well, the humans aren’t getting burned!”

Aziraphale bit back another remark about Crawly’s Fallen nature. That wouldn’t be helpful here. “I’m not quite sure why that is,” he admitted. “But my own burns are very minor, perhaps theirs are the same. Certainly, they keep to the shade as much as possible, particularly in the hottest part of the day. Meanwhile, you are the first one to spend half the day lying naked in direct sunlight.”

“Not half the day.” Crawly whimpered a little as Aziraphale pressed his shoulders down one more time. “Seems a major design flaw, you ask me,” he grumbled.

“Hush, now.” Aziraphale lifted his hands and rubbed them together, summoning just a thin line of celestial power. “This may sting a little.”

“What? What are you doing now? Everything stings!” Another squirm as Crawly tried to pull free, but there was very little chance of that.

“I’m going to heal you, if you can hold still, you ridiculous thing.”

“Heal me?” Crawly went still and stiff. “Why?”

“Why? Because you’re in pain. What other reason do I need?” He reached a finger towards the worst burn, then hesitated. Could he dilute his power even further? “What did you think I was doing back here?”

“Dunno. Thought you were just…curious. Or wanted to learn for the humans.”

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale traced his finger across Crawly’s shoulders. It left behind a trail of bright white, which rippled out several finger-widths in every direction, a wave of healing that left behind unburnt skin. He sighed in relief. “Well…there was that, too, but I thought I’d made it clear by now, I have no interest in seeing you come to harm. Even if it is harm by your own doing,” he added, so that Crawly could be sure he wasn’t entirely off the hook for his choices.

“So…you’ll…heal all of it? Entirely? No…leaving scars so I learn my lesson?”

“Crawly! How could you even think such a thing?” He pushed his fingers to the healed skin. It was a bit darker, browner than before, with a smattering of darker spots. “Does this hurt? Or here?”

“No…it’s…it’s good.” He lay his head on the ground, seeming subdued.

“Wonderful. This shouldn’t take too long.”

Down by the river’s edge, the humans finished picking up their woven mats and bundles of food. “They’re getting away,” Crawly muttered as they wandered down the river.

“We’ll catch up,” Aziraphale assured him, carefully applying just a touch of healing along his spine.

“You’re not worried? Thought it was your job.”

He glanced up, taking another look at the Woman, her blossoming belly, the Man helping her step over a patch of rough earth. He did feel an emptiness, a need to follow them, but it felt less important, less urgent, than the task in front of him. He smoothed away a particularly horrid patch of burn, and Crawly murmured with relief, a relief Aziraphale felt in his own chest.

What was this? The human need for proximity, an instinct he still couldn’t control? His own Guardian nature, perhaps, leading him to want to protect the being nearest to him?

Both of these, yes. And something more. Something that made him wish to see Crawly running across the riverbank, carefree and smiling again.

“Why did you disappear so suddenly anyway?” Aziraphale asked, carefully working on Crawly’s arm.

“Nrrrg. Just…wanted to be alone. Don’t you want to be alone sometimes?”

“Well…yes, but…” But I’d thought we were having a good time.

“Aaaaah, s’not fair!”

Aziraphale moved to kneel beside the demon, and Crawly rolled over, sitting up so he could watch Aziraphale heal his legs. “I used to handle actual stars, you know. In my bare hands! Now look, I can’t even stand in the light of one without…this.” He gestured to his still-burned front.

“You were fine for many days, Crawly. You just have to be careful.” The bottoms of his feet were fine, at least. Perhaps the thicker skin had helped protect them. “And, I think, keep your robes on. They seem to block the burning aspect of sunlight.”

“But I don’t want to be careful.” Aziraphale released his foot and Crawly crossed his legs tightly so the angel could start on his chest. “I want to explore. Experience things, everything, now while I can.”

“What do you mean, while you can? The world is going to be here for a good long while, regardless of what happens to the humans.”

“Mmmmph.” His shoulders hunched forward from something unrelated to the pain, and Crawly looked away. “Not supposed to tell you.”

“Ah.” His thumb ran across Crawly’s throat. “Then don’t.”

“I’m not…actually supposed to do anything when the child is born. Just, watch the humans, learn what I can, and then back to Hell until they decide what to do with me.” He shrugged, still not looking at the angel.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s fingers moved slowly across Crawly’s chest.

“Guess I surprised them all, with everything in the Garden. Don’t know what to do now, right? Your side has a Plan. My side needs information, to figure out what to do. So they gave me until the humans have their child, then I go back, tell them everything. Maybe...maybe they’ll send me back to Earth. Maybe they’ll send someone else. Maybe it’ll all get locked up in bureaucracy and they won’t make a decision until everything comes burning down.”

“I see.” Somehow, Aziraphale had assumed they had the same orders.

While the humans were banished from Eden, no Word had come down whether they were to be considered entirely lost. The Archangels had determined that, regardless of the status of the Man and the Woman, it was possible their child had not been completely corrupted. So Aziraphale was to assist in raising the young human, and any others that came along, asserting as much Heavenly influence as possible.

He’d thought Hell would want the same, that he and Crawly would be working…not together, but in parallel. A Guardian and a Troublemaker, guiding the little souls.

“Is that why...you’re always running around...investigating everything? Gathering information for your side?” He kept his fingers as steady as possible, tracing across Crawly’s stomach.

“Nah. Hell barely cares about the humans, you think they want to know about...flowers, and rocks, and little ducks? The way ants follow each other in lines that go on forever? No one gives a shit. I just - I want to see it all. So...I have something to remember when I’m down there again.”

“I see.” Aziraphale wished he had something more to say.

“Except I can’t do everything! Stupid…things…getting in the way. Stopping me from…what I want to do.”

“Well, your time is limited, it’s true.” Careful strokes under the eyes, sending a ripple of healing across his cheeks. That long nose was absolutely covered in tiny darker dots. “But…I don’t think this should stop you from experiencing everything you can.”

“Everything?”

Aziraphale ran his thumb across Crawly’s chin. It wasn’t necessary – all the burns were gone – but he found he couldn’t stop himself. Each touch made him feel…jittery. Electrified.

It was like the human bodies were made for contact, fingertips picking up invisible details, the bristle of little hairs, the flex of muscles at the edge of the mouth. Look, how perfectly his hand slotted on the side of Crawly’s face, cupping his jaw and cheek, thumb moving across the sharp cheekbone.

“Hnnnnngh.” Crawly shoved him back – not hard, but enough to give the demon room to scramble to his feet. “I’ll catch up.”

And once again, he vanished.

Sighing, Aziraphale called in the general direction he’d run off to, “Just make sure you don’t lie about in the sun again, I can’t be doing this every day.”

Seasons changed – hotter, cooler, wetter, drier. Aziraphale hadn’t yet learned how to mark the passage of time, but Crawly explained it had been almost half a year, then explained what a year was, then tried to explain how he could tell from the stars, then gave up.

The demon’s newly-browned skin seemed more resistant to the sun, but he still sometimes burned himself if he wasn’t careful. He took to wearing his robes again, but with sleeves pushed up past his elbows. Every few days he slunk back to Aziraphale for a fresh round of healing, staring determinedly at the ground between them while the angel cradled his hands and gently rubbed the burn off his forearms, the back of his neck, his cheeks. Afterwards, he usually scurried off to sit against a nearby tree.

The humans moved more slowly now, not just because the Woman’s child was nearly ready to arrive. Sometimes they would stay in one place for days at a time, experimenting with creating shelters for themselves out of leaves or reeds or branches. When they did move, it was only over short distances, trying a little closer to the trees, then a little farther from the river’s edge.

Aziraphale found he had a great deal more time now, and not much of an idea what to do with it.

He tried keeping closer to Crawly. To keep an eye on the demon, yes, but also because…it felt right. It made the hollowness he felt vanish for a little while, particularly whenever he saw that look in his golden eyes, the burning passion that was woven into every disrespectful question, every ill-advised endeavor. It was unlike anything Aziraphale had ever seen before. More and more, he found he could hardly look away.

He felt he needed to do more. When Aziraphale found a new and interesting type of berry, he wanted to share with Crawly, find out what he thought. When he greeted the demon on returning to their resting spot, he wanted to straighten his robes, his hair, rub a bit of dirt off his cheek. When they sat, he wanted to move closer, until their fingers brushed, until the warmth of another body tickled down his side.

And yet, any time he indulged one of these whims, the need for more only grew stronger.

Disgraceful, really. Maddening. If this was some sort of human instinct, perhaps he should return to Heaven and have the body adjusted. He could ignore the body’s need for sleep, for food, for almost anything else - there was no reason this one instinct should be so much more powerful than the rest, unless something was wrong.

Besides, his actions tended to send Crawly scampering off again, vanishing for most of the day.

It was very hard not to follow.

After the half-moon set, Aziraphale had very little to do apart from watching the banked fire in the distance and waiting for the sun to rise. Crawly wasn’t talking, for once, lying on his back nearby, either studying the stars or drifting off to sleep.

Aziraphale thought he saw some movement in the human camp, shadows at the edge of their shelter. They sometimes woke before dawn, but rarely did much apart from hold each other and talk in soft voices. Seeing it always made Aziraphale’s arms itch in a strange way. But there seemed to be too much movement this time.

“Crawly. Crawly!”

“Whaaaaa?” He shifted in his awkward, ungraceful sprawl but didn’t turn his eyes away from the stars.

“Can you see anything?”

“Mmmmh?”

“The humans!” It was Aziraphale’s angelic instincts this time, his Guardian mind telling him something was wrong, that he was needed. “Something is going on over there, but I can’t quite make it out.”

Slowly, too slowly, Crawly rolled onto his side and glanced at the shadowy figures. “S’fine. Just moving those reed mats around.” He slumped back, wriggling around again. “You think those things are comfortable?”

“They’ve been using them every night, so I imagine they are.” Aziraphale kept his eyes on the distant figures, even though Crawly seemed to have lost interest already.

“Cuz this ground. S’really starting to make my back hurt.” He arched his spine, stretching. “Another design flaw, you ask me. S’like this body isn’t even made to be bipedal. Hurts if you walk too much, hurts to sit, hurts to lay on the ground.”

“My back doesn’t hurt,” Aziraphale lied piously. “Perhaps you’re just using it wrong. I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to just…fling your limbs all over like that. Not to mention the way you walk.”

“What’s wrong with the way I walk?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, a little too quickly, pressing his lips together. Lately, Crawly had been trying to swagger, but he hadn’t quite gotten it down yet. It was more a meandering progression of flailing limbs, an embarrassment to watch, and Aziraphale always had an almost overwhelming urge to pull Crawly against him and tell him to stand still.

“S’right. Nothing wrong with that.” Crawly turned back to the stars again, deep in thought.

A flare of light drew Aziraphale’s attention, but it was just the Man building up the fire a bit, crouching outside the shelter. Unusual, he supposed, but everyone got restless sometimes. Seeing the flames reflected off the Man’s dark skin, Aziraphale felt himself relax. He wasn’t needed here, a thought that was both soothing and slightly disappointing.

A few more pokes at the fire, and the Man picked up another woven mat and carried it back inside.

Aziraphale could just make out the shadowy shape of the Man offering the mat to the Woman, shifting her onto it to lay more comfortably. Once again, Aziraphale felt that itch in his arms, that ache in his chest for a warmth that had nothing to do with fire. He was often alone, in the Garden, in Heaven – but only now, wandering the world, did it have a physical effect on him. Aziraphale wondered how much longer he could bear it.

He glanced over at Crawly, and for some reason remembered a pear offered on a hot day. It wasn’t wrong to give his body the refreshment it needed. Even if the offer was made by a demon. Surely, surely if his body had a comparable need for contact, there was no harm…

Aziraphale made a decision and rose to his feet.

“Here, this should make you more comfortable.” Crawly twisted around, and Aziraphale smiled a little at the shocked expression that crossed his face. The angel shook out the mat he’d miracled up, making it snap in the wind. It was modeled after the ones the humans used, but better; Aziraphale had a little insight into materials they hadn’t yet found in the world, ones that would be a bit softer, provide a little more support.

“Angel, what are you—?”

“You’ve complained enough for one night, haven’t you? I know how to take a hint.” One more shake and the mat stretched across the ground. “Go on. See if this makes your back feel any better.” He crouched on the ground beside it and smiled encouragingly.

“Look…s’not that bad. I was just. Making conversation.” Crawly rolled onto his side, but still eyed the mat as if it might turn into a crocodile.

“Fine. Let’s make conversation. I’ve designed a new sleeping mat and would like your opinion.” He pressed his hand against it, showing how the mat compressed slightly. “Do you think the one is enough? Sometimes the humans pile a few together, but that might not provide much advantage. Come, now, I want to know your thoughts.”

Crawly’s eyes finally flicked up to look into Aziraphale’s face, then shot back down to stare at the mat again. “It’s, ah…” Crawly ran one finger along the soft surface. “It’s big enough for two.”

“Is it?”

Aziraphale doubted his tone sounded as casual as he meant it. Already the heat was rising in his face. It was, of course, a foolish idea. And painfully obvious. But these human bodies were not designed to go for half a year with only minimal physical contact. He craved it, like he craved food, rest, a comfortable seat, and he just…very much needed to feel…closeness.

He’d thought he could resist it. He was supposed to be stronger than this.

“You don’t sleep.”

“You do.” He’d seen how the humans slept, the Man pressed against the Woman’s back, arm across her protectively. He thought about it at night, and sometimes during the day. There was no reason Aziraphale should want that, no reason he should have any desire to protect a demon, and yet…he did.

“I nap. During the day. When it’s hot.”

“There must be a reason they sleep at night.” Aziraphale leaned forward, pressing his hands on the mat. It was more than just a physical need. He wanted to see Crawly smile. Wanted to feel him slowly relax inside the circle of his arms, trusting and content. He wanted to whisper secrets in the darkness, like the humans did. They had no need to whisper, there was no one to overhear, and yet they did, and Aziraphale wanted to know why. “Let’s find out. You’re the curious one.” Hands a little closer, until they almost touched Crawly’s. “You told me you want to experience everything.”

“Tempting me?” Crawly didn’t smile. He looked tense, almost panicked. Aziraphale lifted a hand to reach towards him, and the demon flinched. “I…I can’t.”

Aziraphale’s stomach plummeted, a wave of shock, of disappointment, of shame. “Crawly…”

No. He wouldn’t argue. What more was there to say? This was his foolishness, Crawly had rejected it. There was no need to drag things out. “Of course.” A wave of his fingers, and the offending mat was gone. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”

Crawly still looked away, past the human encampment, away across the endless expanses of desert.

“I…didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” Aziraphale said. No wonder Crawly always fled from him. He needed to learn…boundaries. Needed to learn control. His fingers had already reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind Crawly’s ear, but Aziraphale forced them to stop, hovering in the empty night. “It was never my intention to—”

Crawly grabbed his hand and, fast as anything, pressed his lips to the knuckles. Then, just as suddenly, he surged to his feet and started walking away.

“Wait!” He hadn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and the angel pulled him back, so sharply Crawly nearly fell. “Don’t just – we need to talk about this, Crawly! What I’m feeling – I don’t understand it, but – if you feel it too—”

“I don’t, I don’t know what you’re…let me go!”

“Crawly, please!” Aziraphale still knelt in the dirt, clinging to the demon’s hand in confused desperation. “Yes, these – these human emotions are confusing and intense, but we can’t just ignore them. It was foolish of me to try and act on them, but—”

“Don’t talk to me about human emotions, Angel, you have no idea—”

“Then tell me!” Aziraphale squeezed his hand, wishing Crawly would look at him. “Regardless of – of everything else, Crawly, I want to help. I care about you!”

The words seemed to echo through the empty plain, across the river, up to the stars above.

It really was that simple wasn’t it? Human emotions and Guardian instincts and everything else aside, Aziraphale had simply come to…care about his enemy.

“You—!” Golden eyes turned back, wide with shock. “You said – But I’m—”

Crawly jerked his hand free, stumbled back two steps, and fell.

Except that what landed on the ground was not a red-haired, pale-skinned demon, but an enormous black serpent with a red belly.

“…Crawly?”

The serpent stared at him a moment, then shot out across the desert.

“No, get back here!” Aziraphale ran after him, fast as he could go, but the black shadow moved too quickly. “Crawly, wait!” Already he was vanishing into the night. “Crawly, please! Let me help you!”

But the serpent had vanished, as Crawly always did.

Aziraphale found his legs were shaking, trembling, until he could hardly stand. Even tugging his sleeves and smoothing his robes was not enough to set things right. He stumbled across the brown sand to sit on a rock, trying to make sense of it all.

Two puzzles presented themselves: What had he just seen? And what had he just said?

I care about you. And not in a…Guardian Angel way, aloofly wishing to ensure his charge’s safety. This was something different, something not at all of Heaven. He thought of the way the humans took care of each other, as equals. Not just providing safety, but happiness, and taking it from the other in turn. There was a gentleness in their actions, hiding a deep burning passion that would quite possibly consume an angel. He certainly didn’t feel that for Crawly, but…could he? Was this how it started?

What he felt just now was worry. He knew Crawly had come to Earth as a serpent, of course, had seen that with his own eyes. He didn’t think the transformation had harmed Crawly, but…it wasn’t supposed to happen. His shift to a human form was supposed to be permanent.

And the way Crawly had transformed…the suddenness…his distress beforehand…it hadn’t seemed entirely voluntary.

As he sat there thinking, one long streamer of shadow detached itself from the night and slid closer, coiling itself by his feet.

“Crawly?” Familiar golden eyes reflected the light of the stars as the serpent’s head rose. “Can you still understand me?”

Slowly, the serpent – Crawly – nodded, then tilted his head to the side. Yes, but not well, Aziraphale guessed. That made sense; this form didn’t have ears, and demonic senses could overcome only so much.

“Are you hurt?” Crawly shook his head. “Can you…change back?” Another shake, and he looked up at the stars, slowly progressing across the sky. Not yet.

“Why…” Too many questions, buzzing around Aziraphale’s mind. Crawly was the one who knew how to handle questions. Where to even begin? “Why did you run away?”

“Sssssshame.” It was hard to make out the word in the hiss.

“Shame? But why would you feel…” Aziraphale slid off his rock, kneeling next to Crawly. “There’s…you don’t have to be ashamed.” The serpent pulled back, coiling into himself, tucking his head somewhere along his body until everything appeared to be a black knot of night.

“No, listen. I’m the one who should be ashamed.” Aziraphale reached a hand towards the cool black scales, but stopped just shy of them. “I…I have behaved reprehensibly. Saying…all manner of things. Touching you when you didn’t want to be touched. And my actions tonight…no. It was my choice to – to indulge, to explore these new emotions, but I never should have attempted anything without seeing if you felt the same. Crawly, I never wanted to upset you…”

As he spoke, the narrow head emerged from the coils and shook, indicating a negative.

“No? Am I…wrong about something?”

A nod, but Crawly wouldn’t meet his eyes. Something worse, perhaps? “Can you…tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Ssssss.” This time he could decipher nothing.

“That…let’s try another way.” Once again, Aziraphale stretched out a hand. Crawly pulled back his head, looking at it uncertainly until Aziraphale lowered it back to the ground. “Sorry. You don’t want to be touched, do you?”

A nod, followed by a complicated ripple down fifteen feet of serpent that might have been a shrug.

“Alright. Let’s see…did this happen all those times you ran off?” A nod. “And…do you have any control over it? Changing to this form, I mean.” A shake. “What about changing back?” A head tilt and another rippling shrug. What did that mean? Some control? He wasn’t certain if he had control?

Well, that wasn’t important right now.

“Do you know what…causes this?” Nod, again not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Can you tell me?”

“Sssssssss.” A defeated head shake.

“Well…I know it was usually when we were talking, or when I…reached out or…” He swallowed. “It’s my fault?” Of course it was. It was so blindingly obvious. Foolish Principality, invading Crawly’s space again and again, driving him away, forcing him to change form.

But Crawly shook his head frantically. “Sssssss.” This one sounded frustrated. “Ffffffff. Fffffeeeel.”

“Feel?”

“Ffffeeeel. Hhhhhhaby.”

“Feel happy? Feel…Crawly, are you telling me you – you change into this form every time you feel happy?” A nod, this one eager. “But you’re always happy! Or most of the time. Not tonight, though, you were very sullen and…”

But Crawly shook his head again. “Hhhhhhhaby.”

“You were happy?” Nod. “That…I came over with that mat and…?” Nod. “And that I said I…care about you?” Nod, and his snout moved a little closer to Aziraphale’s face.

“So, you change when you’re happy. Very happy, I assume.” Nod. “And…I’m the one who…?” Another nod, this one looking more embarrassed.

Aziraphale lowered his gaze, feeling strangely pleased that he could have this…incomprehensible effect on another being. Oh, it wasn’t something to be proud of, but it made that warmth surge inside, to think that of all the things that made Crawly happy...

“Ah. But. Um. Why change? You said it wasn’t because you wanted to.” Head shake. “Then why?”

“Sssssss.” Crawly drooped. Whatever it was, he couldn’t explain it in this form.

“Never mind then.” Aziraphale stood up again, dusting off his robes. “Ah. How long to change back? You’re usually gone for hours.” A nod. “Oh.” Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder, back towards the human encampment. Surely…they would be fine on their own…for one night. “Should I stay with you?”

“Ssssssssssss.” The serpent pulled back into his coils again, but, after a long pause, emerged to nod slightly.

Aziraphale smiled, settling back onto the rock. “It’s my pleasure, dear fellow. What can I do to make you more comfortable?”

“Ssssss.” Crawly reached forward and rested his head on Aziraphale’s knee. “Ssssss?”

“Oh.” Serpents were, after all, much simpler creatures than humans. A human body needed many things to be happy, physically, mentally, and emotionally, as Aziraphale was rapidly learning. But a snake only desired heat. “Yes. Of course.”

Crawly darted forward, twisting himself up Aziraphale, wrapping around his stomach, his chest, his shoulders, tail twisting down around one leg, head coming to rest by his cheek. Aziraphale managed to get one arm free, the other pinned against his ribs. A squeeze went through Crawly’s body, gentle and brief, as he settled into place. “Ffffffffffine?”

“Yes, this…this is perfectly fine.” He scratched one finger carefully on the back of Crawly’s head. The serpent leaned into it, then shook free to tuck his head under Aziraphale’s chin. Another brief ripple of a squeeze, before bit by bit Crawly drifted off to sleep.

“Have pleasant dreams,” Aziraphale said, fingers stroking the black scales wrapped around his belly.

It wasn’t what he’d imagined. And yet, Aziraphale did spend the night with Crawly pressed tightly against him. He did provide his companion with comfort and safety.

Not at all how he’d thought it would happen, but Aziraphale was still radiantly happy.

“Itsssssstupid,” Crawly muttered, still lisping a little after his change back.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Just tell me.”

Crawly had awoken just as the stars had begun to fade, quickly twisting free of Aziraphale to transform back into his usual shape. He’d explained, somewhat embarrassed, that sleeping usually helped him change back quicker, and that sometimes he even woke up back in his humanoid form. This had presented Azirapahle with a very interesting mental image that he didn’t have time to indulge just now.

Crawly walked beside him, golden eyes darting in the pre-dawn light, reading Aziraphale in an instant before turning to stare at the ground again. “It isssss.” Crawly clenched his jaw and continued more carefully. “Sspent too long in the sserpent body. All that time in Hell. But. Ssnakes don’t…have emotions. Not like human bodies. Sso…I get…overwhelmed. And I can’t hold my shhhape anymore.”

“I see.” Aziraphale carefully studied Crawly out of the corner of his eye, almost afraid to look at him straight on. “And all those times you ran away?”

“I can ssort of…feel it coming. I have a little time to get away, but there’ss nothing I can do to sstop it.” He swallowed, seeming angry with his own mouth. “Stop it.”

“But why would you need to get away?”

“Ngh. I mean. You’re the enemy, I’m not supposed to…” Aziraphale couldn’t hide his pained expression fast enough, as Crawly’s eyes flicked over again. “And…it’s embarrassing. Don’t want to be that snake anymore. This is me now. This body.” He took a breath. “I…didn’t want you to think less of me. Because I can’t control myself.”

“I would never!” Aziraphale stopped walking entirely, but managed to fight down the urge to grab Crawly’s shoulders. “My dear fellow, we’re both learning to control ourselves here. You might be struggling with it physically, but I assure you…” He thought back over the choices he’d made since leaving the Wall. Things he’d said, ways he’d reached out and pulled back with almost no warning. Blaming it on urges and instincts, but he could have resisted if he’d wanted to, could have spoken about his feelings, could have done many things that were better, wiser, kinder. “I thought there was…something between us. Some understanding. But I was completely unaware of your struggles the whole time. I have been abominably selfish.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” Crawly watched his toe trace lines in the dirt. “I think this…whatever it is, that makes you act the way you do and makes me so…mind-numbingly giddy I can’t keep my shape…I mean. It’s meant for the humans. We’re the first angel and demon to feel it. Of course it isn’t easy.”

“But…you do feel it, too?”

“Think so, yeah.”

Aziraphale tried to fight back the smile, but there was no stopping it. He turned away, preserving at least a little dignity. “So…what do we do about it?”

“Dunno.” Then, softer, “I want to touch you. Your hands, your face. I’d only...you know…but I want to.”

“I as well. It’s…I’m resisting but…it seems to grow harder every day.” He smoothed his hands down his robe. “Do you suppose it will always be this way? Between us? With every being we spend enough time around?”

“I hope not. It wouldn’t feel as…important if it were common. And it’s…distracting. I miss just talking.”

“As do I.” Aziraphale turned back in time to see Crawly’s smile. “I suppose…if it’s a question of the human-shaped corporation, you could always have it adjusted. Remove the troublesome emotions.”

“No!” The vehemence of Crawly’s voice startled him. “Aziraphale, that’s the last thing I want. I told you before, I want to – to experience everything this world has, including stupid human emotions. I don’t need them taken away I need…I need to build up a tolerance.” He nodded, staring ahead. “That’s it. A little at a time until…until…”

“Until you can feel whatever you want. Without…repercussions.”

“Nh. Don’t know how I’ll pull it off but..yeah. It, ah…” Another quick glance. “What about you? Probably help with your angelic duties if you didn’t have to worry about…all this.”

“It probably would.” They started walking again, slowly, side by side. “But I think…I think I would also like to experience all this world has to offer. And I can learn to control myself.”

They continued in silence for a little while, each lost in his thoughts.

“Do you think it will take much longer?” Aziraphale asked, twisting his fingers.

“You definitely need to learn patience, Angel.” Crawly grinned. “Yeah. Um. Remember when I tried to explain what a year was? Probably lots of those.”

“Ah. Is there…anything I can do to help?”

“Ngk. Well. You—”

A high-pitched scream echoed from the camp ahead, long and drawn out.

“The humans!”

They both took off at a run.

In the end, despite half a year of careful observation, Aziraphale and Crawly did very little. By the time they arrived it was nearly over; by the time they’d finished awkwardly re-introducing themselves – and convincing the Man not to skewer them on a flaming sword in a blind panic – there wasn’t much to be done except provide encouragement.

The Child was born, a healthy young boy who shouted quite indignantly at the inconvenience of it all.

The human race had truly begun.

Much later, as the Man and Woman rested, Aziraphale held the tiny baby in his arms. The boy had settled down somewhat, now that he was wrapped tightly and warm, and looked in danger of falling asleep in the angel’s arms.

“How does it feel?” Crawly asked, sitting at the edge of the camp.

“Oh, I can’t – it’s incredible, Crawly. I know he’s just a little thing but – I can feel it, his presence, his potential. Everything he can be, good and bad, and it’s just—” The baby opened his mouth in a wide yawn. “…It’s adorable.”

“You’re pathetic,” Crawly said, but with a smile, rising to stand closer, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder at the Child. “So? Everything there? I know you spent about an eternity counting fingers and toes. Didn’t think it took that long to get to twenty.”

“They’re just the most precious little things! Look – look at his ears.”

“I’m looking.” One hand stretched out uncertainly, tracing along the Child’s cheek. The baby turned his head immediately, searching, sucking on the fingers he found. “Look at that. Not even a day old, searching for food, trying to survive. They just…they just keep going, huh?”

“I suppose so.” Holding the Child filled an emptiness in Aziraphale he hadn’t known was there, not the strange magnetism that drew him to Crawly, but that deep desire for connection, the need to walk with the humans, to be known. Accepted. Though it wasn’t all that different, he reflected. Two sides of the same…two-sided object. A need to not be alone. “Do you want to hold him?”

“Angel…” Crawly’s hand drifted back to the Child’s head, resting on the nest of dark downy curls. “Aziraphale. I really don’t think I can.”

He turned around, and was surprised to see tears in Crawly’s eyes.

“Sssstupid, huh? Child’s got nothing to do with me. But…” He turned abruptly and walked away from the camp.

“Crawly, wait!”

“Nope. This was it, Angel. Just on Earth until the kid was born.” He turned back and shrugged, arms spread wide.

“That doesn’t mean you have to go now.”

“I can feel them calling already. In here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Longer I wait, more likely they’ll send someone to get me, and that’ll just be...messy. And what am I supposed to do now, anyway? Sit here and watch you...carry him around...wishing I could...” He bit his lip. “What would be the point?”

“But…but I thought…”

“Yeah, I thought, too. But what can we do?” Crawly looked down at the ground, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Look. Take care of them, alright? They don’t need your help. They’re smart. But…be kind. S’what you’re best at.”

“But…” Aziraphale looked down at the future of humanity in his arms. “Is that enough?”

“It’s everything.” Crawly stiffened, clenched his fists. “Shit.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale took a step forward, and immediately the Child started fussing, sensing his anxiety.

“Well. Guess it’s not just happinessssss.” He swallowed hard, clearly fighting something. “Look. Angel.” Crawly walked back to hover beside Aziraphale again. “I – I really liked working with you. I hope…If I get another chanccccce…” He shook his head, then leaned in and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek.

It spread across his face, a warmth, a blush, a smile, blooming like a flower.

Aziraphale turned his head, catching Crawly’s lips with his own. He’d seen the humans do this from afar, and he’d wondered why, but now…

Now he knew.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Crawly was gone, and a large black snake slithered away, fast as a shadow.

The Child started to cry. Aziraphale rocked him, bounced him a little. “No, dear, don’t worry. We’ll see him again.” The taste of Crawly was still on his lips, new and intriguing. “Nothing ends today. This is the beginning of our story.”

Thank you for reading! If that ending wasn’t satisfying enough, I recommend the fic Snuddles (Snake Cuddles) as a very distant epilogue.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens prime #aziraphale and crowley #ineffable husbands #snake crowley #snek crowley #asexual ineffable husbands #lonely aziraphale #curious crowley #crawly #post eden #historical fic #crowley turns into a snake #first kiss #falling in love #feels #my writing #ao3 link

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