#and the water feels strange and sometimes she sees things under the surface | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vunblr · 3 months ago

Text

Tangled (#3)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. I don't know if there will be eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: About 6.9k.

Previous Chapter

The sea was dark and quiet, just as he liked it. The moon carved silver shapes on the surface, and below, he moved like a shadow, gliding through the currents. His muscles were relaxed after the hunt, and the taste of salt and blood was still sharp in his mouth.

But as always lately, his course curved toward the cliffs, toward the stretch of shoreline he shouldn't care about. His sharp eyes caught the faint glimmer of warm, golden lights breaking through the dark, leaking out from the lair perched above the rocks.

So. She was awake.

Bucky floated just under the surface for a long moment, and his tendrils gently shifted with the waves as he watched the flicker of the soft lights.

His gaze narrowed.

Why did he care? Why was he here, lingering under her cliffs like some lost pup?

But he couldn't shake it. Since the first time she sat by his shore, and even more, since she’d seen him -since she’d survived him- there was a thread of restless curiosity winding tighter and tighter around him.

She had been brave. Stupid, but brave. And now, against his better judgment, he was curious about her.

He shifted in the water, and his pale skin blended almost perfectly with the foam around him, only the inky tips of his tendrils betrayed his shape as they rippled through the waves.

His gaze lifted again toward her den.

There was where she hid when she left his cave. He had guessed, of course, watching the path she took to climb back up, sometimes seeing her form disappear behind the shrubs and stones. But now, seeing the lights, the proof of her human life so close to his domain, it tugged at something inside him he didn't want to name.

Why do you watch, like she’s yours to guard?

He huffed at himself, and the sound was swallowed by the wind over the waves.

Maybe it was because she had left something of herself in his cave, two somethings now, the odd square and that strange dangling creature of yarn, bobbing gently with the sea breeze.

Still, he should’ve scared her worse. Should’ve made sure she wouldn’t dare return.

But he hadn’t.

Because a part of him -the part that remembered too well what it was to be caged and hunted and scared- understood why she looked at him the way she did.

His gaze hardened again as he let himself sink deeper under the surface.

She wasn’t safe, lingering so close to his cave. And neither was he letting her. Still, he couldn’t quite make himself turn away, lingering there, watching the light dance on the cliffside, imagining her moving around behind those windows.

Finally, with a low rumble deep in his chest, he turned, cutting through the water and vanishing into the dark, but not before one last glance over his shoulder.

She was there. Still within reach.

And that thought should not make him feel anything.

Yet it did.

----

The morning air was cold as she made her way down the narrow road toward town, and the sea breeze still clung to her clothes and hair from the walk. Her muscles ached faintly, a reminder of the other day’s fall, and of everything that had happened after. She tried to tell herself it had been some kind of dream. Maybe she had hit her head harder than she thought.

So, today, groceries. Normal things. Things that didn’t include staring into dark pools and meeting mythological creatures.

And yet, as she passed by the tiny, cluttered craft shop, her feet slowed almost on their own, and her eyes flicked to the display window. There it was. That particular shade of blue, the color of shifting tides and ink-dark tentacles. She stepped in, the tiny bell above the door giving a cheerful chime that felt at odds with her thoughts.

"Back so soon, dear?" the old woman behind the counter asked, peering at her over her glasses with a knowing smile.

"Yeah," she said, managing to sound casual. "Ran out of some shades I need. And, uh, thought I might try something new."

The woman hummed, watching her too closely as she plucked up the skein of blue yarn. As she paid, she hesitated, then leaned her elbows on the counter, trying to keep her tone light.

"So… that cave by the cliffs," she began, letting her gaze wander to the dusty shelves as if she wasn’t too invested. "You told me to be careful around there, right?"

The woman’s eyes sharpened immediately, all pretense of nonchalance gone. "Mhm. And?"

She shrugged. "Just curious why. I mean, it’s a nice spot. A little wild, but… safe enough. So why the warnings?"

The woman leaned in, dropping her voice slightly. "Because nice spots sometimes hide the worst things, that's why."

She blinked, raising her brows. "What do you mean? Like, dangerous animals?"

The woman gave a short, humorless laugh. "Not animals, girl. Things older than that. Things that don’t take kindly to strangers poking around where they shouldn’t."

She felt her throat go dry but pressed on, giving a small laugh, trying to sound like she wasn’t fishing for specific information. "You make it sound like there are sea monsters down there or something."

The old woman’s gaze didn’t waver. "That’s what some would call them, I suppose."

Her fingers tightened around the paper bag as she straightened. "Monsters?"

"Old stories," the woman admitted, but her tone said she believed every word. "About creatures in the caves under the cliffs. I was a girl when some of the older men swore they caught sight of something down there. They never spoke much about what they saw, but..." She gave a meaningful pause. "People talked. About things that weren’t quite human. About folks who went missing near the water. Strange marks on the rocks, long grooves like claws or something worse."

Her heart gave a slow, heavy thump.

"Of course," the woman added, softer now, "the men who told those stories are gone. Some think they just drank too much. But others…" her eyes pinned her in place "know better."

"So... what? You think something’s still down there?"

"Mhm," the woman hummed, leaning a little over the counter, lowering her voice like someone might be listening. "Not just of creatures in the water, but of them coming up to shore. Walking around on two legs, like you or me. Posing as human. You’d never know, they say. Not unless you catch them wrong, or see 'em too close."

Her throat dried.

The woman gave a small, almost knowing smile, as if she had seen too much, or heard too many things that didn’t add up over the years. "Some say they’ve even lived among us from time to time. Took wives. Husbands. Some of those folks didn’t last long. Others…" she trailed off, her eyes darkening, "...never quite right again."

She tried to laugh it off, though it sounded thin. "You mean like… selkies? Mermaids?"

"Not like the pretty stories," the woman snapped gently, but firmly. "Not those sweet things in fairy tales. They don’t want to be found."

Her heart thudded hard in her chest.

As the silence stretched, she forced a small smile. "Right. Well... thanks. I’ll keep that in mind."

The woman’s gaze persisted on her, as if she wanted to say more, but she simply nodded. "You do that."

With a soft murmur of goodbye, she left, the bell chiming behind her as she stepped out into the open air.

Her feet carried her through town on autopilot, but her mind was spinning. They don’t want to be found. The words echoed in her head, loud and clear.

As she made her way down the next street, she ducked into a small general store to pick up candles, she had learned the hard way during her first week that power outages happened more often than she expected near the cliffs. And with her luck lately, she'd rather be prepared.

She grabbed a few groceries as well -easy stuff to cook, snacks, tea- anything to avoid another trip for a while. Her thoughts stayed fixed on what she now knew as she checked out and carried her bags toward home.

----

Bucky was already at the shoreline when she arrived a couple of days later. He had waited, half-expecting -half-daring- her to show up at his cave one of those mornings. But clearly, she wasn't that foolish.

Still, foolish enough to eventually come back. To her usual rock, as if nothing had happened.

By the time she reached her usual spot, her mind was made up. She wasn’t going to give up her place by the rocks. It was her spot. Well, maybe not technically, but she had been coming here since she moved into that cottage, snd he hadn’t seemed to mind.

It was only when she wandered into the cave -his space- that things had escalated. She could admit that now. She had trespassed. And still, in the end, he hadn’t hurt her.

So, her logic went: if she stuck to her usual routine and didn’t go poking around in places she shouldn’t, she had nothing to worry about.

Right?

Still… she packed carefully before leaving the house. Her yarn, of course -and, after some internal debate- a box of strawberries.

And now, here she was, sitting on her usual rock like she hadn’t had the weirdest, most terrifying, most fascinating encounter of her life less than one week ago.

Hidden among the darker shadows of the stones, he watched her settle down, expecting her to start with her usual threading ritual. But instead, she pulled something unfamiliar from her backpack, some kind of translucent box that strangely caught the light. He narrowed his eyes as she popped it open and reached in, plucking something small and red.

His head tilted slightly as she bit into it, chewing slowly, with her gaze fixed on the waves. Meat? He sniffed the air. No, not flesh. It looked like some strange kind of coral, but soft... not from the sea. The scent carried to him on the breeze, sweet and sharp, something he couldn't place. Inland fruit? Something that grew in the dirt, far from his world.

He kept staring as she bit into it, juices wetting her lips, as her eyes lazily followed the waves without any care in the world. But then, damn that sun. He was being reckless. A cloud slid aside and a beam of golden light poured down, catching him squarely and turning his pale skin stark against the stone before he could shift his pigments.

Her eyes snapped to him, and for the first time, she didn’t pretend not to see.

She stared right back, unwavering, like she had half expected him. And then, casually as if they were old neighbors passing each other on the street, she waved again.

His throat rumbled, and a low hiss slipped through bared teeth before he could stop it, flashing the sharp glint of fangs.

But instead of recoiling or fleeing like she should, she just rolled her eyes, as if he was nothing more than some territorial gull trying to scare her off. A very dangerous, very deadly gull, but still.

Then, to his confusion, she lifted the container and tilted it toward him, as if offering to share its contents. He didn’t move from his place, half-coiled near the rocks, eyes sharp and narrowed as he stared at her, unmoving.

Still, some small, stubborn part of him, buried deep under layers of instinct and distrust, couldn’t help but feel... curious.

“They are good, you know? No spells or tricks, since I’m already eating them,” she said casually, her voice carried by the breeze, soft and calm, too calm for someone talking to a creature like him.

Bucky’s jaw tensed. His sharp teeth pressed lightly against each other as he stared at her, unmoving, suspicious.

No spells or tricks, she claimed.

As if he should just believe that. As if she hadn't already wandered too close, already seen too much.

To her surprise -and, okay, maybe a little bit to her terror- he started moving.

Slow, deliberate. Tendrils sliding over rocks in smooth, predatory grace. Getting closer. She fought the urge to scoot back, refusing to let fear dictate her actions. This was a game of trust now, wasn’t it? He hadn’t hurt her when he could have. And she had kept his secret.

She tilted her head at him when he stopped, popping another piece of the red thing into her mouth, watching him with an unfazed expression. Like she thought offering him this strange food would be enough to pacify him.

And yet...

The scent wafted toward him again. Sweet, sharp, foreign. It was tempting. Not because he trusted her, but because he had never seen something like it. Never tasted anything that didn’t come from the ocean depths.

Every instinct in his body screamed danger, screamed that this was a trap, that humans never offered something for free unless they wanted something in return. His narrowed gaze slipped from her mouth to the box, to her hands. If she wanted to trick him, she wouldn’t be sitting there like that... right?

A quiet, annoyed hiss slid past his teeth. He could take her down in an instant if she tried anything. Crush her fragile body, pull her under the water, and let the waves claim her before anyone knew.

So why was he hesitating?

He pushed forward, slow and deliberate. First, a tendril, curling over a stone. Then another, pulling him closer with a smooth, powerful movement. The closer he got, the more she tensed -he could feel it- but she didn’t move away.

A small, reckless part of him found that amusing.

The water lapped quietly against the rocks, and he paused just a few feet away, looming half out of the water, with his tendrils sliding in the wet sand and over the stone. His pale chest glistened where droplets clung to his skin, and his dark hair hung heavy and wild over his shoulders.

He looked from her face to the box again, narrowing his eyes.

“What is it?” he rasped, low and rough from the disuse of his voice, but the words were clear enough.

She blinked, surprised that he spoke, but then smiled just a little.

“Strawberries,” she said softly, holding one up for him to see. “They’re fruit. Sweet.”

He stared. Fruit. Something from the land...

He shifted closer still, curling his tendril around the rock at her feet, flicking his sharp eyes between her hand and her face as if daring her to move wrong.

“…Try?” she offered, gently.

His gills flexed along his ribs, unsure. But he was closer now. And he was already here. A long pause, then one pale hand reached out, and plucked the small red thing from her fingers, careful not to graze her skin, though his knuckles brushed her wrist like the brush of seaweed in passing.

He held it up to his face, inspecting it, sniffing it warily. Soft. Strange. Smelled like nothing from the sea. Still watching her from the corner of his eye, he slowly brought it to his mouth and bit, sharp teeth slicing easily through the tender fruit.

Sweet. Tart. Strange.

His brows furrowed slightly, as though confused. But he didn't spit it out. He ate it quietly, and sat back on his tendrils, as though deciding whether he liked it or not. When he swallowed, his dark eyes returned to hers, searching.

“…More,” he finally said, rough, reluctant.

Her lips twitched in the faintest smile. “Sure,” she said, nudging the box toward him.

He took another, slower this time, watching her like a hawk. Because she was dangerous. He knew that. But, so was he.

----

He ate three more, and she began to wonder if maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to offer him fruit in the first place. After all, she had no clue what his body could handle. His digestive system couldn’t possibly be the same as a human’s, what if too much made him sick?

"Um... maybe that's enough for now," she said carefully.

His eyes snapped to hers, narrowing in a way that sent a chill down her spine. As if to challenge her, he deliberately plucked another one from the container and ate it, watching her like he was daring her to object.

"You may get sick," she tried again, frowning a little.

The moment the words left her lips, she saw his entire demeanor shift. His expression darkened, storm clouds gathering behind his eyes, and one of his tentacles smacked the water with a sharp thwap, making her flinch.

Clearly, he had taken that as a threat.

"No, wait! I'm not threatening you," she quickly clarified, raising her hands in a calming gesture. "You’ve never eaten this before... I’m just saying, maybe if you eat too much, it could..." she hesitated, searching for a word, "...hurt you."

His gaze focused on her, unblinking. She could almost feel him analyzing her words, weighing them.

Then, to her surprise, he pressed a hand to his stomach as if considering her warning. "Bad?" he asked, voice rough and uncertain.

She relaxed with some relief when she realized he wasn't angry anymore, just wary, like a wild animal trying to figure out if she was lying. "Maybe," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about it when I offered. I guess I thought... I don't know, some pet fish eat fruit..."

Her attempt at explanation was met with a sudden outrage.

"No fish!" he snapped, slapping a hand hard against his chest in an unmistakable display of indignation. His eyes blazed, and he leaned forward like she had insulted him on a deeply personal level.

"Okay! Okay!" she blurted out quickly, raising her palms in surrender. "You're not a fish. Definitely not a fish.”

He kept glaring at her for another long second, as if making sure she understood the gravity of her mistake.

"I'm sorry," she added, softening her voice. "I didn’t mean to offend you. I just... I don’t know what you eat."

That seemed to deflate some of the tension. He clicked his teeth, almost thoughtfully, though she could see how his fingers kept turning the last berry over and over, inspecting it like it might reveal a secret.

"You eat...?" she asked, carefully, realizing it might be a loaded question.

He didn't answer right away, but his eyes sharpened, reading her easily, as though he could see the direction of her thoughts.

"Hunt," he finally grunted, jerking his chin toward the sea. "Meat."

Yeah. She had figured that much, but hearing him say it so bluntly still made her pulse jump a little.

"I just thought..." she tried to clarify, gesturing to the almost empty container of fruit. "Too much of this could make you feel bad. It's not meat. It’s fruit. A plant."

He seemed to consider that, glancing down at the berry he still held. With a low grunt, he flicked it into the water, watching as it bobbed away.

"Good," he muttered at last as if grudgingly admitting it.

Then he fixed her with a sharp look, touching his chest, and repeating firmly, "Not fish."

Her lips twitched in a faint smile. "No. Not a fish."

Something in his expression shifted, softening slightly, not quite a smile, but something that hinted at less hostility.

----

They looked at each other in silence, a strange quiet that neither seemed to know how to break. His eyes never left her, sharp and assessing, while her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the container, unsure of what to say next. Then, suddenly, something clicked in her mind. A small revelation that maybe, maybe, could help bridge the strange gap between them.

She extended her hand toward him, palm up, in a soft, tentative gesture that made him tense immediately, tendrils twitching warily against the rocks.

"My name is Y/n," she said clearly.

His eyes flicked from her hand to her face, confused.

"You're supposed to give me your name and shake my hand," she added with a small, nervous smile. "It's how we... humans, you know, introduce ourselves. To say we're not enemies."

Still, he didn't move. His gaze dropped back to her hand, watching it like it was a trap, like if he touched her, she would somehow bind him with her strange land-dweller magic.

She could see him thinking, the way his jaw tightened, how his pupils thinned as though weighing something dangerous. Names, she realized, were probably no small thing to him. Names held meaning. Names gave power.

But... she had given hers freely. She watched as slowly, very slowly, he seemed to come to a decision.

His hand, larger and rougher than hers, reached out. He wrapped his cool fingers around her smaller hand with a carefulness that surprised her, as though unsure how much strength to use.

"...Bucky," he murmured at last, voice hoarse and reluctant.

Her smile brightened, though she kept still, not wanting to spook him. "Hi, Bucky," she said softly, like a small victory.

He gave her hand a single, brief shake -awkward and stiff, but it was more than she thought she would get- before pulling away again, retreating slightly like he was unsure why he had agreed to it the first place.

"So..." she ventured, cautious but curious. "That’s how we do it. But what about you? How do your kind greet each other?"

For a moment, his brow furrowed, and the sharp line of his jaw tightened as if the question brought something heavy to mind. His kind. It had been so long since he'd seen anyone like himself if any were left at all. Still, after a moment of silence, he moved.

Slowly and deliberately, Bucky lifted his hand and pressed the palm gently to his chin, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw. Then he turned the hand outward, offering it to her, open.

She blinked, watching the fluid motion with growing fascination.

"Oh," she murmured softly, processing it. "Like this?"

She mirrored the gesture, touching her chin and then extending her palm toward him. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, almost playful but respectful.

His sharp eyes studied her, tilting his head slightly as if appraising her effort. Then, to her quiet surprise, the tension in his posture seemed to ease. They had shared something. Something old, something from his world.

Bucky gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval, though his tendrils still curled and flexed over the rock like restless cats' tails.

She let the silence stretch a little longer, watching as his gaze flicked out toward the horizon, where the sun was dipping low and painting gold over the waves.

"So... Bucky," she ventured softly, careful not to spook him, "how long have you... um, lived here?"

His eyes snapped back to her, sharp and unreadable. The question seemed simple, but something in it made him tense, tendrils pausing their slow movements. Still, he tried. His jaw worked for a moment before he rasped out, "Long."

She nodded, encouraging. "Long like... a lot of years?"

His brow furrowed, and his lips pressed into a tight line. His hand came up, spreading his fingers as if trying to measure something in the air before giving up with a small frustrated snort.

"Before," he said at last, voice rough. "Before... them."

Her brows drew together, but she didn't press on that yet. Instead, she offered a soft smile. "Okay. Before. Got it."

He watched her, weary, but there was a faint sense of surprise too, like he hadn't expected her to accept so little.

She decided to keep it light. "Do you always watch people from the water? Or am I just special?" she teased gently, tilting her head, trying to coax some response.

His eyes narrowed a bit, but not in anger, more like confusion, as if unsure if she was mocking him. "Watch," he said simply, tapping two fingers under his eye, then gesturing at her. "You... strange."

Her laugh escaped before she could stop it, light and breathy. "I'm strange?"

He tilted his head again, tendrils curling a bit tighter. "Sit alone. By sea. Make... things." His eyes flicked toward her bag, where her yarn peeked out.

"Oh... the crocheting." She smiled and reached to pull out a small ball of yarn, holding it up. "Yeah, I guess that's strange. Most people don’t hang out near creepy caves and make jellyfish coasters."

Bucky’s gaze followed her fingers, watching the yarn, but he didn't respond. His hands flexed slightly, and she wondered if it was nerves or restlessness.

"Why?" he asked abruptly, startling her a little.

"Why what?"

"Why... here?" His voice was low, and rough, as if dragging words up from somewhere deep and unused.

She blinked, then smiled softly, realizing this was the closest thing to an actual conversation they had.

"I like the sound of the sea," she admitted. "It’s... peaceful. Easier to breathe out here."

His head tilted again, studying her like she was a puzzle.

She took a breath, feeling a little braver. "And you? Why do you watch me?"

He hesitated. His lips twitched, but no words came out. After a moment, he glanced away, as if embarrassed. "Don’t know," he muttered finally waving his hand. "You... stay."

She blinked, unsure what to make of that. "Yeah... I stay," she echoed gently, offering him a small smile. "You noticed that, huh?" She hesitated, but curiosity pushed her forward. "Bucky... what do you call yourselves? Your kind, I mean. Not what humans say."

His expression darkened instantly, sharp as a blade. The calm manner in which he’d been watching her moments ago turned to something heavier, and his mouth pressed into a tight line.

"You call... ce-cecaelia," he said finally, like forcing the word out.

"Yeah, I know," she pressed gently, tilting her head, carefully. "But you. What do you call yourselves?"

For a heartbeat, she thought he might answer. His eyes flicked away, toward the water, the tendrils around him curling tighter, restless. Then, sharp and clipped, he growled.

"No."

The word cut through the air like a slap.

She froze, watching as his body tensed, and a storm brewed behind his eyes again. His gaze flicked back to her, colder now, as if warning her off the subject.

"Okay," she said quickly, lifting her hands in a soft gesture of surrender. "Okay. I won’t ask again."

The tension in his arms eased just a fraction, but the wall between them had been reinforced.

She sighed, realizing that, as much as they were starting to see each other, there were still oceans of distance between them.

Still, she stayed. And he didn’t make her leave.

----

"Well..." she said softly, reaching for her bag, "I’ll just work a little before I go."

Her voice was light, like she wasn’t sitting a few feet away from a dangerous creature, a creature who had just reminded her how little she knew about him and how much he could hide.

She pulled out her yarn and hook, choosing a soft neutral color this time, and set to work. Simple coasters, nothing fancy. Something she didn’t need to think too hard about, letting her hands work while her mind stayed alert to the figure near the rocks.

Bucky stayed where he was, watching her.

Conflicted.

Part of him felt… oddly disappointed. She was ignoring him now, turning away as if she didn’t care to know more. Well, it was him who made it happen. The questions stirred things in him he wasn’t ready to face. Memories that were better left at the bottom of the sea.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her hands moved gently, with a cadence that was almost… calming. Familiar, even, in a way that tugged at something deep in his chest.

He didn’t realize how close he’d gotten until a stray tendril brushed the edge of her bag, curling just slightly before he snapped it back with a small flick.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye but said nothing, as if pretending she hadn’t noticed.

Good.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to explain what he was doing there, watching her, hovering like some unsure shadow. Still, when her hands stilled for a moment to adjust the yarn, his eyes locked on them, fascinated despite himself.

So strange, these human rituals. But soothing to watch.

She felt it before she saw it, that subtle shift of the air, the faint scent of brine and salt-soaked skin. When she lifted her head, his face was right there, startlingly close, watching her hands work with a mix of curiosity and frustration.

Her breath hitched, and she blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by his nearness.

His gaze flicked from her eyes to her hands, then back again, and after a long pause, he tilted his head slightly and gestured at the yarn with a tendril that curled in the air, hesitant.

"...What?" he rasped.

"This?" she asked gently, holding up her half-finished piece so he could see.

He gave a sharp, impatient nod.

She smiled. "It’s a coaster. Something you put under a cup. To protect tables and stuff."

His brow furrowed. "Cup?"

She blinked, realizing that might not be something he had. "Um... to drink from?" She mimed holding a glass to her lips.

Understanding flickered in his eyes, though he still looked faintly puzzled.

She chuckled softly, glancing down at her work. "It's just... something small. Easy to make. Not dangerous, I promise."

He leaned in a little closer, inspecting it now, shifting his tendrils restlessly on the rocks beside her as if wanting to reach but not daring. For a long moment, he just stared at the piece of yarn art in her hands. Then, as if pronouncing the word was a battle, he murmured, "...Pretty."

Her eyes widened slightly, heat blooming in her cheeks at the unexpected compliment, or at least, what felt like one.

"Thanks," she whispered, meeting his gaze again, softer now.

His shoulders tensed, as though realizing he'd revealed too much, and he sat back a little, though not enough to create real distance. His eyes stayed on her hands, watching every movement like he was trying to decipher a language he used to know and had long forgotten.

"Want me to make you one?" she asked quietly, half-teasing but also a little serious, remembering what transpired in the cave.

At first, he didn’t seem to react to her offer. His gaze stayed fixed on her hands, following the slow dance of her fingers over the yarn. She thought he might not have understood, or maybe he just didn’t care.

But then, almost reluctantly, he gave a small nod. "Yes.”

She blinked, a little surprised. "Alright," she murmured, smiling faintly, "I'll make one for you."

As she worked, looping and pulling the yarn, she felt him shift beside her, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught the slow, deliberate motion of his tendrils stretching along the rocks.

At first, she thought he was just getting comfortable. But as minutes passed, she realized his long, powerful limbs were spreading out in a wide circle, inching their way around her. By the time she dared to glance up at him again, she realized she was nearly surrounded.

His tentacles lay sprawled on the rocky floor, not quite touching her, but close enough that she could feel the cool, coming off them. Like a living fence, fluid and silent, encircling her while she worked.

She swallowed, trying to keep her hands firm. "You are really into ignoring personal space, huh?" she muttered, half to herself, though her voice came out a bit more breathless than she wanted.

His eyes flicked to hers, tilting his head slightly, as if not understanding. Then, he just kept watching, unmoving, while his tendrils coiled loosely, some of them draping over the rocks just inches from her legs.

She licked her lips, glancing at his face. His expression was calm. Intense, yes, but not hostile. More like… he was studying her.

Letting out a quiet breath, she focused back on her work. "Okay, big guy," she whispered under her breath. She tried to keep her breathing calm, moving her fingers carefully as she worked, but he was impossible to ignore.

Her eyes flicked sideways again, taking in the way one thick tendril coiled lazily around a jutting rock, as the tip twitched slightly like it had a mind of its own. Another rested just near her ankle, close enough that if she shifted even a little, she’d brush against it. 'Okay... stay calm', she thought, focusing on looping the yarn, 'he hasn’t hurt you. He let you go from the cave, remember?'

After a while, she dared to lift her head, only to find that his face was much closer than before. Close enough that she could see the little constellation of freckles scattered on his cheek near his ear, the slight shimmer of seawater still clinging to his skin, and the way his eyes -sharp, intense, and curious- searched hers for something. Her breath caught for a second, and she instinctively leaned back, only to realize there wasn’t much room left behind her.

His tendrils sprawled wide, blocking most of her easy escape paths. "It seems you got all comfortable," she commented with a nervous little smile curling her lips. Still no answer. Just that sharp, unreadable gaze. "Okay then..." she whispered, returning her focus to the coaster, though her fingers stumbled once before picking up their rhythm again.

----

What she didn’t know was that, for once, he was content. Or as close to content as he could remember being.

Because she was making something for him, without him asking, without him demanding it. She had offered. And that small gesture of willful giving, rather than fearful compliance, stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He told himself it was just boredom. Just curiosity. It had been so long since he spoke to anyone, even longer since anyone sat near him like this, acting like he was something other than a monster, even his own kind. Sadly, she was human. Fragile. Foolish.

Still, there was something about her that pulled him, like puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. A part of it was her scent. Something that made his senses prick with restless curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, watching her hands move with that odd grace over the yarn before something in him decided he needed to understand what that scent was.

So he did what felt natural to him, he leaned in, slow but deliberate, until his nose was just a breath away from her head, inhaling deeply.

The reaction was instant.

She jolted with a startled gasp. His own reaction was just as quick, pure instinct snapping into place, tendrils shooting forward to wrap firmly around her wrists, pinning them against the rocky surface before she could even think to pull away.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Her breath came fast, her heart pounded under her skin, and his grip tightened fractionally before he realized what he was doing.

Narrowing his eyes, he growled lowly -more at himself than at her- but didn’t release her immediately. Instead, he watched her face closely, as if searching for something in her wide, surprised eyes.

"...sorry," she breathed out, though she wasn’t sure why she was apologizing when he was the one with the tentacles wrapped around her wrists.

Her voice seemed to break through whatever fog had overtaken him. Slowly, reluctantly, the tendrils loosened and slid away, though they remained close, coiled with barely restrained tension.

"You startled me," she managed to say. "Getting that close suddenly without warning." she exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

He tilted his head slightly as if weighing her words, and something about her tone seemed to click in his mind. She could see it in the way his shoulders loosened a bit like he understood, and let her wrists go.

"Alright," she sighed, glancing at him sideways. "But what… what were you trying to do, anyway?"

For a moment, he looked like a child caught with his hand in a jar, a flash of something vulnerable crossing his features before he quickly masked it, trying to appear unaffected.

He raised a hand, almost stiffly, and gestured to his temple. "Scent," he said simply, watching her closely for her reaction.

"Oh," she breathed out. Okay… scent. That made sense. A lot of animals use scent to learn things about others. Maybe his kind did too. She blinked at him, then offered a small, almost amused smile. "Alright, I get it. Scent is important."

He seemed to relax a fraction more, but there was still a tense curiosity in the way he held himself, waiting to see if she'd bolt or scold him again.

She tilted her head slightly in thought, looking at him, then -deciding to leap- she reached up, sweeping her hair to one side and exposing the curve of her neck. "Well… now that I’m aware of your intentions," she said lightly, quirking her lips into a half-smile, "do you wanna try again?"

The offer clearly caught him off-guard.

His eyes widened, and his pupils dilated slightly, and, for a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Watching her like she was some strange, fascinating thing.

What she didn't realize, was that to him, this wasn’t just an invitation. The way she tilted her head, exposing her throat so casually, and shifting her hair aside, was a gesture of trust and vulnerability. And, among his kind, a subtle but unmistakable signal of courtship, offering one's scent in a way that said look at me, know me, choose me.

His teeth clicked together once, a sharp little sound he barely managed to suppress.

She caught the sound and blinked, uncertain. "What?"

He shook his head quickly, though his eyes were still locked on the tender skin of her neck. Slowly, as if testing how far she would let him go, he leaned in again. This time, there was a different air in his movements, they were careful, deliberate. His breath ghosted over her skin as he inhaled, and one of his hands, hovered like he was tempted to grab her but didn’t dare.

She swallowed and felt her pulse fluttering fast under his gaze.

His nose brushed lightly against her neck as he drew in another breath, slower this time. When he pulled back, his eyes had softened just a little, though they were still sharp, and curious and there was something else, something she couldn’t quite read.

She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

"Better?" she asked, a little breathless.

He nodded once, never breaking the eye contact.

"Better," he echoed, low and rough.

She exhaled slowly, toying absentmindedly with the yarn in her lap, but her mind was already spinning with the moment they had just shared. Then, before she could think better of it, she found herself saying, "Well… since you got to smell me, I think it's only fair I get to do the same."

His eyes widened, blinking at her like he wasn’t sure he heard right.

"I mean…" she shrugged, a crooked little smile pulled at her lips. "Seems like the polite thing to do, right?"

He stiffened. His head tilted slightly, with a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

She noticed it, of course. "What?" she asked, teasing to soften the moment. "Are you scared?"

At that, his gaze snapped back to hers, sharp and narrowed. "No," he grunted, frowning, but there was a flicker of something else.

She leaned a little closer, amused now, "C’mon… it’s only fair," she said softly, holding his gaze. "I let you get this close, didn’t I?" She gestured to her neck, and her cheeks warmed at the memory of his breath ghosting over her skin. "It’s not like I’m gonna bite you."

He huffed through his nose and then, with an almost reluctant grumble, he shifted closer, but slower this time.

She smiled gently, trying not to startle him. "Okay… your turn," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly would shatter whatever fragile thing had formed between them.

Tentatively, he tipped his head forward, lowering himself just enough for her to reach. His hair was still damp, smelling faintly of salt and something sharper, darker, like deep water and stormy tides.

She hesitated for a moment, but curiosity got the better of her. She leaned in, mimicking what he had done, and inhaled gently near the side of his neck, careful not to touch him. The scent was strange but not unpleasant, wild and raw but surprisingly human.

When she pulled back, she smiled, tilting her head. "See? Not so bad. It was the fair thing to do, after all."

He stared at her, with unreadable eyes. Then he nodded, the smallest of motions. "Fair," he murmured.

She chuckled, and that seemed to make him relax just a fraction. Inside though, her heart was still racing, because she couldn’t ignore the way something electric had passed between them, something unsaid but very tangible.

And it seemed neither of them quite knew what to do with it.

Next Chapter

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dividers by @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #merman! Bucky #cecaelia! Bucky #cecaelia #bucky x curvy!reader

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3d-wifey · 4 months ago

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INTERLUDE

| Interlude | | Finnick |

He doesn’t remember much from those early years. Finnick’s first, and last, memories of his mother come in flashes, like glimpses of the sun blinking on the ocean’s surface—fleeting, there and gone. Moments stitched together with threads he’s held onto for so long that some of them have frayed.

He was three, maybe four.

There were summers by the water, his mother cheering him on as he splashed and kicked—learning to swim, her laugh loud enough to echo across the shore. He’d wade in, stumbling in the shallows, and she’d be there, not in the water with him but just close enough to watch.

“Go on, Finnick,” she’d call out, laughing as he fought the gentle push of the waves, his little arms flailing in the sunlight. And she’d sit on the rocks and clap, calling out “Almost, Finn! Just a little farther!” as he tried to paddle back toward her, legs churning until he couldn’t keep his head above the water any longer. She was there, always there to scoop him up and lift him high, the salt drying on her freckled arms, her wet hair dark and wild as seaweed. She had big blue eyes, just like his, but they were always, always sad.

When he would make it himself, swim to and fro without her help, he’d turn to see her there, cheering him on, her smile so wide it made her cheeks dimple. He remembers being so sure then, remembers thinking that he was as powerful as the sea.

At home, there was her humming—a quiet song threading through the dusk-lit room as she sat in her chair by the window, knitting needles in her hands, moving as surely as waves. He’d rest beside her, wrapped in the sounds of thread slipping, her voice lulling him to sleep, her fingers brushing his curls when she thought he was already gone. Her hands were rough and calloused, familiar as the salt air. He’d watch her work until his eyes closed, the needles casting small, sharp shadows on her cheeks and the blue beneath her eyes.

He remembers his father returning from sea every few weeks, how the house would fill with warmth and his father’s laughter. He remembers the way his mother’s face would light up, like the sun breaking through a storm. He’d throw Finnick up into the air, higher than anyone else, his big hands rough from working the boats but gentle as they caught him. Finnick’s arms flailing and legs kicking while he shrieked in delight.

He’d always bring gifts from his trips. “Look what I brought back just for you,” his father would say, handing him something smooth and polished—a shell, a carved fish, the tail of a gull’s feather, a strange charm that he’d say was to protect him.

He’d be half-swallowed in his hug, pressing his small face into his father's shirt as he asked him, “How’s my boy?” He doesn’t remember what he would answer, only the feeling of being whole again, and feeling, for a while, like everything was as it should be. The way he’d reach out a hand to Finnick’s mother and give her a smile that made her eyes look a little less sad.

But she slept so much, his mother. More on the days his father was home, when he’d take Finnick out on the boat or carry him to market, his little arms looped tight around his neck. She was always tired. The older he got, the more he noticed it, the way she’d linger in bed on the mornings his father was home, only stirring to pull Finnick close under the blankets, holding him like he might drift away if she let go. Sometimes she’d hum him back to sleep, and other times, she’d just lie there, arms around him, her breathing so soft he’d wonder if she was really there.

Sometimes, he'd snuggle close, whispering stories to keep her entertained while her gaze drifted somewhere far, far away. He’d tell her about the sandcastles he built on the shore or the strange shapes he saw in the clouds. She would smile, faintly, a ghost of a thing that flickered in and out of the room. “That’s wonderful, Finn,” she’d murmur, her voice soft as a lullaby, and he’d keep talking, filling the quiet between her breaths.

Then, one night, she woke him up.

She woke him in the dark, her hand gentle on his shoulder, her eyes softer than he’d ever seen them—tugging him from his bed that he’d only just started sleeping in by himself, whispering his name, her voice gentle. So gentle, he can still hear it in the early morning tide if he listened for it. He never does.

The world was bathed in silver moonlight, shadows stretching long and thin, and she was there, holding his hand.

The night air was cool as she led him barefoot down the path toward the old couple’s house at the edge of the village. He didn’t understand, not really, but did what he always did. He took her hand and followed, stepping through the sand with her. The rough grains pressing between his toes as he swung her hand, talking about nothing and everything.

Chattering sleepily about the stars, the patterns he’d spotted, and how high his father had tossed him when he’d come home last. About the shells he found, the way the tide sounded like it’d tell him its secrets if he listened close enough. He doesn’t remember what he talked about exactly—he was always talking when she was quiet—but he remembers the sound of her breathing, steady and close, as they made their way to the old couple’s house. She listened, nodding, her smile barely visible in the moonlight, soft and no dimples in sight.

She knelt beside him on their neighbor’s front step, folding herself down until her blue eyes were level with his. She said something to him, her mouth moving around words he’s never been able to remember no matter how many times he tries, only that they made her eyes glassy with a sadness he didn’t understand. Then she pulled him close, hugging him, a long, quiet embrace that he tried to wriggle out of, impatient to go home. But she held on, her hands sliding down from his shoulders to his hands. It felt like it would go on for forever. He wishes it had.

He remembers her chin resting on his head, her fingers pressing into his back, holding him so close it was like she wanted to memorize him. She said something else to him, but the words are lost, fading into the sounds of the night and the rush of the ocean nearby.

Then she let go, and he watched her walk away, her figure fading into the darkness, swallowed by the night.

The next morning, the old woman held him in her lap, murmuring to him words he didn’t understand about Poseidon and “the sea’s calling.”

He stayed with them for days, maybe weeks, maybe even months. He’s not certain how long the old couple watched him for—doesn’t remember when he stopped expecting his mother to come back for him.

His father came back from sea not long after, though it, like everything, felt like forever, like he had spent years in that little house, waiting by the window, looking for her down by the shore.

When his father came to get him, he didn’t look like himself. His face was drawn, his eyes hollow, and he held Finnick close—closer than he’d ever held him before. He asked his father where she’d gone, why she hadn’t come back. He pulled him into his arms, whispering against his hair, “The sea took her, Finnick.” That was all he said. All he would ever say.

For years, he believed him. He thought she must’ve gone to work on the water like his father did, her hands lifting nets from the ocean, pulling fish from the deep, going to places he’d see one day when he was older. He waited for her, so sure that she’d come back when the tides turned, arms open, eyes bright again.

But she never did.

He told himself she’d be back, that maybe she’d gone far away but would return with gifts, with seashells or stories of strange fish and far-off places. She’d come back someday.

But when he turned seven, some kids at school told him the truth. They laughed as they said it, their voices sharp as coral, taunting as they whispered what they’d overheard from their parents.

Your mother walked into the sea, they said. She left you behind.

They talked and talked about the night she’d walked into the water and kept going, farther and farther out, until the waves had taken her under.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t tell them they were wrong. He just felt something crack inside, a tiny fracture that spread through him, leaving an emptiness he had never known before.

He remembers the hot, sick feeling in his chest as he ran home, the words catching in his mind like shards of glass. He didn't want to believe them. He didn’t want to imagine the dark, icy pull of the water, the way it must have swallowed her whole. But that night, he looked into the mirror and saw his own eyes staring back, sad and blue as the sea, and he understood. He understood that this was the closest he’d get to seeing his mother again.

And he never asked his father about her again. He kept it all inside, this hollow, gnawing grief, and learned to carry it the way she carried him—to keep it safe, to hold it close, a memory wrapped in silence.

He knows he looks like her.

Not from his own memory, not even from photos, but from the mouths of people who knew her. Finnick isn’t sure who he really is; he’s only ever known himself through her reflection. The way they’d tilt their heads, smiling softly, every time he laughed too easily or went quiet and lost himself in thought. “Your mother used to do that,” they’d say, watching him with sad eyes he learned to ignore.

But he knows he looks most like her when he cries. That’s how he remembers her best—those blue eyes heavy with something he was too young to name. He knows it in the way he sees strangers’ faces soften, how their pity shifts as they look into his sad, sad eyes and see not him, but the grief his mother left behind.

He can feel her there, lingering in the corners of his gaze, as if her sadness seeped into him and stained him like a watermark he can never quite wash away.

His walk, his laugh, the way he cocked his head—he wondered if any of it was his own or if it all belonged to her. He worked hard to make sure the rest of him was hers, too. He let the sun bleach his hair light, coaxing it toward the same dusky blond his mother’s used to be, the kind that hovered between brown and gold, and he’d walk along the shore until his skin took on the same sunburnt freckling that she had. He’d turn to the sea, hoping the waves would tell him how to hold himself like her, hoping the tide could bring her back even if only in the small ways he carried her.

People used to tell him this, too—how much he was like her, how he must carry so much of her inside. But what was he supposed to say to that? How was he supposed to feel? How much of me is her? he would think, feeling hollowed out by all the ways he could never quite tell where she ended and he began. She haunted him, and yet he clung to her memory, the way his father clung to the sea. He hated it—he hated how much of himself wasn’t his own, but what else did he have of her?

He loved her, yes, but sometimes it made him angry. He hated that his whole life had been spent waiting for a mother who had chosen to leave him, and for a father who drifted off whenever he felt the pull of the ocean.

Maybe his father was angry too. Maybe that’s why he kept leaving Finnick behind, alone in that little house with its cold, empty rooms—like something he’d left in the sand to be worn away by the waves. Maybe that’s why he left him to scrape together dinner on his tiptoes, left him to the elderly couple down the road who’d feed him soup and pat his head with hands too frail to lift him.

Maybe that’s why he’d let him wait in the sand for hours, sitting on the shore with his small fists clutching the shells and stones his father used to bring back from sea, hoping he’d come home and bring his mother back with him. But the years went on, and Finnick stopped waiting for him, stopped waiting for anyone.

The comparisons—a fact of his life, a rhythm, as steady as the tides—they stopped, too.

It all stopped once he won his Games.

After that, people stopped saying he was like her, stopped comparing him to the woman with the soft voice and the sad eyes.

Sweet, poor Finnick, they’d whisper with pity, shaking their heads as if he were something fragile, something broken. That Odair boy, practically an orphan. And he understood because the person he became in those Games—that wasn’t his mother.

People no longer told him he looked like her. No, they couldn’t see her in him any more—not in Finnick, who had lied. Finnick, who had cheated. Finnick, who killed to survive. And he understood why. His mother had never had a violent bone in her body, and would never have raised a weapon. She hadn’t survived, hadn’t done the things he had to in the arena. They couldn’t imagine her in his place, fighting and clawing her way back. And he wondered, sometimes, if that’s what kept her from surviving. If maybe she’d still be here if she’d been able to do what he did.

And sometimes he’d get so angry at her. He’d think, how could she leave her child? Her husband? They needed her. He needed her. And he hadn’t been enough to keep her here, not even her own son, her little boy with her blue eyes and her sad, sad smile. He hated her for it, sometimes, and other times, he just felt hollow, the way he’d felt when they told him he looked just like her. That she walked into the sea. That the ocean and its waves had more of a claim over Finnick’s mother than he did.

And sometimes, that thought makes him angry too. Angry at her. Because sometimes, he thought she was the one who was weak. That if she’d had it in her to fight, she might have stayed. Stayed for his father, for him. If she could have fought her own sadness, she might have been there to protect him. Sometimes, Finnick wonders if she would still be alive if she’d had that edge, that brutal instinct he learned in the arena. Maybe it wasn’t his fault he wasn’t enough to anchor her, maybe it was something in her that let her drift away, too light to stay.

And sometimes, when it was quiet, he’d wonder if he would have ended up like her if he hadn’t fought, if he hadn’t been forced to harden himself. Forced to tear out all those soft parts of him and leave them buried in that arena. He knows what it’s like to be carried away by something you can’t control, a force so much bigger than you. Sometimes, he thinks the Capitol is his ocean, dragging him into its depths, forcing him to fight for every breath. The Games hardened him in a way she never had the chance to be hardened, and in that way, they will never be the same. In those moments, when the anger faded and the silence settled over him, he’d think, maybe, just maybe, he could understand her.

As he grew older, his face changed, his shoulders grew broad and his jaw sharpened, his reflection growing more and more like his father’s. His voice deepened, his steps grew heavy and certain. He started tanning instead of freckling, and his eyes developed a green tint.

No more being called that Odair boy.

Instead, he’s just Finnick. Capitol Darling, Charming Career.

His mother only exists in faded memories, now, in the way he looked as a child—soft, sad, open to the world. His baby photos, where he’s her twin.

But she lingers, too, in the way he looks after those he cares for, in the fierce way he defends them or softens his voice. She’s there in the way he hates being told what to do. He sees her hands in his own as he holds others tight in his arms, just like she used to hold him. He whispered stories to keep them safe, telling them everything and nothing, like he had with her all those years ago, her memory flickering at the edges of every word. She lives on in those small rebellions, in his quick temper, in the way he loathed authority.

She was there in the way he always felt the sea pulling at him, just out of reach.

She lived on in the curve of his lips, the strength of his hands, and in the depths of his sad, sad sea glass eyes—the ones that stared into the ocean like they could see something just beyond the horizon.

When he looked in the mirror, he sometimes saw her still. Not her face, but her spirit. And that was something no one could take from him.

| Interlude | | You |

You grew up in a place where life is as fragile as the cotton plants that grow on the outer reaches of the district—shrouded by the shadows cast by the Capitol. But life was tougher too, with roots that burrow deep into the soil of Eleven.

Your earliest memories are filled with the scent of Earth, of wild herbs, and the way your mama's voice carried through your little shack as she cooked, singing songs she said her mama used to sing. You don’t have many memories untouched by death or hunger, but the ones you do have are stitched together by the voices of your people, by the warmth they’d create when the cold nights set in.

Life is hard, yes, but it is shared.

Death finds you early in Eleven. It’s woven into the air, in the soil you turn with calloused hands, in the empty spaces left by people who once sat beside you by the evening fire. But it comes down like a hammer for those who work the hardest.

Mr. Laramie is the first person you know to die, your friend’s daddy. You’re four or five, and it’s the first time death really takes hold in your mind. Mr. Laramie, a good, quiet man, his skin worn and cracked from the sun, his back bent with years in the fields. He tried to steal food for his family, just a couple of tomatoes, they said.

When they caught him in the act, they made a show of it, a warning for everyone watching. They dragged him into the rows, pressed a gun to his temple, and left him there in the dirt like a broken tool, his blood soaking the earth he spent his life tending. You’re there when they deliver the news to his son. You remember your friend’s face afterward, eyes empty, shoulders slumped, the wooden toy yall were playing with still clutched in his little hands.

It was the first time you really understood what hunger could drive a person to do.

Death is everywhere in Eleven. You were born into it, welcomed by it like an old friend. Even on the day your mama brought you into the world, someone else was leaving it—a neighbor, an old woman a few doors down who finally slipped away after years of sickness and hunger. “She went quiet in her sleep,” they told your mama, as if slipping away in silence was the most anyone could hope for.

You’re six the first time you see someone die, up close and too real. The girl is barely older than you, her hands blue from the cold, her breath shallow. It’s winter, the frost settles on everything, and the crops are stunted, thin, a poor harvest even for Eleven. She’s bundled in all the clothes she has, but it’s not enough. She collapses in the middle of the rows, and no one has the strength to lift her. They just leave her there, a thin frame curled among the plants, her mouth open, her eyes staring at nothing. You don’t cry. You barely feel it. Death is just another shadow here, another thing to step around. And you learn early on that tears don’t bring anyone back.

But the first time you do cry, the first time something in you breaks because of death, is the day they hang your daddy.

Your daddy was tall and strong. You remember him best as someone who held his head high, even when it wasn’t safe to do so. His voice calm and steady as he taught you how to slip through the shadows of the district’s boundaries to forage wild herbs and roots. He’d pick up a leaf and explain, “This one can ease a fever. Remember that.” Your small fingers would mimic his, brushing over the leaves and flowers as you learned how to heal wounds and ease hunger with the plants that grew wild in your corner of the world. But your daddy didn’t only know plants; he knew something deeper, a fire you couldn’t yet understand.

He was part of the underground, something they called the Resistance—a quiet movement of whispers, songs sung in fields, messages passed under cover of night. He’d tell you stories about freedom, about how one day you’d all be able to live without the watchful eyes of the Peacekeepers. Whispering truths about the Capitol that most dared not say out loud, his words carried in secret meetings held late at night when you’d listen from your bed, holding your breath to catch each word.

You’re young—freshly eight—when they take him. Peacekeepers came to your shack, their white uniforms gleaming in the midday sun, their faces hidden behind visors that caught your reflection like a mirror. They dragged your daddy out into the square, forced him up on the platform, and made the whole district watch. It wasn’t just him. They had a whole line of people you recognized all lined up at the steps of the gallows with guns at their backs. Friends and neighbors, faces you’ve seen in the fields, neighboring Shacktowns, or in your own home passing around laughter and mason jars of moonshine.

You were afraid to move, afraid to breathe, because you knew this would be the last time you'd see him, and part of you didn’t want to see at all. They slipped the rope over his head, and you were forced to stand there, held tight by your mama as you tried to look away. But your daddy’s eyes found you in the crowd and you couldn't move, couldn't look away as his eyes held yours for one last time. He gave you a look you’ll never forget, steady and sad, like he wanted to tell you something that the words couldn't hold. A look that said so much without words, holding all the things he never got to teach you. And then he was gone, his life snapped away in a moment, and you felt your own breath turn ragged as you stood there.

You cried then, in a way you’ve never cried before, not even realizing the tears were yours until you felt them burning your cheeks. Standing still in the newfound silence of a world without his voice.

“Remember, baby,” he’d say, voice low but certain. “The land gives, and we survive. One day, it’ll be ours again.” But they took him from you, took him from everyone, and after that, life grew even harder.

After that, something in you changed. You learned to hold your heart close, like a seed buried in deep soil, protected from the harshness of the world. From then on, death became a part of you, a constant presence that shaped the way you saw—it was everywhere, as familiar to you as hunger, as certain as the morning light. It was in the fields where the workers toiled without end, in the eyes of the children who grew up knowing they might not live. You learned the value of life through its fragility, understanding that every kindness, every shared meal, was an act of defiance. Eleven is a place of suffering, but it’s also a place of quiet resilience.

By the time you were ten, you knew almost every plant that grew in the fields, every root and leaf that could heal a wound or ease a fever. Your daddy had taught you a bit before he was taken, and the rest you learned from the women in the fields, the ones who knew how to draw life from the land when there was nothing else. You’d spend hours with your hands in the dirt, learning to listen to the plants, to coax medicine from the earth itself.

But the brightest memories in your mind aren’t the lessons or the plants—they’re the people. You remember the way you’d come together after a long day in the fields, your mama’s voice blending with the others as they sang old songs, songs older than Panem, full of voices and harmonies that filled up the night like the stars.

They were the same voices that filled your daddy’s old stories—the kind of tales that made you believe in things, even when believing felt dangerous. “One day, baby, we’ll be free. That’s the promise of this land.” You didn’t know if it was true, but you carried those words in your heart, a flame that wouldn’t die.

Life went on after your daddy died. It had to. You buried your grief as best you could, learned to carry the emptiness inside you like something precious, because survival in your district demanded strength. You became good at it, at finding ways to keep going even when the world felt like it was pressing down on you. The people around you were good at it too. You learned to find strength in your neighbors, your cousins, the elders who shared stories and knowledge when the day’s work was done. There was an understanding: you took care of your people, no matter what.

Your mama would make big pots of gumbo from whatever she could scrape together—okra, wild greens you foraged, a handful of beans. “We got somethin’ to share, y’all come on by,” she’d call to the neighbors, the kindness in her voice as warm as the meal itself.

Each person would bring a bowl and what little they could spare—a handful of berries, a sprig of rosemary, a single ear of corn. It wasn’t much, but together, it was enough. Sharing was survival. The people were bound together by blood, by hardship, and by the quiet defiance of simply helping each other stay alive.

And that’s how you learned the real rules of Eleven: you survive because of each other.

But the people in power—well, they understood that too, and they twist that knowledge into something ugly. Giving favors, they call it, but everyone knows it’s just a way to keep you in their debt. If you’re useful enough, polite enough, if you play along, you might earn a little extra, a small mercy that can mean the difference between going hungry and getting by. Favors from those in power are never given freely. There’s always a cost, a debt owed, and often, that debt is paid in the currency of the body. The overseers—the landowners, Peacekeepers, and government workers—carry a thin veneer of friendliness, but it’s a kindness that feels more like a trap. There’s an unsettling familiarity to the way they touch young farmhands, resting hands too long on shoulders, fingers lingering at the nape of a neck.

You’re one of the lucky few to learn early on that Eleven is ruled by people who wield authority like a twisted kindness. The “friendly” ones in power carry themselves like they’re doing the district a favor just by noticing someone.

They walk through the fields, through the classrooms, the streets, offering advice or singling out a worker for a nod or a rare word of encouragement. The attention feels like a gift to those who receive it, a rare touch of warmth in a place so starved of mercy. But everyone knows the truth beneath it. The slightest offense, the wrong word or a moment’s defiance, and that smile would vanish in an instant, leaving only the hollow threat of punishment behind.

It’s a careful game of give and take. They’ll do favors, as long as you do something in return. The doctor might “forget” to write down an illness if you keep his family supplied with extra rations, or maybe the mayor’s wife will spare you a blanket during the winter in exchange for a few hours of free labor. The mayor himself often shows up to gatherings, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s one of you, his tone full of practiced empathy. “You’re my people,” he’d say, with an indulgent smile, watching your faces for a response, always a little too invested in your gratitude. For some, it’s easy to fall into the trap. To believe that these scraps of attention mean something, that the people in power have a genuine care for them.

But favors in Eleven come with invisible chains. Those who agree find themselves indebted, their lives bound by unspoken rules they’re expected to follow. It’s a kind of currency that binds families to one another, legacies of obligation passed down like heirlooms. Certain businesses—a tailor’s shop, a mill, a farm—stay within families because they’ve earned the protection of those above. If there’s no heir, the district’s lawyer, a ratty little bastard with slick hair and an even slicker voice, might suggest adopting one of the orphans running barefoot through the fields, a child who can work the land and keep the family name alive. In return, loyalty is expected, unquestioning and constant.

The landowners are masters of the game and you learned to fear the ones with the friendly smiles more than the ones that kick you down. They walk through, inspecting their crops, watching their workers, always with an eye on the young ones. They’re friendly, too friendly, letting their hands linger on bare skin, giving out compliments that stick to you like the greasy film that humidity leaves behind. “Good job, sweetheart,” they’ll say, or “You’re a fine worker, just like your mama.” Sometimes, if you laugh at the right moments or smile in just the right way, they might give you an extra ration or an afternoon off to rest, a rare “privilege” dangled as if it were something earned, rather than something extracted.

Sometimes it’s subtle: a landowner complimenting the way a girl ties her kerchief, calling her “pretty” or “sweetheart” while his gaze drags over her in ways that make her skin crawl. Other times, it’s more direct, with a hand sliding over a back or squeezing an arm, testing the boundaries of what they can take. These people, they hold power over your livelihoods, your rations, your families. A farmhand might go along with it, hoping that a coy smile or a quiet “thank you” will keep the landowner’s eyes off his younger siblings, off the others who work the fields. But the really unlucky ones—the ones who catch too much attention—don’t come back with stories. They come back silent, eyes empty, like they’ve left a part of themselves behind.

And the Peacekeepers—they’re worse. They’ll flirt with you, lay on the charm thick, calling you “darling” or “pretty thing,” like they’re doing you a kindness by noticing you. They know how to play the part of the protector, watching over you with a smile, their hands heavy on your back, their voices so smooth once they’re free of those helmets. They’ve got pretty faces to match those pretty words. Their faces aren’t gaunt from too many missed meals, skin undamaged from the sun, hailing from either District Two or the shiny Capitol itself—far too used to getting what they want. But that pretty exterior, much like their kindness, is a trap, and it can turn on you in an instant. The same Peacekeeper who laughs with you one day, who praises the way you work, or how precious you are might sneer at you the next, calling you “filthy” or “an animal,” worse than an insect, something that crawled out of the mud.

And you’ve seen them snarl with disgust, heard them mutter that they “wouldn’t touch you with the muzzle of their gun.” And yet he’s the same Peacekeeper who swore to “look after” you the day before if only you’d give him a little something to make it worth his while. You’ve heard them ask for a hand behind the barn, seen them lead friends to where the hay stands tall—tall enough to hide away from view—only to return five, maybe ten minutes later as if nothing happened.

You learn to play along, to laugh when they laugh, to duck your head when they get too close, but you never forget what they think of you.

And when someone tries to resist, to deny the favor being demanded, the backlash is swift and brutal. Rations are withheld, assignments become harsher, and public humiliation is wielded like a weapon, a warning to anyone else thinking of defiance.

Even those in good standing know that every privilege is fragile. And every month, they hold court in the square, a grim spectacle of justice for all to see. They’d line up the “criminals” in a single row like animals on display—workers who’d dared to defy orders, or simply hadn’t shown the right respect—pulling them to their knees for the crowd. Sometimes it’s a whipping, the crack of the lash sharp as glass, and everyone is forced to watch as their bodies flinch under the blows. Other times, it's hard labor with no rations, a punishment that meant starving while you worked to the edge of collapse.

And for the worst offenses, there was the gallows.

They're a show of power, the hangings. Each time, you feel the weight of the rope like it’s wrapped around your own neck, a reminder that in Eleven, survival is conditional, a privilege granted only to the obedient.

In the quiet moments, you remember your father’s voice, the steady way he’d speak of freedom, of the day when life wouldn’t be dictated by hunger or fear. It’s a dream you tuck away, safe in the hollow place you carry inside. And you keep going, your spirit rooted in the land beneath your feet, in the warmth of your mama's soup pot, in the unbreakable bonds between those who understand that survival here is something you share.

They tell you kindness is a gift, something you should be thankful for, even when it’s twisted, tainted by the intentions of those who hold the power. But you know the truth. You learned it the day they took your daddy from you. Kindness here is a fragile thing, a small fire shared in the darkness. The warmth of a neighbor passing a ration, a mother’s soup pot stretched to feed three families. You take those small gifts and hold onto them, because they’re yours, unbought, untaken, given without cost. Because kindness isn’t theirs to twist or take away.

You learned to stay quiet, to avoid their notice, to keep your head down even when their eyes lingered on you. You thanked them for things you didn’t want, laughed politely when you wanted to scream, forced yourself to smile when every muscle in your body was tense with fear. You learned that survival was a balance, that sometimes it meant swallowing your pride, and sometimes it meant helping others do the same. It's a constant negotiation between dignity and survival, because standing up for oneself could mean risking the safety of everyone else.

And when punishment day comes in the square, it’s often those who didn’t “play along” who are lined up first. Those who refused the touches, who rejected the offers, who dared to assert their humanity in the face of their oppressors’ twisted intimacy. The community knows this, but they’ve learned not to speak of it directly. Instead, y'all share your strength in quieter ways—an extra ration snuck to a defiant farmhand, a shared blanket or whispered words of reassurance to a young worker who caught the Peacekeeper’s eye that day. Whispers of hope or survival plans exchanged when no one is looking.

You share what little you have, gather around the evening fires, sing the old songs that tell stories of endurance, of hardship, of quiet defiance. Because you’ve learned that kindness isn’t something they can take. No matter how they twist it, no matter what they do, the small acts of care that you give to each other are yours. You hold onto them with both hands, because kindness is a rebellion all on its own.

#finnick odair #and they'd find us in a week #finnick odair x reader #hunger games catching fire #interlude #finnick x reader

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v6quewrlds · 5 months ago

Note

do you have anything with Justin Herbert? 🫶🏾

imagine being fuck buddies with justin.

author's note⠀⁎⠀another abandoned draft/stream of consciousness lmao, oc warning (sorry), despite the title there is no smut, this is angst (sorry again) <3

Ruby liked it when things were easy. Predictable. Like a perfectly seasoned stew that bubbled away, never burning, never needing to be checked on. That's what her life had been for the past few years, easy, breezy, Covergirl-adjacent predictability.

Then she met Justin.

Justin Herbert, the star quarterback of the Los Angeles Chargers. He was the kind of man who could turn heads without even trying, his tall frame and tanned skin a beacon of athleticism in a sea of mere mortals. His blue eyes had captured Ruby's attention the moment they met from across the bar. But it wasn't just his appearance. It was his charm, his wit, the way he argued with her about the last 30 minutes of Interstellar as if he had penned the screenplay himself. She insisted that it was much too complicated, that Nolan had gone full Nolan, while he defended it as a masterpiece of cinematic brilliance. That's when she knew he was different from most guys, as cliche and misguided as it sounded.

Their friendship grew through a series of chance encounters and shared laughs. Ruby had built walls around her heart brick by brick. She had her son, Malakai, to think about, a six-year-old tornado of energy and love that took up most of her time. And then there was her career, a demanding beast that required constant feeding with innovative ideas and late-night panics. But when Justin suggested they keep things casual, she saw the appeal. No strings, no drama, just two adults satisfying a mutual craving. It was perfect, and just like the two of them, it was structured.

Most of the time, they hooked up at Justin's place in Hidden Hills. Ruby would show up in the early afternoon after seeing a client, her work usually wrapped up for that part of the day. She knew the code to his door, had a drawer for her clothes, and even a set of towels reserved just for her. It was a strange dance of intimacy without the intimacy. Sometimes, she'd arrive while he was stuck at the Chargers' facility, working on his game or doing media appearances. He'd always text her, though, asking if she got there okay and if she needed anything picked up from the grocery store on his way. The answer was always no. But it was sweet, he was sweet. His upbringing seemed to be stellar, his parents had raised a man with manners, and it showed - in and out of the bedroom.

They'd melt into one another, go for a round or two, and then Ruby would shower, feeling the warm water wash away any lingering doubt or guilt she might have had. Afterward, they'd sit on his giant couch, eating a bougie snack she assembled in his kitchen, and sometimes they'd talk about their days. It was surface-level stuff, mostly. A cute drawing from Malakai, a new recipe she was working on, his latest endorsement deal. But it was comfortable, easy, predictable.

She would leave by 2:45. Malakai got out at 3 and Justin's place was - conveniently - just a 10-minute drive from the elementary school. But she liked to get there early, sit in the parking lot, and shift back into her Mommy Mindset. It was her little slice of me-time in an otherwise hectic life. Plus, it gave her enough space to ensure she didn't look like a hot mess when her son saw her.

Mondays were added into their rotation when the season began. That was Justin's recovery day after Sunday games. Ruby would leave a hot dinner on the stove, knowing he'd be sore and tired, and that the quietness of her place in the Santa Clarita suburbs was something he craved. He would use the spare key hidden under the mat and let himself in, usually around 11 PM Sunday night. Malakai was with his grandparents, as embedded in Ruby's weekly schedule.

So, Justin would slip in while Ruby was catching up on sleep, showering off the stress and the loss or victory of the game. He had a little assigned space in the back of her closet, a couple of shirts and some sweatpants, not much more. He'd get into bed with her, his body warm and smelling faintly of muscle balm, and she'd curl into him like he was a giant teddy bear. The fever was slow and gentle in the morning, the kind that made her gasp into his chest and hold on as tight as she could for fear he'd vanish into thin air.

Justin would let Ruby boss him around as they made breakfast, the smells of eggs and bacon filling the kitchen. He liked it, liked that she was comfortable enough to take charge in her own space. They'd sit at the kitchen table, the sun peeking through the blinds, and she would listen to him talk about his schedule, how much he missed his family, and his fears about the next game. She'd nod and offer advice, her hazel eyes looking into his with a sincerity that was surprisingly comforting.

It was perfect. No labels, no drama, no expectations. Just two people enjoying the company of the other when their busy lives allowed it.

Malakai loved sports, which was a small miracle since Ruby had done everything in her power to steer him away from football. She had never been a fan, finding the sport too violent and too consuming of her ex's time. But when the six-year-old bounced around in the backseat of Ruby's Range Rover one afternoon after school, declaring he was a Chargers fan and Justin Herbewt (his consonants still a bit jumbled) was his favorite player, she felt dread creep up her spine.

Unable to deny her baby's happiness, she found herself sitting in front of the TV every weekend, pretending to work while Malakai's eyes were glued to the screen, cheering for Justin's team. It was strange, watching the sport she used to despise, now finding a strange comfort in the rhythm of the plays, the sound of the crowd. And every time she caught a glimpse of Justin, his arms, his height, his focus, she felt a swell of something she didn't dare name.

One wildcard weekend, the Chargers had a surprise loss. Ruby couldn't pull her eyes away from the TV as Justin's team fell apart. She saw his pained expression, the defeat etched into every line on his face, and her heart ached for him. It was unlike anything she had felt before. After tucking Malakai into bed, she sent him a tentative text, unsure if she was crossing a line.

The next morning, Ruby woke up to silence. No text from Justin, no acknowledgment of her offer to talk. She felt a pang of rejection, but she knew he was probably just tired from the game. She went about her day, dropping Malakai off at his grandparents' early Sunday morning. She couldn't help but wonder if she had made a mistake.

Her schedule was tight with meetings and calls, but she couldn't shake the image of Justin's face from her mind. The way his jaw had set, the tension in his shoulders, it was a stark contrast to the carefree, silly, intelligent man who occasionally slept in her bed. Ruby knew she was crossing into murky waters, but she couldn't ignore the pull she felt towards him. It was more than just the thrill of being with someone so desirable. It was his kindness, his understanding, his ability to listen without judgment that had started to mean more than she cared to admit.

When the text came, it was just like him - sweet, considerate, and yet straight to the point.

Sorry for the late response. Had a long night.

I'm with my family tonight, but if you're free on Monday, I'd love to come over.

Ruby felt a mix of relief and nerves. She didn't know why she cared so much about his response, but she did. She replied as simply as she could.

Sure.

Malakai will be with his grandparents, as usual. I'll be in the area all day. Let me know when you're on your way.

Monday rolled around, and Ruby found herself pacing the living room. She had done her best to keep the day as normal as possible, but the anticipation was thick in the air. She had met with clients, picked out the freshest ingredients for her next culinary masterpiece, and even squeezed in a workout, but she couldn't shake the butterflies in her stomach. When the doorbell finally rang, she took a deep breath and composed herself before opening the door.

Justin was dressed down in a pair of Nike training pants and a plain black t-shirt, his messy brownish-blondish hair hinting at the emotional rollercoaster he'd been on since the game. He looked tired, but his eyes lit up when he saw her. Without a word, he stepped in and wrapped his arms around her, holding her in a tight embrace that made her heart race. Ruby knew that this was a line they hadn't crossed before, but she didn't push him away. Instead, she leaned into his warmth and let out a sigh of relief.

"I was worried about you," Ruby murmured into his chest, the words muffled by his shirt. Justin's grip tightened around her. "That was a tough watch. How are you holding up?"

Justin stepped back, his eyes searching hers. "It's been a rough 48 hours, to be honest." He took a deep breath. "But I'm okay."

Ruby nodded, unsure of what to say next. She hadn't anticipated the raw vulnerability in his gaze. "Do you want to talk about it?" she offered tentatively.

Justin hesitated before nodding. "I don't know if I can put it into words," he said, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. "But it's more than just the game. It's... everything."

Ruby led him to the couch and sat down beside him, her hand resting gently on his knee. "Take your time," she assured him. "It's good to vent."

He leaned back, his eyes scanning the room before settling on hers again. "I just... I've never felt so... exposed before," he admitted, his thumb tracing circles on her hand. "Everyone expects so much from me. To be perfect, to win, to be the hero. And when I don't..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

Ruby's heart ached for him. She knew all too well the pressure of expectations, of feeling like you had to be everything to everyone. Recognizing the tension in his posture, she allowed him the space to collect his thoughts. After a moment, she spoke up, her voice soft but firm. "Sometimes, it's just not meant to be. And that's okay. You're allowed to be upset, but never feel sorry for yourself. You work too hard for that."

Justin offered a half-smile, appreciative of her understanding. He leaned back into the couch cushions with an exhale. "I'm sorry about all the football talk, I know it's not your thing."

Ruby shrugged. "It's fine, really. I mean, you're passionate about it, and it's a big part of your life. It's important to you, so as your friend, it's important to me too. No big deal," she said, trying to lighten the mood.

But Justin wasn't ready to let it go. "Friend," he echoed, his voice half-chuckle, half-challenge. "Am I your friend?"

Ruby felt the tension in the room thicken. "What else would you call it?" she asked, her voice just as light, despite the sudden heaviness in her chest.

Justin's smile grew, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, you know, we're not exactly hanging out when we see each other." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Friends don't do the things we do."

Ruby felt her eyebrows furrow for a brief second, but she held her ground. "What things?" she asked, playing dumb. She knew exactly what he meant, but she didn't want to be the one to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

"You know," Justin said, his voice a low rumble, "the kind of things that make me clear out a drawer for you and keep your favorite ingredients stocked." His eyes searched hers, and Ruby blinked back at him, her heart racing. "Or," he continued with a small smile, "the kind of things that make me want to risk everything just to have you in my life."

Ruby felt the walls she had so carefully constructed start to crumble. "Justin," she whispered, her voice shaky. "That's dangerous," a mirthless chuckle escaped her, "especially for you." She looked down at their intertwined fingers, his thumb still making lazy circles on her hand.

He sat up, his expression earnest. "I know. You're dangerous."

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a confession, of something deeper than either of them had been ready to admit. Ruby's eyes searched his, looking for a sign that he was just saying it to get in her pants again, but all she saw was a sincerity that was as surprising as it was disarming.

"I'm dangerous?" Ruby echoed, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. She hadn't anticipated this turn in their conversation.

Justin nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Yeah," he said, "extremely dangerous."

Ruby's heart skipped a beat. "What does that mean?" she managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

Justin sighed and leaned back into the couch, his eyes searching the ceiling as if the answers were written there. He clearly didn't want to dive into this conversation, seemed to be fighting with himself internally.

"Justin," Ruby said, her voice firm despite the shock, "what do you mean by that?"

Justin took a deep breath, his blue eyes finding hers again. "I mean that... I can't help but feel like I'm falling for you," he admitted, his voice thick with vulnerability. "And that scares the shit out of me."

Ruby's breath caught in her throat. She had been bracing herself for a casual, teasing conversation, not a declaration of feelings. She felt her heart thud heavily in her chest. "What?" she said, trying to keep the tremble from her voice.

Justin stood up, his eyes darting around the room, avoiding her gaze as best he could. "You heard me," he said. "I really like you, Ruby. More than I should, probably. I know you don't do relationships and I'm not supposed to want that either, but I can't help it. What we have is good, it's easy, but I keep thinking that I want more than easy. I want all of you."

Ruby felt like she had been punched in the gut. "Justin, we agreed on this," she said, her voice shaking. "No strings attached, no messiness. We're both busy, we have our own lives. Feelings ruin everything."

Justin nodded, his eyes downcast. "I know, I know. But I can't help it. I'm trying to be more intentional about how I treat you, how I talk to you." He paused, his voice low. "Because I don't want to ruin what we have."

Ruby felt the tears welling up. She didn't know why his words had such an impact on her, but she knew she had to protect herself. "Justin," she began, her voice shaking, "I agreed to this because it was easy. Because I don't have time for a relationship, especially considering who you are."

He looked at her, confused. "What do you mean, 'who I am'?"

Ruby took a deep breath, trying to find the words. "You're an NFL quarterback in LA, Justin. Like it or not, you're a big deal. I'm a single mom with a career, and I hate football. I don't have time to be a WAG, dealing with all the drama and the scrutiny that comes with it. And you don't deserve to be forced to deal with someone who can't handle that."

Justin frowned, his gaze intense. "I never asked you to be anything but yourself. Why do you think I've kept this from everyone? Because I know the kind of bullshit that comes with my job. I've done everything I can to keep us separate from that."

Ruby sighed, looking away. "This is exactly what I didn't want," she murmured. "This... mess." She knew she had painted herself into a corner with her own words, but she couldn't deny the fear that washed over her at the thought of letting anyone into her life in a real way, especially someone in the public eye like Justin.

Justin's hand cupped her chin, gently turning her face towards him. "Look, I'm not asking you to be my girlfriend, or to go to every game, or to deal with any of that crap. I just... I care about you, Ruby. More than I should, and I don't know what that means for us. But I had to tell you."

When she didn't respond, he continued. "I was honest about who I was from the beginning, and it was never a problem before. But if me being honest about how I feel is going to make you run, then maybe we should reconsider this whole thing." He paused, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped her eye. "Because the last thing I want to do is hurt you."

Ruby took a deep, shaky breath, feeling her heart twist. "It's not that, it's just..." she began, but couldn't find the words.

"What?" Justin asked, his voice softer now.

Ruby looked at him, her hazel eyes swimming with unshed tears. "It's just that... I'm scared," she admitted finally. "I can't be a part of that world, and you can't escape it. I have to protect Malakai, protect myself, and I don't know if I can do that if I get too involved in... this." She gestured between the two of them, her voice cracking.

Justin's gaze never wavered from hers. "I understand," he said gently. "But I'm not asking you to be anyone but you. I just want a chance to see where this goes. I won't push, I promise."

Ruby felt the weight of his words. He was giving her an out, but she also knew that he was giving her a chance. A chance to explore something real, something that could be more than just a casual arrangement to satisfy their physical needs. She took a deep breath and looked into his earnest blue eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or insincerity. All she found was hope.

"I can't promise that things won't be hard sometimes," he continued, "But I do promise that I'll always be honest with you, and I'll always respect your boundaries. If it doesn't work, or if you're not happy, just let me know and I'll walk away. I won't make it messy, I won't make it complicated. I promise I'll let you go. Just please, give me a chance to love you."

Ruby felt the words resonate through her, shaking her to her core. She had never heard anyone speak to her with such sincerity, such vulnerability. She knew that the life of a football player's girlfriend was not what she had signed up for, but she also couldn't ignore the connection that had grown between them over the months. "You swear?" she whispered, her voice shaking.

Justin nodded, his thumb still tracing gentle circles on her cheek. "I swear." His voice was steady, his gaze never leaving hers. "If you're not happy, if it's too much, you just have to tell me. We can go back to what we were before or I'll walk away. Everything's your call."

Ruby felt her resolve crumbling. The fear was still there, the shortsighted doubt and the uncertainty, but so was the undeniable pull towards Justin. The thought of losing him, of pushing him away, was suddenly unbearable. "You're not making this easy," she murmured, a sad smile playing on her lips.

Justin leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin. "I know," he said. "Please, let me in."

#&. justin.#writer's block/classes are kicking my ass #so take this in the meantime? :)#justin herbert #justin herbert x oc #justin herbert imagine #justin herbert angst

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humanpurposes · 10 months ago

Text

Karma is a God, Chapter 17: Blood is Unambiguous

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood.

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Warnings for this chapter: 18+, spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence, angst, mentions of death and war

A/n: Realised I copy pasted the whole chapter rather than a snippet, and because I am that lazy, have the whole chapter.

Full chapter is on AO3

A white raven arrives from the Citadel at Oldtown; winter has begun. Luke has felt the shift of the season, the cold mornings in the training yard when she watches Joffrey swing a wooden sword under the guidance of Ser Lorent, the gloomy grey skies and piercing winds. Sometimes she can convince herself she is back at Dragonstone. Blackwater Bay roars as it tosses fishing boats and the ships of the Velaryon fleet on its surface, as it sends waves crashing against the cliff faces along the shore below the Red Keep.

In the early mornings, before she is due to rise for meetings of the Small Council, Luke watches through the eyes of her dragon as he dives for fish and eels. She feels that he is content with the familiarity of the mist and the harsher weather, and she knows that this is not merely a dream.

She’s found books in the library detailing legends from ages long gone by, of the First Men and the Age of Heroes, warring Kings, whispers of demons from the North, the children of the forest, skinchangers, greenseers, men who could see through the eyes of birds, rodents and wolves. She knows these tales from childhood; Harwin Strong knew all sorts of stories and saw lots of strange things growing up at Harrenhal, trees with faces and bleeding eyes, ghosts and living, breathing memories.

She feels the spray of the sea against her scales, the taste of fresh fish on her tongue, her wings steady through the wind as the Red Keep comes back into view…

In her moments of curiosity she hears the delicate voice of Alys Rivers in the back of her head. “Blood is unambiguous.”

When she sits before her mirror and watches her handmaiden twist her dark curls into braids, she tries to imagine herself with her mother’s silver hair, with Ser Leanor’s warm brown eyes and his sailor’s hands. When she looks at herself she sees Jace and Joffrey. She sees the man they were told not to mourn when he perished in his father’s castle. Blood of the dragon, blood of the Riverlands. A bastard in the eyes of some, a Princess in the eyes of others, now heir to the Iron Throne.

Jace had always said their parentage was of no consequence, but he had sounded unsure in that himself. Simply as a consequence of age he knew Harwin Strong better than she did and had clearer memories of him. He knew of the rumours whispered amongst the courtiers when they resided at the Red Keep. “It doesn’t matter what they think,” so long as they had their dragons, so long as they had the protection of the crown.

She’s searched the history books, mythologies and legends. Dragons are a different kind of magic, so maester Geradys says, bound to the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria with ancient blood magic, the likes of which Westeros may never know. Rhaenyra says dragons are a power men should never have trifled with, that they are not to be controlled outright. Yet Luke had been able to tell Grey Ghost to dive into the God’s Eye and pluck a body from the water. No command, no tug on his reins. She hadn’t even been sitting in the saddle, it was as if she was the dragon itself, acting on her own will.

Is that proof then? If she asked Rhaenyra if she has ever lived through the mind of Syrax would she understand? Or would she think she was mad? If she asked maester Geradys if the greenmen had ever seen through the eyes of dragons… it would be an impossibility.

Dressed in a black gown, rubies dripping from a silver necklace like splatters of blood against her skin, she determines she is ready to face the Small Council, Corlys, Geradys, Lord Bar Eammon, Lord Masey, Lord Celtigar, the Manderlys, and standing along the left side of the room, the Dragonseeds, Hugh, Ulf, Addam, Nettles.

She takes her place at the head of the table, standing above her mother’s seat. “Well met,” she says. “What news from the Reach?”

Vermithor and Silverwing had flown over King’s Landing this morning, returning from their errand.

Hugh takes a small step forward. “The Hightowers have Bitterbridge.”

The Lords murmur in concern.

“What of the Caswells?”

“Lord Caswell’s widow surrendered her castle easily enough; her children have been sent to Oldtown as captives.”

“And what of their army?”

“Some have gathered at Tumbleton, along with the Footlys. Our force there is little over half the size of the Hightower host.”

“But you did not fight?” Corlys asks.

“No,” Hugh says.

“I would have thought Silvering and Vermithor would be more than enough to match the strength of one young dragon?”

Ulf scowls. “And if the Northmen had marched when they were summoned, we might have a sizeable army by now.”

With a sharp look from Luke he is silenced.

Jace trusted Lord Cregan enough to think she would be safe with him when her body was still broken, enough to protect her. They swore oaths to each other sealed in blood. She must also trust he will come to her when the time is right.

Master Geradys speaks next. “Rather crucially, Princess, this morning I received a raven from Winterfell. Cregan Stark has begun the march south, with twenty thousand Northmen at his back.”

“At long last,” she says. It will take them a month at the very least, assuming they do not meet any resistance on their journey, which could be very well if the Riverlands are not secured. When Cregan makes it south their fates will be sealed. Armies will collide, the fields of the Crownlands will be watered with blood. The war will be won or lost. And in time she will be made his wife– the thought weighs heavily in her stomach. A month. Can we hold King’s Landing for another month?

“You will be grateful for our Lord’s support when his army comes,” Torrehn Manderly says with a pointed look to Ulf.

Luke turns to a map, upright, carved with the landscape of the continent. It marks King’s Landing, Bitterbridge, Tumbleton, Harrenhal, Casterly Rock, The Twins, Winterfell.”

“What footing are we left with in the Riverlands? Does Sabitha Frey continue to besiege The Twins?”

“She will make quick work of it now,” Lord Celtigar says, “Jason Lannister will receive no relief from the Westerlands now that the Greyjoys are attacking from the sea. By all accounts, Lady Joanna has locked the gates of Casterly Rock and will wait out the raids.”

“The path through the Riverlands should be clear then,” Luke says. While the Lannisters are overwhelmed and Criston Cole’s men are scattered, the Blackwoods and the surviving men of the Riverlands are regrouping, readying to march south.

“We’ll send a raven to Dalton Greyjoy and tell him that Queen Rhaenyra is thankful for his efforts,” Lord Corlys says.

“For raiding innocents at Lannisport?” Luke says.

“For keeping the Lannisters occupied, and so that we may focus our efforts where they are needed most.”

Her chest sinks. She cannot deny that the Greyjoy’s are doing them a service, and it surely cannot be worse than what the Triarchy did to Hull and Hightide. Fire for fire, blood for blood, an endless exchange.

She moves to the map. Her fingers ghost over Storm’s End and Bitterbridge. “Our efforts must go towards ensuring the city’s defence,” she says.

“So we will sit and wait to anticipate an attack?” Lord Celtigar asks.

Doing otherwise was Aemond’s mistake when he held King’s Landing. Without Vhagar, the city was theirs to take. She will not repeat his shortcomings. She cannot afford to. “The throne is ours to defend. We keep our strength here.”

“The dragons,” Hugh says. The eyes of the lords fall upon him as if he has stated some sort of insult.

One dragon remains against their own and armies will burn easily enough.

“Ulf and Hugh, you will go to Tumbleton and ensure the town is defended. Daeron is a capable dragonrider, but he will not make the mistake to challenge Vermithor and Silverwing together now that he is vulnerable.”

The men exchange a curious look.

“If I may be so bold, Princess,” Hugh says, keeping his hands clasped in front of him, still wearing his riding leathers from his flight on Vermithor, his silver hair pulled out of his face. “As Queen Rhaenyra now holds King’s Landing, and we all have valiantly continued to defend her throne, one cannot help but wonder about his own standing.”

“Your standing?” Luke says.

Ulf takes a step forward now. “The realm is full of traitors, Princess; Hightowers, Baratheons, Lannisters. Did Prince Daemon not say he would see an end to their lines?”

“Do you fancy yourself a new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Ser Ulf? And you?” she says to Hugh.

His face is not so severe, a little hesitant, but he finds his boldness. “I would have Highgarden.”

“Highgarden!” Lord Celtigar cries. “Now that is an ambition, when the Tyrells have sworn to take no part in this war?”

“The Lord of Highgarden is a boy, and his mother has sat idly while her bannermen have taken up arms against the true Queen,” Hugh says, only ever looking at Luke. “Would it not serve you better to have Lords who are loyal to you?”

Now she feels the eyes of the council upon her, men who need to respect her orders, her authority, her legitimacy. She slowly traces her steps back to the head of the table. “It would disturb the order of the world,” she says.

“And is that not precisely what we are?” Hugh says, letting his insinuation linger for just a moment too long, “us Dragonseeds? The Queen has established a new order, she did the moment she called upon us to claim the dragons.”

“You would do well to remember your place nevertheless,” Corlys says.

Ulf scoffs. “What of the place of your own bastards, my Lord? Would you remind them of their place?”

Addam shifts on his feet, a man with a gentle enough disposition, a fighter nonetheless. Nettles meets his eyes and shakes her head softly. All the men at the table are getting restless.

“Only the Queen has the power to grant you what you seek,” Luke says, “and alas, I am not the Queen.”

Hugh is a man of formidable strength, a blacksmith, with well worn hands that have bent metal to his will. He rides what is now the largest dragon in the world, he has the silver hair of his mother’s house, some might say the image of a King.

Luke remains steadfast. She cannot afford to be anything less. If they all share the same blood then what distinguishes them? She is the daughter of the Queen. Out of right or circumstance, the gods, in their strange workings, have placed her at the head of this council.

Hugh’s shoulders soften. “When would you have us fly to Tumbleton, Princess?” he asks.

Luke ensures that he holds her gaze. “On the morrow. Perhaps the morning will be best.”

“Very well,” he says and strides from the room, Ulf trailing behind him like a dog.

Their business continues in a solemn quiet, as if they are gathered around a grave that no one dares to mention.

Once the council has dispersed, Corlys remains seated and catches his granddaughter’s eye. “I do not trust those men,” he says. “They will keep pushing to see their demands met.”

“They command dragons,” Luke says. He knows as well as her, this cannot be undone.

After breakfast, Luke leads Joffrey down to the entrance yard. He takes up a small wooden sword and puts all his might into swinging at a stack of straw, occasionally corrected by Ser Lorent. He often makes the promise to himself that he’ll be as fierce a fighter as Jacaerys or Daemon.

“You fight well, little knight,” Luke says when he has finally exhausted himself.

He frowns, knowing he’ll be wanted inside for his lessons, a venture he finds far more tedious than swordsmanship. “Couldn’t we stay out a while longer?”

“A Prince has other duties than battle,” she says.

“Couldn’t we go to the Dragonpit? Tyraxes must miss me terribly.”

The thought makes her heart sink. Tyraxes has spent his life on Dragonstone, by his rider’s side or roaming the Dragonmount. He is still young, grieved to be alone as all children are.

“Perhaps another time.”

“Why not now?”

It can be heard in the sounds of the city. The markets are desolate. No food has come from the Reach since the outbreak of war. The Velaryon blockade has been lifted and allowed trade in from Essos, but the sea is depleted of fish and many in King’s Landing do not have the coin to pay for food. Ser Luthor Largent of the City Watch says the people of the city are becoming like dogs tearing each other apart for scraps.

Luke leads her brother back towards the Keep. “It is safer for us inside the castle walls. These are dangerous times.”

“But you still get to ride Grey Ghost.”

“Grey Ghost is wild. I do not think I could command him to go to the Dragon Pit if I tried.”

Joffrey’s head hangs as they climb the steps to the entrance hall. “Tyraxes doesn’t like to be apart from me.”

“You’ll be returned to him soon enough, I swear it.”

A distant roar pierces the air. On the battlements and beyond the walls are cries of “dragon!”

Joffrey clings to Luke’s side. She turns her gaze to the sky, unsure of what to expect.

“It is Vermithor and Silverwing!” a voice cries from the castle walls.

There is a sense of relief amongst the men, the scorpions positioned towards the sky are eased in their aim. The panic has dispersed but Luke’s grip on Joffrey’s hand tightens. On the morrow, she said, but Hugh and Ulf have brazenly disobeyed her orders.

The doors open twice a day, once as Geradys enters, and again when he leaves. The guards watch Aemond from within their armour, hands on their swords. He stares back as if he knows he could kill them with his bare hands. At least they fear him.

Geradys sees to his wounds, brings him broth boiled from bones and gritty, dry bread. He has asked for proper meat only to be old there is none for him. He might as well starve, at least he would not have to have such a poor excuse for food pass his lips.

He is restless, pacing the room, lying in his bed, sitting on the edge of it and staring down at his hands. Sometimes he stands by the window to remind himself that there is life beyond the walls of this chamber. He counts the tiled roofs and watches people moving through the streets like Helaena watches her pets through the bars of their cages. By the time he left King’s Landing he was hated by the smallfolk. What of it? They are made to obey, to revere Kings and Princes. What sort of life can Rhaenyra offer them that he could not when he wore the crown?

Otherwise he has taken to tormenting himself to pass his hours of isolation, because all he can think of is Lucerra.

She is in the same castle as him, wandering the halls, making commands of those around her, her mother’s heir. Every time he hears footsteps outside his door he holds his breath, waiting to see if the door will open and if she will enter his room.

Days pass since that first night and she does not come.

At night, when he tells himself the gods will turn their eyes from him, he clutches his hand over his throat, imagining it is hers. He feels the weight of her on top of him and pictures her legs straddled on either side of his body. He traces his fingertips along the same path down his chest, over the array of bruises around his ribs, stomach and navel.

She had been so delicate, ghosting over his skin like a gentle breath. His lips had been so close to her. If he had not been so startled he might have kissed her. An unusual impulse, one he had entertained the night his father died, and then some.

He can picture that less clearly with time, her sighs of pleasure as she slowly gave into him, the heat of her tight, wet cunt around his fingers. It made sense, didn’t it? Everything she had taken from him, wasn’t he owed something from her? He supposes now they are far past the constant exchanging.

“How many dead?” Rhaenyra asks from her throne. She keeps her hands in her lap, shrinking into herself so no part of her skin can touch the blades she sits upon.

A matter of days into winter and the violence has already begun.

“We lost at least twenty men,” Ser Luthor says, helm under his arm and his gold cloak splattered with blood. “We anticipate perhaps a hundred smallfolk have lost their lives, either in the crush or at the hands of the city watch. There may be many more injured.”

Rhaenyra remains unchanged in the face of the tragedy, beautiful and cold.

The crown’s coffers were empty when they took the capital at the orders of Tyland Lannister, as he confessed under sharp questioning. He sent the gold to a number of Green strongholds and he is yet to admit exactly which. What does it matter where the gold is? If it is in the Reach or the Westerlands, they have no hope of retrieving it.

Daemon said from the outset, the city cannot be held without gold. The war cannot be fought without gold.

Under Rhaenyra’s orders, tithes have been taken from the people of King’s Landing and the rest of the Crownlands, gold, weapons and armour, food, livestock for the dragons, all in the name of protecting the realm, ending the war, defending the throne.

This is what it has come to. A cart containing stores of grain and enough gold to pay Rhaenyra’s men-at-arms had been brought through the city and the people descended upon it like vultures to a carcass, only there were more than scraps to be had, more than slivers of rotten flesh clinging to bones. Not even the horses had been spared, ripped apart for their meat in the frenzy.

“How can the captains of the city watch have allowed this to happen?” Corlys demands, standing at the foot of the throne. Luke stands beside him.

“My Lord, we are commanded to bring order to the city. Those who attacked the cart were not deterred by our threats. Something had to be done.”

“And you chose to deal them death,” Corlys says.

“We did what we could to protect the crown’s property.”

Corlys brings his hands in front of him in defeat and disgust. He turns to the Queen and says with no amount of subtlety, “this cannot go unanswered.”

Rhaenyra turns her head, her eyes full of fire. “I will put this right by ending the war.”

As the court is dismissed and disperses, Corlys leans into Luke’s ear and hisses, “a war she herself refuses to fight.”

An uncertain feeling flashes through her heart. Corlys’ doubt feels like a betrayal. “You would not suggest our Queen put her own life at risk, I hope,” she says gravely, carrying a warning in her voice.

He gives her a questioning look. “My ships still defend the city, my men are sworn to the true Queen.”

“And with your support, we shall prevail,” she says.

Rhaenyra descends the steps of the throne, the crown set upon her head, her gown heavy and scaled like the hide of a dragon, save for a cut of red fabric in the skirts, like a tear through flesh. “Come, daughter,” she says solemnly, reaching out her hand for Luke to take.

With a final look to her grandfather, and a check to make sure Ser Lorent was indeed out of earshot of their musings, Luke obeys her mother.

They walk through the castle and return to the Queen’s chambers. A handmaiden waits to remove Rhaenyra’s crown. She cannot get it off fast enough, nor her gold rings and her heavy necklace while Luke waits by the door.

“You sent Vermithor and Silverwing from King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra says.

“The Hightowers took Bitterbridge. They could be weeks way. Hugh and Ulf will hold Tumbleton and deter the approaching army.”

Rhaenyra says nothing, taking a seat at a desk by the window, facing the daylight.

“Seasmoke and Grey Ghost will defend the city well enough if Daeron tries to attack, but he will not risk it I think, not without an army.”

“What of our army?”

Luke hesitates, unsure of what Rhaenyra will know, how far she has been briefed by Corlys or maester Geradys. “Cregan Stark has left Winterfell, the Rivermen are regrouping. I thought I might send Nettles and Sheepstealer north to encourage our allies.”

Her mother has been silent for days, even a simple hum of agreement feels like a victory.

“And Baela remains on Dragonstone, we could easily summon her should we need another dragon.” In her mind it all comes together easily, as long as their allies do not delay, as long as the Baratheons continue to wait, as long as they have the dragons, as long as the city holds.

There’s a nauseating feeling in her stomach, the scent of blood lingering in her nose. Blood on a golden cloak. Blood stains at the foot of the Iron Throne.

“You are so like your brother,”

Something inside of her shatters, crumbling foundations. The space behind her eyes burns but her hands are cold and the grip she has learned to have on her own mourning slips through her fingers like water.

“He was like this too. When you were gone he knew what to do. How did he know what to do? He was scarcely a man, he had seen no battles or wars.” When Rhaenyra looks over her shoulder, the dying daylight burns like a fire behind her, catching in her silver hair. “The two of you, so pragmatic.”

Luke took no fall for Jace, no sword in her gut. No fire burned her to charred remains. Her skin was not left bruised after he died, but the pain has lingered for far longer than any other she has known. She can’t stand it, the anger it fuels. Why remind me? Why remind me he is dead?

“You should meet with the Small Council on the morrow, mother. Your Lords may begin to rue your absence.” They already have.

Rhaenyra’s silhouette against the light does not seem to shift.

Geradys comes as he always does. Aemond drinks the vile bone broth and forces stale bread down his throat. His bandages are changed, some strong smelling oil placed on his temples, honey lathered over the cut on his lip.

Then he is instructed to stand, to raise his arms as though a squire is about to dress him in armour. Instead he winces at the aching in his chest. Geradys pats his hands around the bandages. “You are making progress, I think. How is the pain?”

It is easing, little by little. “Tolerable,” Aemond says.

When night comes and he is alone, he waits for sleep to claim him so he can see the faces of his family, but even his dreams have abandoned him now. He is restless for hours, fading in and out of darkness until the first glimpses of sunrise.

What would Alys say to that, dreamless sleep? She might say the gods have forsaken him. She might say he is nothing now, a being of purely organic existence, mechanical like the life of an insect, an animal kept captive.

But what did any of his dreams mean to her? “Retribution will come with fire and fury,” she said, but in the end she meant it to come at the point of a knife wielded by her own hands. Why? Why taunt him with her visions? Why had he allowed himself to be tempted?

He had thought it meant Lucerra. If anyone should claim retribution in the ending of his life, surely it would be her.

He is not absolved and he knows this, but perhaps he has outlived his usefulness. Helaena and his mother are in the same castle as him and now their enduring lives are a matter of strategy, as Lucerra had made clear. In a silent prayer to the Seven, he wishes– begs that his brother can stay hidden, dead or alive. Just until Aemond can regain his strength, until he can fight his way out of this room, or to find some other advantage.

Since when did a locked door render him powerless?

There are two people left in the Red Keep who may know where Aegon is.

Alicent Hightower stays in her chambers. Rhaenyra allows her to keep a Septa in her company and the guards say she does nothing but weep and pray. Maester Geradys says her knees are bloody and bruised where she kneels on the stone floor, clutching a pendant of the seven pointed star until that too pricks at the flesh of her palms.

When Luke enters Helaena’s chambers the air is stone cold. No fire is lit despite the turning weather. Helaena sits on the floor amongst a collection of pillows and furs, deeply concentrated on a piece of embroidery. When she hears footsteps, her head lifts to the door, eyes are wide and more alert than they have been for months. “You’ve come to ask something of me,” she says.

The air of the room is fragile. Luke’s heart races in her chest knowing what her question will bring. She steps towards Helaena cautiously, smiling as kindly as she can, lowering herself to sit beside her.

Helaena’s hands are frozen in her work, sewing black thread into green and gold fabric, in a pattern like winged insects.

“I wish to know how you are,” Luke says.

Helaena tilts her head. Her lips are fallen and her brow is focused. Luke had never thought there was much of a resemblance between her mother and her aunt, and now she sees it. “Last night I dreamt that my son was in my arms. I rocked him though he was already sleeping and when I placed my fingers against his cheek, his skin was cold.”

“Do you know where Maelor is?”

Helaena presses her lips together. Her eyes have dropped to the fabric in her hands and she shakes her head.

“Did someone take him from you?”

“I cannot say,” she picks up her embroidery with trembling hands, tracing her fingers over the black thread. “He wasn’t with me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, not after– all I’d see when I looked at him was blood.”

After the twins, after she watched them die.

“Rhaenyra has called for his return to the Red Keep. It is our hope he will be returned to you.”

Helaena snatches her hand around Luke’s wrist. Her grip is fierce and unrelenting. It hurts and all Luke can do is look at her reddened, glistening eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Helaena, If it is in my power, I will see your son kept safe.”

“But I saw…” she frowns to herself, dragging her hands over her eyes to dry them. “Perhaps I have been mistaken.”

“Your dreams,” Luke says. Blood and water, green and black, blue and green, dragons and ghosts. The trail of blood.

“I cannot make sense of them sometimes. I saw the rats, I knew they’d want the boy but they took both.”

“When you dreamt of Maelor, where were you?”

“I saw Aemond’s death, I saw him swallowed up in the God’s Eye, and yet you tell me he is alive. I saw you at the Weirwood, with that woman, the Rivers woman.”

“Heleana please,”

“Do you think I would direct you to him even if I knew where he was?” she says sadly, sharply.

It takes Luke by surprise. “I swear, I would never wish harm upon him.”

“His life is a threat to your mother’s rule. Perhaps you would not seek to hurt him, he is only a child, he is your kin, but Rhaenyra has claimed the lives of two of my children already.”

“She never meant for them to die.”

“Should I not grieve them then?”

Luke can hardly find breath to speak. “Yes, yes of course you should. They were children.”

“But you didn’t come here to mourn Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. And if you seek Maelor then you seek his father.”

Luke knows she shouldn’t press her. She loathes herself, her own cruelty to torment her aunt in the face of her grief.

Helaena frowns, but then all the rage and sadness fades from her face. She looks to Luke with such honesty and sincerity. Her voice is a harsh whisper. “Aegon will be King again. He is yet to see victory.”

Luke had not thought Helaena capable of bluffing. She could be lying. Her dreams could have misled her. She could have said it in a moment of anger, of desperation. What does she have left? She doesn't even know where her last remaining child is, if he is safe, if he is dead or alive.

She leaves Helaena to her embroidery. The winged insects were flies, she realises.

What Helaena said cannot be true. Rhaenyra has seven fighting dragons at her disposal. Their allies are marching. The Hightowers may be inching closer to King’s Landing but the rest of the Green forces are scattered. Their King is missing, their Regent is her prisoner…

Her skin tightens at the very thought of seeing him again, braving that confining little chamber once more. To feel his eye burning into her.

But who would be able to make sense of Helaena’s musings better than her brother?

No taglist, follow @ficsbygee and turn on post notifs for updates <3

#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #fem!lucerys #lucemond #my fics #karma is a god

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goldhawk18 · 8 months ago

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Got inspired by @callimara, so here's my sona redesigned into Epic the Musical!!

I'm still working on her lore, but she has something to do with Winter.

Some say she was blessed by Demeter to become the personification of the season, others claim she ascended to godhood due to her loneliness and her intense desire to create wonders. And yet others whisper that she was simply excluded by the Horae, the triad of Seasons.

What can be sure is that this goddess wields her snowflake sword and graces the landscapes with her prowess. She represents both the beauty and danger of Winter. With the way she guides creatures to hibernation and coats their fur with white. The way she freezes water over into slippery sheets and cracking lines.

Usually, she can be seen frolicking around, pushing the boundaries of her power with experimentation (no wonder every single snowflake is unique). She is at home in the snow, and she sometimes disguises herself as a mortal to play with children and their friends. She delights in their joy and laughter.

Beware her wrath, though, when her sharp tresses pale and her eyes glow, frost trickling over the surface of her smooth skin. She will fill your bones with dread and despair, your body shaking and succumbing under the pressure of her strength, your pulse slowing down till it eventually stops.

When she's not on duty, she usually relaxes in hot springs and revels in a job well done. She takes the time to change her clothing, as she is as fickle as she is vivacious.

Her sacred animal is the snow leopard, elusive and athletic. It suits her well. You never know when she might sneak up on you, whether that may be a good thing or not.

Fun fact, she may or may not harbor feelings for the sorceress Circe, and she has no idea what to do about it. Myths vary, but most agree that she somehow came upon the island of Aeaea by way of her inquistive nature (she is a curious being and tends to explore when she's bored). She introduced herself, and tried not to melt from how bright and lively the witch was. She had never felt so...warm in such a strange, unfamiliar manner throughout her immortal life. Needless to say, after an entire year of visiting Aeaea everyday, the goddess had found herself yearning for Circe.

That's all I've got so far, but thank goodness for Milanote (not sponsored) in helping me figure out how to get from point A to point B.

I may or may not redesign her into Hades soon, but we shall see where the magic takes us. Which reminds me, I'll definitely draw her interacting with Calvalia in the future hehe

#epic the musical #original character #greek mythos #greek mythology #my art #winter #goddess oc #epic the musical oc #epic the musical original character #lore #circe #fake myth #character design #greek gods

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leiascully · 9 months ago

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with halloween coming up i’ve been dying for a spooky mermaid/siren au… scully being a beautiful scary ass mermaid and maybe mulder being a captain of a ship or something? maybe she just wants to lure him to his death or maybe it’s smutty or both? (i love your work you have no idea!! ty!!)

Scully snapped the telescope open and peered into the fog. There it was again - that flash or glint. It looked like metal, but there wasn’t any metal out there. Surpassing strange. She holstered the telescope at her hip and went to find her captain.

“Sir,” she said to Captain Skinner, “I think there’s something out there. I keep seeing a flash, like light reflecting off metal. But there’s no light, and no metal.”

“It’s the fog,” Captain Skinner said. “It’ll play tricks on your eyes, Scully. I’ve seen things over the years you wouldn’t believe. Keep your head level.” He patted her shoulder with a firm hand. Far firmer than he would have had he known she was a woman. Scully had run away to join the Navy, disguising herself as a man named Daniel. So far she’d managed to maintain the charade, padding out her uniform a bit and binding her breasts down. She shaved her face diligently every day while the crew teased her aspirations, and she had a sack full of sand that she tucked into her breeches to mock a member. She’d worked herself up to become Skinner’s first mate. They were on a little-regarded ship — the crew joked she ought to be called The Exile rather than The Exhilaration — but Scully was still proud of the accomplishment.

“I’ll return to my post, sir,” she said.

“Sometimes it feels like the fog is alive,” Skinner said. “Trust an old seadog. Keep your eyes to yourself.”

“Yessir,” she said.

The fog seemed thicker as she returned to the bridge. Scully couldn’t see any of the other crew members from her lookout spot under the figurehead. They sat at anchor; most of the crew were in their hammocks below decks. It was as if she was alone in the world. She leaned on the low railing and peered into the blankness. It was strange to see so much fog in the Caribbean; the waters had been clear when they’d left Bermuda, and the sky had been cloudless.

There it was again: a flicker of light, anomalous and uncanny. It flickered again and again, almost like a signal. Scully couldn’t see anything. She unholstered her telescope again, gazed out over the invisible water. There! A sinuous curve broke the surface, gone as quickly as she’d glimpsed it. And then, oh, a face! She saw it so clearly through her lenses: it had a square jaw and deepset eyes. A man, in the water. She skinned out of her jacket and rolled her telescope into it, tucking them against the hull of the ship. She kicked off her boots and stepped onto the rail. For a moment she balanced there, hesitating, but no, there was someone in the water and it was her duty to rescue them. She dove neatly into the sea.

Almost as soon as she’d delved under the surface of the water, she was swept up in a strange current. She opened her eyes, trying to get her bearings. The salt burned, but she could see something circling her. The coils of something tightened around her until she could feel scales sliding over the thin material of her shirt and breeches. She was embraced from shoulders to knees. She couldn’t move. She ought to be panicking, but she felt strangely calm. And there was the face again, those deep eyes peering at her.

(read the rest on AO3 - 4300 words, M for sexual situations, Navy sailor Scully has the time of her life with a merMulder)

#leiascully fic #my fic #poang pals #xfiles fic #msr fic #this is a silly one #sorry it turned out more smutty than spooky #i can't imagine a universe where scully is afraid of mulder #don't worry they spend a lot of time talking telepathically #but I didn't write those parts #it's a good thing this version of scully is a size queen #because mermulder has a big fat seal dick #yes i did my research and now I know too much #how did it get this long #that's what scully said actually

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spectrechosts · 9 months ago

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Mermay

Short mermaid story I uploaded to Cohost back in May. I think it was prompted by one of my friends positing that mermaids would have leg fetishes.

Mara lurks, in the shade of the pier.

She likes to listen to the humans, to peer at them from behind the posts, between the slats.

"Hello!" One of them says, hanging upside-down off the edge to intrude upon her hideaway, and she dives beneath the surface and swims away.

"I feel we got off on the wrong foot-" She says, another day, before Mara darts away again.

The third time, she's treading water beneath the pier. She has been since sunrise- Mara knows, she's been watching from the depths the whole time. Watching her- her weird legs, move back and forth.

"Listen, I don't mean any harm-" The human says, when Mara finally swims under the pier and lets her head breach the surface. "There's a certain type of kelp, I need it for a potion but I can't get it myself, see?"

She gestures to an illustration of the plant, carefully held above the waves by her human magic. Mara is familiar with the species.

"And then in return I could get you, uh, surface stuff." She says. "Whatever you'd like."

"Fish." Mara hisses, her lips barely above the water.

"Oh! Well, I can get you other things, things you might not have-?" The witch starts, but Mara is already swimming away.

Anything to get her out of her hideaway. She glances back, watches how the witch's legs move as she swims out from under the pier and climbs up.

When she returns the witch has a basket of fish, which she gladly hands over for a bouquet of kelp.

"Thank you!" Says the witch. "Seriously, I never could have gotten these without your help."

Mara just nods, lurking with all but her eyes submerged.

Leave already, she thinks. She comes here to watch humans, not interact with them.

"I'm Lexi, by the way." The witch offers unprompted, and Mara just watches her silently until she retreats back onto dry land.

She returns to intrude upon Mara's spot once again about a week later, thankfully just dangling off the pier again. Mara doesn't need even more looks at her weird, shapely legs- they already occupy her mind strangely often.

"Heyyyyy!" Lexi says. "Need more kelp."

Mara grumbles, again half-submerged, her discontentment rising to the surface in a stream of bubbles.

"I can bring you more fish?" Lexi offers, and Mara grimaces.

The fish were… bad. Already dead, out of the water for too long, she doesn't know how humans can stand them like that.

"No fish." She says. "Bring me… something of yours."

"Ooh!" Lexi coos. "You'd make a good witch, asking for payments like that. Here!"

She drops down a long, thin, silk scarf.

"You wrap it around yourself. Or whatever you want, I suppose. Yours now after all."

Mara swims down into the depths, nuzzling her face into the scarf until she returns with Lexi's reagents and briskly hands them off and leaves again.

Weeks pass, and Mara itches for the next appearance of the witch.

She sees her, sometimes, perusing the seaside market stalls. Watches her walk around on her, her feet. Wearing one of those human skirts, her legs just out there.

"Heya!" Lexi says, dangling from the pier again. "I need more kelp, what do you want for it?"

She wants to drown the witch, watch the air bubble from her lungs, have her sink down into her domain and keep her forever.

She wants to touch her, feel if her skin is as soft as the scarf, if it smells as nice, if it comforts her as much.

She wants to drag her under the pier and pepper her with salty kisses, dip below the water and feel her human legs wrap around her in ecstasy as her tongue-

"Fish." She blurts out, hoping the shadow of the pier hides her blush. "Fresher ones this time."

And then she darts away again.

#Spectre Writes #mermaid #mermay

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c-rivalsduo · 8 months ago

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Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Dream remembers the Syndicate

this is a MESS because i wrote it all chunky and pieced it together but like. hope y'all like?

don't think there are any cws, but if you need some lmk :)

Memories come in pieces.

Flashes of thought and sensation, emotions and images, textures and scenes depicted in bright stabs of sudden reminiscence. They hit him like bullets, leaving him disoriented and wandering for hours at a time trying to reconcile his world with the one he sees in his mind, the vast server full of holes and destruction.

Structures unmake themselves in front of his eyes, accommodating buildings that have never been there, and he can hear laughter from voices he knows he’s never heard. Sometimes, he’s sure he sees a familiar face, but when he chases the echoes of red eyes and dark feathered wings, they fade into nothing.

The memories themselves never hurt, but when they leave he can feel his teeth aching, skin flushed and feverish. Tommy thinks he’s sick. Punz offers cool towels and water with chunks of ice. Tubbo brings him extra blankets. He can’t bring himself to use them, voice choked by the feeling of weight on his shoulders.

He doesn’t wear armor. He’s never needed to wear armor. The crown on his forehead weighs as heavy as a helmet, as a mask. Taking it off only to sleep becomes wearing it only when he’s alone, when there is no one else to see him caressing the gems set into the worn gold.

He takes to carrying a sword with him at first, and then an ax.

Through these bouts of wandering the server, trying to put together the memories that sing in the back of his mind, he begins to discover things that aren’t quite right. There are seeds of trees planted where they shouldn’t be, and a strange red vine crawls through the undergrowth of nearly every forest. An empty ravine a thousand blocks out from spawn has manmade holes set deep inside, though there are no torches or visible signs of paths to reach them. A golden desert snows night and day, ice gathering atop sand in huge drifts.

He can connect some of the pieces. Tommy, cheeks hollow and wrists thin under a dark blue uniform, digging out a space in that skinny little ravine. Punz’s gray eyes flashing red as he turns away, readying a blade at someone’s throat. Most of the details are lost to the storm of disconnected ideas, though, and when he tries to press them together, his nose begins to bleed, and he hears the fuzzy chorus of XD’s power.

When he finds the house, he hasn’t had a flashback for nearly three weeks. He thought they were over – an anomaly, a bout of sickness that had finally left him behind – but the tundra had brought that familiar stir in his stomach, and he had to force himself to keep walking through the thick snow. It felt wrong to be there, wandering into the frosty night without the burden of armor over his shoulders, without something to trade, to give, and he couldn’t understand why.

The thick door opened slowly. It was roughly hewn, and the hinges were old enough to creak with rust. The inside was dark, lit only by the thin streams of light coming through the rattling windows. Though the windows shook, the house was solid, wood unbothered by the burn of the icy wind and the heavy snow.

In the fireplace, there were still charred logs, waiting to be lit. Though dust coated the surfaces inside, he could see marks of a home – handmade plates sitting on shelves, brooms hung on the wall, cups set out to dry. Someone had lived here, months – or years – ago. On the walls hung… pictures. Paintings. Art of a huge pigman, fists placed triumphantly at his hip, looking back over his shoulder, skin stained with gold scars. In some of them, a winged man stood next to him, practically miniscule in comparison. In a single one, there was a group of four – something tall and slim with its arm around a woman’s shoulders. She was holding the hand of the winged man, and the pig stood behind them all, arms spread in a loving display. They were all smiling.

Cautiously, he reached out, hand sliding gently down the painting. Beneath his fingertips, he was sure he could feel the velvet of the cloak, the fur of the pigman’s snout, the airlight touch of the winged man’s feathers.

And all at once, he could hear it. The laughter. The high, breathy laughter that was so characteristic of him, followed by that chuckle – the one that wasn’t quite real, the one he manufactured to sound like a villain from one of the myths he loved to liken himself to.

And then – and then, and then, other voices, joining the laugh, loud and bright and together. An older, deeper guffaw, thick with age and experience. A thin, reedy giggle, edged with inhuman humming. A soft chuckle, solid with mirth. All together they formed a choir, one that felt like an undeniable, unreachable promise of home.

Though the memories came almost full-formed – thick fingers dancing through thin locks of hair, grins full of sharp teeth, tails that flick and dance with a gaiety the remembrance makes it hard to call up – their names do not return to him. He can see them so clearly in his mind's eye, can picture them walking from this house and into another server, off to find a place outside of the violence that had seeped through the cracks of this one.

He wonders if they found it. He wonders if, with their memories intact, they were able to escape the miasma of this world, the sinking paranoia that follows you, that grows with each talk. He’s only experiencing it secondhand, and he can feel himself growing more and more scared of the people around him. Quackity seems to grow taller when the lamplight shines over his scar, when he holds a pickaxe too tight. Tommy looks a decade older when he wipes his eyes, breathes too hard.

He wonders if XD will let him find them again.

ao3 link

#dreblr #rivalsblr #rivalsduo #umm. guys how do i tag this #sixteenthdayevent #rue writes #yes the no use of his name is intentional

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themintman · 6 months ago

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Its time for me to breifly explain some of my favourite aus for you guys!

I've been putting this off for far too long omfg. theres a lot of these, so theyre going under the cut here. Also the titles will probably change in the future. I'm ass at naming things LMAO

Concrete Halls / Zombie! Nurm 🦴

Deep in the Zombie Mines, things get out of hand quickly and Nurm gets bitten. With no access to golden apples or potions of weakness in the Institute, he is cursed to become a zombie, somewhat hindering the group on their way back up to the surface. Now, after Romeo is well and truly defeated, he and Jack must go on an adventure to find a cure. Unfortunately, due to the terror caused by Romeo and the Bedrocking - and the fact that most nearby temples have been raided - these items may be harder to find then they first thought.

The current star of my blog! He even has his own fanfic now, how fabulous 🎉🎉🎉 (Concrete Halls on AO3!)

tag: Zombie! Nurm

Soul Searcher 💐

A Spiritfarer x MCSM au

When Jesse dies, she wakes up in a strange world full of spirits with Reuben. Here, she is assigned the task of the Spiritfarer by Buck, a basilisk. now, she sails across the oceans of this world, reuniting with old friends and fulfilling their final requests until they are ready to move on and join the stars in the sky.

kinda been neglecting this one.. oops! sorry gang 😔 I need to get back on this one OML. Definitely my most melancholy au

Tag: Soul Searcher au (though I also use Spiritfarer x MCSM sometimes)

Chimera Champion 🐉

In which Romeo gets a little silly with his champion. Perhaps a bit wacky. Bonkers, even.

Romeo created the Ender Dragon as a challenge to see just how worthey the old Order of the Stone really is. Unfortunately, they didn't exactly kill the dragon, and romeo never had any rules against command blocks to there was nothing he could really do to stop them.. frustrated, he vowed to not let his dragon go to waste. Then, years later, he kidnaps Jack with the intention of brainwashing him to become his new champion, when he gets an evil idea. Why stop at champion? Why not play around with other mobs? Why not play around with his dragon? and so, Chimera Jack is created: a huge, human/dragon centaur

Tag: Chimera Champion au

Space Dog 🧪

When DanTDM finds the Enchanted Flint and Steel, him and some of his YouTuber buddies decide to go through the portals, exploring the various worlds, while Trayaurus decides to stay back and mind the lab with Grim. However, Dan never returns, and the increasingly worried Trayaurus decides to follow him through the portal, getting lost and eventually finding himself in BeaconTown years later in search of his friend. But each answer he finds also comes with more questions, and its not long before he gets the feeling that hes being watched..

I havent actually posted about this one!! Or uh. I did but it was VERY brief LMAOO so here's your actual introduction to my TDM au 😝

Also its nice to finally have an au with Trayaurus. Because yk i keep designing him for my other aus even though hes not even there-

Tag: MCSM: Space Dog

Mousecraft: Teensy Mode 🐭

Exactly what it sounds like! MCSM, but theyre all rodents (and maybe some other tiny creatures)! A joint au between me and DragonBMA 😋

The Order of the Stone is a group of small, furry mammals, famous for their adventures. Most notably, defeating the Ender Dragon (Vacuum cleaner). However, this battle was a lie, and the forgotten member of the Order, Ivor, is hungry for revenge. So, he creates an illness, infecting the minds of the rodents and causing them to band together in a hive mind. Unfortunately, things get out of hand, and now its up to Jesse the rat and her pet rolly polly, Reuben, to stop the Rat Kings before all of rodent kind is infected.

Tag: Mousecraft Teensy Mode

Mermal 🐟

A more aquatic take on season two- Each of the admins represents a group of fish: Fred is squids and mollusks, Xara is dolphins and other water mammals, and Romeo is the Guardian. The admins each created theyre own groups of merfolk. These are the villagers and the people of the underneath. Nurm is a guardian who protects the Sea Temple, not letting anyone get close in case they anger the Admin. Jack, Sammy and Vos are three young, reckless adventurers who are much too curious for their own good. I'm sure you can tell where this is going-

Dont worry though gang. Jack x Nurm is still real and true. Theres only ALMOST an old man divorce 👀

Tag: Guardian! Nurm

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justapoet · 9 months ago

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hearts don't break around here

There were flowers on her desk. It was a random Wednesday morning, she had just greeted Bleta and some other workers ‘good morning’, and there were flowers on her desk. A whole, entire, huge bouquet of red— Somethings. She had no idea what flowers those were. Worse: she had no idea how they were there to begin with. Or, Percy is a florist that seems to see the world through the colors that he sees everyday — bright, different and slightly utopic. Annabeth, an overly serious architect that works just across a lovely flowershop, and doesn't really look for the beauty around her world and outside her office's walls. When she starts receiving flowers out of nowhere, with notes signed only with an initial, her biggest plan is to figure out who could possibly be sending them. What she doesn't know is that all she has to do is look out the window.

read it on Ao3

The hostile atmosphere of the city of New York was almost palpable for anyone used to being or living there, hardly masked by the illusion of tourists fascinated by every old building lost among mirrored skyscrapers. The cloudy skies that stretched over people's heads and the cold, albeit gentle, breeze shattered the fantasy that the most famous city in the country could be as welcoming as in the films.

It was fun when one stopped to analyze everything that people have been told and what actually happens when you're there to see it. The hostile climate of New York, or the strange cold that surrounds London; perhaps how pleasant it would be to arrive in any city in Latin America, or the tranquil and strangely cultured air in Amsterdam — and how different it can all be when one switches perspectives.

It was fascinating, in fact, how things are put together in such different ways when placed in the same place. How the old buildings gave off a nostalgic air, more because of the strange feeling that they would soon disappear than because of the amount of time they had stood, or how the newer constructions seemed to carry with them an air of boredom and stress more than any possibility of a well-designed future. Fascinating, and rather hopeless.

Or perhaps the boredom belonged not to the city, but to those who lived in it at a rapid pace, with no time to admire anything other than their own misery or unhappiness. People who walk with their heads down, dragging their feet or marching towards what brings them the tragedy in which they sink daily, ignoring the landscape and cursing anyone who stops to do so.

Whatever was the case, the hostile climate was present at every sunrise as the icy gloom was replaced by warm rays wandering through the blinds that enveloped the wide glass windows of a silent office. Although the sun was up early, breaking the dawn, the grey fog that would sometimes take over the entire urban territory still masked its discreet presence for a few hours, cutting through the atmosphere as the city began to come alive again.

On the dark surface of the rough wooden desk, the faint rays of sun flickered in the reflection of the jug of water, and highlighted the white of organized stacks of sheets of paper. A laptop, two pens and a triangular gold plaque also shone against the light, and the silence was absolute against the noise of the cars, buses and a whole society outside the wide, mirrored building.

Absolute, except for the light, brief snores that cut through the air on the other side of the spacious office.

Covering almost the entire room, a fluffy grey carpet stretched under the desk, only to be interrupted a little further on, next to the immense glass wall from where the city of New York didn't appear so dense. The city itself, however, was hidden behind long white curtains of light, diaphanous fabric, the daylight timidly penetrating the mostly dark environment.

Just before them, a set of armchairs and a sofa in the same shade of grey were elegantly positioned around a round coffee table with a translucent glass top that supported a neatly folded jacket and an equally neat engraving on top of it. Next to the table, on the floor, a pair of black dress shoes rested perfectly aligned, and the only thing seemingly out of place was the woman stretched out on the couch.

One of her arms was over her face, covering her eyes to protect them from the daylight. Her hand hung beside her head, turned uncomfortably away from the windows, her nose almost wedged between the backrest and the seat, and her other arm was folded, hand flat over her stomach, partially trapped between two buttons of her white button shirt.

Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and her lips parted to mumble something that tried to sound like sentences. The shirt was wrinkled, as were the black trousers, and only one of her feet was covered by a white sock — that also seemed to be about to come off at any movement of her feet. The brown braids of her hair were disorganized and seemingly tangled, making an exquisite contrast with the surroundings.

A few more soft snores sounded in the air until they were interrupted by the double wooden door being opened from the outside, followed by the low click of the lock clicking back into place and soft footsteps, which stopped after no more than two soft ‘knocks’ and were accompanied by a sigh. The next moment, the footsteps sounded again against the floor across the room, only to cease again when near the couch.

“You're the most depressing situation I've ever seen,” a male voice sounded, and the figure stretched out on the sofa jerked upwards in fright. Her brown eyes looked around hurriedly, shoulders tense, and the weight of her torso being lifted by her arms, until her pupils caught sight of the person speaking. She relaxed one more time.

The woman grunted, and the man rolled his eyes.

“What time is it?” she asked, bringing her hands to her eyes and rubbing them over the eyelids.

“Too early to come to work and too late to go home,’ the man replied, sighing and turning round to face the arm of the furniture. “You do remember that you have a house and a bed, don't you? Because I didn't spend hours hopping from shopping center to shopping center so that you'd simply forget that you have at least six pillows, Annabeth.”

The woman laughed softly, yawning and throwing her legs over so that they rested against the tiled floor.

“For starters,” Annabeth retorted, stretching one of her arms above her head. “We spent hours in shopping centers because you wanted to find God-knows-what to put in the living room, Grover. Besides,” she groaned, facing her friend. “Yes, I know.”

Annabeth stood up, putting her hands on her lower back and stretching her muscles, grunting before exhaling in relief. Grover rolled his eyes again.

“And what goes on in your head that you decide to sleep on the couch in your office?” he asked, arching one of his eyebrows. Annabeth shrugged briefly and sat down once more.

“Work,” she replied. “And a surprising laziness to drive anywhere,” she frowned, and Grover shook his head in denial. “Besides, Oliott called.”

Grover raised both eyebrows this time.

“Again?” he asked, his voice surprised and disbelieving. Annabeth nodded. “God, that man is unbelievable,” he continued, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shaking his head.

Annabeth sighed, nodding.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “Can’t really blame him, though. I, too, would be desperate if I bought illegal land in protected territory and needed someone to build in it so I won’t go to jail.”

Grover snorted, suppressing a smile, and shook his head.

“Hope he’ll rot, fucking asshole,” he grumbled. “What did you say?”

Annabeth threw her body backwards, leaning back on the couch and leaning her head on the cushioned backrest.

She sighed again.

“The same thing as the other eight times,” she replied. “That we, first, don’t make business with criminals as a firm; second, I don’t design for assholes as a person. And that we don’t have space in schedule whatsoever to take any more projects.”

“We don’t?” Grover asked. Annabeth smiled mischievously, turning her head and resting her ear against the cushion of the furniture.

“We do,” she mumbled, voice filled with childish playfulness, and Grover laughed at how juvenile his friend sounded. “But he doesn't know that. Or he does, but it doesn't matter anyway,” she shrugged. “Can’t wait to turn on the news and see him being arrested.”

Annabeth yawned, then, long and trying to somehow muffle it. Grover, who had been sitting over the arm of the couch, stood up and straightened himself before turning towards the architect, arms crossed over his chest and one of his eyebrows arched in judgement.

“Get up,” he said, and Annabeth — who hadn’t noticed closing her eyes for a second or more after yawning —, stared at him with clear confusion on her face. When she spoke again, another yawn threatened to leave along her words.

“What for?” she asked.

Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“If you don't sleep in your own bed, do you really think I expect you to look after yourself?” Grover argued, and Annabeth waggled her eyebrows and nodded briefly, agreeing. “Come on, get moving. I’m buying you breakfast.”

Annabeth snorted, and Grover walked round to the back of the sofa once more, standing in line with his friend’s head, only to land a light slap near his ear. Annabeth exclaimed in surprise and cursed quietly, laughing softly before getting up and picking up the jacket from the coffee table.

Grover, who was already near the door, waited for Annabeth to approach and grabbed the handle, opening the door and holding it for her to pass through. She, trying to knot the small bow in her shirt while still tripping over her shoes, took long enough so the man would huff and snatch her hands from the failed attempts and claim she needed to breathe, anyway, so she could deal with it later.

Annabeth laughed, following him to the elevators.

[…]

Large urban centers rarely had places that hide from the eyes of passers-byes. Everything was too clear, too crowded, too big — things were always extremely visible, and there were always too many things to be seen, to be heard, to be noticed and talked about.

New York was no different, and perhaps was quite too much that stereotype that Hollywood had established globally. Huge shops with bright signs, crowded shop windows and people who were surprisingly not bewildered by so much information; the city was just a huge anthill of people who were desperate, consumerist, bored or all three, in some cases.

There was a narrow side street, however, between two corners — one with a huge Starbucks shop and the other with a bank — which apparently hadn't been overwhelmed by chaos or huge lights. There, simpler shops with vintage content such as vinyl, comics or clothes that didn’t completely care about following the current strange branding, as well as two restaurants and a cozy coffee shop adorned the weathered pavements. In the center, from one of the pavements, one could access a park that was usually empty.

The café faced the park. Its white façade with sash windows and double wooden doors already indicated the comfort that the bright surroundings gave off, the extensive shelves with books only adding to the cozy impression that spread throughout the place. At the back, where a bay window with light cushions made the café even more inviting, was Annabeth’s favorite place to be whenever she found her way there.

Grover and she had discovered the café a few years before, trying to find somewhere they could study without the chaos outside and the noise of the city driving them crazy or completely out of concentration. She would take her drafts and sketches while Grover took his books and notes — and they wouldn’t speak, simply basking in each other’s company and, more often than not, ordering more coffee than anyone should ever consume in a span of eight hours.

They’d given up the last café they had thought would be a good idea after the fights in the kitchen got too loud and would catch their attention more than whatever they needed to focus on. Sure, Annabeth and Grover loved to know about the chaos — a cheating husband and a best friend and something involving purple dresses, when they last went there —, but, at the time, their finals were nearing and they needed a saving grace.

After a wrong turn, they spotted the façade, which at the time was an aqua green color, and placed one last bet on the place. It was late afternoon, and the orange of the setting sun — and urban pollution — reflected in the windows and accentuated the warm lamps inside the uncrowded and seemingly perfect establishment.

After that day, when they met River, Nicholas and Naomi, who worked there, the two of them decided that it was the right place for them to meet and, since then, that little café — which, honestly, none of them can remember ever asking what it was called — has become one of the best places in the world for unwinding and spending time with a good book.

With time shorter and shorter for them to be there as more than a passage to get coffee, the pair tried to make most of the occasions in which their schedule wouldn’t get in the way of enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes Juniper, Grover’s fiancée, would join them, as would Thalia, one of their best friends. River, Nick and Naomi — who were teenagers fresh into sophomore year when they first met — would also join the conversations whenever they could.

When Grover dragged Annabeth out of the firm, she already knew where they were going, and dropped her jacket on her friend’s car instead of putting it on as she usually did. The man had removed his jacket on the way, while humming any song on the radio and commenting on any news — gossip, if Annabeth was being honest — that was going round the building's departments.

Nicholas greeted them as they entered the cafeteria, always with his animated face that looked like it belonged to someone who hadn't slept in days and said that he would take care of their usual orders — with a little treat on the house, since they were the first customers of the day, as it was usually the case. The pair thanked him, walked to the back of the establishment and took their seats around one of the round tables, the one in front of the bay window.

It was a pleasant view, as the property extended a little further into a small yard surrounded by live fences and various flowers, always well looked after. There were a few tables dotted around, as well as ottomans surrounding lower tables, and the atmosphere was something straight out of a publisher’s portfolio. The hedge divided the café from a costume shop — old, she knew — and a vinyl record shop that Annabeth could not deny having fallen in love with at first sight.

Just a couple of minutes later, Nicholas returned with their favorite coffees on a tray and a smile on his face — for no reason, as the pair knew after so many years. Grover fidgeted in his chair, eager for his first caffeine fix of the day, and Annabeth simply shook her head with a soft giggle.

“A double espresso for you, sir, and a flat white for the beautiful lady,” Nicholas announced, changing his voice to a falsely dismissive tone as he spoke to Grover, and gently tapping his saucer against the table, only to turn to Annabeth, speak with false pomposity and then bend down to place the order in front of the woman.

Annabeth chuckled, and Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“One of these days, I'm going to rat you out to your manager, kid,” Grover grumbled, bringing his cup to his lips and holding back a groan of satisfaction when the strong drink came into contact with his tongue. Nicholas' smile widened, and Annabeth gestured with her hand as if to say that it was just an empty threat.

“Oh, yes; of course,’ Nicholas said, mockingly. “You love me, Grover. You should stop denying it to yourself,” he said, followed by a wink, and Annabeth pressed her lips together not to laugh.

“There's nothing to deny if what you say are lies,” Grover shrugged, and Nicholas made a false expression of offence. “Besides, I've never denied that River has always been my favorite,” he mocked, and Nicholas frowned in fake indignation.

Annabeth took another sip of her drink. And before the waiter could reply, she spoke:

“Where is River, by the way, Nico?” she asked. “You always arrive together,” she pointed out, and Nicholas made a move to tuck the tray under his arm, smiling with satisfaction at whatever he was going to say next.

“Belgium,” he replied, and Annabeth stopped the cup in mid-air, halfway to her lips. Grover straightened his back and narrowed his eyes, while Nicholas just shrugged. “Or on a train on the way to Belgium; I don't know the exact situation.”

“Belgium,” Grover said. “As in the country? In Europe?”

Nicholas nodded happily. Annabeth cleared her throat.

“And since when is River in Belgium?” the architect asked. “Why is he in Belgium on a Thursday morning when we saw him yesterday afternoon?” she frowned.

“Has he finally realized that the world isn't so big when you have money?” Grover asked, also with arched eyebrows.

Nicholas simply shrugged.

“About your question,” Nicholas pointed at Annabeth with his head. “Since last night, apparently. About yours,” he pointed at Grover in the same way. “I think the answer goes together with her other question. The world is definitely not as big when you have money and that, in a way, makes it easier when you want to run away,” he shrugged again, his animated tone faltering a little.

They knew River well enough to know what it was all about. And Annabeth personally understood all too well why the boy had taken a ticket to Belgium in the middle of the night.

“It took him longer than I thought it would, for him to do something like that,” Annabeth said, her eyes downcast, staring at the drawing in the foam of her cup. The two men agreed in silence. “And let's be clear that I'm referring to running away from those two as much as filling that pocket with money and going anywhere in the world. Although, frankly, I always thought he was going to take a boat,” she joked, lightening the mood in the room.

“I think we can all agree on that,” Grover said. “I've never seen anyone so insistent that packing up and travelling around the continent wasn't the best thing to do on a gap year. I'm glad he gave it a chance.”

Nicholas squeaked in amusement.

“Tell me about it,” he agreed. “I nearly put him on a plane myself. Imagine having the world in the palm of your hand and spending your days in a lost coffee shop in the middle of New York! I mean, he can do the most incredible things on this trip! See the Colosseum, the Louvre, the Parthenon, that hooped thing in Warsaw-

“Segovia Aqueduct,” Annabeth interrupted, and Nicholas chose to ignore her.

“... Pantheon, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower...” Nicholas listed. “And along the way, he could meet the love of his life. Imagine that!”

Grover laughed.

“Why do I think you and Naomi bet on that?” he asked, and Nicholas smiled mischievously once again. “For God's sake, Nico! What are the chances of River simply bumping into the love of his life on a train to Belgium?!”

“There are!” Nicholas argued, and Grover laughed even harder. Annabeth followed, taking another sip of her coffee. “Hey, don't you even start. What were the chances of River travelling anyway? Even more so in the middle of a Wednesday?!”

Annabeth tilted her head slightly to either side, agreeing.

“Well, yeah. You might have a point,” she said, and Nicholas smiled. “And you also have access to food,” she smiled, amused. “And food is always a good idea, don't you think?” she suggested, and Nicholas rolled his eyes before turning in his feet and walking towards the counter and the kitchen.

Annabeth lifted her wrist to look at her watch, then picked up her cup again to take a little more of the drink. After a few minutes, the architect felt a pair of eyes burn into the side of her face. She turned her head around to find Grover, leaning back on his seat, his elbows resting on the window ledge, legs crossed and a look on his face that Annabeth honestly didn't know if she wanted to decipher.

“What's wrong?” she asked anyway. Grover arched one eyebrow again.

“When are you going to give yourself a chance?” he asked, his serious tone and frank countenance staring into the confused expression of his friend, whose frown deepened at the environmentalist’s words. “Just like the one you’re glad River gave himself.”

Annabeth squinted, a little because of confusion over the last sentence Grover had said and a little because of the context of the sentence itself. She also threw his body back, leaning against the comfortable cushion, but leaving her head raised so that she could face the man in front of her.

“I like New York,” she said, as if that were some kind of explanation. “And I've lived alone for years, which frees me from any River-like motives.”

Grover rolled his eyes and grunted.

“You know very well what I mean,” he said, and Annabeth cocked her head to one side. Her friend sighed again. “You live for work, Annabeth, for God's sake. When was the last time you agreed to go out with anyone? Or by yourself?”

“Now?” she asked, pointing her finger at the table, and Grover bit his tongue. “Grover, I'm the director of the firm. I sort of have to work a bit harder than the others, and you know that.”

Grover nodded, but his pose remained the same.

“Oh. ‘A little’, you say. I'd like to emphasize it, then. You've been abusing any hyperbole or augmentation for years,” he retorted. “And it's not just going out with me, Annabeth. When was the last time you had a decent night's sleep in your own bed? Or the last night you even went to bed?”

The architect opened her mouth to say something, but Grover didn't let her speak before taking the floor again.

“When was the last time you left the house without a suit? Or the last time you, I don't know, met someone who wasn't a client?” he asked, and Annabeth chose to close her mouth. “Annie, when was the last time you ever flirted with someone?”

At the last question, Annabeth frowned again. Grover arched his eyebrows again, tilting his head slightly to one side and waving his foot in the air under the table where his legs were crossed.

“And what does that have to do with anything?” she asked, and Grover just sighed loudly, shaking his head. “What does it have to do with anything? I’m serious!”

The man sighed.

“I know! That's even worse,” he pointed out, raising his hands in exasperation. “Do you plan to spend your whole life being miserable and lonely and solving other people's problems?”

Annabeth opened her mouth in indignation, and Grover just lifted his chin, his lips twisting in defiance.

“Ouch,” Annabeth said, placing one hand over her chest. “I'm not miserable, G-Man.”

And if she pouted, Annabeth would deny it completely.

“Hm,” Grover muttered before reaching into his bag and slipping his hand inside, taking out his mobile phone and unlocking it. Annabeth frowned again, alternating her gaze between the man’s face and the mobile phone he was skillfully typing on until he smiled briefly and cleared his throat. “Hm. ‘Miserable’. Adjective and noun of two genders: ‘who or that which, by its misfortune, arouses compassion’,” he recited, and Annabeth sighed briefly before crossing her arms over her chest, too. “There's even a picture!” Grover exclaimed.

Grover turned the mobile phone towards Annabeth, and it took her a few seconds to notice that her friend had switched it off and there was only the black screen reflecting her twisted, confused face. The man had a proud, smug smile on his face, and Annabeth just snorted before pushing Grover’s arm to get the mobile phone out of her face.

“You think you're hilarious, don't you?” Annabeth asked, and Grover nodded in agreement. “And despite your blatant offence towards me, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need any advice. I’m fine, Grover,” she said, his tone serious and extremely formal.

“I know you are, I can see that,” he said. “But being fine doesn't cancel out being miserable, Annie. Come on, haven't you ever wanted to fall in love with someone? I know you have. We grew up together,” Grover said, and Annabeth settled a little further into her seat. “To be given flowers, to smile for no reason, to have someone to hug or to tell unfunny jokes to?”

Annabeth mumbled something, but spoke again before Grover asked.

“Doesn't that sound too cliché? Sugary?” she asked, and Grover just shrugged.

“Love has been love since the world was a world, Annabeth. It may sound repetitive in theory, because it is the theory,” he argued. “What really changes is that you're the one feeling it.”

She arched an eyebrow. And chose not to comment on the poetics, given the smile so sincere on Grover’s lips — thinking of Juniper, she knew, because the glimmer in his eyes was quite obvious.

“And what's so special about that?” she retorted, and her friend merely repeated her previous gesture, but leaned forward to reach for his cup again.

“Love is a universal concept, but this one anyone could call their own,” he said. “Which, you must admit, is quite something,” he sipped his drink. Annabeth just shrugged, imitating her friend and picking up her cup as Nicholas returned from the kitchen with another tray, spouting words that the two of them were still too slow to decipher.

As she ate the slice of cake Nicholas had brought — and I'm sorry it took so long, but I forgot to make it part of the sweet display and I really don't need to be sacked now, so close to my first semester of Med School — Annabeth pondered some of Grover’s words.

Smiling for no reason? It sounded merely silly. Having someone to hug? Sometimes... It would be nice, but it also sounded too trivial to have at the cost of a possible heart. Telling unfunny jokes? Isn't that what she's in that friendship for starters?

And to receive flowers?

Annabeth laughed to herself.

It was too sweet — and the hope was too foolish — for it to ever happen to her.

“I don’t even know why you brought ‘falling in love’ up, Grover,” she said, then, suddenly. Her friend took his time to savor the piece he was taking to his mouth and ignored her for a minute before swallowing.

“Because I saw your face when Nico joked about River finding love in a train, dipshit. I know you better than you know yourself.”

And she didn’t know how say anything back to him, because there was no way she could deny it, either. Tragically, Annabeth hated to admit, she was a romantic — and she would often daydream of meeting someone and being enchanted and going through every single cliché on the book.

She shook her head, ridding it of the stupid thoughts, and focused on her cake again.

As they left the café to return to the firm, Annabeth left the conversation, her thoughts and unfounded hopes hanging on the glass of the bay window, hoping that the wind or the passing of people would blow them away.

[…]

Sometimes, he believed New York was quiet for the big city it undoubtedly was.

Of course, there were lights and noise, and people walked around in their own misery all the time — but it was calmer, from where he stood, because the anguish didn't seem to be constantly in the spotlight. There were more trees here and there, and one could hear the birds every morning, as well as dogs barking and whatever it was that seemed to be screaming when the sun comes up.

The streets, at least the newer ones, were wide and full of lights, and were crowded as the daylight shone down on them, penetrating through the clouds and shining on the buildings — but quietened down as the moonlight began to replace the golden glow with a pale, soft glow. Things seemed to get a little quieter, and the pace would slow down significantly, making it seem as if the great city had had the courage to fall asleep.

The New York he lived was quiet for a big city; it was.

It was the first thing that crossed his mind whenever he woke up in the morning or in the middle of the night, and one could hear the crickets sharpening the silence around the streets. If he tried hard enough, he would be able to hear the sleeping city itself, a few cars and motorcycles from time to time, some owls hiding from the remaining lights of the streetlamps.

It was a feeling he had forgotten he could ever feel — if he ever had, because growing up in central New York takes away most of the sense of silence. It was soothing, most of the time, and it helped whenever he couldn't fall asleep after a busy, hellish or chaotic day.

Because, even if New York was quiet for a big city, he could count on his fingers the number of slow days he'd managed since work had started again.

And wasn’t it surprising when one worked at a flower shop?

Switching on his cell phone, then, Percy kept a quick pace out of his house, the headphones now loud in his ears and his eyes straying to the hour on the screen once more. He sighed, and his fingers tightened the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his feet moving a little faster.

And, because his New York was quiet for a big city, it was easy to dodge the crowds as he walked through the people occupying the streets. The sidewalks were long and, although crowded, there were far fewer people than Times Square when it was summer or the very end of the year.

The drier weather, however, was something Percy still longed to get along with ever since he had mover further from the coast — Montauk, where he spent so much of his childhood and had yet to see for a few years, now. While the streets of New York were crowded and always in motion, the coast always had a gentle breeze every now and then, passing over people's heads and through their clothes as they walked in the shadows of the buildings made. The heat seeped in, the sun being reflected by gigantic buildings, which left the air humid, almost sandy.

The very core of New York, on the other hand, was not hot, but dry — and Percy should have gotten used to it by now, but his muscles always felt uncomfortable, his nose often ran, and his brain would most likely stop working when the clouds declared a truce.

Juniper would always make fun of him, as would his mother — but sometimes she also faced the same problems with the cold and drier weather. And then Paul would make fun of her, because someone who did grow up in central New York shouldn’t be so unused to its weather, regardless of how many years she’d spent on the coast.

Those were funny interactions — except for the time Percy nearly had an asthma crisis, and his father nearly snatched him to Greece just for good measure (with his mother’s permission, that was) — that made him laugh every time he remembered them, especially on the way to the flower shop, not far from his apartment but not exactly near it either. Percy held his breath whenever a funny comment came to mind, so as not to look completely crazy while laughing in the middle of the street, especially when he was half-running to where he needed to be.

In less than fifteen minutes — running and bumping into a few people — Percy was already able to see the mirrored building opposite the flower shop. The building, an architecture office, was a huge construction with large windows and busy people, although he never paid it any attention. The flowers and the people were better to look at than a skyscraper with ties and walking headaches.

Apart from that, the architects and engineers who worked there rarely stopped their busy day to talk to anyone — and Percy could swear he'd never heard any of their voices in his entire life. Overall, he could understand; the firm was always bustling with clients and he supposed that being stressed was just a direct consequence of it.

But he doubted it to be completely true even more after meeting Grover, who was more of an angel than a real person.

The point was that he had met him before, through Juniper’s stories, the sighs of love and the moon eyes at the mere mention of her fiancé. In later conversations, the shop’s team discovered that he was an environmentalist and worked at New York’s newest influential architecture firm — which wasn't exactly a surprise, as Juniper talked about him as if he were Superman.

And Percy, although he worked at the shop his entire life, never paid enough attention to see either Grover or Juniper entering or leaving the mirrored building. Neither of them did pay attention to the flower shop, either, and it was a funny Tuesday morning when Grover entered the store only to bump into Percy’s presence behind the counter.

The environmentalist was leaving the mirrored building early and walked to the flower shop as soon as Juniper let him know she was there. It was flattering how he smiled, and even more so how his comment about how much he had heard about Percy gave away how much Juniper cared about him and the whole team — but the florist couldn't help seeing the woman nearly explode in embarrassment when he offered Grover an entire bouquet.

The man’s ears turned red, and Percy believes that was the moment they decided to be best friends.

Ever since they met, then, on Tuesdays, Grover would show up with or without Juniper — the days she didn’t work —, just to chat or keep Percy some company when he wasn't buried up to her neck in piles of paper and work and stress. Sometimes he would talk about how crazy things were, or how much his best friend, who worked with him, could annoy the life out of him — and Percy would doubt it, of course, because Grover had the patience of an angel and a mocking tone in his voice while he pretended to hate whoever she was.

It was one of Percy’s favorite friendships, if he was honest. Of course, it wasn't rare or difficult for Grover to be someone's favorite person — Juniper herself was the most obvious example — but it was a delightful experience to know and feel that he was also one of his dearest friends.

But about the mirrored building, that was all Harry knew — Grover. And some of the gossip that went around, of course. Like how Hawks cheated on Bernardez with his superior, Minelli, and still refused to admit that he wasn't one hundred percent heterosexual. Or even how Mendes got angry and broke a few things when Levesque was promoted in his place.

Percy didn't know any of them, but it was particularly amusing to hear Grover tell him with such a conspiratorial tone in his voice. It brightened up his days and got him out of his own head sometimes.

Which was always useful, of course.

Taking the last few steps to the store and slowing down, Percy smiled as he approached the horizontal white wooden fence with vertical black metal bars, stepping onto the wooden walkway that crossed the well-tended garden. Percy tightened the grip on the strap of his backpack, looking around and waving to a couple sitting at one of the tables before stepping through the doors into the cooler atmosphere.

The large windows around the wooden walls gave the flower shop a comforting clarity, and the sophisticated building seemed cozy with all the flowers around it. The arrangement of the tables, the frames, the bouquets, the lights and how warm the whole place seemed — even with the air conditioning on — made it Percy’s favorite place in the whole world.

It was a friendly and danger-free environment, as if nothing outside it could reach anyone inside. The flowers seemed to be a reminder of how much beauty the world could hold, and sometimes being there was all he needed for the tightness in his chest to ease.

“Ma?” he called out, walking up to the counter. Harry put his bag on a coat rack while he still didn't go to his own locker, also picking up the apron he had hung up the day before.

As soon as the apron was around his neck and waist, an older woman came out from behind one of the wooden walls in the middle of the flower shop, with a small flower in a small vase in her hands and a fond smile on her face. Percy arched an eyebrow, a small smile on his face too, and waited for her to notice him.

Sally Jackson was a lovely woman, someone who seemed much younger than she actually was. The only wrinkles on her face were scars of smiles through time, and the kindness of her expression would fool anyone to how much pain the world could hold — and that was something Percy grew up admiring and looking up to. His mother would always have a smile to offer and advice to share with her flowers and whoever needed to hear it, and her arms were the most welcoming place for anyone to ever step into.

The flower shop was practically her home, although Percy obviously knew that Sally didn't live there — anyone could be fooled, considering that she never seemed to leave. She always seemed to be at peace as she strolled through the bouquets and flowers, and everything there seemed to revolve around the woman; the place felt like a safe haven, and the feeling of “home” hung in the air for anyone who wanted to breathe it in.

Percy always took a deep breath, then, and exhaled slowly each time his demons and the noise seemed to try to reach him. The mixed scent of all the flowers could be a little nauseating at first, but the contrast with some other citrus plants would make his lungs feel as fresh as if there was the purest oxygen passing through each of his pores. It was safe, welcoming and almost addictive.

And his mother didn’t ask questions when Percy seemed to breathe more deeply than necessary, and simply invited him to take a walk, taking him away from the throng of people coming in and the noise they carried. It had always been that way; she wouldn’t press on the hurtful matters, trusting him to come to her whenever he felt ready to — and how he loved that woman and everything about her nature.

Most of the time, the days at the flower shop passed the same way — a warm mist covering the dim, welcoming sunlit room, and one of them, lost in their own head, wandering around the flowers as if there were no evil within those walls. A smile would remain on both their faces, suddenly, for no reason, with no time to leave, and it would simply be easy to be there.

Sally kept walking to one of the display tables, but she didn't hear Percy’s greeting as she looked at the flower in her hands. The man arched an eyebrow, placing one of his elbows on the counter and pressing his hip against it, crossing his legs in front of each other as he stared at her.

Percy waited, and it took about three minutes for Sally to look around, searching for something. The man shook his head, stepping away from the counter and then stretching out his arm to reach one of the tools underneath it, on one of the shelves. When his hand reached the pliers, Percy walked closer to his mother, not bothering to call out to her, but just to place the tool closer.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she muttered to herself, accepting the pliers and not sparing a glance at her son, who swallowed a laugh and put his hands behind his back, watching curiously as she cut some branches and leaves from the plant's stalk.

“Which ones are those?” Percy asked, observing the yellow-brown flower that looked a lot like a sunflower in a strange way. Sally, who was concentrating on her task, only answered after a few minutes in silence.

“Gaillardias grandifloras,” she replied. “Also known as Spanish lace,” she said again, and Percy smiled a little at the new piece of information he had been offered.

“And what do they mean?” asked the man, and she let out a happy sigh at that question. It was almost a rule by now that any new flower would result in those two questions coming from Percy, and the flower shop owner couldn't say that it bothered her at all. If anything, it flattered her more than life — that her child grew up to remain as curious as he had been as a little kid.

“Modesty, charm, happiness,” his mother replied, and Percy smiled. “Joy of being together, too. It's a subtle option to give to friends or to that person you have a crush on and never dare say a word about,” she added, and a brief laugh escaped Percy’s lips.

“Not a problem I have, luckily,” Percy joked, shrugging softly.

“Yet,” Sally laughed, the sound soft and charming as Percy always remembered it to be. “I'm counting the days until you climb the walls and want to leave early because there's a pair of eyes you can't get out of your head,” she said, and Percy could only roll his eyes affectionately.

“Where did that come from, uh?” the curly-haired man asked, turning his body when the little bell on the door sounded and looking again at the woman next to him when the guest dismissed his help with a smile and a wave of one of his hands.

His mother, eyes so kind and smile so sweet — welcoming and proud and teasing when looking at him, as if, even if Percy was able to do wrong, there was nothing but goodness in his soul —, shrugged.

“I just have a good feeling, dear,” she decided to say “That love is in the air,” she nearly sung.

Percy arched his eyebrows again.

“Oh, really?” he asked. “And what makes you feel that way?” he wiggled his eyebrows, and Sally smiled, lifting the flower in her hands and smiling at it, ignoring Percy’s condescending look.

“The flowers, Percy,” she said, inhaling the sweet scent close to her nose. “All the flowers,” she added, and Percy couldn't help but smile along with her.

“Let's hope they listen, then,” the man said at last, turning once more as the bell rang again and a trio entered the store. The girl saw him, and Percy smiled, waiting for them to approach so that he could greet everyone. “And you should stop behaving this mystical. Soon enough you and Juniper will be hosting a summer camp to clean souls and vibes.”

“The flowers will listen,” she said. “And you act as if you wouldn’t be right in the middle of the summer camp trying to pretend that you’re the Lord of the Waters and can communicate with fish,” she added in a sharp, teasing voice, narrowing her eyes and causing Percy to stick out his tongue. “Insolent.”

Before he could vocalize his apologies, however — because he was a good son, excuse him —, his mother smiled, and the man just rolled his eyes, knowing then that it had been a joke; mostly.

Sally slapped his arm softly, and Percy took a few more steps, catching up with the group that had entered and stopping after a while. He smiled sweetly, but also frowned when he noticed one of the boys and the girl teasing their other friend, pointing at flowers, and then making a low joke that would give anyone the impression that the boy wanted to disappear.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Percy cordially, interrupting the group dynamic a little. “Can I help you today?” he offered, and the boy who was being teased swallowed dryly, clearly nervous about the florist’s presence there.

read the rest on Ao3

#percabeth #percy jackson #annabeth chase #my writing #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #pjo fandom #fanfic #justapoet writes

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asirensrage · 1 year ago

Text

East of the Sun, West of the Moon

Title: East of the Sun, West of the Moon Fandom: Tokyo Revengers Rating: Uhh...Teen? Pairing: Kokonoi Hajime x Inui Seishu, mentioned!Koko x Akane Word count: 1629 Warnings: Merpeople? Off-screen canon character death. Dubious Consent for a kiss? Non-human/Human relationship. Implied forced magic/species change? unbeta'd Summary: He had paid the price for the magic he desired. Coming to the surface to meet his prize does not go as expected.

Notes: This is my first thing done for Mermay! I wrote it all this morning after a friend of mine suggested this couple. This is my first time writing for them (and technically my first m/m oneshot lol). I hope you enjoy it.

It’s been too long since he’s had a chance to come back to the surface. He’s been busy, working to find the right witch with the right magic for his desires. There is a cost for everything and he had paid heavily, more with parts of his soul than his body. He was shrewd enough to keep the damage to others, not himself. Finally though, he had what he wanted. He was ready to make his courtship fully known and offer something intangible. A freedom from the life that bound her only to the surface.

He hears the click of those shoes she wears on the wood, vibrating into the dark water and signalling him in the night. A siren’s call already and she’s still wearing legs.

Her hair glows in the moonlight when he finally breaks the surface with barely a ripple. He can’t resist playing, sneaking up on her as he flicks his tail and moves closer. Her silhouette is…different. Is she smaller? Can humans shrink? He didn’t think so but Merfolk can change at will so why can’t humans do the same in some way? They change as they age, he remembers, and he tries to think of how long he’s been gone in human years. The time is strange.

He floats a little closer, just enough that he can almost make out the different hairstyle that accompanies the shift in her, and he calls out in the grating human speech. “Miss me?”

She turns quickly, eyes skimming the horizon behind before finally looking down for the voice. He reels back, tail flicking in agitation and fear that he tries to hide. “You’re not Akane.”

They look like her, similar in features but sharper. Less happy. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like this male version of her. Akane the human was bright like the sun or the coral in the reef that the fish liked to hide in. This person felt more like the moon. A pale reflection of the warmth he sought.

“So you’re the reason she kept coming here,” they say. Their voice is lower than hers, smoother. “I knew she had a secret but I didn’t think… you’re not human, are you?”

He sneers at the stranger, sharp teeth displayed in warning. “Where is she?”

“Dead.”

He sinks for a moment in shock. Dead? She can’t be dead. He has his magic. He was going to bring her with him finally. She can’t- “Lies!” he hisses.

They sit down on the wooden platform, heels removed and tucked into the side as they dip their feet into his water. He moves to see them clearer and one side of their face glistenes with the fresh skin of a scar. “There was a fire. She didn’t…” they cut themselves off. “She wanted to bring me here before and I always said no. I…I should have-”

“Fire?” The concept is strange to him. There is no such thing in the water, not outside of the volcanoes and eruptions that sometimes quake under, sprouting heat and pain if one gets too close.

“Yeah,” the familiar stranger nods. He does not elaborate.

“How do I know it’s not a trick? I will pay for her return.” Humans like gold and shiny things, don’t they? Kokonoi can travel and dig up a treasure for her.

“I would pay anything for her return,” the stranger says looking towards the moon. Kokonoi pauses. They are pretty, like Akane but different. As the moon is different from the sun. He decides he likes the sharpness of their jaw and the apathy in their eyes. He is stunned by the desire to see if he feels as soft as he looks or if Kokonoi will cut himself on the jagged edges he sees. Akane was bright and soft and kind. Kokonoi was prepared to fight for her in the deep, to keep her safe. He senses that this one would fight himself.

“Who are you?” he finally asks, pushing himself up to rest his arms on the dock and staring at him. He reaches out a long finger, careful with his claw as he touches the leg in the water.

“Seishu.” The name is as familiar as an old current. “I’m her brother.”

Brother. Another name for a hatchling. He remembers she said she had one in an old conversation when they first met. He had been intrigued by the figure sitting on the dock, much like Seishu sits tonight. “Koko,” he offers, pointing to himself. It’s the easier version of a name a human can pronounce. One Akane gifted him.

“Koko…”

The way he says his name makes him shiver, his spines flickering out. He reaches, trailing his claw over their skin. He’s tempted to make him bleed but Koko does not want competition in this moment, no matter how much he wants to taste. He drags his claw under Seishu’s foot, eyes flashing with pleasure at the way they flinch.

“What are you?” Koko asks, looking up at her brother. “Akane said she was female. Are you?”

“What? No. I’m her brother. That means I’m male.”

He thinks about it and shrugs. Gender has no meaning, not really, not to a Mer who can change theirs on a whim. If he needs, he can adjust to suit them and the future he’s suddenly thinking of. He grieves for Akane, for his sun, but the moon controls the tides and Kokonoi is finding himself swept up in the current that Seishu pulls him to.

Kokonoi hums softly, letting the sound verberate through the air. He could drag him down easily, but Kokonoi likes to take his time. He wants Seishu’s curiosity. He wants to be desired back. He is not lacking in courtships but there have been none that caught his interest until Akane. Until Seishu. “I’ll return. You wait.”

“You want me to wait for you?”

Kokonoi nods. “I won’t be long this time. Next night.”

Seishu looks at him before he nods. “Okay, I’ll come back. For Akane.”

“For you,” Kokonoi demands.

He looks out at the horizon, at the moon that shines and is reflected by the water. “Akane loved coming here, thought is was an escape. Used to joke about not coming back.”

A promise Kokonoi made to her that she left unfulfilled. Promises were binding to beings like the Mer and the witches in the deep. He gives into the urge and licks the skin of the leg in the water. It makes Seishu yelp which causes Kokonoi to laugh.

“You’re not going to eat me, are you?” he asks, leaning away now carefully. He looks ready to run.

Koko shoves himself up higher, using his tail and his arms to heave himself for moment onto the wooden platform he sits on. It isn’t easy, but he’s strong. Seishu stares in awe at the dark colours of his tail and the white spines on his fins. Kokonoi flicks it, splashing him.

The brother glares at him before flicking the water back. He grins at it, and the way Seishu’s eyes take in the differences between them. His gaze continues to linger on his tail and his hair and Kokonoi wants to preen in response.

Koko leans closer. He needs to go back into the water but he wants to taste more. He wonders if Seishu will let him. He lets out a series of clicks, trilling slightly to lure him closer. It works because the human moves in without thinking and Koko is granted the chance to press his lips against his and nip, tasting blood. It’s sweet, but he thinks he prefers the taste of the man himself when he manages to lick inside his mouth. It stuns Seishu enough that Kokonoi can taste a little more, tongue moving against his gently, before he’s forced to jump into the water to breathe.

Seishu is in shock, staring down at the Mer who lowers himself further into the water. He can’t resist grinning at the moon above him, waiting for the response.

“You…kissed me.”

Kokonoi nods. “A human thing but enjoyable. You’re fragile though. Don’t want to break you.” There’s no revulsion that he can see in the human’s expression and it confirms his desire. It’s not only him. Not completely.

Seishu touches his own mouth. “Are you allowed to do that?”

Kokonoi shrugs. “Why not?” he sticks out his tongue at the human and watches with pleasure as the human looks at it. “Do you have a clutch waiting for you? Your home?” he elaborates when he sees the confusion on his face.

“What? Oh…no. My parents died with Akane. It’s just me now.”

He grins, teeth flashing in the light. “The next night,” Kokonoi says. “Meet here. I had something for Akane but you…you will take it.”

“I will?”

“Yes. Then her promise will be held.”

“She made you a promise?”

Kokonoi grins. “One made in blood. It will be worth the wait,” he says, more to himself than Seishu. “It’s a…gift,” he says, thinking of the closest proper human word.

“Okay,” he nods. “Tomorrow night. Not like I have anything else waiting for me.”

Kokonoi is not supposed to hear the last part but he does. “Next night, my moon.” He leaves before Seishu can question the term, swimming into the deep water. He has adjustments to make. Seishu’s taste is etched into his memory and he needs to add it to the magic that he’s paid for. He needs to adjust the home he’s created for a larger Mer than planned and more fortifications. Seishu, he knows, is going to be beautiful in the water. The moon belongs to the ocean and this one belongs to Kokonoi. He’ll make sure of it.

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#mermay 2024 #kokonoi x seishu #koko x inupi #tokyo revengers fic #kokonoi hajime x inui seishu #merman!koko #mermaid!au #tokyo revengers mermaid!au

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ashintheairlikesnow · 2 years ago

Note

If you ever feel like writing a Drabble where Misha is on a date and gets broken up with please tag me, cause I’d love it 😈

CW: Whumper POV, sadistic whumper, Misha thinks a lot of violent things about basically everyone

A muscle in Misha's jaw twitches as his teeth meet, grinding together with the effort it takes to just... listen. He's wildly aware of the steak knife lying next to his right hand, convenient as can be, but probably nearly as dull as a bread knife.

"It's just... I kind of feel like you don't actually care," Michelle says, and looks at him with big, imploring eyes. He thinks about gouging them out and putting coins there, something Tyoma read to him once about paying for the ride to Hell. "Not, like, about me, but... well, yes, it feels like you don't care about anything, me included."

He nods, breathing carefully. "I don't think that's true," He says, and his voice stays mild, but the rage burns him up from the inside. It's the only thing he ever feels with any level of strength - every other emotion feels sort of faded by comparison, but anger... anger is bright and sharp and hot and good.

She raises her eyebrows, disbelieving, and then lets out a little laugh, picking up her fork to pick at her salad. "Okay, fine. Name one thing you even remotely care about more than yourself."

That's easy. Misha doesn't even hesitate. "My brother."

Her hand stills, a bit of lettuce dripping ranch dressing pierced right through, as if the vegetable bleeds white with green flecks. Misha's eyes flicker down to it, wondering if he could get a pitchfork all the way through a torso and try to recreate the image. When he looks back up at her face, the expression on her face is a strange one.

"... Yeah, okay," She says, speaking slowly. "But... like. You and your brother aren't... normal about each other."

"What does that mean?"

If she insults his Tyoma, he will slice her face to ribbons, even if the trail leads right to him. It'd be worth it, to show her ruined body to Tyoma and say, look, she said bad things about you, look how much I love you that I have ensured she can't say them again.

"I... I don't know, Mikhail." She says it almost like Michael in her stupid American accent, and he swallows down a correction. It isn't worth it. "I just mean... look, my brother's a couple years older than me. I know tons of people with brothers, and none of them spend as much time together as you guys do. And, like, he looks at me like I'm intruding on you two."

"Tyoma only wants to protect me," Misha lies, smooth like oil.

Tyoma wants to protect you from me.

"Right. But. Still, like, it's weird, right?"

Misha exhales, slowly. Tyoma always tells him to breathe away the anger before it takes over when he's in a place where people will see it. He tries, he really does try.

"I do not think so," He says, placing each word into the air, picturing them as stones he drops to weigh her down, drag her under the surface of the water. "We come from Russia when we are little, we have only each other for long time." His accent is thickening, he's dropping the unnecessary English words that used to drive him up the wall.

The other kids laughed because he forgot the 'a' or the 'the' in so many sentences, and sometimes he scratched them up or bit them, and then Tyoma taught him how to stop himself, how to breathe first.

"No, I get that-"

"Do you?"

She swallows, and she sees something in his face. He knows she does, because she sits up suddenly, her spine straightening. She's tense, now. He thinks about when she explained to him that she keeps her keys between her knuckles when she walks late at night out of her job at the mall, how she never wears her hair in a ponytail because that would make it easier to grab. All the little rules she lives by to keep herself safe. He hadn't been paying much attention, it had seemed like so many pointless little games.

"Yeah," She says, and her voice is a little husky, now. "Yeah, I do. You were all by yourselves when you moved here, I understand that. But, like... that was more than ten years ago. And dating you still feels like I'm dating you both, except that I kind of get the feeling that your brother isn't into the idea."

Misha hasn't ever considered it that way. He looks to the side, out into the eternal rain. Why his parents moved to this part of the country, where a drizzle is good weather and sun is a rarity, will never make sense to him. "I can see why you think this," He says, finally, and his voice is softer now. He can see Michelle relax.

It's her own fault, not realizing that predators are often quietest just before they strike.

"I like seeing you," He continues, and looks down at his own steak, half-eaten, so raw it might as well be bleeding on the plate. "I am sorry you do not want to see me any longer, but we can stay friends?"

"Yeah," She says, and he wonders if she's lying. Misha lies all the time, about everything, constantly. But he can never tell if other people are lying - mostly, he doesn't care. "Yeah, friends. Listen, I'm gonna-... if you're okay, I'm gonna go. Do you mind grabbing the check?"

She's leaving, he thinks, and making sure she's gone before he can follow her out.

It doesn't matter.

He knows where she lives, works, who her friends are...

Tyoma would tell him this would be too close, people would look at him. Likely suspect, unlike the strangers in bars he's never seen before. Unlike the women walking the streets with no one to report them missing. Tyoma is right, he's right, and so Misha pushes it down. Instead, he looks over Michelle's face, memorizing it as best he can.

"No problem," He replies, and pushes his chair out, standing up to offer her a hug. She looks unsettled, but unwilling to make a scene - she steps into the hug, and he reminds himself not to hold her tight enough to hurt. He breathes in her perfume.

"I will see you around," He says, voice kind and soft, unworried. Unbothered.

"Yeah," She mumbles as she breaks away from him. She grabs her purse and he watches her go. She has her phone in her hand and then to her ear before she disappears from the window, and he thinks about how she's probably calling someone so she'll be on the phone all the way to her car, in case he runs after her.

In case he gives chase.

Misha, though, just sits quietly back down and cuts another bite of his steak.

He will forget her in a week, or two or three, and find some other girl. He has no doubts he'll find someone new, there's always someone new. It's not like he cares about them, he just hates when they leave him.

But Tyoma will still be there.

He finishes every single bite of his own dinner and about a third of Michelle's remaining salad before he pays and leaves, walking out into the nighttime rain without even batting his eyes against the droplets that land on his lashes.

Even the anger is fading, now. No feeling stays in him for long, he flits from one to the next. Only the itch is permanent. Michelle can go - he doesn't need her, or even care about her very much. He just hates being refused.

He sits in the driver's seat and dials the only number he knows by heart.

"Allo," Tyoma says, sounding like he's been woken up out of a dead sleep. Misha grins, knowing he'll be all mussed up, hair in his eyes. "Mishka? Vse khorosho?"

"Yeah, is fine," He answers in English. "Michelle breaks up with me tonight."

"Oh." Tyoma hesitates, then asks, gently, "Are you okay?"

Misha's smile widens. If he can't feel enough for things to matter, Tyoma at least feels enough for both of them. It's cute, that he thinks Misha might be heartbroken. "Da. Is fine. I want to go out tonight, though, find someone."

Tyoma's silence is so long that Misha breaks it with laughter, shaking his head where he sits in his car.

"Not like that! Uspokoit'sya, Artyoshka. Just to meet girls. Do you have work?"

"Mmmf, no. My night off. I can go. I can... what time s'it?"

"Eight-thirty."

"Mishka..." Tyoma groans. Misha can see him collapsing back into bed, head against the pillow. "I sleep for only four hours!"

"I know. Mne zhal', Artyoshka," He isn't, he isn't sorry at all, "But I want to go out. You will come with? Yes? If I come home, you will go with me out tonight?"

If Tyoma says yes, he won't kill anyone tonight. If he says no, Misha will find someone who looks like Tyoma and kill them instead, take pictures, and show Tyoma what he's done by caring about a little sleep more than his own brother.

He's picturing, with delight, what it would be like to see Tyoma's eyes go so wide and scared of him, like the others do before they die. How handsome Tyoma would be bleeding. But all his big brother does is sigh heavily. "Da. I need to shower and dress. Come home?"

"I will." Misha sighs, feeling so much better already. Even just thinking about fixing the itch helps, a little. Even if he would never ever hurt his brother, sometimes thinking about it is just... fun. "Tyoma?"

"Da?"

"Thank you. You are a very good brother."

He hangs up before he hears if Tyoma says anything back. Tonight will be just for drinking, dancing, and maybe seeing if any girls will go into the filthy bar bathrooms with him, and he won't hurt anyone. He won't hurt anyone at all.

He can save that for later.

Especially if any of those girls like Tyoma more.

#whump #serial killer whumper #sadistic whumper #young whumper #antoni sings lullabies #Misha is Fucked Up (TM)#OC backstory #original writing #original story #creepy whumper #reluctant whumper

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redsaint282 · 7 months ago

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Arcane Fanfiction Idea (Want Opinions)

Chapter: The Puddle Incident

The undercity always felt like it was holding its breath. The streets were dim, cloaked in shadows and the constant hum of machinery that churned beneath Zaun’s surface. The city never slept, but at night, it felt different—a little quieter, maybe, but also more dangerous.

Derek’s boots scraped the grimy cobblestones, his mind half-distracted by the ache in his legs and the sharp thirst gnawing at him. The day had been long, filled with dodging Enforcers, pulling off petty heists, and more than a few close calls. By the time they made their way through the maze of back alleys toward Vander’s tavern, the weight of the day seemed to press down on him more than ever.

“Another glorious Zaunite evening,” Mylo muttered, kicking an empty can down the street. He always seemed to find something to complain about, but tonight, it seemed more like background noise to Derek.

“Yeah, just another day of fighting for our lives,” Vi added, grinning at the thought. She was always the optimistic one—when things went wrong, she saw it as a challenge, not a setback.

Derek stayed quiet, his eyes scanning the ground in search of anything to ease his discomfort. A discarded bottle, a scrap of food... anything. The streets of Zaun were lined with garbage and broken things, but sometimes, something useful could be found.

Then he saw it—a puddle that caught the faint glow of the streetlights. It wasn’t like the usual stagnant pools of filthy water. This one shimmered in an odd way, the liquid shifting between green and silver. The shape of the puddle was strange, almost deliberate—a large, paw-like print that seemed too perfect to be natural.

“What the hell...” Derek muttered, stepping closer to investigate.

“Watch out for that,” Mylo warned, kicking a stray bit of debris out of his path. “You really want to drink anything from here? Zaun’s chemicals mix in this stuff.”

Derek didn’t answer. His throat burned, and the dryness in his mouth was unbearable. Maybe it was stupid, but he didn’t care. The odd, shimmering liquid called to him in a way he couldn’t explain.

Then, just as he reached for it, his foot caught on a jagged piece of metal. He flailed, arms swinging in the air as he lost his balance. In one sudden motion, his feet slipped out from under him, and before he could catch himself, he landed face-first into the puddle.

For a brief moment, everything was cold, dark.

When Derek managed to push himself up, spitting out the liquid, a sharp burn raced down his throat. It was like drinking molten metal—familiar, yet entirely alien. The taste lingered, metallic and electric, setting his nerves on edge.

Vi snickered. “Well, that’s one way to drink water.”

“Idiot,” Mylo muttered, rolling his eyes. “You’re gonna end up sprouting something weird, or worse.”

Derek wiped his mouth, his fingers trembling. The world around him felt a little... sharper. The hum of distant machines, the faint scent of burnt oil, the way the others moved—everything felt alive in a way it hadn’t before.

Powder, always the curious one, crouched down beside him, her bright blue eyes flicking to the puddle. “What if it’s magic?” she asked, half in jest, but her voice held a trace of genuine wonder.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll turn into a wizard,” Derek muttered, trying to shake off the feeling that was creeping into his limbs. He forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Mylo laughed. “More like a monster.”

“You really think I’ll grow an extra head or something?” Derek asked, his voice laced with an edge of sarcasm.

Powder giggled. “Well, maybe. But it would be cool, right? If you could turn into a giant rat or something.”

Derek wasn’t sure what to think of it all, but something in the back of his mind—something that he couldn’t quite place—was beginning to itch. He glanced back at the puddle, watching it shimmer as if it was still waiting for something.

“Yeah, well,” Derek said, shrugging it off. “Guess we’ll see what happens.”

The next few days passed in a blur, but they weren’t the same.

Derek started noticing things. Small things at first. The way he could hear the creak of floorboards before anyone moved. The faint, steady rhythm of Powder’s heartbeat, even from across the room. The sharp scent of gunpowder and metal that clung to Vi, lingering in the air.

He tried to ignore it at first, thinking it was just his mind playing tricks on him. But when he nearly tore through his gloves during a sparring match with Claggor, when his senses suddenly sharpened to an unbearable degree, he realized something was wrong.

“Derek,” Mylo said one evening as they sat at their usual table in Vander’s tavern. “You’re acting weird.”

Derek clenched his fists under the table, trying to ignore the prickle at the back of his neck. “Just... tired,” he said, forcing a smile.

Mylo raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Vi, however, was less easily fooled. “You sure?” she asked. “You’ve been off ever since you went face-first into that puddle.”

Derek hesitated, the words on the tip of his tongue. But what could he say? “Something’s wrong,” wasn’t an easy thing to admit.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. All he knew was that his body was changing, and it wasn’t something he could control.

Derek avoided looking at Powder, though he couldn’t help but notice her every time she entered the room. She was busy in her corner, always tinkering with something new—gears, gadgets, bits of scrap. There was a kind of quiet brilliance to her, the way she could take something broken and make it work again.

He admired that, more than he cared to admit.

She looked up, catching his eye. “Derek?” she asked, her voice soft.

He snapped back to the present. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been... kinda quiet lately. Are you okay?” She frowned, her hands fiddling nervously with a half-built device.

Derek smiled, though it felt like it was breaking at the edges. “Just... tired. Nothing to worry about.”

Powder didn’t seem convinced. She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay. If you say so.” But there was something in her eyes—a flicker of concern that made Derek feel like a liar.

The transformation came without warning.

Derek woke in the middle of the night, his body thrumming with a strange, almost painful energy. His muscles ached as if stretched too tight, his breathing ragged. He sat up quickly, looking around in a daze.

The air felt... too thick. Every sound, every smell, was heightened to an unbearable degree. The faintest hum of the tavern’s furnace felt like a roaring engine. He could hear Claggor snoring in the next room, each breath deep and rhythmic.

He stumbled to the mirror, his hands shaking.

His eyes were glowing—golden and wild—and when he looked down at his hands, his fingers had elongated, claws breaking through his gloves.

“What the hell?” His voice sounded different—gravelly, rough.

His heart hammered in his chest as the realization sank in. The puddle... it had done something to him. Something he couldn’t control.

That night, the group found themselves cornered in an alley, a rival gang on their heels. Powder had set off one of her inventions, but it had malfunctioned, leaving them trapped with no way out.

“Back off!” Vi shouted, her fists raised in defiance. “We’ve got nothing for you!”

Derek’s heart pounded in his chest, a strange heat flooding his body. The moon above, full and bright, bathed everything in a cold, silvery light. He couldn’t control it anymore. The transformation surged up from deep inside him, claws tearing through his gloves as his body grew and shifted.

“Derek, what’s happening?” Powder’s voice trembled as she stepped closer to him.

But Derek wasn’t sure if he could control himself anymore. His body moved on instinct—fast, dangerous, primal. He let out a low, guttural growl, and before the gang could react, he was on them, his claws raking through the air.

Later, in the dim light of Vander’s tavern, the group sat in stunned silence. Derek, still reeling from what had just happened, huddled in the corner. Powder, ever the one to reach out, walked over to him, her eyes soft with concern.

“You saved us,” she said, her voice gentle.

“Barely,” Derek muttered. “I don’t even know what I am anymore.”

“You’re still you,” Powder said, sitting beside him. “You just... you just need to learn how to control it.”

Derek looked at her, his golden eyes darkening with doubt. “I don’t know if I can.”

Powder smiled, squeezing his arm. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Derek nodded, the weight of everything pressing down on him. He didn’t know where this journey would take him, but for the first time, he wasn’t alone.

#fanfiction #fanfic #arcane #league of legends #jinx #jinx arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane fandom

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